Michael Harvey - The Fifth Floor

Rachel folded her hands together and considered her perfectly sculptured nails. I got a bad feeling and waited.

“As of yesterday, you became one of those problems.”

“How so?”

“My friend claims the mayor’s office floated your name.”

“They float names, do they?”

“Sure. People to keep an eye on.”

“And what does the FBI do?”

“Sometimes they take a look. Run a background check. Pull up financials. Depends on the tip.”

“Nice to know Big Brother is alive and kicking. Tell me, how much did I make last year?”

“My guy says they took a pass. Didn’t feel it was worth their time.”

“I’m devastated.”

“Thought you would be. Anyway, there’s your comforting moment for the day. Now, would you like to tell me what you’ve done to get our good mayor so pissed off?”

“Paranoid is more like it.”

“Whatever. Want to talk about it?”

“Probably not.”

Rachel shrugged. “Your call. Just remember what the mayor can be like.”

“You’re not a fan?”

“Of the evil empire? Please. The man is genetically ruthless, morally bankrupt, and a dictator.”

“Ah, but a benevolent one.”

“Right. As long as you don’t threaten him. Something you, apparently, have managed to accomplish.”

I took a sip of beer. “You find that at all exciting?”

She moved a little closer. “It’ll do. For now.”

I laid my palm against hers. Then my fingers. One tip at a time. Our lips brushed together, then brushed again, and we both swayed a little. Even while seated, we swayed. On the couch. In the middle of my living room. Moving to a rhythm neither of us anticipated or necessarily understood. Still, it was nice. Like there was a lot to look forward to and no need to rush. I felt her put her bottle down on the table behind me. I thought I should pull the blinds down on my front windows. Then she moved again and I didn’t think about that anymore.

F irst the sauce bubbled, then it burned. We didn’t care. We ate cereal afterward. On the rug, in my living room. She wore one of my shirts and drank coffee. I had tea. It seemed good. Like it fit together. At least for now.

“You think this will work between us?” she said.

“Work as what?”

“Good question.”

“How about we see where things go and enjoy it for whatever it’s worth?”

She wrapped both hands around her mug and blew on coffee that wasn’t hot to begin with. Then she spoke again. Slowly, softly.

“You know about me?” she said.

“What do I need to know?”

“Well, I was engaged a few months back. Kind of a quick thing. Actually, kind of a stupid thing.”

“Didn’t know that.”

She peered out at me from under her newly revealed past. “Now you do.”

“So I do. Didn’t work out, I take it?”

She held out her left hand, five digits devoid of any significant jewelry. “Not exactly.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not especially.”

“You okay now?”

“I hope so.”

“Look at me.”

She looked up.

“You look okay to me,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“I was going to call, you know.”

“I believe you.” She smiled, leaned over, and kissed me. “I just beat you to the punch.”

“Yeah, well, you might regret that.”

“How so?”

“The stuff we talked about earlier.”

“The mayor?” Rachel said. “He doesn’t scare me. Does he scare you?”

“He gets my attention.”

“Good. He’s someone who should get your attention. Especially if he’s asking around about you. I told you, he’s a ruthless man who has got to go.”

“I thought judges weren’t supposed to be political beasts.”

“We’re not, generally speaking. But there are exceptions. Thing is, in this town we’ve never had any good alternatives to the mayor. He keeps the streets clean, taxes low-or at least someone else’s fault-and rules with an iron fist. So everyone shuts up.”

“And now?”

“Now we have someone. A real alternative.”

“Let me guess. Mitchell Kincaid.”

Mitchell Kincaid was fifty-three years old, black, and good-looking. He graduated from Northwestern Law School, which, in academic circles, made him very smart. He was also about to launch a run for mayor, which, in Chicago circles, made him incredibly stupid.

“Mitchell is what this city needs,” Rachel said.

“And you really think he can take down Wilson?”

“I’ve gotten to know Mitchell pretty well. Been on some boards. Fund-raisers. He’s transcendent.”

Rachel glowed when she said it, in a way I found both exciting and disturbing. Exciting because she was in my apartment, wearing nothing except a pin-striped button-down oxford. Disturbing because she was glowing for another man, one who wasn’t even in the room.

“Transcendent, you say?”

“I’m serious, Michael. He’s a good man. And an honest man. He can unite and he can lead. You’d like him.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. And he’d like you. In fact, I’d like the two of you to meet.”

“Not right now, I hope.”

Rachel stretched her body against mine. “No, Mr. Kelly. Right now, I’d like you to show me the rest of your place.”

“You mean the bedroom?”

She got up with a smile. Led the way like she’d been there before. I followed. Willing to go pretty much wherever.

M y eyes snapped open just as my alarm clock clicked over. From 3:03 to 3:04 a.m. Rachel’s body was warm against mine. Her breath, rhythmic and even. I slipped out of bed. My piece sat in its holster, draped across a chair. I pulled the gun out softly and looked over. Rachel hadn’t moved. I slowed my breathing and listened into the night. Someone was in the flat. I knew enough to know that, almost before I woke up. It’s a sixth sense. Comes maybe from being a cop. Or maybe from creeping enough places myself. Either way, someone was in the flat. The only question remaining: Did they know I was awake?

The door to my bedroom was open about a foot. A crescent of light carved up the floor. I held my gun in two hands, muzzle up, and came up on the dark side of the door. I watched the light as I moved. There was a creak from the living room. Might be a random sound. The stuff you hear only when it’s quiet and you’re about to fall asleep. I didn’t think so.

I went in quickly, slipping open the door and shouldering into the room. I sensed a body to my right, just as something exploded next to my ear. I fired once, heard the tinkle of broken glass and then footsteps. Whoever I had shot at was not exactly dead. Instead he was running down the hallway toward my kitchen. I gave chase. He hit my back door, went down the stairs, and into an early morning that was still night. I was about to follow when I heard my name. I turned. Rachel was in the hallway, naked, holding her chest. I caught her before she hit the floor and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Rachel had been shot. I hit my cell phone and began CPR.

I sat in my bathrobe on the living room couch and drank coffee. Vince Rodriguez sat in a chair and looked out my front window. It was a little after five in the morning. Still dark out, but there were signs of life: a Trib van dropping off bundles of papers, a green garbage truck, the occasional jogger.

“Going to need to get the window fixed,” the detective said.

I grunted and rubbed my palm across my forehead.

“What was he looking for?” Rodriguez said.

I looked around the flat. The intruder had gone through my desk and bookshelves. Nothing seemed to be missing.