Michael Harvey - The Fifth Floor

“Whatever it was,” I said, “he didn’t get it. Think we can keep this quiet?”

Vince looked over at me. “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“What about her?”

Rodriguez looked up as Rachel Swenson came out of the bedroom. She had insisted on getting dressed in her own clothes before talking to us about anything. I told her Vince had seen everything there was to see when he arrived. She didn’t much give a damn.

“How’re you feeling?” I said.

Rachel rubbed her chest where the rubber bullet had struck her.

“Hurts like hell.”

“Supposed to,” Vince said.

“Left a big bruise.”

“Supposed to.”

“Stopped my heart.”

Vince shrugged. “Nothing’s perfect. I got here in less than ten minutes and your vitals were fine.”

“Thanks, Detective.”

Rachel sat down and sipped at the hot whiskey I had made for her. I wasn’t sure if she was more pissed at getting shot, being seen naked by one Vince Rodriguez, or having said detective know she and I were shacked up. At least for a night. I had the feeling it was an unhappy combination of all three. Rodriguez turned back to me.

“I can keep things quiet, Kelly. The question is why?”

“Let me answer that,” Rachel said. “I’m a federal judge. Maybe you haven’t noticed that, Detective. Probably not a great idea to be found naked, shot with a rubber bullet, at three a.m. in the home of a private investigator. Agreed?”

Vince nodded toward the judge. “Agreed, ma’am. None of this goes any further. And I’m sorry. Now, let me ask you this. Either of you get a look at the guy who broke in?”

I shook my head. “Only thing I know is that he was big. Six feet. Maybe a little more. Carried what looked like a revolver in his right hand.”

Rodriguez looked over at Rachel, who shrugged.

“All I know was he shot me.”

“Either of you cut yourself?” the detective said. Neither of us had.

Rodriguez picked up a couple of small yellow envelopes and held them in front of his face.

“I pulled a print off the sill. And a smear of blood. Guy must have nicked himself running out of here. Probably not enough points on the print for a legal match. But there it is.”

“What about DNA?” I said.

“If you want to run it, yeah, you could get a profile. Problem is, you don’t have a suspect.”

Rodriguez slipped the envelopes into his pocket and waited.

“Whoever he was,” I said, “he thinks I have something valuable. And was willing to take a risk to get it.”

“Which means what?” Rachel said.

“Which means,” Rodriguez said, “Kelly thinks he has someone on a hook. Just needs to reel him in. Of course, there’s always the chance Kelly’s the fish that winds up in the bottom of the boat.”

Rachel held the mug up close to her cheek as she spoke. “Enlighten us, Michael. What, exactly, are you trolling for these days?”

I sipped my coffee. Rachel jiggled her foot and waited.

“Whatever we talk about stays here,” I said. “At least for now. Agreed?”

The judge looked at Rodriguez, then back at me and nodded.

“Just a guess,” I said, “but it probably has to do with the body on Hudson.”

“What body?” Rachel said.

I looked at my friend the cop, who picked up the thread.

“We asked Kelly to help us out with a death we’re investigating.”

“A murder?” Rachel said.

Rodriguez held his hand flat and then tipped it back and forth, ever so slowly. “Could be. Probably.”

“Definitely,” I said. “Guy’s name was Allen Bryant. Looks like he was drowned. Then had his mouth filled with sand.”

I jerked my head in Rodriguez’s direction. “These guys are getting a lot of heat from the Fifth Floor to bury the case. Vince and Dan Masters asked me to step in and take a look. Unofficially.”

“Which brings us back to tonight,” Rodriguez said. “And the reason why people feel the need to break into your home and shoot the judge here with a rubber bullet.”

“Yes,” Rachel said, and took a sip of her whiskey. “I’m all ears.”

So I told her what I knew. About Janet Woods, her husband, and the boxing match they called a marriage. About Johnny Woods’ trip to the house on Hudson and the missing Sheehan’s. About the Chicago Historical Society and the curator who wanted to be a star. Then I pulled out a copy of the article I had copied, originally published as an April Fool’s prank. Rachel read through the clip, handed it to Rodriguez, and turned back to me.

“You think there’s something to this?” she said.

“I spent Friday afternoon in the County Building. Pulled some land records from 1871.”

“They go back that far?” Rachel said.

I nodded. “Title abstracts. Still a little foggy, but it appears a lot of the land around O’Leary’s barn was owned by a corporation with the initials J.J.W.”

I could hear Rodriguez click his teeth together. The judge leaned in as she spoke.

“J.J.W.? As in John Julius Wilson?”

“Very good, Your Honor. Unfortunately, any corporate records were destroyed in the fire.”

“No way to figure out who the principals were?”

“No,” I said. “I also spent some time with the reporter who wrote this article thirty years ago. Guy named Rawlings Smith. Claims the piece spooked the Wilson clan. Bought Smith a one-way ticket out of town.”

“And you believe him?” Rachel said.

“I believe I do.”

Rachel shifted her eyes to Rodriguez. “Detective?”

Rodriguez’s face was cast in shadow, but I could still see his hands, long, veined, impassive, folded together loosely and draped across his knees.

“Officially, no comment. Unofficially…no comment.”

“You’re a big help.”

“Your Honor?”

“Best I can see, you put him onto this wild-goose chase.”

“Vince had nothing to do with it,” I said. “I found the body at Hudson. I decided to help out. On my own.”

“Blundered into the whole mess,” Rachel said. “And now you figure whoever killed Mr. Bryant thinks you have whatever it is they want. Shot me tonight to get it.”

“It is a circle full of circumstance, Your Honor,” Rodriguez said.

“Fuck off, Detective.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

I held up a hand. “That’s not exactly what I think, Rachel.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. The person who killed Allen Bryant wasn’t the guy who shot you. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Explain.” That was Rodriguez, sitting up now, curious.

“The person who broke in tonight carried a gun with rubber bullets,” I said. “Why? If it was Bryant’s killer, he’d be packing the real thing. After all, what’s another life? No, this was a different guy. A thief, yes. Just not up to the job of killing.”

“Which means what?” Rachel said.

I got up and stretched. “Which means there are at least two groups involved in this. One is willing to take a life. The other is still working up the courage.”

“Does that bring us back to the mayor?” Rachel said.

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. But if my great-great-grandfather burned down the city and lined his pockets in the process, I’d be worried. Maybe even worried enough to kill.”

R odriguez left my flat at a little after five-thirty. Rachel and I sat in the living room. I listened to the wind blow through the hole in my window. Rachel hugged her knees to her body, drank my whiskey, and stared straight ahead. After a few minutes, I got up, went into the bedroom, and got dressed. Rachel had her coat on and was waiting by the door when I returned. I drove her home. It was still quiet on the streets. Even quieter in the car.