Michael Harvey - The Fifth Floor

“Now, Mr. Kelly. There is only one more thing I want to show you.”

I walked across the room and replaced the volume of history Randolph had given me. Then I sat on a couch along the wall and waited. Rodriguez was already outside with the feds and their warrants. I could give the curator a final minute.

“Your computer play, Mr. Kelly. Clever. As I said, I assume you won’t use any of that material officially. Of course, investigators will know exactly where to look in my desktop computer and find it, anyway. Isn’t that the notion?”

“That’s how it works, Randolph.”

The curator finished typing and pushed away from the screen. “Okay, I’m ready to go.”

“What did you want to show me?”

“Actually, nothing. Or rather, soon-to-be nothing.”

Randolph flipped his screen around so I could get a look. File names were appearing and reappearing in a manic game of hide-and-seek.

“I have a few computer tricks of my own. One is known as a bomb.”

I jumped at the computer and hit some buttons. File names kept slipping across the screen.

“What did you do?”

“It can’t be stopped, Mr. Kelly.”

There was a beep and the file names disappeared altogether. Replaced by a blinking cursor.

“In fact, it’s done.” Randolph smiled. “All my files and e-mails are erased, on my computer and any computer that received them. Incapable of being reconstructed even with the most sophisticated of programs. A very effective and very lethal bomb.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t have to. Doesn’t make it any less real.”

Randolph picked up the flash drive I had given him off his desk. “Kind of renders this irrelevant.”

He dropped the drive into a wastebasket by his feet and stood up. “Don’t feel bad, Mr. Kelly. You’re Irish and I’m not. As Charles Hume knew so well, breeding will always tell.”

Then Randolph walked out of his office and into the arms of the police. Two hours after that, he walked out of the society with his lawyer. No charges filed and apologies all around. Lawrence Randolph was a killer. And a free man.

I sat in the bowels of the Billy Goat. In the VIP section. Also known as two wooden tables and a collection of chairs. The staff had separated us from the great unwashed by what looked like a green shower curtain. Fred Jacobs sat across from me. It was a little after eleven in the morning and Fred was working on his second Horny Goat. I popped four aspirin and sipped at a cup of coffee that tasted like it had been drained from the Chicago River. I had been up most of the night. First with the feds. Then Rodriguez. Finally, an audience with the judge who had signed the warrants on Lawrence Randolph. Also known as Rachel Swenson.

The FBI and Rodriguez sympathized. Rachel offered various flavors of scorn. Without the information on Randolph’s computer, there was virtually nothing to tie him into Allen Bryant’s murder. Of course, I still had his entire hard drive at my disposal. Unfortunately, it was poached from Randolph’s laptop as he sat inside a Starbucks. Highly effective and just as illegal.

“What about the skinhead Lester?” Jacobs said. The reporter wasn’t concerned so much with the niceties of the legal system. He was thinking about his story, heading south fast.

“Rodriguez pulled him in last night.”

“Let me guess. Lester never heard of Lawrence Randolph.”

“That’s about it.”

“So they kicked him free?”

I shook my head and ran a hand across three days’ worth of stubble. “Feds had a warrant on Lester’s apartment. Scored two thousand hits of crank and a dismantled cooker. Rodriguez says he’s looking at twenty-five to life. You got the exclusive.”

“Not exactly a Pulitzer, Kelly.”

I took a look at my watch. “Let’s see what the Fifth Floor has to say.”

On cue, the green curtain parted and Patrick Wilson walked in. Cook County’s chief prosecutor, Gerald O’Leary, was right behind him. The two men took a quick look around. Probably wondering where we hid the microphones and cameras. Then the mayor’s cousin spoke.

“Fred, nice to see you again. Mr. Kelly. You both know Gerald O’Leary.”

The man who ruined my career offered his hand and I took it. Gerald O’Leary held up well on television. News directors looking to cultivate a source knew better. So they shoveled on the makeup and shot him from high angles, making O’Leary’s jowls much less so and taking off ten years in the process. In person, however, the prosecutor didn’t fare so well. His face was flushed, his cheeks scored with tiny blue veins. Too much steak, too much butter, too much booze. I wasn’t rooting for a massive stroke, but I wouldn’t be surprised either.

“How are you, Michael?” O’Leary loved to call me Michael. Like we were old friends. I let him because I didn’t have the energy anymore not to.

“Fine, Gerald. Just fine.”

We all sat down. Patrick Wilson slipped a hand across the table and touched my arm. “Mr. Kelly, I realize we have some history here.”

I looked over at O’Leary. A picture of Mike Royko glared at him from the wall. “I have no problem with Gerald,” I said. “Glad to see he’s here.”

O’Leary swung his large made-for-TV head my way and grinned. “I told you, Patrick. Water under the bridge. Let’s move on.”

A Billy Goat bartender stuck his nose through the curtain.

“Pepsi?” Wilson said.

The nose wrinkled, then spoke. “No Pepsi. Coke.”

Patrick Wilson nodded. “Coke it is, then.”

The nose disappeared. A minute later, a hand poked through the curtain. At the end of it was a plastic bottle of Coke. Wilson took it and the hand disappeared.

“Okay.” The mayor’s cousin spoke as he poured his drink into a glass. “Fred has given me some of the details behind your request to meet.”

“And the rest you picked up from the Chicago police this morning,” I said.

“The chief told us about the warrants served on Lawrence Randolph,” O’Leary said. “Unfortunately, they turned up nothing useful concerning Allen Bryant’s murder. In fact, they turned up nothing at all. What I don’t understand is why this was run through the feds. My office could have handled things.”

Patrick Wilson held up a hand. “Gerald. Let’s talk about Mr. Kelly’s request to meet.” He turned my way. “Mr. Kelly. You were going to offer some details.”

“Let’s start with 1871,” I said. “There is no letter. Nothing that implicates the Wilson family in the fire.”

The mayor’s cousin and consigliere took a sip of his Coke and cleared his throat. O’Leary took his cue and pulled out a BlackBerry.

“You’ll have to excuse me for a moment.” O’Leary wandered off, pretending to answer a message he’d never received. Patrick Wilson picked up the thread. But delicately.

“I’m not exactly sure what we’re talking about here, Mr. Kelly.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “I have the book Johnny Woods was looking for. I found what was inside. You’ll find out about it soon enough. Point is, it has nothing to do with your family.”

Wilson printed out a smile and pasted it across his face. “What is it you want from the mayor, Mr. Kelly?”

“Mitchell Kincaid,” I said. “He worries the mayor. Politically, that is.” I held up a hand. “Don’t bother to deny it. He’d worry me too. Kincaid will announce he’s withdrawing from the mayoral race this afternoon. Provided we come to an understanding.”

The smile dropped off Little Cousin’s face. He was used to horse-trading. Usually, however, he was dictating terms.

“There’s no understanding here.” Wilson glanced toward Fred Jacobs. “I thought I made myself clear on that.”