Michael Harvey - The Fifth Floor

“Fred isn’t part of this,” I said. “If you can’t make a deal, get someone in here who can.”

A small vein popped up on Patrick Wilson’s temple. I counted twenty beats in about fifteen seconds.

I looked at Jacobs, who stood up and joined O’Leary and his BlackBerry outside.

“What is it you want, Kelly?”

“Three things,” I said. “First, you drop the vendetta against a reporter named Rawlings Smith. Jacobs says there’s a couple of spots open on the Tribune staff. Your office makes the call and puts a word in for him.”

Wilson’s eyes crinkled a bit at the corners. I don’t know what he expected, but my first term seemed to tickle the mayor’s man. “What else?”

I took a deep breath before the next one.

“Johnny Woods’ murder. You bury it. No charges filed against anyone. Not now. Not ever.”

Wilson drew his hands in front of his face and tapped the tips of his fingers together. “As I understand it, there is no murder weapon and not much of a case against you. I don’t really see that changing, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Now what else?”

“I didn’t kill Woods. Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. The condition is that no one is ever charged. For any offense in connection with his death.”

Wilson leaned back and looked around the room for a little help. A little posturing. Couldn’t resist, I guess. Then he came back to the deal. “What else?”

“Lawrence Randolph. I know he’s been feeding the mayor information on the fire. He’s also a killer. The warrants didn’t work. Fine. I want him taken down. And I don’t really care how.”

Now Wilson laughed out loud and clapped his hands together.

“Kelly, you’re amusing as hell, you know that. Let this thing go. Set this guy up. How do I know Kincaid will withdraw?”

I pulled out a cell phone. “I’ll make the call right now.”

Patrick tickled his fingers my way. “Go ahead. Go ahead. You have a deal.”

I shook my head. “I need the mayor to sign off. And tell him, if he reneges, the whole thing comes out. Including everything I know about Johnny Woods and the Fifth Floor’s obsession with the fire.”

Little Cousin slumped back in his chair and ran a hand across his forehead. Then he stood up and buttoned his coat. “Sit tight. This might take a minute.”

Wilson left. I was just finishing my coffee when Jacobs slipped back into the room.

“Busting some balls here, Kelly?”

“The Wilson family understands strength. Respects it.” I glanced over at the reporter. “You should remember that.”

Jacobs ran his hand across his Adam’s apple and rolled his eyes toward a menu board tacked to the wall. “You should hope they don’t make you tomorrow’s special.”

The green curtain shifted again and a shadow moved on the other side. Patrick Wilson stepped through, a cell phone to his ear, and motioned for us to follow. We ducked outside and into the back of a Lincoln Town Car. O’Leary had already stuffed himself in a corner and was looking out the window. Seven minutes later, we slid to a stop in front of City Hall. Wilson was still on the phone. We walked through the lobby and under a red velvet rope strung in front of an elevator door. It was the mayor’s car. The one he took every morning, express, to the fifth floor.

I sat in the same hard wooden chair. Jacobs sat in another. The city lay under the drowse of an afternoon fog. To our left, wisps of gray floated by the windows. To our right, Wilson’s desk was draped in polished mahogany and cluttered with all sorts of mayoral things. Behind the desk was a third chair, the padded one, with soft leather and, at the moment, entirely empty.

Jacobs had apparently never been inside the inner sanctum. I was about to tell him where they kept the holy water and candles when the door swung open and the mayor walked in. Jacobs jumped like someone had played “Hail to the Chief.” Wilson acknowledged the homage with a nod. Then he walked over to the windows and stared into the soup.

“Good to see you again, Kelly.”

The mayor talked without turning. I was still seated and didn’t respond. Wilson backed away from the windows and moved behind his desk. Jacobs didn’t know whether to stand or sit, so he froze. Wilson moved his eyes over the reporter and then looked at the open door. Jacobs got the hint and left, closing the door on his way out.

“How much does the Trib guy know?” Wilson said.

“About what?”

“The fire. And my family.”

“He thinks it’s an urban legend. Nothing else.”

“What do you think?”

“I think there’s no letter or document in existence that proves your great-great-grandfather did anything to harm this city.”

Wilson folded his hands over his stomach and sank into his flesh.

“John Julius wasn’t stupid,” the mayor said. “Neither am I.”

“I understand that, sir.”

“Do you? My great-great-grandfather was a nickel-rubbing, power-greedy bastard. And he always came out on top. It’s a trait that runs in the family. Remember that, Mr. Kelly. You could use a friend in this office and by the looks of it-”

The mayor’s lips peeled back from his teeth, eyelids lifting for a moment to reveal eyes that were shockingly blue.

“I’m not going anywhere. At least for another term.”

“So we have a deal?” I said.

“If Kincaid announces he’s not going to run, we have a deal. On one condition.”

The mayor held up a hand. I could see the hint of his tongue and he seemed to be slightly out of breath. The whole affair was somehow exciting to him. Rolling dice on the Fifth Floor. Playing God with other people’s lives. It was his lifeblood. The lifeblood of Wilson’s ancestor and namesake, John Julius. A ruthless need to manipulate, to control, to dominate. Whatever the means and heedless of price. In such a world, there can be only one king. And he answers to no one, save the demon called paranoia.

“And what condition would that be, Mr. Mayor?”

“I need to know what it is you really want.”

“I laid it out for Patrick.”

Wilson nodded and settled in again. “I understand that. Problem is, Mr. Kelly, it’s not enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know my family’s history. Better than anyone. I think you’re aware of some things that might cause me problems.”

“I told you. I told your cousin. There’s no letter.”

“Fuck the letter. You still know-or at least think you know-what actually went on in 1871.”

“And if I do?”

“Then you have leverage. In my world, that makes you an enemy.”

“Funny, some people might think our chat the other night was all about leverage.”

Wilson lifted an eyebrow. “You mean the thing with the judge?”

I nodded.

“Sean Coyle’s an embarrassing story for Rachel Swenson,” Wilson said. “But she’d probably survive. Either way, I’m concerned it’s not enough to keep you in line.”

“All due respect, Mr. Mayor, you might just have to learn to live with that.”

Wilson wasn’t used to that particular collection of words coming at him. He poured himself a glass of water and took a sip.

“The way we usually do this is with a favor. A personal favor.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Something that binds me to you. Gives you back the edge.”

The mayor opened up his desk drawer, pulled out a manila folder, and threw it across the desk.

“Another file?” I said. “You guys never run out, do you?”

“Gerald O’Leary ran you off the force. He did it to cover up his own corruption and malfeasance. I told you before, I had nothing to do with it. I can, however, make O’Leary pay.”