1858.
“Sorry, Hubert. This is too early for me, anyway.”
“No reason not to handle it just as carefully.”
“Yes, Hubert.”
I hung my head for the appropriate moment of penance and reflection. Then I pulled some books from 1870 off the shelves.
“These are the ones we want,” I said.
“This is the time period?”
“It’s a start.”
“And the location?”
“The city.”
“No kidding. In 1870 there wasn’t much else outside the city. Property-wise, that is.”
“Just south of the Loop,” I said. “Near Roosevelt and Canal.”
Hubert bit the ring he had pierced through his lower lip and ran his finger along the parched spines of Chicago history.
“That’s still a lot of ground. More specific?” Hubert handed me a look he probably figured passed for coy. I let him play.
“You got it right,” I said. “The Irish quarter. O’Leary’s barn and the whole neighborhood.”
“DeKoven Street,” Hubert said.
“Number 137, Hubert.”
“Yes, yes. But here it will be listed by property number. Not a high property number in 1870. But they did still have them.” Hubert dug a little deeper into the shelves and came up with four long books. “This covers O’Leary’s barn and ten blocks on either side.”
I reached for the book, but Hubert held up a hand. “We take them apart a page at a time. Each page, a moment at a time.”
Four moments later, we had skimmed across forty property transfers in O’Leary’s neighborhood. Fourteen of them were sold to the same person. Or, rather, to the same set of initials: J.J.W.
“Did they always use initials back then on deeds?” I said.
Hubert shrugged. “Don’t know. Seems sort of weird.”
The kid pulled the property register closer and squinted at the scrawl. “Actually, I think this is a company.”
He pointed to a squiggle of ink. “I think that’s a Co. at the end. Could stand for company.”
I took a look. The kid was right.
“I don’t suppose John Shortall kept any corporate records from back then?” I said.
Hubert shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Burned in the fire?”
Hubert nodded. “All the corporate records were completely destroyed. Everyone who had a business basically had to reincorporate. Start all over again. Records-wise, that is.”
“Corporate chaos?”
“I’d think so.”
Hubert ran a long nail down the property register, swallowed up some courage, and posed the question I knew was coming.
“If you don’t mind me asking, these initials. Do they ring a bell?”
Hubert danced his fingers off the page as I slammed the register shut. “Shut up, kid.”
“Yes, sir.”
I slid the book back to its place on the shelf. “And forget about those initials. Make your life a whole lot nicer.”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked at the dark wall of books surrounding us. Thought about John Shortall. Getting his wagon loaded up at gunpoint. Saving Chicago’s real estate market. Probably making himself a bunch of dough in the process. Seemed just about right. Then I thought about the initials I’d found scattered throughout the old property records: J.J.W.-as in John Julius Wilson. Also known as the mayor’s great-great-grandfather.
“Let’s go back downstairs,” I said. “Before your boss misses us.”
“Okay.”
Hubert began to pick his way back down the dark aisles.
“FYI…”
“Yeah?” I said.
“My boss…she’s the mayor’s cousin.”
“The lady with the blue hair?”
“That’s what they say.”
“And she runs this place?”
“Yep.”
I scratched the side of my head. “You gonna lose your job, Hubert?”
“Nah. I’m gay, so she’s scared stiff of me.” The young man’s words floated back on a cloud of nonchalance. “I’ll tell her you made a pass at me or something. She’ll love that.”
“Thanks, Hubert.”
“Don’t worry. She won’t believe it. Just give her something to talk about. That’s all it takes. Besides, working in Land Records isn’t exactly my life ambition.”
“Let me guess. You take classes at Second City.”
Hubert turned and smiled. “Stereotype. No, I’m a hacker.”
“Computers?”
Hubert wiggled fourteen rings, scattered across ten fingers. “Given the time and the money, nothing I can’t get into.”
“Really?”
“Scary real. You want to buy stuff online, let me set up your computer first. Save your credit cards from getting scammed.”
The kid slipped me a business card, red with yellow stars: hubert russell. “Gotta get back,” he said.
“Thanks, Hubert. Name’s Michael Kelly.”
“No problem, Mr. Kelly. It was fun.”
We shook hands. Hubert went back downstairs. I waited a minute and followed. I could feel Hubert’s boss tracking me as I walked through the bureau. The kid fell in step halfway across the room and spoke in a voice plenty loud for anyone who wanted to listen.
“Sorry I couldn’t help you, sir. The property you want was actually not even platted back in 1840. Chances are no one technically owned it. At least, not anyone who could produce a legal deed. Like I said, if you want to find out more, you might try the Chicago Historical Society.”
Hubert winked and opened the door to let me out. Then I was alone again, in the cold marble corridor, walking back in time. To 1871 and a gang of land thieves, also known as Chicago’s founding fathers.
CHAPTER 15
H ow did you get in here?”
I wandered back to my office on Broadway at a little after two in the afternoon. The girl sat in the same chair her mother had. She had the same hair touched in red. Same elegant lines for nose and chin. Same pale skin, stretched tight over high cheekbones with dusky points of fatigue underneath. Like her mom in just about every way. Except she didn’t have the black eye. Not yet, anyway.
“You left the door open,” the girl said, and threw a look behind her.
“I don’t think so.”
