“He might be in over his head,” I said.
“Masters can take care of himself,” Rodriguez said. “Where do you think he is?”
“I don’t know, but he’ll surface soon enough.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because the mom and daughter he’s with are gonna need some answers.”
“Answers you can provide?”
“Maybe, but I might need some help.”
“What kind of help?” the detective said.
“The kind that’s gonna tell us who pulled the trigger on Woods and why.”
I stood up and walked over to Robert Graves’ leather-bound translation of the Odyssey. Behind it was a. 38 Smith and Wesson snub.
“The gun that killed Johnny.” I slid the piece across the desk. Rodriguez didn’t touch it.
“You sure?”
“I know my own gun,” I said. “This was the piece I found beside Woods’ body. The piece that disappeared out of Evidence. I usually keep it behind the Iliad. Yesterday I found it three books down. Behind the Odyssey. Been fired three times.”
“And I assume you have no idea how it got there.”
“Actually, I think I know exactly how.”
“Should we order some pizza?” Rodriguez said.
“I’m okay with whiskey.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m not.”
So we ordered pizza. I told Rodriguez how my gun found its way from the Cook County Evidence lockup back into my bookcase. Then I told him what I needed and why. When I finished, the detective left. I put a call in to Big Bob’s Saloon and asked for the manager. The turtle races weren’t on, so he had a little time. We talked for a while. About Janet Woods and his daytime bartender. After I got off the phone, I sat up, drank some more whiskey, and watched the night grow old. I wondered where Dan Masters was sleeping. And who might be standing over his bed.
CHAPTER 43
I slept hard and late the next day. Walked into my office a little after ten. Mitchell Kincaid was sitting there, his back to the door, reading a magazine. Once Rachel talked to the candidate, I knew he’d meet with me. I just didn’t expect it so soon. And I didn’t expect him to be alone. Not an attorney in sight.
Kincaid didn’t turn when I came in. Just dropped the magazine onto his lap. I walked behind my desk, sat down, and waited.
“Have you seen the latest copy of Time?” he said. I shook my head. Kincaid tossed the mag my way.
“They have a list of influential people in this country. Up-and-comers, they call them. My name’s right near the top.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kelly. I guess I always thought it would feel different.”
“You expected trumpets?”
“A flourish would be nice.”
Kincaid offered an easy smile, one that ran off his face as quickly as it appeared. Then Chicago’s would-be savior took a moment. I had seen this moment before. On television. In newspapers. If I opened up the copy of Time, I’d probably see it there too. It was the Kincaid profile. Long chin, gray eyes, cheekbones sculpted in shadow and light. An impression of strength, yet delicate enough to convey the intellect that moved underneath. As far as profiles went, Kincaid’s wasn’t half bad.
The pundits and pollsters might not realize it, but Mayor John J. Wilson did. And it worried him. In a place and time when leadership was in precious short supply, Mitchell Kincaid looked like he was born to the job. And now it wasn’t going to happen.
“I noticed the books,” Kincaid said. “Cicero, Caesar, Sophocles.”
“Something I picked up when I was young.”
“I read a bit myself. Don’t recall that much, but I do remember Oedipus Rex. And a thing called fate.”
“Fate, destiny. Free will.”
“Exactly. I was sitting here, looking at my picture in Time magazine, surrounded by all your books, and thinking about that very thing.”
“Sir?”
“This life we lead. The decisions we think we make. Is it all predetermined? All our accomplishments and failures? Locked and loaded when we’re born? Or is it up to us?”
“You’re asking me if I believe in fate, Mr. Kincaid?”
He tipped his chin my way. “I guess I am. Are we fated to lead the life we do? Or do we really chart our own path?”
“I think we’re all given different tools,” I said. “Capable of great good and great evil. What we do after that is up to us.”
“So you believe in a hybrid?”
“I guess.”
“And these tools, they vary from person to person?”
“I think a lot of us spend our lives trying to find out exactly what these tools are and how best to use them.”
“People give that a lot of thought?”
I shrugged. “Probably not.”
“How about responsibility, Mr. Kelly?”
“How about it?”
“People should hold themselves personally responsible for things that go on in their lives. Good and bad. Regardless of consequence. Agreed?”
“Things they can control? Yes.”
“You have introduced the notion of control. A slippery concept.”
“Especially in politics, sir.”
“Touchй, Mr. Kelly. I wish we had met under different circumstances. I think it might have been fun.”
“We need to talk, sir.”
“I got a phone call last night from someone I respect and admire.”
“Let me guess. A judge named Rachel Swenson.”
“She speaks highly of you, Mr. Kelly.”
I didn’t offer a response. Kincaid stood up and found his way to a window.
“My security chief, James J. Bratton. He’s a good man. Sometimes confused, but a good man. I’ve talked with him. I know what he’s done. I know that he has, directly or indirectly, tried to gain certain documents he felt might cause great embarrassment to our mayor. He has used whatever means he saw fit to gain those documents, including breaking into your home, the use of force, and physical threats.”
Kincaid turned on his heel and walked his eyes across the room.
“I’m here to apologize for that. I was not aware of the existence, or supposed existence, of the Chicago Fire documents until recently. You can believe me or not, as you choose. I’m here to tell you I never endorsed Mr. Bratton’s actions. I do, however, accept full responsibility. That is a personal responsibility. With consequences. For myself and my career. As it should be.”
Kincaid pulled an envelope from his jacket and slipped it onto my desk.
“This is a copy of a letter I will post after I leave here. To the mayor. With copies to the Sun-Times and Tribune.”
I looked at the envelope but didn’t touch it.
