standing tall on one side, nothing but blue water on the other. The quiet cry of a seagull overhead and the small talk of Gold Coast locals, walking their dogs along the footpaths and getting their coffee before the day heated up.
Around ten a.m. the lifeguard shack would open and the beach would start to happen. Music floating out over the water, eclectic strands mixing and mingling into a harmonious whole. The lazy smell of suntan oil, treadmills grinding out miles at the outdoor gym, beer and brats cooking at the beach house. People lying out on their blankets, reading paperbacks, talking, sizzling under the sun, and, of course, flirting.
In the early afternoon, North Avenue would sprout thin white poles and netting as far as the eye could see. Young professionals would descend from their high-rises and climb out of the Loop, looking for some beach volleyball. Running, jumping, sweating, more bare skin, more suntan oil, more beer, and, of course, more flirting.
As the sun dipped behind the city’s skyline, North Avenue Beach would grow quiet again. A man and a woman might play a final solitary game of volleyball. The runners would return, as would the dogs, their owners in tow. Night would creep up and over the lake, draining it of color and leaving a vast black emptiness at the edge of the city. Nothing visible, nothing tangible, except the sound of tomorrow, knocking gently against the breakwater.
Those were the thoughts that kept me warm as I walked along the beach. A pigeon loitered nearby, caring not a whit for my musings and keeping an eye on the doughnut I’d gotten to go along with my coffee. I took a bite and threw it at the black-eyed beast, who pecked it into pieces and made off with as much as he could carry. I took the lid off the coffee and breathed in the heat, thinking it might warm me up. All it did was make my coffee cold.
A solitary figure waited near the North Avenue bridge. Vince Rodriguez was wearing a blue cashmere topcoat, black leather gloves, and rose-tinted sunglasses. He was reading a Sun-Times and spoke without looking up.
“See the paper today?”
I hadn’t. Vince turned over the front page. It was a picture of the mayor and Mitchell Kincaid, framed against a statue of Abraham Lincoln, heads together, undoubtedly thinking something deep. It was a nice shot. A shot JFK and Bobby would be proud of. The headline under the photo read: kincaid and wilson: our link to lincoln.
I scanned the article. It detailed Mitchell Kincaid’s vision: a Lincoln Annex to the Chicago Historical Society. A state-of-the-art home for everything and anything that was Abraham Lincoln. Its centerpiece, of course, would be the newly discovered Emancipation Proclamation. Kincaid called it his destiny and wanted to fund the annex privately. Mayor Wilson wouldn’t hear of it; his city would foot the bill. It would cost forty million dollars, but who was counting? Certainly not Chicago’s taxpayers. I dropped my eyes to the bottom of the article, saw a quote from the annex’s assistant curator, and smiled. Longtime volunteer Teen McCann was looking forward to the challenge and the living history that was Lincoln.
“How long will it take to build?” I said.
“They say two years, minimum. In the interim, Kincaid is going to take the Proclamation around the country. Museums, churches, schools. Educate the people about the history behind the document as well as its message.”
“Going to make quite a name for himself,” I said.
Rodriguez nodded. “Local Dems already have him plugged into a run for Senate.”
“Who’s stepping down?”
The detective smiled and tugged his gloves tight. “Way I hear it, a seat’s suddenly going to open up next year.”
“Wilson making that happen?”
“Of course. Kincaid’s his guy now. Three months ago, they wanted to cut his heart out. Now, the mayor’s gonna push him.”
“All the way to the U.S. Senate.”
Rodriguez shrugged. “The way Wilson sees it, he helps this guy go national and Kincaid forgets all about running for mayor. Forever. Wilson becomes a kingmaker and Chicago gets a big friend in D.C.”
“Everyone’s happy,” I said.
“Something like that.”
It was a smart play: clean, efficient, bloodless. Mayor Wilson all over. I took a sip of cold coffee. We reached Fullerton Avenue and walked through the underpass toward Rodriguez’s car.
“What did you think of Fred Jacobs’ story?” I said.
It had been little less than a month since my meeting with the mayor. Two weeks later, Chicago’s Vice unit picked up Lawrence Randolph on a West Side stroll. The curator had a fourteen-year-old boy in his car. The Trib ran Jacobs’ story on page one the following day.
“He got it mostly right,” Rodriguez said.
“An anonymous tip, huh?”
Rodriguez kept walking.
“Let me guess,” I said. “To make it even sweeter, Vice swept all the older kids off the stroll. Left only the babies out there.”
Rodriguez stopped. “Now why would they do that?”
“That way when Randolph showed, they’d be sure it was sex with a minor,” I said. “Felony offense. I figure he’ll do ten years, minimum. Hard time.”
Behind his sunglasses Rodriguez laughed a cop’s laugh, a chill that echoed without ever making a sound. “Way I hear it, he’s going to be locked up with his buddies from the Aryan Nation. But that’s the Fifth Floor. They tend to play for keeps.”
The detective gave a soft whistle and hit a button on his key chain. His car beeped and the doors unlocked. I opened up the passenger side. There was a coat in the front seat with an edge of purple underneath it. Rodriguez covered up the flowers and moved the coat into the back. Then he slipped off his glasses and turned the engine over. I got in and we waited for the car to warm. Rodriguez ticked on the radio and found an all-news station. Then the detective pulled out a postcard. It had cactus trees and sand on it.
“Got this yesterday.”
Dan Masters had managed three sentences. One was about the weather. The second was about a house he had bought. The third was a thank-you. Rodriguez had shepherded Masters’ paperwork through the department. Made sure he got full credit for time served. And benefits. It wasn’t enough to live happily ever after. But it was a start.
“Sounds like he’s doing okay,” I said.
“He doesn’t mention Janet or the girl.”
“Probably a good thing.”
“How about the P.S.?” Rodriguez said.
I had read it once but took a second look. P.S. Say hi to Kelly. Tell him I’m sleeping fine.
“I think the P.S. is a good thing too,” I said.
Rodriguez slipped the postcard back inside his pocket. “You wish we’d taken them in?”
I caught a flash. Bright eyes, auburn hair, and the cold smile of mother and daughter. “I’m not really sure what I wish.”
Rodriguez turned down the radio and pulled his coat close around his body. “For what it’s worth, I’d have played it the same way.”
“Thanks, Detective.”
Rodriguez nodded. I hadn’t told anyone about the photos Taylor had left in my flat. Didn’t see the point. Johnny Woods was dead. Now we’d all live with the rest of it.
“You heading over today?” I said.
Rodriguez reached back for his coat. And the purple flowers underneath. It was May first, Nicole Andrews’ thirty-fifth birthday.
“Yeah. Thought I might drop these off.”
They were orchids, lightly scented, lovely to look at, and impossibly fragile. Rodriguez cupped the blossoms with the side of one hand and then laid them in his lap.
“You want to come?” he said, but didn’t mean it.
