“And so I see ghosts?”
“Could be. Is the Bureau letting you in?”
“Bits and pieces but, mostly, no.”
“So you want to run this down al by yourself?”
“I could use a fresh set of eyes, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t. These eyes are past their prime. And I was never even a detective to begin with.”
“You were good enough to be one, and you’ve lived with this case your whole life.”
Doherty’s chuckle faded to nothing. “You’re welcome to whatever I have. If you get a crazy idea you want to run by someone, I’m here.”
“But otherwise?”
“Otherwise, I’m old. I know that sounds lame, but, believe me, you’l get there someday and know what I’m talking about. Besides, I have you to do my bidding.”
“Fair enough, Jim.”
It was an effort, but my friend managed a smile. “Good. Now let me walk you through this stuff and get you the hel out of here.”
Then Jim Doherty opened up a file. It was ful of papers and pictures. Ful of the future, staring up at me through my past. I WAS NINE YEARS OLD and sat in the last seat on the second-to-last car of Chicago’s Brown Line, listening to the creak of steel and wood, swaying as the train rattled around a corner, watching the Loop’s gray buildings slide past. A man sat across the aisle from me. He had a thin face he kept angled toward his shoes, a long black coat, and his hands jammed into his pockets. Three rows down was a young couple, their heads thrown together, the woman wearing a thick green scarf and glancing up every now and then at the route map on the wall. The train jolted to a stop at LaSalle and Van Buren. I snuck a look as the conductor came through a connecting door in the back, pressed a button, and mumbled into the intercom. His voice sounded stretched and tinny over the cheap system. Something about the Evanston Express. His red eyes moved over me without a flicker. Then he craned his head out the window, looked down the platform, and snapped the car doors shut. As the train started to move again, the conductor disappeared into the next car, and the thin man slid into the seat next to me.
“Hey, buddy.”
I didn’t say anything. Just tightened my fists and felt a patch of dryness at the back of my throat.
“Kid, you hear me?”
I gripped the handle of the hammer I kept in my pocket and focused my mind on the piece of bone where his jaw hinged. That’s where I’d go. Right fucking there.
“Where you getting off?” The thin man shifted closer, fingering the sleeve of my jacket, pressing me farther into the corner. I caught a flash of teeth, eyes rippling down the car to see if anyone was watching. His collar was loose around his throat and a blue-gray stubble ran down his jaw and cheeks. Underneath the scruff, the skin looked rough and scored.
“Fuck off, mister.” I tugged my sleeve free and started to pull the hammer out of my pocket. It wasn’t the best solution, but at least it was certain. And that felt good.
“Are you all right, young man?” The woman with the green scarf had moved softly. Now she stood in the aisle, close to us, eyes skimming over the thin man who burned with a bright smile.
“I’m fine, ma’am.” I slipped the hammer back in my pocket. “Just gonna change seats.”
Her face was plain and broad, with blunt angles for chin and cheeks and a short flat nose. Not a beautiful face, but open and honest. Maybe even wise. It lightened when she heard me speak, and I felt a warmth I would have enjoyed if I’d known how scarce a childhood commodity it would turn out to be.
As it was, I moved past the thin man without touching him and took a seat two rows closer to the front. Just across from the woman and her friend, face muffled in the folds of his coat. The conductor had returned to the back of the car, eyes closed, head against the window, bouncing lightly to the tune of train and track. And that was how we sat as our train approached a sharp bend at the corner of Lake and Wabash.
CHAPTER 15
Jim Doherty and I pieced through the past for an hour, maybe more. At a little after ten, I headed back to the North Side, my friend’s files in hand. I eased my key into the lock and cracked open the front door to my flat. Didn’t make a sound. Didn’t matter a bit. She was there, waiting on the other side, wagging her entire body in a spasm of greeting. I dropped to a knee and scooped Maggie up. The springer spaniel was a year old, but stil seemed like no weight at al. She licked my face where she could find it and then scrambled out of my arms. I stepped back and watched as a blur of liver, gold, and white sprinted once, twice, three times around the living room, leaped to the couch, and stopped dead stil, staring at me, tongue out, panting lightly, body wag stil in ful flower. I crouched so I was eye level with the pup and feinted like I was going to make a run at her. She offered a head fake to my left and tore off to the right, into the kitchen. I heard the clatter of claws on tile and then a slide and thump into what I suspected was the refrigerator. A second later, Maggie was back in the living room, bearing down on me at ful speed. I dropped to a knee and caught her in midleap. She curled into my chest and almost immediately settled. I found a seat on the couch. Five minutes later, the pup was asleep. I sat that way for a half hour. The best half hour of my day. Then I moved lightly. Maggie opened her eyes and stretched. She jumped down to the floor, shook herself once, twice, and wagged her tail, looking up at me, wondering what was for dinner.
Dinner was a cheeseburger and a cold can of beer. I steamed some spinach to make myself feel better. Then I gave most of it to the dog. She didn’t like it, either. I put a cal in to Rachel Swenson’s cel phone, but got her voice mail and left a message. My favorite judge stil had her own place on the Gold Coast, but spent a good part of the week at my apartment. It felt good to have her here, to see her clothes strewn around the bedroom, my bathroom cluttered with atomizers and smoothers, exfoliants and lotions, peelers and masks. I didn’t know what most of it was for, but it didn’t matter. Between Rachel and the pup, my apartment was ful. And the emptiness I never real y knew existed, gone. Or at least put away for a while. I found the pup’s leash and took her for a quick tour of the neighborhood. Then I settled in at my desk and powered up my Mac. The CTA shootings dominated Google’s news page. I searched for my name, but didn’t get a hit in any of the articles. Good. I shut down the link and sat in the dark, watching the wind batter my front windows. Outside, the night offered an inky canvas on which to replay the day’s events: a woman dropping to the hard boards of the Southport L, surprise scratched al over her face; an al ey, tunneling through the black and fil ing up with snow; a tangle of footprints and the fat hole of a. 40-cal pressed to my head. Slipping underneath was the electric silk of the voice on my cel phone, one that cal ed me by name, one I couldn’t place. I closed my eyes and let the images play. Pretty soon I started to nod off, the pup close by, readily fol owing my lead.
CHAPTER 16
Five miles south, Nelson rol ed to a stop underneath a cement overpass near the corner of Jefferson and Congress. A twist of snow blew across the hood of his Impala and dissolved into cold smoke. Overhead, the Eisenhower hummed with the whine and thump of rubber on asphalt. Nelson looked at the envelope on his dashboard, addressed to his favorite reporter. Then he put on his gloves and cracked open the driver’s-side door. The parking lot wasn’t much more than an afterthought, shoved under the highway between the Clinton Blue line stop and the Greyhound bus station. During the day it was fil ed with the cars of Loop workers who couldn’t afford downtown parking. At night, it became a black hole. Tonight was no exception. A brown Ford with a cracked windshield and rims for tires sat in a far corner. Otherwise, Nelson had the place to himself. He moved out from under the highway and took a slow walk around the block. The bus station had a single cab out front, motor running, driver asleep in the front seat. The rest of the buildings on the street were factories, locked up for the night. Nelson ducked back under the overpass and moved past his car to a far wal abutting the L station. There he found a green door with black stenciled letters that read CTA. Nelson turned his back to the wind and pul ed out the keys he had made. The third one fit, and the door opened. He stepped out of the weather and into a greasy
