Rodriguez finished his coffee just as the check arrived. “How long wil you take to get up and running?”
“I already am.” Hubert smiled. “I hacked into the task force data bank last night and sucked up most of your initial data. Police reports, al that stuff.”
“Motherfucker.”
“Thanks, Detective. You guys leave me alone and I might have some ideas for you this afternoon.”
“Let’s go,” I said. “Take care of those files, Hubert.”
The kid nodded and was already tapping away on his laptop as we left.
CHAPTER 22
Rodriguez put his car in gear and slipped into the morning rush. “What’s up with the old files?”
“You don’t buy it?”
“I think there’s more than just a hunch behind whatever it is you’re thinking.”
I shrugged. “Don’t give me too much credit. Like I said, the feds got al the conventional angles covered.”
“And you’re just rol ing the dice?”
“From my talk with the mayor, sounds like that’s what he wants.”
Rodriguez pul ed up to a red light. “What the mayor wants, Kel y, is no more bodies and a bul et in the head of whoever the fuck is behind this.”
The light turned green and Rodriguez pushed through the intersection. “So your old man was on the train with you?”
“That’s right.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not real y.”
Rodriguez grunted and took a left on Ashland. We drove in silence for a few blocks.
“Where we headed?” I said.
“I told you. Lawson wants us to meet her at the Southport L.”
“Are they opening it up today?”
“Wilson insisted. Business as usual.”
I turned on the radio. The first words I heard were “CTA sniper.” I flipped to another channel and found a woman talking about the CTA “war zone.” I flipped again. CNN was promoting its special, “A City under Siege.” Wolf Blitzer would broadcast live from the scene of the sniper shooting downtown. I turned off the radio. “Business as usual, huh?”
“You know the rules. If the mayor says the sky is purple and the earth is flat, hel, let’s make the best of it. By the way, what happened to the kid’s face?”
“Got beat up,” I said.
Rodriguez glanced over. “You want me to check it out?”
“What do you think?”
“I can touch base with Hate Crimes.”
“I’m guessing their plate’s ful.”
“You got that right. I’l take a run through their open files. See if anything looks familiar.” Rodriguez took a right onto Belmont and then a left onto Southport. The L tracks loomed overhead. “Here we are.”
The detective slotted his Crown Vic at an angle to the curb, ass end taking up almost half the street. I climbed out of the car and noticed a guy in a Beemer behind us. He looked like he was going to rol down the window and start something. Then Rodriguez popped his blue flashers and slipped out the driver’s side. The guy swal owed the half dozen or so “fuck you”s he had lined up and maneuvered his car around us. Rodriguez took no notice.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The detective walked toward the L station. I fol owed. Life could be good in Chicago, especial y when you carried a badge and a gun.
CHAPTER 23
The Southport L station was nothing more than a box of wood with a couple of turnstiles, machines where you could buy a train pass, and a smal booth for the CTA lifer, who was typical y skil ed at yawning and looking bored. Today was no exception.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Rodriguez flipped open his badge. The woman inside pul ed her eyes up off her morning Sun-Times.
“Seen plenty of those today, honey.” She smiled and winked at me. Maybe because I didn’t flash any tin. Then she popped open a gate beside the turnstile. Rodriguez shouldered his way through.
“I’l be right up,” I said. The detective grunted and started to climb the stairs. I turned back to the woman, who used long purple fingernails to turn the pages of her paper. She settled on something that looked suspiciously like Michael Sneed’s column.
“Not too busy today?” I said. It was half past nine, stil rush hour, and I hadn’t seen a commuter yet. The woman snorted, but didn’t bother to look up. “Been here three hours, sweetie. Usual y have maybe a thousand come through by this time of morning. Another five hundred by noon. Today…”
The woman looked over at a computer screen and hit a few buttons.
“A hundred thirty-five so far. That doesn’t include cops.” She nodded in the direction of the departed Rodriguez. “Hel, we got more cops up there than commuters. That’s for damn sure.”
“You here yesterday?” I said.
“Already told your pals. Didn’t see much. Just a single pop and a lot of screaming.”
“Pretty big deal, huh?”
The woman shrugged. “I live on the South Side, honey. We get people shot up al day, every day.” She moved her eyes to the right. For the first time I noticed a smal TV. It had the sound turned down and was tuned to Fox’s morning news. The extended edition.
“My neighbor has a little girl,” the woman said. “Hit by a bul et last summer while she was sitting on her living room floor, putting together a goddamn jigsaw puzzle. Girl’s ten years old and gonna spend
the rest of her days strapped to a bed. You hear about that on the TV?”
I shook my head. The woman was awake now. Maybe more than I needed, but there it was.
“That’s ’cuz it wasn’t on the TV. Not so you’d notice, anyway. Listen, I feel bad for that poor woman yesterday. And the girl downtown. I’l pray for them and theirs. But, goddamn, they got an army walking those tracks.”
She dropped her eyes to the little screen again. I did the same. A reporter with plastic hair and a freshly painted grin stood at the corner of Eighteenth and Halsted, in the heart of Pilsen. Behind him, kids flashed gang signs and mugged for the camera.
“That’s al they talking about this morning. Hispanics gonna demand some answers.”
“Hispanics?” I said.
“Sure. The lady up on the platform yesterday was Hispanic. So was the girl downtown. Hispanics say it’s a conspiracy. City doesn’t give a damn.”
The woman in the CTA booth opened her mouth and laughed. Not a pretty, musical laugh, but harsh. A twisted and cramped sort of thing. Fil ed with anger. Fil ed with payback.
“City doesn’t give a damn about Hispanics. Shit, Hispanics don’t know nothin’ ’bout being nothin’. Come down to my neighborhood. Don’t get no army of cops down there when the black girl gets shot.”
The woman was right, at least from where she sat. But there wasn’t anything I could do about it, and we both knew it. So she just shook her head.
