Stil…”
“Here I am.”
“Here you are. You done with them?” Rodriguez nodded toward the half dozen uniforms and forensics working both al eys off Cornelia.
“Yeah. I told ’em they won’t find much. Footprints. That’s about it.”
The detective took a few steps down the al ey and found a seat on the back steps of a three-flat. He’d been in Homicide now for almost four years and carried the weight in his shoulders, the dry sorrow in his face. I sat down beside him.
“So tel me,” he said.
“What do you want to know?”
“I assume you didn’t get a look at the guy.”
I shook my head. “I was waiting for the train. It was crowded, thirty, maybe forty people. I heard the pop, saw the lady fal, and took off after him.”
“Him?”
“Yeah, it was a him. Black overcoat, black knit hat. Maybe five-ten, medium build. Fol owed him down Cornelia.”
“And you saw him run down here?”
“I saw the back of his coat. Came down the al ey and tracked the footprints.”
Rodriguez frowned. “How long had it been snowing?”
I shrugged. “Less than ten minutes.”
“And his were the only prints?”
I nodded.
“This al in your statement?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“So I fol ow the prints, around the corner to the second al ey.”
“And?”
“And they continue. One set of prints headed straight east. So I take off after them. He jumps me about halfway down. Came out from behind a Dumpster.”
“So the prints continue on.” Rodriguez walked two fingers across the space between us. “But this guy somehow doesn’t?”
“That’s right. He’s got a ski mask on now and we wrestle a little. Fucker is strong, by the way. Then he pul s out a gun. Black, looked like a fortycaliber.”
“Big boy. Did he say anything?”
“Told me to relax.”
“That’s it?”
“Asked me if I wanted to be a hero.”
Rodriguez chuckled. “He doesn’t know you too wel, does he? I could have told him you live for that hero shit.”
“Funny motherfucker you are.”
“Then what?”
“Then he pul s back on the trigger. Slow, like he’s thinking about it.”
“Must have been a nice moment.”
“Yeah, wel, he stops. Lifts up the gun and just pops me with the butt. I woke up looking up at the snow fal ing on my face.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. How’s the woman?”
“You saw the gun. How do you think?”
“Dead.”
“Oh, yeah. Quite a mess over there, and I’m not just talking about our victim.”
“The passengers?”
Rodriguez nodded. “This ain’t the West Side, Kel y. These people got jobs, money, families.”
“West Side don’t have families, huh?”
“You know what I mean. These people count. They ain’t used to this. Hel, I already got three camera crews set up on Southport. Now let me ask you something about this al ey…”
Rodriguez’s cel beeped. He flipped it open, held up a finger, and walked away. An EMT came over and asked me if I wanted a couple of Advil for my head. I declined.
“You want, we can take you down to Cook County,” she said.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I like breathing air just fine.”
Rodriguez snapped his phone shut and made his way over. “Shit.”
“What is it?”
The detective rubbed a hand over his face and looked around for an answer.
“What is it, Rodriguez?”
“We got another one.”
“Another what?”
“Another shooting on the L. Goddamnit. Listen, I have to go down there. You gave your statement, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Al right. Stay on your cel and I’l cal you. There’s something about this al ey we need to figure out.”
“Why don’t I come with?”
“Why don’t you fuck off, Kel y. I’l give you a cal.”
Then Rodriguez was gone. I wandered back to the medic and her aspirin.
“You know what,” I said, “maybe I am getting a little bit of a headache.”
“Let me get you those Advil.”
We both walked over to the ambulance. She climbed into the back, shuffled through her kit, and came up with a handful of pil s. I sat in the front, switched on her scanner, and came up with an address for the second shooting.
“Here you go, Mr. Kel y.”
I downed the pil s she gave me and scribbled the address on the envelope they came in.
“Thanks,” I said. “Feeling better already.”
She smiled. I walked a block and a half and hailed a cab. Al things considered, the L didn’t seem like such a great idea today.
CHAPTER 5
I slouched against a rusted girder Nelson Algren would have been proud of, about a block from the corner of Lake and Wabash. I could see the train up on the tracks, a forensic team working on the hole where a window used to be. There was a traffic jam of cop cars and firemen below, mingling with an avalanche of media. Already most of the details had hit the radio. The local folks might not be geniuses, but it didn’t take a genius to connect Southport to the Loop and come up with one hel of a story. On the cab ride down, I listened as a jock named Jake Hartford took cal s, opinions on everything from who the serial kil er might be to why the city had already dropped the bal. Al of this delivered in the highest decibel, the black-andwhite shrieks of daytime talk, opinion delivered without any obvious facts or apparent need for them. Up on the tracks, I could see the smudgy outline of Rodriguez, talking to another detective and looking down at the mob on the street. I couldn’t see Rodriguez sweat, but I could feel it. After a minute, he took a cal. Now I couldn’t hear him swear, but I could feel that even more. He snapped the phone shut and searched the rafters of the elevated for some guidance. Then he walked back to the first detective, whispered in his ear, and headed down to the street. I headed that way as wel. We met in front of Gold Coast
