struggle. That’s the only way it can go down. You’re the hero. I came along afterward to applaud.”
“How did you get here?”
“Drove down on my own after Rodriguez fil ed me in. Figured you could use a little ‘unofficial’ backup.”
“Seems like you didn’t trust me very much, either?”
“I don’t like being cut out.”
“And now you want me to take the weight for this?”
“How it’s gotta be.”
I stood up. Katherine held out an arm.
“We okay with the story?”
“You want me to be the shooter, fine. Let’s go.”
“Where is she?” I was sitting in an FBI car, talking to Rodriguez on the phone.
“They took her to Northwestern. He had her stashed in a storage unit on Division. One of Chubby’s buddies tipped us. He remembered seeing Rachel and recognized Doherty’s picture.”
“How bad is it?” My tongue felt thick in my mouth, al the words il — fitting.
“She’s in rough shape, Michael. Physical y and mental y.”
I thought about that for a moment, then forced it to the back of my mind.
“Did he have anyone watching her?”
“She was heavily sedated, and he had a couple of shotguns rigged to the door. Otherwise, I think he just depended on no one being able to trace her.”
“How did you manage the video feed he had set up?”
“We did some quick surveil ance before the team went in, saw the layout, and came up with a plan. The team shot their own footage of Rachel. About a minute’s worth. Then we looped it and hacked into the feed Doherty was receiving before they grabbed her. That’s what you were looking at. It was a risk, but the bad guy had his hands ful with you and never noticed.”
Doherty’s face floated before me, one hand holding a shotgun, the other gripping his red binder. “He wanted me to watch someone I loved die. Just like he did.”
“Fuck him, Kel y. He’s dead and Rachel’s not. That’s what counts.”
“How about the church?”
“We think we got a handle on the thing at Holy Name. I’l fil you in when you get back.”
I looked through the front windshield. Federal agents had arrived in ful force and were starting to process the scene. Katherine was standing in a spil of light, talking to a couple of forensic types. Under her arm, she carried Doherty’s binder.
“Listen, Rodriguez, I need to talk to Hubert.”
There was a pause down the line. “Actual y, I’m not sure where he is,” the detective said. “Feds were supposed to pick him up.”
Lawson began to walk away from me, toward an evidence van. I cracked open the car door just as she ducked inside.
“Let me cal you back, Vince.”
I punched in Hubert’s number, but got his voice mail. I cal ed a second time and began to walk to the van. Stil no answer. I found Lawson in the backseat, tagging items from inside the house.
“Hubert Russel?” I said, my heart suddenly popping in the hol ow of my throat.
Lawson widened her eyes and tapped her pen against a clipboard. “What about him?”
“Where is he?”
CHAPTER 46
They had already cut Hubert down by the time we got there. I stood on the sidewalk and watched as they carried him out of his building in a coroner’s bag. His memory played across the inside of my skul. I reached out, wanting to feel the weight. But he walked away from my touch and took his spot in the gal ery of dead faces, waiting, apparently, to witness my grief.
“I’m sorry, Michael.” Lawson stood at my shoulder, her words tight in my ear. “I don’t know what happened to the team I sent in.”
“It wasn’t you.” I stepped back from the ambulance and took a seat on the curb. “I was the one who waited. I was the one who decided he wasn’t a target. And I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry.” Lawson crouched down and seemed to lose her train of thought, if not her composure, for a moment. “We were too late and I’m sorry.”
I felt her hand on mine, her face shining white in the night.
“Michael Kel y.”
I looked up. A middle-aged black woman was standing over me, removing a pair of latex gloves. Marge Connel y spent her life in the company of death, her features ful of the hard grace necessary to the job. I had known her for more than a decade and seen the look before. This time I was on the receiving end.
“Hi, Marge.” I stood up, Lawson with me. “This is Katherine Lawson, from the Bureau. Marge Connel y, Cook County ME.”
The two women shook hands.
“You two involved in this?” Marge said.
“Hubert was a friend of mine,” I said.
Marge raised her eyes a fraction and looked to the FBI agent, waiting for more.
“We might have an interest in the case,” Lawson said.
“This wasn’t a suicide,” I said.
“Who claimed it was?” Marge opened the back door to the ambulance. The black body bag rested inside.
“What did you find?” Lawson said.
“Off the record? Death by asphyxiation. He was hung by a length of rope from his ceiling fan. How he got there?” Marge shrugged. “Just don’t know right now. Young man, though. And that’s an awful shame.”
I moved closer to the bag. Marge slid down the zipper without a word. I took a last look, but my friend was gone, his features already cast by death’s heavy hand.
“I should have something tomorrow,” Marge said and closed up the bag. Lawson nodded and thanked her. Marge climbed into the front of the ambulance. Then Lawson and I watched as they took Hubert Russel to the morgue.
THE BLUE LINE
CHAPTER 47
Katherine Lawson sank into her seat and watched the wooden ties of the tracks flash beneath the window. The Blue Line train picked up speed as it left the station and leaned into a curve. Lawson laid her head against the glass, al owing the car’s motion to carry her back. The first image she saw was Hubert Russel, neck stretched, spinning slowly over his desk. Then came Kel y, eyes like open coffins, holding her hand as the lid slammed shut on his friend and dirt thumped al around.
Lawson started and opened her eyes. Her train was pul ing into the station at UIC-Halsted. It was just midafternoon, and the car was thankful y empty, save for a woman with tired eyes who was heading to work in her Target uniform. Lawson slipped off her black gloves and flexed her fingers. Then she laid the gloves in her lap and folded her hands over them. They were diving under the city now, into the subway, barreling toward the Loop. She looked out the window, at the banks of lights clipping past as they raced along the tunnel. The papers Lawson had
