something else that came up.”
A young woman was screaming at a young man at a bus stop. The man grabbed the woman’s arm. She shook him off and stalked away.
“What’s that?” I said.
The man started to fol ow the woman across Chicago Avenue and almost got hit by a bus. He stepped back onto the curb, then found a bench and lit a cigarette.
“Dispatch took an anonymous cal last night. A woman shot down in the subway.”
“Hadn’t heard about that,” I said.
“You won’t. It was Katherine Lawson. They traced the cal to her cel phone. Found her body down by the tracks where Maria Jackson was found.”
I felt my head snap around. “Her body?”
Rodriguez nodded and hit the gas as the light turned. “Shot three times with two different guns. A thirty- eight in the leg and a couple of twenty-two slugs to the head.”
“Strange.”
“Yeah. By the way, you stil got that cold thirty-eight I gave you before Cabrini?”
I could feel the heavy gaze of the homicide cop walk its way across the car.
“Probably not,” I said.
Rodriguez grunted and we drove a little more.
“When you talked to the mayor this morning,” I said, “did he tel you about Lawson?”
The detective looked over again. “You mean how she was shaking down the church?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, he mentioned it. When did you turn up that part of it?”
“Just the last day or so. I would have told you, but…” I shrugged.
“Some things I’m better off not knowing.”
“Probably. You gonna pul her case?”
Rodriguez shook his head. “Feds usual y handle it when one of their own dies.”
“Which means what?”
“Lawson was dirty. If it was Chicago PD, the whole thing would get buried. My guess is the Bureau’s no different. We’re holding the evidence, but I’m betting it never gets touched.”
“So we’re done with that?”
“Looks that way.” The detective tapped two fingers lightly against the steering wheel. “Where you headed?”
“Home.”
“Good idea.” Rodriguez turned up the radio and steered his car toward Lake Shore Drive. I didn’t say another word.
CHAPTER 60
I woke to the quiet of midafternoon, thinking about Katherine Lawson. I’d left her alive in the subway. Then someone came along and decided to finish the job. I wondered who. Better yet, why.
I sat up on my couch and considered the fat canvas bag on my coffee table. I’d told the mayor’s accountant, Walter Sopak, part of Lawson’s story. The part about Lawson’s little girl. Sopak and his laptop agreed to meet me at an al — night Mexican place cal ed El Presidente on Wrightwood and Ashland. A couple bowls of chili and a chimichanga later, the accountant had cracked Lawson’s computer and emptied one of her offshore bank accounts. The bag was stuffed with Sopak’s good deeds-three-quarters of a mil ion dol ars the feds would never miss. I had an appointment with a trust officer at Chase set up for tomorrow morning. The account would be in the name of Melanie Lawson. She’d be informed of the money when she hit twenty and be able to access it a year later. The trust officer at Chase figured the account would be worth almost two mil ion by then. I wasn’t entirely convinced Chase would stil be in business, never mind turning anyone a profit, but what was a guy to do. So we’d al take a chance. I walked over to my desk and locked the money in a drawer. From a second drawer, I took out the whiskey, along with some pieces from the past. The first photo was a parting glass, my dad laid out in his only suit, waiting for them to fire up the funeral home’s oven and send him into eternity. My old man’s face had shrunk in death, col apsed into the empty shel that was his life. The red eyes I knew as a nine-year-old were thankful y sewn shut. The fists that broke my mom’s jaw in five places were gone as wel, replaced by a pair of pale hands clutching a set of rosary beads for al they were worth. I toasted the old man with a bit of Macal an. Good luck with that.
The second shot I pul ed was of Hubert Russel, moments after they’d cut him down. The rope was stil twisted around his neck, and there was a smal tattoo, a yel ow star, on the side of his throat. I remembered it from the first time I met him, minding his own business at the Cook County Bureau of Land Records, thinking his life was just beginning.
I turned Hubert’s picture facedown and walked myself and my glass over to the front windows. The sparrow was back, hopping back and forth on its branch, eyeing me with a distinct measure of disdain. I cracked the closest window, and the bird took off. I opened it some more and felt the bleak fingers of a winter sun on my face. I breathed deep, let the cold air chil my lungs, and thought about Rachel, wondered if my phone would ever ring. Then I looked down the street. The black car was there, same spot as yesterday. I had run the tag, wasn’t surprised when it came back to the archdiocese. They seemed to enjoy watching me watch them. Or maybe they had nothing better to do. I didn’t know if the city’s holy men were involved in Hubert’s death. Every instinct told me no. So I believed. Guess that’s why they cal it faith. As for the blood on their hands from thirty years past, I’d leave that for Judgment Day and a higher authority. Until then, the men in col ars would live under the thumb of Chicago’s mayor. And that seemed purgatory enough for any man.
I shut the window and finished my drink. Then I found my coat and headed for the door. The weather had softened and the streets in my neighborhood were crowded, blessedly so. I walked up and down them until, final y, I disappeared into the forgiving crush.
EPILOGUE
The evidence room sits in the basement of Area 4 on Chicago’s West Side. Tucked up high on a shelf, about halfway down the length of the room, is a cardboard box sealed with evidence tape. Inside it are a sheaf of pages, dried and crusted with blood, found in the subway under Katherine Lawson’s body.
No one ever gave the pages a close read. Everyone, it seems, had a reason not to. The federal government was too arrogant. The city of Chicago, too complacent. And Michael Kel y, too angry.
If anyone had taken a look, they would have first discovered the material Lawson had copied from the “Terror 2000” binder Jim Doherty had with him when he died. A reading of the highlighted passages would have revealed Doherty’s focus on what the Pentagon cal ed the “subway scenario”: the introduction of lightbulbs fil ed with weaponized anthrax into a major urban subway system. Anyone reading farther would have discovered Katherine Lawson’s own notes, detailing the background of Jim Doherty’s accomplice, Robert Robles, including his two-year stint at Fort Detrick in Maryland, as wel as the lab’s own experiments with weaponized anthrax. Final y, they would have found the article Lawson clipped from the Baltimore Sun, highlighting the lab’s missing cache of bioweapons. Al of this could have been gleaned from Katherine Lawson’s notes. If anyone had bothered to look. Instead, the whole troublesome problem was stuffed into an evidence box and buried. Meanwhile, a few miles away, along a run of track close to where Lawson’s body was discovered, two lightbulbs rattled and hummed in their sockets, growing looser by the day and with the rumble of every passing CTA train. No one could predict when one or both bulbs would fal. No one knew for sure what was inside. Or what wasn’t. Like most everything else, it was mostly a flick of the wrist, a rol of the dice. And the courage to live with the consequences.
