newspapers and began to push it down the al ey. Somewhere a church bel struck twelve. The old man picked up his pace. If he hustled, he could stil make the 12:30 mass.
CHAPTER 7
I watched as a woman standing ten feet away ordered a skim mocha, no whip. Rodriguez was whispering into his radio, tel ing someone somewhere that the kil er, or maybe his accomplice, had just given me a ring. The woman was in her early thirties, with light brown hair tied back into a ponytail and a large emerald cat pinned to her dark blue coat. She smiled as the tal, angular barista pushed her drink across the counter. Then the woman took a sip and found her way to a corner table looking out at the street. She pul ed out a paperback, tucked one leg underneath her, and began to read. It looked pretty peaceful, pretty nice. I wanted nothing more than to join her. Then Rodriguez got done with his radio machinations and gave me a tap on the shoulder.
“We gotta go.”
I knew that was coming. As we exited the Starbucks, four cruisers sealed off the block. Ten cops got out and began to comb al eys, roust bums, and shake down regular folks on the street. I figured too little, too late.
“You got a car?” Rodriguez said.
“No.”
“Good.” Rodriguez popped the locks on his Crown Vic. “Get in.”
Five minutes later, we were out of the Loop and headed west.
“Not going to headquarters?” I said.
The detective shook his head. “Looks like the feds might be taking over. Possible terrorist acts.”
“Bet downtown loved that.”
“Brass doesn’t mind. If it goes wel, we’l stick our nose in the trough, suck up as much glory as we can. If we have bodies stacking up on L platforms in a week and a half, we got someone to blame it on.”
“Don’t you love your job?”
“Funny guy. Right now you’re the star of the show.”
“Great.”
“That’s right. Now, talk to me about the guy on the phone. Was he legit?”
“You tel me.”
Rodriguez took a left onto Canal. “A patrol found a rifle in the trash. Remington with a scope.”
“He told me we wouldn’t find it,” I said.
“Guess he lied. Try to get over it.”
“How about ammo?”
Rodriguez took a right and accelerated down the block. “We’l know more when we pul the lead out of our victim. But there were three rounds in the rifle.”
“And?”
“Black Hil s Gold, 308 Winchester. Just like your boy said.”
“This guy wasn’t our shooter.”
“How do you figure?”
“He knew we were sitting in a Starbucks, which means he was close by, watching.”
“So?”
“Who’s gonna shoot up an L train, then hang around the scene and cal me for kicks?”
“Then he’s our accomplice?” Rodriguez said. I shrugged as we came up on a line of traffic stopped at a red light.
“One more thing.” Rodriguez looked over. “They found a second body downtown.”
“On the train?”
The detective shook his head. “Building on Lake. Building manager got his throat cut. Apartment looks over the tracks.”
“So the manager maybe barges in on our shooter?”
“Or the manager was helping him and then became expendable. Either way, we’l process it. Pul any rental records.”
“Our guy isn’t that stupid.”
“Real y?” Rodriguez lifted an eyebrow. “If you got al the answers, let me ask you this: Why are these geniuses cal ing you?”
“Not a clue.”
“Might want to do some figuring on that before we sit down with the feds. You can start with how these guys got your cel phone number. And end with why they didn’t drop the hammer on you this morning.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly. Let’s get moving here.”
Rodriguez flicked on his siren and flashers. The sea of cars parted, and the detective hit the gas.
CHAPTER 8
Nelson rumbled his shopping cart to a stop at the corner of Superior and State and looked up at the white stone of Holy Name Cathedral. The morning had gone as wel as he could have hoped. Robles had gotten their attention. Kel y was involved. Now it was time to make them understand why.
Nelson stashed his cart in an al ey and trudged up the steps. With the push of a finger, ten tons’ worth of bronze door swung open, and he slipped inside. The 12:30 mass was just starting. The regular crowd was there. Maybe fifty people, mostly folks from work who used their lunch hour to pray. Nelson took a seat in the back and looked them over. The standard hypocrites, getting on their knees and groveling when they needed something: a clean X-ray from the doctor, a phone cal from an old girlfriend, a pregnancy test with an empty round window. When you got right down to it, there were very few atheists in the foxholes of life. It was something the Catholic church had understood for centuries and counted on. To his right, Nelson saw a bench ful of three bums like himself, except they were already asleep. The church tolerated them as long as they didn’t smel too bad or snore too loud. The service usual y ran twenty-five minutes, tops. The priest was an old one. No surprise there. He was talking about running through your own personal Rolodex, checking off the people you’ve met, places you’ve been, and things you’ve done.
“How does your Rolodex look?” the sanctimonious bastard croaked, staring down his saintly nose at the great unwashed. “Does it bear up under scrutiny? Do you have the right balance in your life? The right priorities? Or are you al owing your time on earth to be bought and sold, bartered away in the minutiae of the everyday, the pursuit of the material and your own comfort? Indeed.”
The priest let the last flourish hang as he shook his long head from side to side and tucked his hands inside embroidered robes. I’l show you some fucking priorities, Nelson thought and let his eyes wander up to the ceiling. Five galeri hung there, red hats with wide brims, representing five dead Chicago cardinals. Five princes of the church, more hypocrites presiding over an empire that was as rotten as it was rich, as calculating as it was pretentious.
Nelson felt inside an inner pocket for the smal brown bottle. It had a cork stopper in it. He stood up and wandered into the rear vestibule. A Chicago cop was there, loaded down with a radio, nightstick, and gun and sweating in a bul etproof vest. He considered Nelson’s filth and turned back toward the service. Nelson shuffled over to the stone cistern that held the holy water and waited. Communion was cal ed, and the cop went forward to get his wafer. Nelson dipped dirty fingers in the bowl and blessed himself with the magic water. Then he slipped the brown bottle from his jacket and tipped its contents into the bowl.
Communion was over and people were starting to wander to the back of the church. Nelson stepped away from the bowl and watched a mother approach, young child in tow. Nelson smiled. The woman recoiled. Stil, she was Catholic and soldiered on, pretending to like the bum and nodding in his direction. She touched her fingers to
