the water and blessed herself. The young girl beside Mom held her arms up. Before the woman could react, Nelson lifted the girl so she was level with the cistern. He smiled again at the mother as her child sprinkled the water across forehead and cheeks. The mother reached for the child, hustling away once she had the girl back in her arms. Nelson watched them go. Then he crouched in a corner as the rest of the congregation filed out. A couple dozen took holy water. After a bit, the church was empty. Nelson walked outside and shuffled his way to the back of the building. He found his shopping cart, gritted his teeth, and began to push into the wind along State Street.
CHAPTER 9
Rodriguez and I walked into FBI headquarters at a little after noon. A young Asian woman in a blue suit took our names and guns in exchange for plastic IDs. Then she walked us through a door and down a hal way, where she passed us off to a young white man in a brown suit. He put us in a smal office and told us someone would be with us shortly. An hour later, the door to the office opened. On the other side was a young black man in a gray suit. He took us another twenty feet to a conference room, fil ed with al sorts of men and women, clad in al sorts of suits. They al stopped talking as we walked in, and everyone seemed exceptional y good at not smiling.
“This is Detective Vince Rodriguez and, I suspect, Michael Kel y?” The man speaking carried his sixty or so years alarmingly wel. His face was largely unlined, his eyes clear, his hair an efficient salt-and-pepper flattop. He cloaked broad shoulders in a custom-cut three-button suit and walked with the natural grace of an athlete. On his left wrist, he wore a gold watch; on his left hand, a wedding ring. He shot his cuffs as he approached, flashing a set of FBI logos disguised as cuff links.
“Dick Rudolph. Deputy director of the FBI.”
I shook the deputy director’s hand and glanced toward Rodriguez, wondering how and why the FBI’s second- in-command happened to be in Chicago, and how and why he didn’t have better things to do than talk to me. Rudolph seemed to read my mind.
“I’m in Chicago on some unrelated business, was scheduled to fly out this afternoon, when this thing jumped up. Sit down, Mr. Kel y.”
I took a seat beside Rodriguez. Rudolph staked out the head of the table and did his best to make me think I was at least the second-mostimportant guy in the room.
“As you might imagine,” Rudolph said, “the nature of these crimes has sparked concern along several different lines, including possible terrorist acts. The Bureau has stepped in to help, and I decided to sit in on today’s meeting.”
Rudolph turned to the rest of the table. “Mr. Kel y is a former Chicago police officer. Now, a private investigator. As you al know, he was on the Southport L platform this morning and confronted our suspect in an al ey. He also took the cal from our suspect. You have copies of his statement and details on the cal. We’ve asked Mr. Kel y to come in and see if he could be of any further help.”
His role apparently played, the deputy director sat back and waited. A woman across the table cleared her throat. She was thirty-five, maybe forty, with nervous eyes and a tough mouth that would have been attractive if it wasn’t so disapproving. I’d seen it before. Battle fatigue from too many years in the Old Boys’ Club.
“Mr. Kel y, my name is Katherine Lawson. I’m heading up our field investigation.” Lawson had long, thin hands that she folded in front of her as she spoke. Her fingers were devoid of any jewelry, save a gold ring with a black stone that also carried an FBI crest. I guessed cuff links didn’t work for her.
“Did you, by any chance, recognize the man in the al ey?” Lawson said.
“He was wearing a ski mask,” I said. “It’s in my statement.”
“Voice?”
I shook my head. “Sounded young. Plenty strong and looked to be in good shape.”
Lawson glanced down at her notes. “He asked if you were ready to die?”
“That’s right.”
“Any idea why he said that?”
I shrugged. “I assume he was just making conversation.”
Lawson caught her boss’s eye. Rudolph seemed to be watching the exchange closely, but kept quiet.
“And why would you assume that?”
The last question came from a black man with white tufts of hair planted on either side of his head and a trim white goatee. He was sitting at the far end of the table, his chair turned to face the nearest wal.
“This is Dr. James Supple,” Lawson said. “He works with our Profiling Section out of Quantico.”
I nodded, but Supple continued to study the wal. Fuck him. Fuck profilers.
“He didn’t pul the trigger,” I said. “What else should I assume?”
Supple turned a fraction in his chair. A smile licked at the corner of his lips. “So the suspect was playing with you?”
“You mean suspects,” I said.
Supple sat up a bit. “Excuse me?”
“Suspects,” I said. “There were two suspects in that al ey. Not at the same time, but they were there.”
I went on to explain the theory Rodriguez and I had worked out.
Supple shook his head and glanced at Rudolph. “Doubtful.”
“Why?” the deputy director said.
“A kil er like this almost always operates alone.” Supple plucked his glasses off his nose and wiped them down as he spoke. “I know, everyone cites the DC sniper. But that was a unique set of facts. A man and a boy. Student and teacher. The exception, rather than the rule. I can tel you, without any doubt, this suspect almost certainly works without an accomplice.”
If they hadn’t taken my gun at the door, I would have considered shooting the profiler where he sat. Instead, I took a sip of bad coffee and worked on summoning my reflective self.
“The phone cal you took, Mr. Kel y. About how long did it last?” That was Agent Lawson, dutiful y picking up the bal and trying to move it forward.
“Less than a minute.”
“And the voice on the phone, was it the same as the voice in the al ey?”
“The voice on the phone was disguised. Electronical y altered. Must have had some sort of device tapped onto the line.”
“And why would he do that, do you suspect?” Supple was back again, laying out his piece of cheese and waiting to pounce. Fuck it. Let him pounce.
“I have no idea,” I said. “Why?”
“You had heard his voice once in the al ey, and he wanted to make sure you didn’t hear it a second time, especial y if there was a possibility you might record it.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “That supports your theory of a single shooter?”
“The facts speak for themselves, Mr. Kel y.”
“Real y? Because it seems to me if he’d let me hear his voice in the al ey, why would he go to the trouble of disguising it the second time around?
And why would he think my cel would be set up to record a cal I had no reason to suspect I was even receiving?”
Lawson intervened again. “What’s your point, Mr. Kel y?”
“My point is pretty simple. This guy disguised his voice because he was afraid I might recognize it. Not from this morning, but from some other time.
CHAPTER 10
The feds stuck me in another smal room, this time with a pot of cold coffee and a door that was locked. Every ten minutes, a sal ow-faced woman would check to see if I had accomplished anything worthwhile-like,
