with their task force.”
“You don’t feel good about the Bureau?”
Wilson waved a cold hand in my face. “Fuck them. Bunch of pencil pushers sitting around in meetings trying to figure out the quickest way to get their ass back to Washington. Meanwhile, this guy is out popping people. My people. In my city. Our city, for Chrissakes.”
“I know.”
“So get on it. If you got an angle to play, go ahead and play it. You don’t want to tel me your connection to al of this, fine. I’l provide cover for you. Rodriguez wil provide whatever information the task force digs up.”
“What do you mean by ‘cover,’ Your Honor?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
Wilson leaned in farther, his voice crawling across the table on its bel y. “You want to hear it, Kel y? Fine. Find this guy. Guys. Whatever. Put a bag over his head and drop him down a fucking hole. No arrest. No trial. No questions asked.”
“You can’t find a cop to do that for you?”
“This isn’t a Chicago operation.”
“And task forces can get complicated.”
“That’s right. Let me ask you a question. Can you find this guy?”
“Maybe.”
“You have an angle, you cocksucker.”
“Maybe.”
“And the feds are fucking useless, right?”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that. The feds are gonna use their methods, like they always do. Sometimes they work…”
“And usual y they don’t. If you don’t want to drop someone down a hole, that’s not a problem. Just get a line on him and we’re good. I’d offer your badge back, but you’re too much of an asshole to accept it, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, then. We’l figure out something else for you. Just find this guy. Now get out of here so I can order dinner.”
Sometimes the less said, the better. Every instinct told me this was one of those times. So I left the mayor and his offer floating in the Grecian darkness.
CHAPTER 11
Rodriguez was waiting in the car outside Santorini. “How’d it go?” he said and turned over the engine. “How do you think?”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna work it. You already knew that. So did Wilson.”
Rodriguez pul ed into a line of early evening headlights streaming north on Halsted. “Let me guess, on your own terms?”
I shrugged. “What are the feds focusing on?”
“About what you’d expect. Physical evidence, witness statements. They’re developing an offender profile, gonna run al their data through NCIC, VICAP, and every other database they can think of.”
“What about the rifle?”
“Preliminary from Bal istics established it as the sniper kil. No prints. They’re running a trace right now.”
“And the apartment?”
“Should have some information in the morning. By the way, the morning should be a lot of fun. City’s putting uniforms on al the CTA platforms. Plainclothes on board the buses.”
“That’s a lot of manpower.”
“It gets better. The Bureau wants to put its own teams up on the rooftops. From Evanston to Ninety-fifth. North, south, east, and west. Along every mile of L track.”
“Snipers?”
“Whole nine yards. Balaclava, painted faces, rifles with scopes, al that crap.”
“Maybe they’l just scare the shit out of these guys.”
“Or the half mil ion people who use the L every day. Wilson didn’t like it. Said he wasn’t going to turn his city into some unholy fucking vision of Baghdad.”
“He’l be changing his tune if another body turns up,” I said.
Rodriguez grunted. We slipped across the tip of Goose Island, clattered over Clybourn Avenue, and took a left onto Lincoln.
“What’s the story with Lawson?” I said.
Rodriguez chuckled. “Thought you might get to that. They cal her Sister Katherine.”
“Why’s that?”
“You remember Father Mark?”
“Doesn’t ring a bel.”
“Father Mark was the pastor at St. Cecilia’s over on the Southwest Side. Took the parish for a little more than a mil ion dol ars over five years.”
“Heartwarming.”
“Yeah, he was shorting the col ection money, using parish credit cards, everything. Lawson was the one who got onto him. Spent six months hip deep in church records looking for loose cash. Turns out this guy had a second home in California and three Beemers. When Lawson grabbed him, he was planning to sel the rectory and buy himself a boat.”
“That’s her big score?”
“That’s what she’s known for.”
“She a climber?” I said.
“Depends on who you talk to. Some say she’s always wanted to be a player in Washington. Just never made the cut.”
“And the rest?”
“One agent who’s been around awhile told me the exact opposite. Says the woman is right where she wants to be. Says she’s got big-time pul downtown, but no one is sure with whom or why.” Rodriguez glanced across the car. “Bottom line, this guy says: ‘Don’t fuck with Katherine. She’l ruin your week.’”
“I’l keep that in mind.”
Rodriguez flicked his turn signal, took a right onto Southport Avenue, and pul ed to the corner at Eddy.
“Tomorrow?” I said and reached for the door handle.
“Hang on.” Rodriguez kil ed the engine. My hand slipped off the handle, and I pushed back in my seat.
“What is it?”
“You tel me,” Rodriguez said.
I tried to hide behind a smile that was too quick for its own good. My friend the detective was having none of it.
“Been two months since you went out to L.A. Haven’t seen you. Talked to you. Nobody’s seen you, except Rachel.”
“People get busy.”
“Yeah, wel, that’s fine. But I stil need to know you’re okay for this.”
“You think L.A.’s gonna keep me from the job?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying.” I felt the screws tighten in my voice, the pressure build behind my eyes.
“Your father passed. You went out to L.A. to pick up his ashes and came back empty-handed.”
“For a guy who doesn’t know much, you’re pretty wel informed.”
