“That and what led up to it. What happened at command, the orders we got, the bad timing of it all. We marched down there to our fate as if . . . as if it had been—”
“Scripted?”
“Exactly.”
“But isn’t all history from hindsight going to appear to us as having been fated or as you say, scripted? Do you really think anyone meant to set you up, I mean anyone within the ranks of the department—your own leadership?” “How do you know my thinking on this? Who’ve you gotten all this from? Dr. Tewes?”
“I keep my ear to the ground. Met your snitch the other day on Dr. Tewes’s back stair, sneaking around like a rat. I see why they call him Dot’n’Carry. That rattle he makes with his crooked little cane—” “He lost good use of the leg and an entire foot in the war.
Inside the man’s head there is more of Chicago than anyone I know. He is fascinating to listen to if someone takes the time.”
“Or puts him on the payroll? Perhaps you’re a softy, Mr.
“Please, call me Alastair.”
There was a silence between them, the sound of barkers and the fair music rising up to where they rocked in the gondola. She then broke into his thoughts. “Black men have had the vote since just after the Civil War. Women are only asking for the same rights as any man, and in the U.S. Constitution and the Bill of Rights, the term men in ‘all men are created equal’ is genderless and refers to all mankind!” “You’ll get no argument from me.”
“Well what fun is that?”
“You’re really quite the woman.”
“Really now?”
“Perhaps just the woman to bring the vote to Chicago.”
“As I said, I can do a lot more than be a . . . a . . . an incu
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bator for some man’s seed. I have it within me to bring joy and hope and compassion and ideals into the world. Every man and woman does.”
He straightened at her words, quietly weighing each.
She continued, nonstop. “I can bring moral support to family, friends, and colleagues.”
“Then you have a lot to say and do in this life.”
“And too little time to do it in.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve a lot to . . . to give a man . . .
any man.”
“Nooo, no, no sir, not just any man will do for me, Inspector. Most men fail to appreciate a woman of intellect, opinions, and—”
“Again no argument from me.”
“You can be such a good listener, Alastair, when you sit long enough. This inventor, Mr. Ferris, perhaps the true purpose of his wheel is to make people stop and sit and talk.”
“To speak of things that otherwise would not get said?”
“Perhaps . . . to get things said and done.”
“Things like . . . like well . . . this!” Alastair surprised her with a kiss, and she surprised him by returning it, as hers was a long, hard, soft, changing kiss that meant to steal his breath away, and it did—just as the ride came to an end.
They disembarked the wheel, she laughing and stepping off ahead of him, leaving the big detective feeling awkward and unsure and a little self-conscious and guilty. All the things he’d wanted for Merielle . . . all the promises to ply her with attention. All of it he was doing now, so soon after Merielle’s death, with another woman —a woman he hardly knew.
He had as yet to make arrangements for Merielle’s burial, but he instinctively knew that Fenger was taking good care.
He worked to banish thoughts of Merielle for the time being, following after Jane instead.
She abruptly turned on him and breathlessly asked, “Can we go up again? It’s the most amazing feeling . . . like flying. So liberating.”
CITY FOR RANSOM
205
Ransom only partially frowned as he patted himself down for the change to purchase additional tickets.
They sat atop the Ferris wheel once more, staring down at the dizzying lights of Chicagoland from the spiraling buildings of downtown along the waterfront and Michigan Avenue to the rustic old homes and the worst, lowliest hovels of the South Levee district. The multitude of lights and burning fires blinked like stars aground. It was made the more magnificent by the gas-lit street lamps.
He began pointing out the tallest downtown structures, giving each a name. “There is the Studebaker Building. Four hundred ten South Michigan. Built by Mr. Beman in eighteen eighty-five.”
“Where they make all the fine carriages?” she asked.
“That’d be it, yes, and there, see the Auditorium?”
“Yes, but what is going up beside it?”
“Across Congress Street, an annex hotel to the Auditorium.”
“Yes, yes . . . so amazing from up here.”
“Bit farther south is the Richelieu Hotel, also built in
’eighty-five.”
“And the trim building beyond?”
“Chicago Athletic Association—just gone up this year.
Beyond that the Smith, Gaylord & Cross Building—old at
’eighty-two.”
“I suppose every inch of Michigan Avenue will have been cleared and sold and a building put up to reach to the stars.”
“So-called progress. Land speculation and real estate development.”
“You disapprove?”
“Ahhh . . . it’s not all to the good, no.”
“Larger isn’t necessarily better, you mean?”
“I know I’m in the wrong business, but the sorta money worship that’s swept the city . . . it’s just not for me.”
“Still, way up here it all looks beautiful. The lights at the Art Institute and along the boulevard.”
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“I warrant it’s the best way to see the city—day or night.”
“And the pavilions of our magnificent White City.”
“The city spared no expense on the fair.”
“Mind-boggling, how huge it is,” she agreed.
“A nightmare for a small police force to cover.”
Despite the wheel’s having filled with people as it made its 270-foot arch above the city and lake, the couple felt alone, unable to see any other passengers from their gondola cocoon.
Below, the fair crowds moved like schools of fish: coming and going, darting here, chasing there, the fairways teeming.
Alone yet every gondola occupied, and in one of them sat a killer, a killer who with eyes closed relived his murders, particularly his last two life-taking adventures. In his mind’s eye he again killed Polly Pete, tightening his fists around the garrote that now dangled between his knees.
As if happening this moment, he brings the garrote to its full cutting power through
