I jerked my head in Rodriguez’s direction. “These guys are getting a lot of heat from the Fifth Floor to bury the case. Vince and Dan Masters asked me to step in and take a look. Unofficially.”
“Which brings us back to tonight,” Rodriguez said. “And the reason why people feel the need to break into your home and shoot the judge here with a rubber bullet.”
“Yes,” Rachel said, and took a sip of her whiskey. “I’m all ears.”
So I told her what I knew. About Janet Woods, her husband, and the boxing match they called a marriage. About Johnny Woods’ trip to the house on Hudson and the missing Sheehan’s. About the Chicago Historical Society and the curator who wanted to be a star. Then I pulled out a copy of the article I had copied, originally published as an April Fool’s prank. Rachel read through the clip, handed it to Rodriguez, and turned back to me.
“You think there’s something to this?” she said.
“I spent Friday afternoon in the County Building. Pulled some land records from 1871.”
“They go back that far?” Rachel said.
I nodded. “Title abstracts. Still a little foggy, but it appears a lot of the land around O’Leary’s barn was owned by a corporation with the initials J.J.W.”
I could hear Rodriguez click his teeth together. The judge leaned in as she spoke.
“J.J.W.? As in John Julius Wilson?”
“Very good, Your Honor. Unfortunately, any corporate records were destroyed in the fire.”
“No way to figure out who the principals were?”
“No,” I said. “I also spent some time with the reporter who wrote this article thirty years ago. Guy named Rawlings Smith. Claims the piece spooked the Wilson clan. Bought Smith a one-way ticket out of town.”
“And you believe him?” Rachel said.
“I believe I do.”
Rachel shifted her eyes to Rodriguez. “Detective?”
Rodriguez’s face was cast in shadow, but I could still see his hands, long, veined, impassive, folded together loosely and draped across his knees.
“Officially, no comment. Unofficially…no comment.”
“You’re a big help.”
“Your Honor?”
“Best I can see, you put him onto this wild-goose chase.”
“Vince had nothing to do with it,” I said. “I found the body at Hudson. I decided to help out. On my own.”
“Blundered into the whole mess,” Rachel said. “And now you figure whoever killed Mr. Bryant thinks you have whatever it is they want. Shot me tonight to get it.”
“It is a circle full of circumstance, Your Honor,” Rodriguez said.
“Fuck off, Detective.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
I held up a hand. “That’s not exactly what I think, Rachel.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. The person who killed Allen Bryant wasn’t the guy who shot you. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Explain.” That was Rodriguez, sitting up now, curious.
“The person who broke in tonight carried a gun with rubber bullets,” I said. “Why? If it was Bryant’s killer, he’d be packing the real thing. After all, what’s another life? No, this was a different guy. A thief, yes. Just not up to the job of killing.”
“Which means what?” Rachel said.
I got up and stretched. “Which means there are at least two groups involved in this. One is willing to take a life. The other is still working up the courage.”
“Does that bring us back to the mayor?” Rachel said.
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. But if my great-great-grandfather burned down the city and lined his pockets in the process, I’d be worried. Maybe even worried enough to kill.”
CHAPTER 22
R odriguez left my flat at a little after five-thirty. Rachel and I sat in the living room. I listened to the wind blow through the hole in my window. Rachel hugged her knees to her body, drank my whiskey, and stared straight ahead. After a few minutes, I got up, went into the bedroom, and got dressed. Rachel had her coat on and was waiting by the door when I returned. I drove her home. It was still quiet on the streets. Even quieter in the car.
“I’m sorry about all this,” I said.
Rachel wasn’t crying. Too tough for that. She was, however, close. And that probably made things worse.
“What the fuck, Michael. Jesus Christ. I’m goddamn naked, out cold on your living room floor, and you decide to have your cop buddy over.”
“I thought you were dead.”
There wasn’t much more to say so I drove. We pulled up to her house, a Gold Coast graystone a block from the lake. It was still mostly dark out. I turned the car off and listened to the engine. It didn’t have much to say either.
“Good night, Michael.”
“Good night, Rachel. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For tonight.”
“Don’t be. Just pretend it never happened.”
“Including the date?”
“None of it.”
“That what you want?”
She looked out the window in a way that would give any man pause.
“Maybe this is a bad idea,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Maybe.”
“Fair enough.”
An awkward hug later, she was out of the car. I waited until she got inside her front door, cursed at the empty street in front of me, and pulled away. Halfway down the block, I saw a rust-colored Dodge Monaco parked in front of a hydrant. I pulled up alongside.
“Following me, Detective?”
Dan Masters was blowing on something hot in a Styrofoam cup. He spoke without looking at me. “Get in the car.”
I parked, legally, behind him and slipped into the passenger seat.
“You watched her get in the front door,” he said. “That was nice.”
“You think so?”
“I think it was a good idea.”
“Makes her feel safe, right?”
Masters snorted and turned the engine over.
“Is that what you were going for there, Kelly? How about the ‘she just got shot while she was naked and left for dead in my apartment’ feeling. How about the ‘I better do anything I can possibly fucking think of or I’ll never see this woman on whose radar I don’t belong in the first place ever again’ feeling. Think you might want to be addressing any of that, lover boy?”
The detective shook his head, took a sip of his joe, and slapped his lips together. Then he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
“Rodriguez told you what happened?” I said.
“Sure, he told me. I was checking out the block while he was inside with you and the judge.”
“Find anything?”
“A guy getting a blow job in an alley.”
“Is that supposed to be interesting?”
“He was a Chicago alderman.”
“Okay.”
“The married kind. His date was a working girl.”
I looked over at Masters, who sipped and smiled. “I got him a cab home.”
“Nice chit to have.”
“Yes, sir. You need some breakfast? I need a breakfast. Let’s go over to Tempo.”
Tempo’s been around for a lot of years. Its business plan is simple. Stay open all night and be within staggering distance of Rush Street. Folks coming out of the late-night bars aren’t too picky about what’s on the plate. If it’s not moving, put some ketchup on it and eat it. We got a booth near the front. I ordered scrambled eggs. Masters ordered toast and another coffee.
“You aren’t eating?” I said.
“Nah. Lost my appetite.”
The detective played a toothpick across his teeth and looked out the window. The last of the taverns had flushed an hour earlier, and the street was filled with the wretched refuse. Four frat boys stumbled to a corner and headed our way.
“Nice lady,” Masters said. The waitress brought our coffee and the detective’s toast.
“Excuse me?”
“Your friend there. Judge Swenson. Nice lady.”
“About that. We need to keep tonight quiet. Especially the part about Rachel. Totally quiet.”
“Mum’s the word, Kelly.”
Masters buttered some toast and let his coffee cool. The frat boys shuffled into our diner and began asking for a table. One waitress brought me a plate of eggs while another took the college kids into the back. Masters watched them settle in and then returned to our conversation.