“Sounds like a good movie to me, Kelly. Got any proof?”
“Property records. Tying John Julius Wilson to the land. Maybe along with Charles Hume.”
I thought the names might bother Woods. I was wrong.
“It’s not a crime to own property. That all you got?”
“I also know about the Sheehan’s,” I said.
Woods flinched at the book’s mention. Just a single movement along the left side of his upper lip. But it was enough.
“I know you went to the house on Hudson to get the book, and I know Allen Bryant was killed for it.”
“I told you, Kelly. I had nothing to do with Bryant. He was dead when I got there.”
“What about the book, Woods? Was that gone too?”
Whatever bluff the mayor’s guy had been hoping to play was crumbling pretty quick. I was getting dangerously close to some version of the truth, and Woods needed to get his side out.
“I told them this was a bad idea,” he said, and shook his head. “I fucking told them.”
“Told who?” I said.
Woods’ fingers were as overweight as fingers could be. One wore a gold wedding band. Another had a Claddagh ring squeezed onto it. He looked at them for a long time. Didn’t see anything he liked and looked back at me. I don’t think he saw anything he liked too much there either, but what the hell.
“Fuck you, Kelly. You know who.”
“They want the book pretty bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Is it true?” I said.
Woods looked up again.
“Is what true?”
“John Julius Wilson. The Chicago Fire. Is it true?”
“Oh, Jesus. Are you going to talk about this?”
“I told you, Woods. I’m only about the murder. Allen Bryant was found dead inside his house. His first-edition Sheehan’s was the only thing found missing.”
“Shit.”
“That’s one way to analyze it. What I need to know from you is how the book fits into this whole thing. I know about Hume. I know about John Julius Wilson. I know about the land scam and the fire. Now tell me about the Sheehan’s.”
Woods smoothed his eyebrows and massaged the skin at his temples. I started up my car and began to drive. Maybe a change of scenery would help things along.
“There was supposed to be a letter,” Woods said. “Have you heard about that?”
He moved his eyes across the car. I flicked my head. Neither yes nor no. Just enough to tell him I was in control and was going to get everything he had. This morning. Right now. Woods looked away and kept talking.
“Hume and Wilson supposedly drew up a letter after the fire. Laid out the whole thing: the plan to burn out the Irish; the land grab; how it all spun out of control. Then they signed it. Each kept a copy.”
“Why?”
Woods chuckled, as if he understood this part of the story all too well.
“Fuckers didn’t trust each other for nothing. The letter prevented either from talking.”
“The letter was protection for Wilson,” I said.
“Probably. He was the poor Irishman. Needed a handle on Hume.”
“Shrewd,” I said.
“Runs in the family.”
“So what happened to the letters?”
“That’s the thing,” Woods said. “This is all rumor. Urban legend. Who the fuck knows. But the Fifth Floor believes it. So they sent me out to track them down.”
“The letters?” I said.
“Yeah, the letters. At Hume’s request, all his papers were burned at his death. Supposedly his copy of the letter was burned then.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he figured it wasn’t his problem anymore, so fuck it.”
We were back in Sauganash. Woods cracked a window and watched his neighborhood slide by. I turned onto a street called Keene and pulled up to Queen of All Saints. The sign out front said it was not just a church but a basilica.
“What’s so different about a basilica?” I said.
“You Catholic?”
“All my life.”
Woods shook his head and grunted. “Jesus Christ. A basilica’s a big church. Sometimes it contains a crypt, a place in the church where they keep the bones of a priest or a saint.”
“Huh.”
“You better get some religion, Kelly.”
“You think so?”
I parked in front of a large green lawn, stretching out and away. Toward the basilica’s twin spires, soaring, and its granite faзade, impressive. Beyond that, a flourish of marble steps. Expensive. Inside the church, presumably, salvation. Or at least a chance to contribute some cash.
“What about Wilson’s copy?” I said.
“Of the letter?”
“Yeah, Johnny. Wilson’s copy of the letter.”
“What about it?”
“That’s the one you’re looking for.”
“If it ever existed. The mayor claims he knows nothing about it.”
“Officially,” I said.
“That’s right,” Woods said. “Unofficially, it goes something like this. The year was 1920-something. One of the mayor’s horny ancestors went into a cathouse over on Skid Row.”
“This was before the Wilson family had taken up politics?”
“Just before,” Woods said. “They were just filthy-rich pig-fuck land barons. Anyway, this guy is in there with one of the lovelies. They have a moment between rounds and he pulls out the letter. Showing off or some fucking thing. Just about then Chicago’s finest raid the place. All hell breaks loose. Did I tell you the Wilson guy was married?”
“I’m shocked.”
“I’m sure you are. Anyway, he jumps out a second-story window, half naked.”
“And leaves the letter behind?”
Woods cocked a finger my way and fired. “Bingo. He went back the next day but the girl had skipped town. Family never saw or heard about it again. Over time, everyone forgot about it.”
“Until recently?”
“Yeah, recently. No one is sure where the rumor started but it’s out there. The letter is legit and the mayor is nervous.”
“Tell me how the Sheehan’s fits in.”
Woods held out a hand. “I’m getting there. You know the first editions are numbered?”
I nodded. “One to twenty.”
“You’ve done your homework. Four’s the lucky number. The first edition of Sheehan’s numbered four contains information as to the location of the letter.”
“Sheehan’s number four, huh?”
“That’s what they say. There’s a clue in there somewhere.”
“And you believe all this?”
Woods grunted again. “My bosses do. That’s all that matters.”
“You keep talking about rumor, Johnny. But I don’t believe it. There’s a source here. Someone is making you guys believe.”
“You think so?”
“I think so. And I have a picture in my pocket. A picture of you running from a murder. A picture that tells me I’m gonna get his name. Probably sooner than later.”
“Piss off, Kelly.”
“Not a problem, Johnny, once I have your source. Someone put you guys onto the letter and the Sheehan’s. Probably offered to read the tea leaves once you got the book and parse out the clue. Am I right?”
No response.
“Let me ask you this. Did he put you on to Allen Bryant’s trail?”
Woods cut me a look at that one. “I found Bryant myself. Tracked down six other first editions before I found him.”
“Bryant had the number four, didn’t he?”
Woods nodded. “I met with him the night before he was murdered. He told me he had the book at his house and would give it to me the next morning. I showed up…” Woods shrugged and shook himself free. “He was dead, Kelly. I saw the body and split.”
We sat in the silence of the moment. Each with our own set of problems.
“Does the mayor know about Bryant?” I said.
“Not from me. On the other hand, there isn’t much he doesn’t know.”
“Is anyone else interested in the letter?”
“Mayor’s got a lot of enemies,” Woods said. “Love to get their hands on something like that.”
“But would they kill to get their hands on it?”
Johnny smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit, took a little water, and washed some blood off a cuff.
“These people are civilized, Kelly. Political types.”