We All Fall Down (13 page)

CHAPTER 29

It was another half hour before they moved on my place. I watched through my neighbor’s peephole as three agents crouched in the stairwell. They were dressed in blue FBI jackets with vests underneath. One carried a door ram; the other two, shotguns. I’d left my front door ajar, so they put the ram to one side and crept into the apartment. A minute later, four more agents followed up the stairs. I wasn’t entirely sure if they would try to get into Mikey’s place, but I didn’t think so. If I was black and lived on the South Side, maybe a different story. But I wasn’t. My neighbors knew their rights and could cause problems.

I sat tight by the door for another ten minutes. There was more coming and going and a lot of people talking on radios. Then Mikey Sanders kicked in. I’d given him my cell phone, along with the car keys, and watched him walk out the front door of our building. Feds never gave him a second look. I’d told him to drive at least twenty blocks north and park. He was supposed to call in to voicemail at my office, leave the line open, and toss the cell in the trash somewhere. I was hoping the feds might have put a trace on my phone. I wasn’t disappointed.

Four agents came out of my apartment in single file and clattered down the stairs. I crawled over to the front windows. They piled into three cars and peeled off. I checked the back alley. It, too, was suddenly clean. Best I could tell, there were only two agents left inside my apartment. None outside watching the street. I waited another five minutes, then slipped down my neighbor’s back stairs. Cornelia Avenue was still quiet. I walked to Southport and caught a cab headed west. I’d told Mikey to grab his girlfriend after he made the call, and get out of town. Seemed like a nice kid. I hoped he took my advice.

CHAPTER 30

Marcus Robinson studied his leader’s walk. It was a slow, powerful thing. Head up, shoulders rolling.

“He’s coming,” James said.

It was late afternoon on the West Side. Marcus and his brother were sitting in the backseat of a locked SUV. Jace had told them to chill and taken the keys. Now Ray Sampson moved closer and released the locks on the doors. He tapped lightly on the window. Marcus popped the door open.

“Feelin’ special, Little Man?”

Marcus bumped fists with his boss. He’d unloaded the gun he used to kill the Korean the day before and had the piece tucked inside his jacket. The bullets felt like cold lumps in his pocket.

“Take a walk?” Ray Ray said.

James tugged at his brother’s arm, but Marcus shook free. Ray Ray led him across the street and down an alley, past more cars, windows tinted, threads of white smoke leaking from tailpipes. Marcus could feel the eyes on him, hear the doors open and close after he’d gone by. They walked to the shunted-off end of the alley, just short of a scrap of fencing.

“What you doing, Little Man?” Ray Ray tiptoed his fingers along the fence as he spoke.

“Getting ready to roll.”

“You got any idea what for?”

“Jace said you’d tell us.”

Ray Ray nodded and held out his hand. “Let me see the gat.”

Marcus passed over his gun without a word. Ray Ray stuck it in his jacket pocket. Behind them, the ranks of the Fours pressed close, heads and shoulders blotting out the sky, watching, waiting to see what their boss was gonna do.

“Where you get it, Little Man?”

Marcus told him.

“Tell me again about Cecil.”

Marcus repeated his story. How Cecil had his gun on the white dude in Lee’s store when a second guy came out of the cellar. It was the second guy who shot Cecil, then took a couple more pops at the Robinson brothers. After that, the two white guys ran.

“That it, huh?”

“That’s it.” Marcus knew the story was weak. He also knew Ray Ray didn’t have a body to check. And didn’t really give a damn about Cecil, anyway.

The Fours’ leader pulled his own heavy gun from his belt and held it in both hands. “Now tell me why you shot the Korean.”

Marcus didn’t know how he knew. And didn’t bother to deny it. “He owed me.”

“You doin’ business with the Korean?”

“I helped him with some stuff.”

“You see the dope in his place?”

Marcus shook his head, and left it at that.

“What you take out of there?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t make no sense, Little Man.” Ray Ray dropped the piece to his side and tapped it against his leg. Marcus felt a twist in his belly, and hated it.

“I was going to take the boxes we saw in the cellar.”

“What was in them?”

“I don’t know. Whatever they were, I figured I’d sell ’em.”

“Rather than let me get my hands on them?”

Marcus nodded. Ray Ray slipped the gun back in his belt. “Go ahead.”

“I did the Korean in the afternoon. Was getting ready to move them boxes with a forklift when the motherfucker jumps in.”

“Who?”

“Tall, white. Wore a long coat.”

“Not the two you saw later?”

“Don’t think so.”

“How come you don’t know?”

“This guy was wearing a mask.”

Ray Ray pulled a black mask from under his coat. “Like this?”

Marcus nodded and didn’t think anything of it. “Took a shot at me in the cellar. I got out through the tunnels.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“So you telling me this other white guy—he took my dope?”

Marcus shrugged.

“You ever gonna come clean on any of this, Little Man?”

“If I thought it helped you find the dope, I would’ve.”

Ray Ray sighed, then leaned down so he was almost eye level with Marcus. “Which hand you shoot with?”

Marcus held up his right. Ray Ray studied it like he’d never seen one quite like it. He straightened and walked along the fence line, kicking at the ground with his boot. He came back carrying a chunk of concrete.

“Over here.”

Ray Ray led Marcus to a pad of cement that was broken up at the edges, but smooth enough. He laid the boy on his belly, left hand flat on the pavement. The crowd of bangers re-formed around them.

“Spread your fingers.”

Marcus did.

“In Ireland they call this breeze blocking.” Ray Ray waited for someone to be impressed. Marcus didn’t have much to say. Ray Ray lifted the piece of concrete in his fist. “You move, I use the gun.”

Marcus turned his head to one side. Ray Ray brought the concrete down in one solid chunk, crushing the ring and pinkie fingers. Marcus screamed but didn’t cry. Ray Ray lifted the rock up, took a look at the damage, and tossed the rock away.

“Go on back now.”

Ray Ray handed him his gun. Marcus took it in his right hand, cradling his left against his stomach. His legs felt wobbly. Someone grabbed his elbow. It was James. They were twenty feet down the alley when Ray Ray called out.

“Little Man?”

Marcus turned.

“You still good for shooting a pump?”

Marcus nodded.

“Jace.”

The shooter stepped out of a doorway. He carried a black pistol in one hand.

“Time comes, make sure Little Man here gets himself a shotgun and a bucket full of shells.”

Ray Ray turned away, and Marcus walked out of the alley alive. A surprise to everyone. No one more so than Marcus himself.

CHAPTER 31

The cabbie dropped me at a Starbucks on Madison, just east of the United Center. It took the better part of an hour to figure out the eavesdropping device on Danielson’s laptop. After that, I sat like a virtual fly on the wall, reading the increasingly frantic message traffic between Chicago and DC. I wasn’t able to get it all, but there was enough to give me an idea of how things might go down over the next twelve hours.

It was almost six before someone in Homeland got smart and shut down Danielson’s link. I snapped his laptop shut and told the kid pouring cappuccinos she might want to close up early. She said her boss would be mad. I told her I was a cop, and she should pay attention to what I was telling her. Then I left.

The smart move would have been to take my own advice. Flag a cab, hook up with Rachel and the pup, lay low, and watch the whole thing unfold from a distance. Instead, I headed west. I’d bought a burner phone after I left my apartment and used it to leave Rachel a message and the number. Then I tried Rita Alvarez, but got no answer. So I shut the phone down and walked.

The news had been getting increasingly grim. At noon, WGN reported a possible Legionnaires’ outbreak on the West Side. Then E. coli. Or bad water. By midafternoon, it was an unfolding health crisis, with at least ten dead, another dozen sick, and Cook County Hospital at the epicenter. Still no mention of a bioweapon, but they were warming to the idea. Wilson had spoken with reporters for the first time about an hour ago outside Cook. I was a half block from the place when I pulled out the card the mayor had given me and dialed up Mark Rissman.

“It’s Kelly. I need to talk to him.”

“He’s busy.”

“Tell him I spoke with Danielson today. He gave me a piece of paper with the mayor’s name on it, and an address.”

I read off the address.

A pause. “Why would the mayor care?”

“Just give him the message. And get back to me.”

Twenty minutes later, my phone chirped. Ten minutes after that, a car picked me up. I slipped into the backseat. Rissman was beside me. Vince Rodriguez was driving.

“Pull up here.”

Rissman pointed to a high-rise of maybe a dozen stories called Colonial Tower. Colonial was one of Wilson’s TIF adventures. A high-end development built ten years back with taxpayer dollars by the mayor’s patronage pals. Now the slush fund was dry, the cronies in jail, and Colonial cast in the role of ghost town. I looked up at the smooth black monolith, its windows reflecting back the night in a kaleidoscope of whites, reds, and greens.

“What’s he doing in there?” I said.

Rissman responded by making a move to get out of the car. When I didn’t try to stop him, he stopped himself. “What are you trying to implicate the mayor in?”

“What makes you think I’m trying to implicate him in anything?”

“What’s at the address you gave me?”

“You know what’s there.”

“It’s a grocery store.”

“Owned by a Korean named Lee. There was also a double homicide there last night.”

Rissman glanced toward the front seat, but Rodriguez didn’t flinch. “And what would any of that have to do with the mayor? Or the situation on the West Side?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me.”

Rissman’s eyes sketched his contempt in sharp, quick strokes. “You’re not smart enough for this, Kelly.”

“Stupidity has always been my strength.”

The mayor’s man reached for the latch again. This time he got out of the car, shoved his hands in his pockets, and trudged toward the Colonial’s revolving doors. Rodriguez raised his eyes to the rearview mirror.

“Is it enough to ruin my career? Or is your heart set on getting me a cell next to yours?”

“Come on,” I said. “The mayor’s gonna love us.”

CHAPTER 32

Room 1406 was the penthouse in the Colonial Tower complex. Rissman pulled out a key card and slid it through a slot by the door. The first room was a foyer, shut off from the rest of the suite by a thick plastic sheet that ran floor to ceiling with a zippered entrance cut into one side. A machine similar to the one I’d seen in the subway breathed away in one corner, its hoses running like viscera through the plastic wall and deeper into the unit.

“That’s a HEPA filtration device,” I said. “Helps to create a negative pressure environment.” Rodriguez looked like he wanted to open a window and let me take the express, fourteen stories down.

“Wait here.” Rissman slid the zipper open and disappeared inside the bubble. After a minute or so, he returned.

“Kelly alone. And don’t touch anything.”

We walked through a second layer of polyurethane and into a bedroom with a wall full of floor-to-ceiling windows. In one corner of the room were a camera on a tripod and a spray of television lights, set up around a shiny wooden chair and artificial fireplace. In the other corner was the mayor of Chicago, sitting on a sofa, clad from head to toe in a white mask and NBC suit.

“Kelly, sit down.”

Wilson’s face was covered by a shaded visor, which, truth be told, was very much an improvement. He gestured with a gloved hand, and I took a seat.

“Can’t drink a Diet Coke in these things.” Wilson pointed to a can of soda and glass full of ice on the table in front of him. “Who the fuck designs something so you can’t drink a Diet Coke?”

I looked behind me to see if Rissman might have a response. That’s when I realized I was alone.

“He’ll be back in a second,” Wilson said. “Here he is now.”

Rissman slipped back into the room and gave his boss a thumbs-up.

“You sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

Wilson grunted and pulled off the mask. His face looked like a boiled piece of Sunday beef, with imprints from the mask running down both cheeks. The mayor grabbed the can of Diet Coke and drank.

“Fucking thing’s hot as hell, too.”

“Why did you take it off?” I said.

Wilson nodded toward Rissman. “They set up some sort of biosensor bullshit. Mark checks them every hour. Makes sure the room is clean.”

“If the room’s clean, why wear the suit in the first place?”

“Why?”

I nodded.

“ ’Cuz I’m not an asshole. That’s why.”

“You like to have a backup plan?”

“You know someone like me who doesn’t?”

“I don’t know anyone like you, Mr. Mayor.”

“Fucking right.”

There was a knock on the door. A woman with a countenance that was just short of desperate stuck her head in. She carried a tray full of square sponges, brown brushes, and flesh-colored powders.

“Mr. Mayor, I need to do your face.”

Wilson checked his watch. “What time are we on, Mark?”

“Not sure yet, sir.”

“Half hour, Renee.” Wilson waved the door shut.

“Got a press conference?” I said.

“You know we do.” Wilson stood up and stripped off the rest of his protective gear. Rissman hung it all up in a closet. The mayor wore a white T-shirt underneath.

“Who’s running the show?” I said.

“Who do you think?” The mayor waved impatiently at Rissman who pulled a dress shirt and dark blue business suit out of the closet. Wilson stripped down to a plaid pair of boxers and a very large belly. He looked around the room, arms akimbo, daring anyone to notice. When no one did, the mayor of Chicago began to get dressed.

“Feds will go first,” Wilson said, picking up a light blue tie from a selection laid out on the bed, then switching to red.

“First?” I said.

“Officials from the federal government will speak from the Dirksen Building,” Rissman said. “They’ll outline the dimensions of the problem. Then the mayor will speak live.”

“From here?” I gestured to the lights and stick-on fireplace.

Wilson tugged at the Windsor knot he’d created and rubbed the creases out of his face. “I’ll speak to Chicago from the frontlines. Show them there’s nothing to fear.”

“I assume you’re not going on in your space suit over there?”

“Funny guy.” Wilson stepped away from the mirror and sat down on the couch. “Let’s talk about what you found in the Korean’s cellar.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

Wilson glanced up at Rissman. “Ten thousand?”

“About,” Rissman said.

“Ten thousand body bags. Sitting in the basement of a drug dealer. A day before a bioweapon is released in my city.”

There was a knock at the door. Rissman told whoever it was to go away.

“What are you suggesting?” I said.

“Why don’t you tell me how you knew about the cellar?”

“All due respect, why should I tell you anything?”

I could hear Rissman’s silent scream from across the room. Wilson barely stirred.

“Danielson got himself killed in your apartment today.” The mayor’s voice rustled now, deep in the weeds.

“I know. I was there.”

“Feds might like to talk to you about that.”

“That’s not your style, Mr. Mayor.”

“Don’t make that mistake, son.”

I nodded to a phone on a table by the window. “Make the call.”

Wilson rubbed two fingers together in protest. “Fair enough.” He poured what was left of his Diet Coke from can to glass and watched the bubbles bubble. Then he drained the glass.

“We need to track down the bags, Kelly. And whoever was behind them.”

“I’m thinking you might not want that.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

I shrugged and pretended to look out the window. Wilson glanced at Rissman, who closed the door behind him as he left.

“You want something?” Wilson said.

I shook my head. The mayor got himself another Diet Coke from a small refrigerator. “I used to love sugar. Now they tell me I might be diabetic. I ask ‘What does that mean?’ Either I am, or I’m not. So they tell me I’m not. But no more sugar. Just in case I am. ‘When will you know for sure?’ I say. They tell me they’ll know when I’m dead and they get to cut me open. Fucking doctors.” Wilson put the can back in the fridge and pulled out a Mountain Dew.

“You study the classics in school?” I said.

“Priests force-fed me three years.” Wilson took a sip of his Dew and belched.

“You ever read Sophocles’s
Oedipus
?”

“I’m not interested in humping my mother, if that’s where you’re headed.”

“Oedipus’s downfall was precipitated by his insatiable need to discover the truth. Coupled with an arrogant belief that no matter what he discovered, Oedipus could handle it. Fix the problem.”

“English, Kelly?”

“There’s a chance you might be involved.”

“In what?”

“The body bags.”

“Me?”

“Your office.”

“How?”

“Maybe you don’t want to know.”

“I want to know.”

“You asked what led me to Lee’s grocery store.”

“Yeah.”

“I was working a case. Actually, an old standby. Corruption in Chicago politics. I don’t have a name for you yet, but someone downtown is running no-bid medical supply contracts for county business.”

“With this Korean?”

“He was in the middle of it, yes.”

“And you think the body bags were part of that?”

“Right now, I don’t know what to think.”

“It’s bullshit.”

I took out the piece of paper Danielson had given me and slipped it across the table.

“Danielson gave me an address today. Right before he put a gun in his mouth. He thought it might be a lead on who released the weapon.”

Wilson looked at the note but didn’t touch it.

“The paper’s got your name on it, Mr. Mayor. The name of the Korean’s trucking company, Silver Line, and his address. The same address I was given on the medical supply scam. Same address I was at last night. Same address where I found the body bags and a stack of gangbangers looking for their dope.”

Wilson peeled his eyes off the note. “What do you want from me?”

“Why would someone drop your name to Danielson?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me what you
do
know.”

“What I do know?” Wilson chuckled at the notion. “Your fucking head would explode. Listen, do people in my office cut corners sometimes? Who doesn’t?”

“When I look at City Hall, I tend to think biblical. Greed, Envy, Lust, Gluttony. Maybe a double helping of Gluttony.”

“No one’s going to release a weapon like that just to make some cash selling body bags.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But if someone happened to know about the release, they might try to make a quick buck.”

There was another knock on the door. Renee stuck her head in.

“Give us another minute,” the mayor said.

Renee left. Wilson walked himself to the windows. The black sprawl of the West Side lay below, outlined in soft sketches of pink. “From up here, the place cleans up pretty well.”

“When do the fences go up?” I said.

The mayor turned, voice and eyebrows rising in tandem. “You know about that?”

“Quarantine fences. Sealing off three sections of the West Side and an area of Oak Park. Including the building we’re sitting in.”

We both looked around the room, suddenly the more sinister for its location.

“We’ll go on air once they start,” Wilson said. “Feds think they’ll have most of the fences finished by dawn.”

“You have any say in that?”

The mayor shook his head. “For the last five hours, the area’s been operating under martial law.”

“You gonna use that term in your dog-and-pony show?”

“Hell, no.”

“I went on the city’s Web site today, Mr. Mayor. You have one page of information on biological and chemical weapons. The gist of it is this: cover your nose and mouth; wash your hands with soap and water; watch TV.”

“You think any of us like this?”

I let my eyes travel back to the windows. I could see the lights and hear the steady thump of a chopper in the night. “Can I still get out of here?”

“Leave it for tomorrow. We’ll get you out.”

“Who’s we?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Wilson got up and moved to the door. “I’ve got the top two floors in this place. Find a hole and climb in. Watch some TV. Once we get started, I’m gonna be the only thing on.”

“Good luck.”

“No shit. And, Kelly?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Come tomorrow, do what you have to. If the bags come back to this office, give me the courtesy of a call before the feds. I’ll do the right thing.”

“Can I believe that, Mr. Mayor?”

“You think I love my city?”

“Actually, I do.”

“All right, then. Now get out of here and let me lead.”