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  The Third Rail

  ( Michael Kelly - 3 )

  Michael Harvey

  Michael Harvey

  The Third Rail

  Everybody’s got plans… until they get hit.

  — MIKE TYSON

  THE ELEVATED

  CHAPTER 1

  Robles had been on the platform for less than twenty seconds. He leaned against the railing and peered through layered curtains of snow, at the stone faces of apartment buildings crowding close to Chicago’s elevated tracks. The row of windows across from him was dark. The street below, quiet. Robles turned back toward the crowd waiting for the train. To his left stood a secretary type, keeping Chicago’s winter at bay with a heavy brown coat that ran to her knees. Beside her was a guy barely out of law school, toting a briefcase that was barely out of the box. A clock wound down inside Robles’ head. Fifteen more seconds and he needed to move. He gripped the gun in his pocket and walked back toward the entrance to the L platform. A dark-eyed woman was putting on lipstick and standing by the stairs. Her bad luck. He moved closer and snuck a look down the stairwel. No one coming up. More bad luck for her. Robles pul ed the gun from his pocket and held it straight in front of him. He focused on the blue pulse beating tiny wings inside the woman’s left temple. Then he pul ed the trigger, and the woman dropped straight down. Like a puppet with the strings cut, she was al here and there, arms, legs, and a smear of lipstick across her lips and down her chin. She gurgled once or twice and might have even gotten a look at him before the darkness dropped across her eyes. Ten seconds later, Robles was back on the street. He didn’t run until he got to the corner and, even then, not too fast. He didn’t want to attract attention. More important, he didn’t want to get too far ahead of the man he hoped would pursue.

  CHAPTER 2

  I took the stairs two at a time, slid over the turnstile and out of the L station. A kick of wind hit me fat in the face, and snow fel sideways as I shouldered my way down Southport Avenue. A soft frat boy and his softer girlfriend stood stiff at the corner of Southport and Cornelia, wearing Northwestern and Notre Dame sweatshirts, respectively, and pointing their slack jaws and wide eyes east. Even if I weren’t a detective, it wasn’t hard to figure which way the shooter had run. I pul ed my nine mil imeter, held it low by my side, and turned down Cornelia. A half block ahead, a slip of dark fabric disappeared into an al ey. I fol owed, past a run of single-family homes, two-and three-flats, a block from Chicago’s Brown Line. At the mouth of the al ey, I leaned up against a graystone and took a quick look around the corner. The run of pavement was empty, save for a string of Dumpsters and a rat the size of a cat that, thankful y, took off for points unknown. I slowed my breathing and listened. The wind had fal en off and the cover of new snow deadened everything, including the footsteps of the guy who had just shot a woman on the platform of the Southport L. I crept up to the first Dumpster. A scuff of powder told me my guy had turned in to a second al ey that snaked off the first, running paral el to Cornelia. I pul ed my gun up to shoulder height and crept forward again. More footprints in the second al ey, headed east. Whoever he was, he had turned the corner and just kept moving. I slipped my gun back into its holster and took off at a run. I had made it a good ten yards before a body flew up from behind and to my left. I sprawled toward the dusting of snow and hard cement underneath. He kept his body weight balanced and center of gravity low. I tried to shift, but he slipped an arm across the back of my neck and ground my head against the pavement. I relaxed for a second, hoping my guy might as wel. Then I felt steel pressed against the base of my skul and stopped moving altogether. A gun wil do that to you.

  “Easy,” the man said and backed off the pressure on his forearm a little. The gun stayed where it was. “Turn around.”

  I turned my head just enough. The shooter wore a black overcoat with black buttons. A fine spray of liquid clung to the hem of his coat. Blood splatter from the woman as she fel. I looked up. He had a black knit hat on. A ski mask covered his face. I took al that in even as my brain processed the final piece of the puzzle, the dark hole of a. 40-caliber handgun, sitting six inches from my forehead.

  “Ready to die, hero?” He said it more like he was curious than anything else. Real y, genuinely interested in my comfort level with impending mortality. I figured anything I might say would just kick off the festivities. So I didn’t say anything. Just looked at the mask and tried to fathom the face beyond. He lifted the gun a fraction and began to pul back on the trigger. You might think you can’t see that kind of delicate pressure on a trigger. Trust me, when you’re up that close and personal, you notice. So he squeezed back, a pound or two of pressure. Then he stopped, lifted the gun another inch or so, and brought it down, fast, heavy, and hard. After that, it was the rush of Chicago asphalt toward my face and darkness.

  CHAPTER 3

  Robles was two miles and thirty minutes removed from the Southport L stop. He’d changed into an oversize sweatshirt with a Nike logo on the front and black slashes down the sleeves. He had the hood pul ed low over his eyes and stared out a window as the number 136 bus pul ed onto Lake Shore Drive for its journey downtown. The snow had stopped as quickly as it started, and the winter sun poured cold light over the city. A woman in a Honda Civic cruised close. She had a cel phone cradled to one ear and fussed in the rearview mirror with the corners of her mouth. Robles watched as her front wheel wandered to the edge of her lane and past, brushing close to the side of the bus. His driver laid on the horn. The woman took her eyes off herself, pul ed her car straight, and flipped a middle finger toward anyone and everyone who ever rode the CTA. Then she snapped the cel shut and went back to her face.

  Robles felt the anger, hot and uncomfortable inside, but tamped it down. He pul ed out a street map of Chicago and took a look at the Loop. He knew the block and traced the route with his finger for what seemed like the hundredth time. He liked to run things through his mind. That way, when it came time to act, there’d be no thinking. Just hit the button, play the tape, and fol ow along. Robles stood as the bus turned onto Wacker, walked to the back door, and reached for the grab bar overhead. An old lady sat nearby, tapping her foot and cursing softly under her breath. At first, Robles thought the “motherfucker”s were for him; then he realized she was just another nut job riding the CTA. Robles smiled at the old lady and pictured himself cutting her throat. She looked up, tapped her foot again, and cal ed him a cocksucker. At the front of the bus a radio crackled. The driver picked up his two-way and listened, then asked a question Robles couldn’t quite make out. Didn’t matter. He had a feeling he knew exactly what al the chatter was about and pul ed the cord to request a stop. The bus angled to the curb at Wacker, on the edge of Chicago’s Loop. Robles got off and walked south on Wabash to the corner of Lake. The building was four or five stories high, cut rough from blocks of Indiana limestone and black with soot from the big city’s breath. He pul ed on a pair of gloves and stepped inside the front door. There was no one in the vestibule, just a line of metal mailboxes and a set of wooden stairs, sinking to the right and winding up. Robles took the stairs, two at a time, until he got to the top floor, turned a corner, and walked to the end of a hal that was long, narrow, and smel ed like old diapers. There was a smal window at the end, letting in a sad trickle of light onto a wooden door with a silver doorknob. The key was taped under a corner of the synthetic orange carpet, just to the left of the door. Robles turned the lock and walked in. It was a one-room apartment with a single light in the middle of the room and a second door that probably led to a bathroom. Directly in front of him was a set of three more windows. Larger than the one in the hal, they looked south, out over a landscape of smoke and steel. In the foreground was a curve of green girde
rs and the Loop’s elevated tracks, wrapping around the corner at Lake and Wabash. Robles opened one of the windows and leaned into a cold draft circling up from the street. A pigeon hopped onto a ledge below him and stared. Robles ducked his head back inside and drew a shade across each of the windows. Then he walked over to a white sheet, spread out on the floor in the middle of the room. Under the sheet was a gray gun case. Inside the case, a Remington 700 rifle with a Leupold scope and a box of Winchester ammo. Robles took out the weapon and broke it down. A train rumbled by, rattling the windows in their frames and vibrating the boards under his feet. Robles smiled. They hadn’t stopped the downtown runs. Even after the thing at Southport. He didn’t think they would. No need. Not yet, anyway.

  Twenty minutes later, Robles had reassembled the rifle and loaded a five-round magazine. He spread out a floor pad by the windows, cracked the middle shade to half-mast, and opened the window itself eight inches. Four trains had passed since he’d entered the apartment, about one every five minutes. On the sil in front of him was a CTA train schedule. There’d be another in a minute and a half. Robles slipped the barrel out the window and looked through the scope. It was blurry, so he adjusted, using a bil board asking Chicago to support their Bul s as a marker. Derrick Rose’s face popped up in the sight. Another adjustment, and Chicago’s savior sharpened into focus. Robles heard a rumble as a train approached the curve of track. His train. Right on time. Robles slipped his finger onto the trigger and leaned into the rifle stock. Then he pul ed his head back and listened. The scratching at the door was soft, but close and very much there. He waited, hoped whoever it was might go away. The knocking, however, persisted, grew louder, and Robles knew it was fated to be so.

  He placed the gun back in its case and covered it over with the sheet. Then he closed the shade, slipped off his gloves, and opened the door just as the train rushed by. On the other side was an old face, hammered down between two shoulders and pinched with anger at a life that had somehow wound up here. Robles cared not a bit for any of that. The face was in the way. The face needed to go away.

  “Sorry,” Robles said. “I was in the can. You need something?”

  “Name’s Jim Halter. I manage the place.”

  Halter’s smile revealed a row of large teeth that looked like unwashed elbows. His eyes were black and busy, slipping over the threshold and into the room, hungry for whatever there was to be had: a young girl, a stash of drugs, maybe a whiff of cash. Robles angled his body to give the building’s manager a better look.

  “Nice to meet you, Jim. You want to come in for a second?”

  Halter raised a long, veined hand to his face. The nails were calcified, the skin, spotted.

  “No, no,” Halter said as he stepped across the threshold. “I just wanted to check in. Make sure you got settled okay.”

  “Sure.” Robles swung the door shut.

  Halter took a quick look behind him and might have been a little spooked. Then he noticed the white sheet in the middle of the room. The slippery eyes widened a bit more and a tongue moistened lips the color of liver.

  “The e-mail said you’d be in today,” Halter said. “I was a little leery of leaving a key. But I guess it worked out al right.”

  Robles showed him the key. “Worked out fine. Thanks.”

  Halter nodded and took a second step into the room. Robles crowded close behind. The manager’s Adam’s apple rol ed in its pocket of flesh, and Robles slid the room key back into his pocket.

  “What sort of business you in, sir? If you don’t mind me asking, that is?”

  Halter created space as he spoke, fluttering, like an old and desiccated moth, to whatever sliver of flame lay underneath that magic sheet. Robles let him drift, fitting a six-inch hunting knife to his hand and feeling a familiar hole at the back of his throat. Wet work, Nelson cal ed it. Robles took a calming breath. Wet work it would be.

  “Reason I ask,” Halter said, “I have a lot of expertise. Connections in the area.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure.” The manager began to turn back toward Robles, eager to strike his bargain. Eager to discover what lay hidden. Eager for his piece. The manager made it, maybe, halfway. Robles grabbed him under the chin and stretched his neck. The cut was clean. Halter col apsed in a rush of air, the wound making a sucking sound like he was trying to breathe through his throat. Robles stepped back. The manager slipped the rest of the way to the floor and lay there, wet, red, and shivering. A soft moan fol owed and a rol of eyes across the room.

  “Shit.” Robles took another step back. Halter was bleeding hard, the body in spasm, but wel on its way to dead. Robles used the sheet to cover him over. Within a minute or so, the shivering had stopped and the white cotton ran crimson. Robles wiped his blade clean on the sheet and took a quick inventory. He had a smear of blood on his pants and some on his shoes. He cleaned them as best he could. Then he wiped down the doorknob and door. It would have to do.

  Robles checked his watch. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes. Not a problem. He slipped his gloves back on, picked up the rifle, and headed back to the windows. He arranged the floor pad again and sat, weapon cradled in his lap. Then he closed his eyes and waited for his pulse to slow. After a minute or so, he opened his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled. He felt good again, back in the moment. Robles raised the middle shade and reseated the rifle so the barrel was sticking three inches outside the window. He’d been half expecting something like Halter and was glad it was over. Now he fixed his eye again to the scope, scanned the tracks, and waited.

  It wasn’t more than twenty seconds before a silver L train chugged around the curve and stopped, waiting for a signal to enter the State/Lake station. Robles took half a breath and curled his finger around the trigger. The scope found a middle-aged woman, pale skin and dishwater for eyes, talking on her cel phone and looking at the street below. Next window down was a white kid, greedy mouth and greasy fingers, whole-hogging from a bag of fast food. Robles moved up to the front of the train and lensed the driver, thick-featured and black, staring straight ahead at nothing but two more decades of riding the rails. For any of the three, a pul of the trigger might even be a blessing. God bless America. The train jolted and started to move again, just slow enough so it was perfect. Robles ran his rifle down the length of the first car, then the second. The process was a real mind fuck. The selection process, who lived and who died. Then the rifle stopped. She was tucked in, toward the back of the second car. Maybe two windows from the back. He sharpened his sights and tracked her as she floated by. A young woman, Latino, with dark hair and cinnamon skin, head bent at a delicate angle, reading something, probably a book she held in her lap. She glowed in the scope, a bloom of light forming around the curve of her skul and playing across the highlights of her features. She looked up, right at him, and he saw a flash of white teeth. Perfect.

  He squeezed down on the shutter in his mind, captured the perfect image, even as he squeezed back on the trigger. The pul was clean, sharp, precise. He fired once to make sure the glass shattered, worked the bolt action, and fired again, a second later. Just in case there was anything left alive behind the glass. He didn’t see the woman’s head explode. Didn’t have time. Five seconds after firing, the rifle was tucked back in from the window, shade drawn tight. Thirty seconds later, the weapon was packed away. Then, he was out of the apartment and down the hal way. Robles exited by a basement door into an al ey and slipped the rifle case into a Dumpster. He walked to the other end of the al ey and stepped into the flow of people on Wacker. At the Merchandise Mart he caught the last Brown Line train before they suspended service for the day. On his way out of the Loop, Robles could see the conga dance of flashing lights from cop cars, ambulances, and fire engines, fighting their way to help a woman for whom there was no such thing. From his perch atop the elevated, he could just make out a couple of cameramen checking their gear and the first mast being raised from a television live truck. For the third ti
me that day, Robles smiled. Then he settled back into his seat and looked out over the rooftops as his train clattered north.

  CHAPTER 4

  I had just finished giving my statement when a silver Crown Vic rol ed up and Vince Rodriguez got out.

  “Heard your name on the scanner. Figured there were maybe a couple hundred Michael Kel ys in Chicago. Stil…”

  “Here I am.”

  “Here you are. You done with them?” Rodriguez nodded toward the half dozen uniforms and forensics working both al eys off Cornelia.

  “Yeah. I told ’em they won’t find much. Footprints. That’s about it.”

  The detective took a few steps down the al ey and found a seat on the back steps of a three-flat. He’d been in Homicide now for almost four years and carried the weight in his shoulders, the dry sorrow in his face. I sat down beside him.

  “So tel me,” he said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I assume you didn’t get a look at the guy.”

  I shook my head. “I was waiting for the train. It was crowded, thirty, maybe forty people. I heard the pop, saw the lady fal, and took off after him.”

  “Him?”

  “Yeah, it was a him. Black overcoat, black knit hat. Maybe five-ten, medium build. Fol owed him down Cornelia.”

  “And you saw him run down here?”

  “I saw the back of his coat. Came down the al ey and tracked the footprints.”

  Rodriguez frowned. “How long had it been snowing?”

  I shrugged. “Less than ten minutes.”

  “And his were the only prints?”

  I nodded.