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  “And his were the only prints?”

  I nodded.

  “This all in your statement?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “So I follow the prints, around the corner to the second alley.”

  “And?”

  “And they continue. One set of prints headed straight east. So I take off after them. He jumps me about halfway down. Came out from behind a Dumpster.”

  “So the prints continue on.” Rodriguez walked two fingers across the space between us. “But this guy somehow doesn’t?”

  “That’s right. He’s got a ski mask on now and we wrestle a little. Fucker is strong, by the way. Then he pulls out a gun. Black, looked like a forty-caliber.”

  “Big boy. Did he say anything?”

  “Told me to relax.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Asked me if I wanted to be a hero.”

  Rodriguez chuckled. “He doesn’t know you too well, does he? I could have told him you live for that hero shit.”

  “Funny motherfucker you are.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he pulls back on the trigger. Slow, like he’s thinking about it.”

  “Must have been a nice moment.”

  “Yeah, well, he stops. Lifts up the gun and just pops me with the butt. I woke up looking up at the snow falling on my face.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it. How’s the woman?”

  “You saw the gun. How do you think?”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh, yeah. Quite a mess over there, and I’m not just talking about our victim.”

  “The passengers?”

  Rodriguez nodded. “This ain’t the West Side, Kelly. These people got jobs, money, families.”

  “West Side don’t have families, huh?”

  “You know what I mean. These people count. They ain’t used to this. Hell, I already got three camera crews set up on Southport. Now let me ask you something about this alley …”

  Rodriguez’s cell beeped. He flipped it open, held up a finger, and walked away. An EMT came over and asked me if I wanted a couple of Advil for my head. I declined.

  “You want, we can take you down to Cook County,” she said.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I like breathing air just fine.”

  Rodriguez snapped his phone shut and made his way over. “Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  The detective rubbed a hand over his face and looked around for an answer.

  “What is it, Rodriguez?”

  “We got another one.”

  “Another what?”

  “Another shooting on the L. Goddamnit. Listen, I have to go down there. You gave your statement, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. Stay on your cell and I’ll call you. There’s something about this alley we need to figure out.”

  “Why don’t I come with?”

  “Why don’t you fuck off, Kelly. I’ll give you a call.”

  Then Rodriguez was gone. I wandered back to the medic and her aspirin.

  “You know what,” I said, “maybe I am getting a little bit of a headache.”

  “Let me get you those Advil.”

  We both walked over to the ambulance. She climbed into the back, shuffled through her kit, and came up with a handful of pills. I sat in the front, switched on her scanner, and came up with an address for the second shooting.

  “Here you go, Mr. Kelly.”

  I downed the pills she gave me and scribbled the address on the envelope they came in.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Feeling better already.”

  She smiled. I walked a block and a half and hailed a cab. All things considered, the L didn’t seem like such a great idea today.

  CHAPTER 5

  I slouched against a rusted girder Nelson Algren would have been proud of, about a block from the corner of Lake and Wabash. I could see the train up on the tracks, a forensic team working on the hole where a window used to be. There was a traffic jam of cop cars and firemen below, mingling with an avalanche of media. Already most of the details had hit the radio. The local folks might not be geniuses, but it didn’t take a genius to connect Southport to the Loop and come up with one hell of a story. On the cab ride down, I listened as a jock named Jake Hartford took calls, opinions on everything from who the serial killer might be to why the city had already dropped the ball. All of this delivered in the highest decibel, the black-and-white shrieks of daytime talk, opinion delivered without any obvious facts or apparent need for them. Up on the tracks, I could see the smudgy outline of Rodriguez, talking to another detective and looking down at the mob on the street. I couldn’t see Rodriguez sweat, but I could feel it. After a minute, he took a call. Now I couldn’t hear him swear, but I could feel that even more. He snapped the phone shut and searched the rafters of the elevated for some guidance. Then he walked back to the first detective, whispered in his ear, and headed down to the street. I headed that way as well. We met in front of Gold Coast Dogs, with about a dozen reporters and a half dozen cameras between us.

  “Detective, do you have any leads on either of the shootings?” The question came from a breathless blonde Channel 10 had hired about a month and a half ago. She probably hailed from somewhere in North Dakota and had never ridden an L train in her life. Still, she was easy to look at. In local news, that counted for a lot.

  “We’re working both crimes scenes, collecting evidence, taking statements. We should know a lot more once that process is completed.”

  Rodriguez’s cop voice was in full throat, deep and measured. He never made eye contact with the horde. Just looked beyond the cameras, probably wondering why he ever got out of bed in the morning.

  “Detective Rodriguez, are you working both cases together or are these separate investigations?”

  That was John Donovan, Chicago’s senior crime reporter. He was the lead dog, and the rest of the pack knew it. So did Rodriguez.

  “We have separate teams working each case. There will, however, be some overlap.”

  “Meaning you, or some other detective, will be working both cases?” Donovan said.

  Rodriguez nodded. “Probably.”

  “Which means you suspect the two shootings are connected?” Donovan said.

  “We don’t know what to suspect at this point,” Rodriguez said, voice rising as the media began to write their own story. “There are significant differences in these two crime scenes. Given the circumstances of the shootings, however, we’ll certainly be looking into any possible connections.”

  “Have you got any concrete evidence the two are connected?”

  That was from an olive-skinned woman with a notebook and pencil, standing at the back of the crowd, just in front of me. She was slight, maybe thirty years old, with glasses that had slipped halfway down her nose and a look of intelligence you don’t often see in a gathering of the media.

  “No, we don’t have anything specific that connects the two,” Rodriguez said. “But, as I indicated, we’re in the early stages.”

  Several reporters jumped in, yelling questions, one over the other. It was Donovan who broke through the maelstrom.

  “Detective, does Chicago have a spree killer loose in its public transportation system?”

  Rodriguez paused, eyes searching, then resting on me. I could see a small, sad smile flicker at the corner of his mouth. Then he looked at Donovan and offered up the sound bite everyone was waiting on.

  “John, I’ll be honest. At this stage, we don’t know what we’re dealing with. Rest assured, however, the entire weight of the Chicago Police Department will be brought to bear on these cases, and we will get some answers.”

  “When?” Donovan said.

  “Soon, John. Sooner rather than later. That much, I can promise you.”

  With that, Rodriguez ended the press conference. Several people continued to yell questions, but the detective waved them off.
After a few minutes, the crowd began to dissolve. The print reporters went back to reporting. The TV folks shot pictures and put on makeup.

  RODRIGUEZ DRIFTED ACROSS Wabash and met me at the corner of Randolph.

  “Let’s get a coffee,” he said.

  I nodded and we walked back across the street.

  “Why am I not surprised you’re here?”

  I shrugged. “What did you expect?”

  “Exactly. What do you think?”

  “About what?” I said.

  “The press.”

  “Hysterical, as usual. Maybe even more so.”

  “This is going to be a fucking zoo.”

  “You got that right.”

  We walked into a Starbucks and ordered. Then we sat by the window and looked out at the street.

  “You got one shooter here, Vince.”

  Rodriguez stared me down over his cup of coffee. “You sure about that?”

  “Seems logical to me.”

  The detective took a sip. “One’s a walk-up with a handgun. The other, a sniper with a rifle.”

  “You thinking they’re not connected?”

  Rodriguez shook his head. “I didn’t say that. Just doesn’t fit the normal pattern.”

  I shrugged. “It’s the same guy.”

  “Or guys,” Rodriguez said. “Let’s talk about your alley.”

  The detective placed a napkin between us and sketched out the scene at Cornelia. “You turn the corner here and see a set of footprints tracking all the way down this alley. Right?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, the snow had been falling ten minutes. Correct?”

  “Tops,” I said.

  “And there’s just one set of prints?”

  “Just the one.”

  “But when you follow the prints, the guy is waiting for you. Halfway down the alley, behind a Dumpster.”

  “Maybe he doubled back?” I said.

  “There’d be two sets of footprints.”

  “Not if he walked back in his own tracks.”

  “What is he, Daniel fucking Boone?”

  “What are you saying, Detective?”

  “What I’m saying is this guy, your shooter, runs down the alley and around the corner.” Rodriguez drew a line with an arrow tracing the route. “But a second guy was working with him. Waiting behind the Dumpster.”

  “To ambush me?”

  “Exactly.”

  I shook my head. “The guy that put the gun on me was the Southport shooter.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “He had blood splatter on his coat. Gotta be the shooter.”

  Rodriguez studied his drawing for a moment. “Okay, how about this? Second guy is set up in the alley. He sees our shooter take the corner and starts running.”

  “And the shooter takes the second guy’s place behind the Dumpster,” I said. “That’s how it went down. Had to be.”

  “Maybe,” Rodriguez said. “But here’s the ballbreaker …”

  “Why?”

  “Exactly. Why would our shooter have an accomplice waiting in the alley, for you or anyone else, to come by? Unless that was the point of the whole exercise, the reason they shot up the station at Southport in the first place.”

  “If I was the target, why not shoot me in the head when you have the chance? Why let me go? Doesn’t make sense.”

  Rodriguez sighed and threw his coffee cup into a barrel. “Since when do assholes like this make sense?”

  I was about to respond when my cell phone buzzed. I picked up and found some answers at the other end of the line. Not to mention someone I like to think of as a grade-A asshole.

  CHAPTER 6

  Nelson held the cell phone tight to his ear, looked across the street, and through Starbucks’ front window.

  “Michael Kelly, how are you?”

  “Do I know you?” Kelly’s voice was gruff and aggressive. Certain, but curious. Pure cop, even if the man himself was no more.

  “Do you know me? I believe I put a gun to your head earlier this morning. A lot of fun that. Then I picked up a Remington 700 with a scope and blew the brains out of one of Chicago’s many drones on the CTA. If you want to check my bona fides, that is.”

  The silhouette in Starbucks raised his chin and gestured to the cop sitting next to him. Nelson smiled.

  “Tell Detective Rodriguez, the bullet’s a Nosler AccuBond, one-eighty grain, loaded into a Black Hills .308 Winchester. Specially designed to fire through glass. By the way, how’s the coffee there? Starbucks is a piece of shit in my book. Then again, I heard they’re grinding their own beans. Getting back to basics. I like that.”

  Kelly had to be surprised he was being watched. Still, the man’s head didn’t move.

  “You didn’t look around. Very good, Kelly. You’d never see me anyway. And don’t worry. I have my eye on you, but not through the scope of a weapon. That’s long gone, so tell Chicago’s finest not to look too hard for it.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” Nelson snorted into the cell. “I don’t want you dead. Could have checked that off the to-do list today. No, you’re going to suffer a little bit first. A matter of honor, I think.”

  “What would you know about honor?”

  “Homer pegged it as a zero-sum game. The more you suffer, the greater my glory.”

  Kelly’s silhouette seemed to stiffen at the classical reference. “You’re gonna die, asshole.”

  “Undoubtedly. The question is: How many am I taking into the hole with me?”

  Nelson cut the line and waited. Kelly flipped his phone shut and leaned across to the detective named Rodriguez. Nelson could see them talking. Then the detective reached for a radio and held it close to his lips. Nelson unplugged the adapter he’d used to alter his voice. He tossed his cell phone into the Dumpster he was crouched behind and stripped off the skin-color gloves he had on. Then he pulled out a shopping cart filled with old cans and newspapers and began to push it down the alley. Somewhere a church bell struck twelve. The old man picked up his pace. If he hustled, he could still make the 12:30 mass.

  CHAPTER 7

  I watched as a woman standing ten feet away ordered a skim mocha, no whip. Rodriguez was whispering into his radio, telling someone somewhere that the killer, or maybe his accomplice, had just given me a ring. The woman was in her early thirties, with light brown hair tied back into a ponytail and a large emerald cat pinned to her dark blue coat. She smiled as the tall, angular barista pushed her drink across the counter. Then the woman took a sip and found her way to a corner table looking out at the street. She pulled out a paperback, tucked one leg underneath her, and began to read. It looked pretty peaceful, pretty nice. I wanted nothing more than to join her. Then Rodriguez got done with his radio machinations and gave me a tap on the shoulder.

  “We gotta go.”

  I knew that was coming. As we exited the Starbucks, four cruisers sealed off the block. Ten cops got out and began to comb alleys, roust bums, and shake down regular folks on the street. I figured too little, too late.

  “You got a car?” Rodriguez said.

  “No.”

  “Good.” Rodriguez popped the locks on his Crown Vic. “Get in.”

  Five minutes later, we were out of the Loop and headed west.

  “Not going to headquarters?” I said.

  The detective shook his head. “Looks like the feds might be taking over. Possible terrorist acts.”

  “Bet downtown loved that.”

  “Brass doesn’t mind. If it goes well, we’ll stick our nose in the trough, suck up as much glory as we can. If we have bodies stacking up on L platforms in a week and a half, we got someone to blame it on.”

  “Don’t you love your job?”

  “Funny guy. Right now you’re the star of the show.”

  “Great.”

  “That’s right. Now, talk to me about the guy on the phone. Was he legit?”

  “You tell me.”
/>   Rodriguez took a left onto Canal. “A patrol found a rifle in the trash. Remington with a scope.”

  “He told me we wouldn’t find it,” I said.

  “Guess he lied. Try to get over it.”

  “How about ammo?”

  Rodriguez took a right and accelerated down the block. “We’ll know more when we pull the lead out of our victim. But there were three rounds in the rifle.”

  “And?”

  “Black Hills Gold, .308 Winchester. Just like your boy said.”

  “This guy wasn’t our shooter.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He knew we were sitting in a Starbucks, which means he was close by, watching.”

  “So?”

  “Who’s gonna shoot up an L train, then hang around the scene and call me for kicks?”

  “Then he’s our accomplice?” Rodriguez said. I shrugged as we came up on a line of traffic stopped at a red light.

  “One more thing.” Rodriguez looked over. “They found a second body downtown.”

  “On the train?”

  The detective shook his head. “Building on Lake. Building manager got his throat cut. Apartment looks over the tracks.”

  “So the manager maybe barges in on our shooter?”

  “Or the manager was helping him and then became expendable. Either way, we’ll process it. Pull any rental records.”

  “Our guy isn’t that stupid.”

  “Really?” Rodriguez lifted an eyebrow. “If you got all the answers, let me ask you this: Why are these geniuses calling you?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Might want to do some figuring on that before we sit down with the feds. You can start with how these guys got your cell phone number. And end with why they didn’t drop the hammer on you this morning.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly. Let’s get moving here.”

  Rodriguez flicked on his siren and flashers. The sea of cars parted, and the detective hit the gas.

  CHAPTER 8

  Nelson rumbled his shopping cart to a stop at the corner of Superior and State and looked up at the white stone of Holy Name Cathedral. The morning had gone as well as he could have hoped. Robles had gotten their attention. Kelly was involved. Now it was time to make them understand why.