You look good, Michael.”
I hadn’t seen Jim Doherty in maybe five years, since the day he retired and we drank Guinness together at a pretty good Irish place cal ed Emmit’s. I’d meant to cal him. Even made notes for myself. But never got to it.
“Thanks, Jim. It’s been a while. How you doing?”
Doherty widened his eyes in mock surprise. The smile that fol owed wiped away my years of neglect.
“No complaints, actual y. In fact, retirement suits me pretty wel .”
Doherty waved a hand around the house. His bungalow was identical to his neighbors’, except this one didn’t feature a crucifix, or even JFK, on the wal. In fact, the whole house felt bare. No pictures, no paintings. Just a few shelves, heavy with books. Otherwise, only what was needed to live.
“I know,” he said, “it looks depressing. Some pots and pans and an old cop waiting to die. Right?”
I shook my head. Doherty, however, was never one to cut corners.
“Bul shit. That’s exactly what it looks like, because maybe that’s exactly what it is. And you know what? It’s not al that bad.”
My friend cast pale blue eyes into a future most of us try hard to ignore. His features seemed finer than I remembered; his skin, tissue thin and stretched tight over his skul.
“But you’re not here for that sad story, are you, Michael?” Doherty glanced at the thick brown files he’d placed on the table between us.
“You think I’m crazy?” I said.
He shrugged. “What’s crazy? In this game, you get hunches. Tel you the truth, I kind of thought the same thing myself.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup. First thing jumped in my head when I heard about the shootings in the Loop. Same date. Same place.” Doherty leaned in so I could hear the wheeze in his voice. “And I was there, Michael. Don’t forget that.”
He straightened his spine and stirred some sugar into his tea. “You got any other connections?”
“Actual y, I do.”
Doherty squeezed his eyes a fraction. He hadn’t joined the force until he was in his thirties and never made it past sergeant. Stil, the Irishman possessed a subtle thread of intel igence. The kind that made you wonder sometimes if you were playing checkers while he was quietly playing chess.
“I knew there had to be more,” Doherty said. “Said that to myself the minute I saw your face pop out of the house next door. I said, ‘That fucking Kel y. He’s running down those old streets again.’”
Doherty flipped open one of the files and thumbed through a stack of photos as he talked. The fingers were stil thick and hard. The hands of a cop. Retirement or no. “So what else do you got, son?”
“I was on the platform at Southport this morning,” I said.
“The first shooting?”
I nodded. “Chased the guy for a couple of blocks.”
“Didn’t catch him, I take it?”
“He caught me up in an al ey. Put a gun on me, but didn’t pul the trigger.”
Doherty put down the old photos and rubbed an index finger along his lower lip. “And you think he was laying for you?”
“I know he was. After the second shooting, he cal ed me.”
“The shooter cal ed you?”
“I’m thinking there’s two of them, but, yeah, one cal ed. Hit me on my cel phone.”
Doherty chuckled. “Fucking bal s. What did he say?”
“Bragged about the kil ings. Al that sort of bul shit. But he cal ed me by name and knew a little bit about me. Mentioned Homer.”
“Homer? As in Iliad and Odyssey Homer?”
“One and the same.”
The Irishman walked to the sink and considered his reflection in a window. “And you’re wondering if this could al tie into the old case?”
“That’s why I’m here, Jim.”
He poured some more hot water into his mug and sat down again with the files. “I always kept track of this one, Michael.”
“I know. You keep in touch with any of them?”
“Some are dead. Some just old. Their sons, daughters…” Doherty shrugged off a generation. “They don’t always feel it like they would have. You know what I mean?”
I nodded. There was no substitute for being there. “So you think there’s no connection?”
“I didn’t say that. There could be. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe these guys are using you as some sort of decoy.”
“That’s what the feds think.”
“FBI?”
“They’re running the case. I met with them today.”
“What about Chicago PD?”
“They got a man at the table, but the feds are cal ing the shots.”
“Tread lightly, Michael.”
“I hear you. What does your gut say on the connection?”
“Honestly?” Doherty tickled his fingers across the files. “I think al of this bothers you more than you want to know. Always has, for some reason.”
“And so I see ghosts?”
“Could be. Is the Bureau letting you in?”
“Bits and pieces but, mostly, no.”
“So you want to run this down al by yourself?”
“I could use a fresh set of eyes, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t. These eyes are past their prime. And I was never even a detective to begin with.”
“You were good enough to be one, and you’ve lived with this case your whole life.”
Doherty’s chuckle faded to nothing. “You’re welcome to whatever I have. If you get a crazy idea you want to run by someone, I’m here.”
“But otherwise?”
“Otherwise, I’m old. I know that sounds lame, but, believe me, you’l get there someday and know what I’m talking about. Besides, I have you to do my bidding.”
“Fair enough, Jim.”
It was an effort, but my friend managed a smile. “Good. Now let me walk you through this stuff and get you the hel out of here.”
Then Jim Doherty opened up a file. It was ful of papers and pictures. Ful of the future, staring up at me through my past. I WAS NINE YEARS OLD and sat in the last seat on the second-to-last car of Chicago’s Brown Line, listening to the creak of steel and wood, swaying as the train rattled around a corner, watching the Loop’s gray buildings slide past. A man sat across the aisle from me. He had a thin face he kept angled toward his shoes, a long black coat, and his hands jammed into his pockets. Three rows down was a young couple, their heads thrown together, the woman wearing a thick green scarf and glancing up every now and then at the route map on the wall. The train jolted to a stop at LaSalle and Van Buren. I snuck a look as the conductor came through a connecting door in the back, pressed a button, and mumbled into the intercom. His voice sounded stretched and tinny over the cheap system. Something about the Evanston Express. His red eyes moved over me without a flicker. Then he craned his head out the window, looked down the platform, and snapped the car doors shut. As the train started to move again, the conductor disappeared into the next car, and the thin man slid into the seat next to me.
“Hey, buddy.”
I didn’t say anything. Just tightened my fists and felt a patch of dryness at the back of my throat.
“Kid, you hear me?”
I gripped the handle of the hammer I kept in my pocket and focused my mind on the piece of bone where his jaw hinged. That’s where I’d go. Right fucking there.
“Where you getting off?” The thin man shifted closer, fingering the sleeve of my jacket, pressing me farther into the corner. I caught a flash of teeth, eyes rippling down the car to see if anyone was watching. His collar was loose around his throat and a blue-gray stubble ran down his jaw and cheeks. Underneath the scruff, the skin looked rough and scored.
“Fuck off, mister.” I tugged my sleeve free and started to pull the hammer out of my pocket. It wasn’t the best solution, but at least it was certain. And that felt good.
“Are you all right, young man?” The woman with the green scarf had moved softly. Now she stood in the aisle, close to us, eyes skimming over the thin man who burned with a bright smile.
“I’m fine, ma’am.” I slipped the hammer back in my pocket. “Just gonna change seats.”
Her face was plain and broad, with blunt angles for chin and cheeks and a short flat nose. Not a beautiful face, but open and honest. Maybe even wise. It lightened when she heard me speak, and I felt a warmth I would have enjoyed if I’d known how scarce a childhood commodity it would turn out to be.
As it was, I moved past the thin man without touching him and took a seat two rows closer to the front. Just across from the woman and her friend, face muffled in the folds of his coat. The conductor had returned to the back of the car, eyes closed, head against the window, bouncing lightly to the tune of train and track. And that was how we sat as our train approached a sharp bend at the corner of Lake and Wabash.