The Third Rail by Michael Harvey
Authors: Michael Harvey
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Private Investigators, Hard-Boiled, Chicago (Ill.), Criminal snipers
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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 calling 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 all 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 all 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'll 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 hell out of here."
Then Jim Doherty opened up a file. It was full of papers and pictures. Full 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
"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 calling 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 all 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 all 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'll 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 hell out of here."
Then Jim Doherty opened up a file. It was full of papers and pictures. Full 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
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