The Governor's Wife (13 page)

I
looked down at the brown Jewel bag puddled with blood and wrapped around my left hand. Then I looked up. The gun seemed more like a cannon in the hands of a ten-year-old. He had a finger curled around the trigger and the business end pointed at my head.

“That’s my gun.” The words were torn from my lips by a howl of wind, and I wondered if I’d really said anything at all. Apparently I had, because the kid gave me his best fifth-grade smile. “Got you on the red beam, Casper.” The kid tucked the howitzer into the belt of his jeans and swaggered off down the street.

I leaned back on the wooden steps and stared up at a purple sky dipped in hues of orange and red. They’d dragged me out of the cellar and thrown me into a car. I remembered some shapes and a large jolt. Rough hands at my neck, the smell of sour sweat and cigarettes, cold air and cracked pavement. Then, the kid. I looked down the street and back up it. I’d been dumped on the steps of a building that was more bones than
flesh. The rest of the block was a similar parade of skeletons, black sockets where windows should be; others boarded up and nailed shut. On a corner, two street signs stood naked in the newborn light. I was at Fifteenth and Drake in Lawndale. Score one for the home team. I felt the edge of my mobile in my jacket. Score another for the good guys. I took the phone out with my right hand and fumbled to make a call. I knew I was on the jagged edge of shock. Knew if I succumbed the next passerby would take my money and my phone. Or maybe the kid would come back with my gun and finish the job. I hit a button and waited. Rodriguez’s voice came alive at the other end of the line.

“It’s six in the morning.”

“I’m at Fifteenth and Drake.”

“What the fuck are you doing out there?”

“Nothing good.”

“You don’t sound so hot.”

“I’m not. Can you get here?”

“Sure.”

“Bring a first-aid kit.”

A pause. “Are you hurt?”

I glanced at the soggy Jewel bag. “Probably.”

“An ambulance might be quicker.”

“No ambulance.” I looked up. The kid wasn’t back. But his older brother was. “I gotta go, Vince. Just get down here.”

I cut the call and laid the phone down on the step beside me. He was maybe sixteen, lean with fine features and hard, bright eyes—in another world, the savvy point guard on someone’s basketball team. He wore a black leather coat that fell almost to his knees and pulled my gun from somewhere out of one of its folds.

“You give this to Shorty?”

“He took it from me.” I held up the bag of blood to indicate my problem. His eyes flared, then went back to calculating.

“Who fucked wit’ you?”

“No one you know.”

He still had my gun in his hand and tapped it against his leg as he thought things through. “What else you got in your pockets?”

I gave him the phone and some cash. I wasn’t gonna give him my ID and plastic. Let him search for that. He counted the money and powered the phone on and off. Then he pocketed it.

“You a cop?”

I shook my head. “I work with one. That was him I was talking to.”

“What’s his name?”

“Rodriguez.”

“Vince?”

“You know him?”

“Tell him LJ said ‘What up?’ ” LJ stuck my gun back in one of his long pockets and wandered off. Fifteen minutes later, Rodriguez pulled to the curb. I slipped into the front seat.

“LJ says hey.”

“LJ?”

“One of your buddies down here. He just lifted my gun and phone.”

“I’ll get ’em back. What happened to your hand?”

I looked over at Rodriguez. His face rippled like a bedsheet pegged to a clothesline in a summer storm. The air around him stretched and snapped, reality smoking and fraying at the seams.

“Get me to a hospital,” I said and slumped back against the seat. The car began to move. My head slid until it hit the passenger’s-side window. The next thing I felt was a cool hand on my forehead, the squeak of rubber wheels on tile, and the sharp tug of a syringe as it bit into my arm.

I
was in a hospital bed, my left hand wrapped in gauze and resting on my chest. My head seemed a little spongy, and my throat was parched. Otherwise, I didn’t feel so bad. A door opened, and a nurse came in.

“You’re awake?” She was young, with cropped black hair and skin dusted in cinnamon.

“I guess so,” I said. “Still a little groggy. Where am I?”

“You’re at Northwestern Memorial, and you’ve been out for about four hours. My name’s Janice, by the way.”

“Hi, Janice. Michael.” I held up the wrapped club they’d left me as a hand. “So, what’s the damage?”

Janice pulled a blood-pressure cuff off the wall and wound it around my arm. “The doctor will give you the details, but it wasn’t too bad.”

“Really, ’cuz this bandage looks pretty big.”

“You were a little shocky when you came in, so they stabilized you. The injury itself was to the very top part of your pinkie.” She held up her own and pinched off a thin sliver of
skin above the nail. “About this much. And the entire nail. No surgery necessary. Just some stitches. Take the antibiotics and pain pills, and you should be good to go.”

“Huh.”

“You were pretty lucky. What happened, anyway?”

“Gardening shears.”

“At six a.m.?”

“Pruning roses at dawn. Calms the nerves.”

“You came in with a detective.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“He left when they were stitching you up. Came back an hour later and dropped this off.” Janice unwrapped the cuff and pointed to my smartphone sitting on a small table by the bed. “He said to tell you he had the rest of your stuff.”

“Thanks, Janice.”

“Sure.” She checked an IV drip they had me hooked up to. “You want something for the pain?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She returned with a small cup of pills. I took them without any water. I didn’t have a lot of pain but figured it would come soon enough. Janice was watching me closely.

“Are you going to tell me what really happened?”

“You didn’t buy the gardening shears?”

“No.”

“If I told you the real story, you’d believe it even less. What’s the stuff you’re pumping into my arm?”

“Just some antibiotics. You’ll have to stay here until a doctor sees you.”

“Not a problem.”

“Might be a few hours.”

“I’m beat. Just want to get some sleep.”

“Good.” She plumped a few pillows, turned out the lights, and left. I waited a couple of minutes, tugged the IV out of my arm, and climbed out of bed. My clothes were hanging
in a closet. I got dressed with some difficulty, found some tape and gauze in a cabinet, and stuffed them under my coat. Then I tucked my bad hand in my pocket, walked down the corridor, and hit the elevator. The hospital lobby was mostly empty. I walked over to a Starbucks and ordered a black coffee. In the gift shop, I bought a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol and took a couple. Then I pushed through the revolving doors and walked up to Michigan Avenue. I was in a cab heading north when I pulled out my phone and punched in Rodriguez’s number.

“I
need you to do me a favor,” I said.

“What was last night? Where are you anyway?”

“In a cab.”

“They let you out?”

“Sort of. Listen, I need someone to watch Rachel.”

“Why don’t we talk about what happened to your hand?”

“We will, but I need someone watching Rachel now.”

“Fine, I’ll get someone.”

“No cops.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not safe,” I said. “Use someone private.”

“Okay. Someone private.”

“Her apartment might be bugged. It needs to be swept. And she can’t know anything about it. Money’s not a problem.”

“Big spender. Let me make a call. I got your gun, by the way.”

“I know. Janice told me.”

“Who’s Janice?”

“Never mind.”

“How’s the hand?”

“My finger. It’s fine. Just a few stitches. What did you pull out of Eddie’s bathtub?”

“What we thought.”

“Eddie?”

“Took a slug in the forehead before he went in. My boss will sit on it for a week. Then he wants an arrest and doesn’t much care who. Want some free advice?”

“Not really.”

“Take a vacation. Enjoy your hundred K. And forget about Ray Perry.”

“I’ll call you.” I cut the line just as we rolled to a stop on Broadway. I paid the cabbie and went up to my office. My first call was to Jack O’Donnell. I got his voice mail and left a message. Then I sat back and stared out the window at traffic. I could feel the pain building in my forearm and squeezed the bandage lightly. Bones could have taken a finger. Hell, he could have taken the hand. But he just wanted to hurt. Enough to scare. Enough to deliver a message. I thought about Rachel and wondered how long that movie would be playing inside my head. My phone buzzed and the e-mail icon blinked. I tapped it and read the message.

There’s an extra 10k in the account for medical expenses.

I typed with one finger.

Who am I talking to?

Your client.

I need a name.

A pause, then I typed another line.

Am I talking to Ray?

The answer came quickly.

Yes.

Why did you hire me?

Beacon.

Did you take their money?

Not important. Focus on my wife. She’s in danger.

I thought about that, then typed again.

Why did she help you get out of the courthouse?

Another pause, then a response.

Not important. Your apartment is bugged. Video, audio. Laptop/phone at home probably not secure. Office okay. Good-bye.

I stared at the last message for half a minute. Then I went down the hall to the bathroom and locked the door. Every instinct told me to find the bugs in my apartment and rip them out. Right now, however, they were a potential lead. Which meant they’d stay in place. And I’d live with it. I turned
on the water and looked at my face in the mirror. Carefully, I peeled off a row of butterfly stitches they’d used to close up a gash in my eyebrow. It bled a little but stopped pretty quickly. I moved on to my hand, unwinding the bandage slowly. The top half of my finger was black with bruising and flat, a row of stitches marching along the top and down one side. I touched the finger lightly but couldn’t feel anything so I tried to bend it. The pain shot up my arm, froze my elbow, and exploded in my shoulder. I leaned over the sink and took a deep breath. After a minute or so, I stood up and rewrapped the hand, taping my pinkie and ring fingers together so the rest of my hand was free. Then I splashed some cold water on my face and wiped it dry with a paper towel. I unlocked the bathroom door and walked back down the hallway, wondering if Ray Perry had really been on the other end of that e-mail exchange. And if so, what did he want? I turned the corner to find Bones McIntyre waiting outside my office. He had a pencil in hand and was reading a
Tribune
.

“Kelly, what’s an eight-letter word for ‘morally bankrupt’?”

“ ‘Politics.’ I’m guessing you want to come in?”

B
ones followed me into the office. “How’s the hand?”

“The hand’s fine.” I walked behind my desk, cracked open the window, and sat down. The gun was five feet away, in the bottom right-hand drawer. My fingers itched for it, and I could feel the heat pouring off my skin. I blinked away the moment and softened my face. “What do you want?”

Bones walked across to my bookcase and ran his fingers along the spines.

“Your daughter did the same thing when she was here.”

“Really? What did she pick out?”

“I’ll let her tell you.”

Bones chuckled and selected a volume. “
The Twelve Labors of Hercules
.”

“You read it?”

“Believe it or not, I did. Long time ago.” He opened the book and turned a few pages. “The Hydra. Snake with all the heads, right?”

“Yep. Hercules cut off one, and two grew back.”

“Must have made things tough.” Bones found a chair and settled in it.

“Why are you here?” I said.

“The Hydra.” He held up the book. “You can’t beat it.”

“Hercules did.”

“You ain’t no fucking Hercules.”

“I thought we covered this last night.”

“We did, but I got to thinking. There was a look on your face when I mentioned the money.”

“The money Ray Perry stole from you?”

“That’s right. I could have sworn you didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.”

“I don’t.”

“Son of a bitch if I don’t believe you.”

“I’m thrilled.”

The old man let his eyes harden into polished chips of granite. “You want to listen to what I have to say? Or maybe next time we take the whole hand?”

I felt the city’s breath hot on the back of my neck. Outside, a CTA bus groaned to a halt, and the door hissed open. “Go ahead.”

“My daughter.”

“I thought you two weren’t close?”

“She’s still my daughter.”

“Okay. What about her?”

Bones walked back to the shelf, where he replaced the book. I waited until he sat back down again.

“Is she part of Beacon?” I said.

“Hardly.”

“Then what?”

“Ray was in it,” Bones said. “Every governor in the last twenty years has been in it. But Ray loved it. He pushed for more contracts, more work, more cash, more skim. That’s why he rammed all those highway bills through Springfield. That was Ray all the way. Taking Beacon to the next level, he called it.”

“What happened?”

“The investigation that put him in jail was a witch hunt. A federal thing that had nothing to do with us.”

“But it disrupted things?”

“We told Ray to do his time, and we’d get some cash to Marie. Make sure he was comfortable inside.”

“Ray didn’t like that?”

“Ray took off with our money.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Sixty million.”

I whistled despite myself.

“That’s right,” Bones said. “On the day he disappeared, so did the cash. From three separate accounts. We’ve been patient, hoping Ray would come to his senses and try to make a deal.”

“How much does your daughter know?”

“That’s the question. And the reason she’s still alive. Some people think she might know about the money. If not, then maybe where Ray is.”

“Doesn’t sound like you believe that?”

“If she knew where the money was, why stick around Chicago?”

The old man had put his finger on it. Either Marie Perry knew nothing and was just another victim. Or she knew everything and was staying in the city to keep someone or something safe.

“There’s another question, Bones.”

“What’s that?”

“Could you drop the hammer on your daughter if need be?”

He sat in the pale sunlight and blinked against the glare. His eyes were black hollows. His nose, once aristocratic, now just looked long and bony, reaching back into a forehead that ended in a few wisps of white hair slicked back over his skull. “My daughter’s been dead to me for a long time, Kelly. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

“Do your pals at Beacon believe that? Because I don’t.”

Bones wrinkled his brow. “You realize the clock on this thing has just about run out?”

“What do you want from me?”

“Ray did some good work for us. I’d be willing to let him stay hidden and keep ten million for himself. Considering he’s looking at thirty years in prison, I’d say that’s a pretty good deal.”

“Or he could stay hidden and keep all sixty.”

“You want to get people killed, just keep on trucking.”

“I already told you, I don’t know where Ray is.”

“Marie might.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Ray would have reached out. Even if she wanted nothing to do with him, I could see the guy reaching out.”

“And that’s what you’ve been waiting for?”

“Talk to Marie. Tell her to convince Ray to take the deal. Then get her out of the city. If she doesn’t want to play, tell her my hands are tied.”

“That’s it?”

“Let the rest of it go. Whatever you thought you saw last night on the Ike, forget about it. And consider yourself lucky to get away with a couple of stitches.”

I took the gun out of the drawer and held it in my good hand. “The Hydra was a
female
serpent, Bones. She was so lethal that men who even walked in her tracks were poisoned and died.”

“What the Christ does that mean?”

“It means I don’t trust your daughter any more than I trust you. And I intend to take the whole family down if I have to. In fact, I look forward to it. Now, get out of my office before I put a bullet in you.”