CHAPTER 46

I sat in the same hard wooden chair. Jacobs sat in another. The city lay under the drowse of an afternoon fog. To our left, wisps of gray floated by the windows. To our right, Wilson’s desk was draped in polished mahogany and cluttered with all sorts of mayoral things. Behind the desk was a third chair, the padded one, with soft leather and, at the moment, entirely empty.

Jacobs had apparently never been inside the inner sanctum. I was about to tell him where they kept the holy water and candles when the door swung open and the mayor walked in. Jacobs jumped like someone had played “Hail to the Chief.” Wilson acknowledged the homage with a nod. Then he walked over to the windows and stared into the soup.

“Good to see you again, Kelly.”

The mayor talked without turning. I was still seated and didn’t respond. Wilson backed away from the windows and moved behind his desk. Jacobs didn’t know whether to stand or sit, so he froze. Wilson moved his eyes over the reporter and then looked at the open door. Jacobs got the hint and left, closing the door on his way out.

“How much does the Trib guy know?” Wilson said.

“About what?”

“The fire. And my family.”

“He thinks it’s an urban legend. Nothing else.”

“What do you think?”

“I think there’s no letter or document in existence that proves your great-great-grandfather did anything to harm this city.”

Wilson folded his hands over his stomach and sank into his flesh.

“John Julius wasn’t stupid,” the mayor said. “Neither am I.”

“I understand that, sir.”

“Do you? My great-great-grandfather was a nickel-rubbing, power-greedy bastard. And he always came out on top. It’s a trait that runs in the family. Remember that, Mr. Kelly. You could use a friend in this office and by the looks of it—”

The mayor’s lips peeled back from his teeth, eyelids lifting for a moment to reveal eyes that were shockingly blue.

“I’m not going anywhere. At least for another term.”

“So we have a deal?” I said.

“If Kincaid announces he’s not going to run, we have a deal. On one condition.”

The mayor held up a hand. I could see the hint of his tongue and he seemed to be slightly out of breath. The whole affair was somehow exciting to him. Rolling dice on the Fifth Floor. Playing God with other people’s lives. It was his lifeblood. The lifeblood of Wilson’s ancestor and namesake, John Julius. A ruthless need to manipulate, to control, to dominate. Whatever the means and heedless of price. In such a world, there can be only one king. And he answers to no one, save the demon called paranoia.

“And what condition would that be, Mr. Mayor?”

“I need to know what it is you really want.”

“I laid it out for Patrick.”

Wilson nodded and settled in again. “I understand that. Problem is, Mr. Kelly, it’s not enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know my family’s history. Better than anyone. I think you’re aware of some things that might cause me problems.”

“I told you. I told your cousin. There’s no letter.”

“Fuck the letter. You still know—or at least think you know—what actually went on in 1871.”

“And if I do?”

“Then you have leverage. In my world, that makes you an enemy.”

“Funny, some people might think our chat the other night was all about leverage.”

Wilson lifted an eyebrow. “You mean the thing with the judge?”

I nodded.

“Sean Coyle’s an embarrassing story for Rachel Swenson,” Wilson said. “But she’d probably survive. Either way, I’m concerned it’s not enough to keep you in line.”

“All due respect, Mr. Mayor, you might just have to learn to live with that.”

Wilson wasn’t used to that particular collection of words coming at him. He poured himself a glass of water and took a sip.

“The way we usually do this is with a favor. A personal favor.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Something that binds me to you. Gives you back the edge.”

The mayor opened up his desk drawer, pulled out a manila folder, and threw it across the desk.

“Another file?” I said. “You guys never run out, do you?”

“Gerald O’Leary ran you off the force. He did it to cover up his own corruption and malfeasance. I told you before, I had nothing to do with it. I can, however, make O’Leary pay.”

I looked at the buff-colored folder. Thought about the day they slipped the cuffs on my wrists. The day I lost my shield, my reputation, my life. It seemed like a long time ago. Until I reached out and ran my hand across the file’s surface. Then it seemed like yesterday. The mayor laid out his favor.

“Gerald O’Leary has a zipper problem. Wife of thirty-two years, four kids. Wife’s name is Pat. I know her well.”

Wilson took another, longer sip of water. The man might be thirsty, but that didn’t prevent him from selling out his colleague of two decades.

“Anyway, turns out O’Leary is banging this young girl. Monday night maître d’ at Gibsons. She’s of legal age, but just barely. Doesn’t matter. The pictures will finish him.”

“The pictures in here?” I said, and brushed a finger along the open edge of the folder.

Wilson nodded, as if it were a shame this had to happen at all.

“I see this guy at St. Pat’s every Sunday. Really heartbreaking. Anyway, we get these photos to your pal, Jacobs, O’Leary’s career is done. Marriage done. Everything done.”

Wilson turned out his half smile again. There was a bit of food stuck between his front teeth. Must have been breakfast. I pushed the folder back into his lap.

“Not interested, Mr. Mayor. In fact, if these snaps see the light of day, our deal’s off.”

I stood up. Wilson remained where he was, staring at the chair I had just vacated. Then he looked up. It was a look that had served his family for generations. And it wasn’t pretty.

“You want to be an enemy?” he said.

“No, Mr. Mayor, I don’t. Told you at the beginning. I play things pretty much as they lie. Straight up.”

“Let the chips fall where they may?”

“Call it what you want. You abide by our deal. And you leave Rachel Swenson alone. Got nothing to fear from me.”

The mayor weighed my life, such as it was. Took a while. At least another sip and a half of good mayoral water. Then he shrugged, stretched out all six feet three inches, and came around the desk.

“My guys will call the reporter and set it up on the curator. What’s his name?”

“Randolph,” I said. “Lawrence Randolph.”

“Yeah, Randolph. Okay, we got it.”

“What’s it gonna be?” I said.

Wilson shrugged. “They’ll come up with something.” Then His Honor leaned in for a final word. “Just remember one thing, Kelly. It’s my city you live in. Every inch of it.”

The mayor placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Now go get yourself something to eat. We just opened up a new place at Millennium Park. Great burgers.”

Wilson’s hand slipped off my shoulder and down my arm. Then he turned and walked to his windows. I opened the door and took a final look. The mayor had his back to me, looking out over his city, edges of buildings peeking through a torn curtain of gray. In an hour or so, the afternoon fog would be swallowed whole by an early dusk. Night would steal in and lights would come on: in the Sears Tower, the Hancock, and across two miles of steel and concrete in between. The darker it got, it seemed, the better the view. At least from the fifth floor.