The Fifth Floor by Michael Harvey Page A

a great idea to be found naked, shot with a rubber bullet, at three a.m. in the home of a private investigator. Agreed?”
    Vince nodded toward the judge. “Agreed, ma’am. None of this goes any further. And I’m sorry. Now, let me ask you this. Either of you get a look at the guy who broke in?”
    I shook my head. “Only thing I know is that he was big. Six feet. Maybe a little more. Carried what looked like a revolver in his right hand.”
    Rodriguez looked over at Rachel, who shrugged.
    “All I know was he shot me.”
    “Either of you cut yourself?” the detective said. Neither of us had.
    Rodriguez picked up a couple of small yellow envelopes and held them in front of his face.
    “I pulled a print off the sill. And a smear of blood. Guy must have nicked himself running out of here. Probably not enough points on the print for a legal match. But there it is.”
    “What about DNA?” I said.
    “If you want to run it, yeah, you could get a profile. Problem is, you don’t have a suspect.”
    Rodriguez slipped the envelopes into his pocket and waited.
    “Whoever he was,” I said, “he thinks I have something valuable. And was willing to take a risk to get it.”
    “Which means what?” Rachel said.
    “Which means,” Rodriguez said, “Kelly thinks he has someone on a hook. Just needs to reel him in. Of course, there’s always the chance Kelly’s the fish that winds up in the bottom of the boat.”
    Rachel held the mug up close to her cheek as she spoke. “Enlighten us, Michael. What, exactly, are you trolling for these days?”
    I sipped my coffee. Rachel jiggled her foot and waited.
    “Whatever we talk about stays here,” I said. “At least for now. Agreed?”
    The judge looked at Rodriguez, then back at me and nodded.
    “Just a guess,” I said, “but it probably has to do with the body on Hudson.”
    “What body?” Rachel said.
    I looked at my friend the cop, who picked up the thread.
    “We asked Kelly to help us out with a death we’re investigating.”
    “A murder?” Rachel said.
    Rodriguez held his hand flat and then tipped it back and forth, ever so slowly. “Could be. Probably.”
    “Definitely,” I said. “Guy’s name was Allen Bryant. Looks like he was drowned. Then had his mouth filled with sand.”
    I jerked my head in Rodriguez’s direction. “These guys are getting a lot of heat from the Fifth Floor to bury the case. Vince and Dan Masters asked me to step in and take a look. Unofficially.”
    “Which brings us back to tonight,” Rodriguez said. “And the reason why people feel the need to break into your home and shoot the judge here with a rubber bullet.”
    “Yes,” Rachel said, and took a sip of her whiskey. “I’m all ears.”
    So I told her what I knew. About Janet Woods, her husband, and the boxing match they called a marriage. About Johnny Woods’ trip to the house on Hudson and the missing Sheehan’s. About the Chicago Historical Society and the curator who wanted to be a star. Then I pulled out a copy of the article I had copied, originally published as an April Fool’s prank. Rachel read through the clip, handed it to Rodriguez, and turned back to me.
    “You think there’s something to this?” she said.
    “I spent Friday afternoon in the County Building. Pulled some land records from 1871.”
    “They go back that far?” Rachel said.
    I nodded. “Title abstracts. Still a little foggy, but it appears a lot of the land around O’Leary’s barn was owned by a corporation with the initials J.J.W.”
    I could hear Rodriguez click his teeth together. The judge leaned in as she spoke.
    “J.J.W.? As in John Julius Wilson?”
    “Very good, Your Honor. Unfortunately, any corporate records were destroyed in the fire.”
    “No way to figure out who the principals were?”
    “No,” I said. “I also spent some time with the reporter who wrote this article thirty years ago. Guy named Rawlings Smith. Claims the piece spooked the Wilson clan. Bought Smith a