The Fifth Floor by Michael Harvey Page B

one-way ticket out of town.”
    “And you believe him?” Rachel said.
    “I believe I do.”
    Rachel shifted her eyes to Rodriguez. “Detective?”
    Rodriguez’s face was cast in shadow, but I could still see his hands, long, veined, impassive, folded together loosely and draped across his knees.
    “Officially, no comment. Unofficially…no comment.”
    “You’re a big help.”
    “Your Honor?”
    “Best I can see, you put him onto this wild-goose chase.”
    “Vince had nothing to do with it,” I said. “I found the body at Hudson. I decided to help out. On my own.”
    “Blundered into the whole mess,” Rachel said. “And now you figure whoever killed Mr. Bryant thinks you have whatever it is they want. Shot me tonight to get it.”
    “It is a circle full of circumstance, Your Honor,” Rodriguez said.
    “Fuck off, Detective.”
    “Yes, Your Honor.”
    I held up a hand. “That’s not exactly what I think, Rachel.”
    “It isn’t?”
    “No. The person who killed Allen Bryant wasn’t the guy who shot you. At least, I don’t think so.”
    “Explain.” That was Rodriguez, sitting up now, curious.
    “The person who broke in tonight carried a gun with rubber bullets,” I said. “Why? If it was Bryant’s killer, he’d be packing the real thing. After all, what’s another life? No, this was a different guy. A thief, yes. Just not up to the job of killing.”
    “Which means what?” Rachel said.
    I got up and stretched. “Which means there are at least two groups involved in this. One is willing to take a life. The other is still working up the courage.”
    “Does that bring us back to the mayor?” Rachel said.
    “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. But if my great-great-grandfather burned down the city and lined his pockets in the process, I’d be worried. Maybe even worried enough to kill.”

CHAPTER 22
    R odriguez left my flat at a little after five-thirty. Rachel and I sat in the living room. I listened to the wind blow through the hole in my window. Rachel hugged her knees to her body, drank my whiskey, and stared straight ahead. After a few minutes, I got up, went into the bedroom, and got dressed. Rachel had her coat on and was waiting by the door when I returned. I drove her home. It was still quiet on the streets. Even quieter in the car.
    “I’m sorry about all this,” I said.
    Rachel wasn’t crying. Too tough for that. She was, however, close. And that probably made things worse.
    “What the fuck, Michael. Jesus Christ. I’m goddamn naked, out cold on your living room floor, and you decide to have your cop buddy over.”
    “I thought you were dead.”
    There wasn’t much more to say so I drove. We pulled up to her house, a Gold Coast graystone a block from the lake. It was still mostly dark out. I turned the car off and listened to the engine. It didn’t have much to say either.
    “Good night, Michael.”
    “Good night, Rachel. I’m sorry.”
    “Sorry for what?”
    “For tonight.”
    “Don’t be. Just pretend it never happened.”
    “Including the date?”
    “None of it.”
    “That what you want?”
    She looked out the window in a way that would give any man pause.
    “Maybe this is a bad idea,” she said.
    “Yeah?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Fair enough.”
    An awkward hug later, she was out of the car. I waited until she got inside her front door, cursed at the empty street in front of me, and pulled away. Halfway down the block, I saw a rust-colored Dodge Monaco parked in front of a hydrant. I pulled up alongside.
    “Following me, Detective?”
    Dan Masters was blowing on something hot in a Styrofoam cup. He spoke without looking at me. “Get in the car.”
    I parked, legally, behind him and slipped into the passenger seat.
    “You watched her get in the front door,” he said. “That was nice.”
    “You think so?”
    “I think it was a good idea.”
    “Makes her feel safe, right?”
    Masters snorted and turned the engine over.
    “Is that what you were going for