Free The Chicago Way by Michael Harvey Page A

didn’t share any of that with Rodriguez. Still, it was nice someone downtown remembered.
    “That was a while back,” I said.
    “How are you with it?”
    “If you mean do I see the faces at night, the answer is yes. But it gets better.”
    Rodriguez picked at the last of his shrimp and pondered nightmares not yet born. I reflected on the dead that lived just underneath my eyelids.
    “Why didn’t it happen with Miriam?” he said.
    “If I had to guess, I’d say she got to him somehow. In a sense.”
    “Not sure I buy that, Kelly.”
    “I’m not saying he felt pity for her. No. Guys like that, they feel sorry for themselves. Something in the way she talked, what she said, how she acted. Triggered his self-pity.”
    “And saved her life,” Rodriguez said.
    “It’s a theory.”
    “Yeah. Next girl might not be so lucky.”
    Vince’s PDA buzzed. He flipped it open, read the message, and typed in a response. Then he was out of his seat, a few bills on the table, moving through the restaurant. I was on his shoulder.
    “You got the gift, Kelly. We just got another possible sexual assault. Couple of blocks from here. In progress. You up for it?”
    “You sure?”
    “They tell me you used to be good. Why not? Just don’t shoot anybody unless they shoot first.”
    We got in his car and peeled north on Clark. Rodriguez radioed Dispatch.
    “This is Rodriguez. I’m two blocks east, heading to the eight-oh-seven in progress. Copy.”
    Dispatch crackled back.
    “Affirmative. Two squads on scene. Officers searching building for the suspect.”
    We rolled up to a center-entrance Chicago three-flat, an older building called the Belmont Arms near the corner of Belmont and Sheffield.
    Two uniforms, one short, one tall, stood at the entrance to an alley on the building’s east side. The shorter one stepped forward. Rodriguez flashed his badge just as the cop’s shoulder mic barked. He hit the MUTE button and took a quick look at the detective’s shield.
    “Yes, sir, Detective. Attack occurred in the alley. Then the suspect ran into the building. We have two units inside. Hold on a second.”
    The officer turned away, mumbled into his shoulder, then turned back.
    “They’re on the first landing. If you want to go in, they’ll wait there.”
    Rodriguez took a radio from the uniform and walked toward the building. The cop walked with us and kept talking.
    “The suspect’s a white male, five feet nine, one hundred and seventy pounds, wearing a black bomber jacket and blue jeans. According to the victim, he covered his face up and is armed with a knife.”
    Rodriguez drew his gun and entered the building. I followed. We climbed the stairs and found two cops waiting. The stairwell was dimly lit, the walls gray with streaks of dirty sunlight from a pair of windows cut high into the landing. The older of the two uniforms got us up to speed.
    “The other team is securing the back exits. Hallways run in both directions from the top of the stairs.”
    “How many apartments on each floor?” Rodriguez said.
    “Three. No telling who’s home.”
    “So he could be inside any of these units?”
    “Yes, sir. Three floors’ worth.”
    “Okay. First thing we do is sweep the entire building, from the top down. Look for any sign of forced entry. If not, then we go unit by unit. Knock on the door, ID yourself, and ask to come in.”
    We walked to the top floor together. The uniforms stacked on the left side of the hallway, crept around the corner, and disappeared. Rodriguez and I slipped around the other corner, guns drawn. Twenty feet down a door was ajar, light spilling into the hall. Rodriguez cruised up close, quiet. No sign of forced entry. Rodriguez eased the door in, three inches, half a foot. Over his shoulder, I could see a piece of hallway. Beyond that, a living room.
    The detective gave me a short nod, then moved, low and fast, across the threshold. I followed, breathing slow and scanning. To my left was a couch that