Shattered Angel Copyright @2019 by Baird Nuckolls
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Additional information available at
Bairdnuckolls.com
Cover by Damonza
Print ISBN- 978-0-9994584-5-7
eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-9994584-4-0
For Jim
Always a storyteller
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Acknowledgments
About Baird Nuckolls
About James R. Sands
The Wives of Bath Press
Chapter One
September, 16, 1923
Sunday morning
Adriano Morelli walked the seventy-four blocks up Fifth Avenue from Washington Square Park to save himself the bus fare. Even with a client’s money in his pocket, he needed to conserve his funds, and it was just as fast to walk. Despite being Sunday morning, the streets were full of traffic. Delivery wagons fought for space with trolleys, merchants with people going to church. New York didn’t seem to sleep. The air was clear for the first time in days; the rain had washed away the coal dust and ash haze that hung over the city in the fall, as temperatures dropped and more fires burned.
The address on the card was on the east side of Central Park, 988 Fifth Avenue. A grand address, but not the mansion he’d expected such a lady to be living in. The building was obviously full of apartments, but he’d wager a month’s pay they were considerably larger than anything he’d seen. The doorman looked him over as he walked up. Morelli might not still be a cop, but he walked like one, and his shoes, which he’d cleaned again on the way uptown, made him look upstanding enough to come into the shiny lobby.
“Hart?” he asked the man, who looked asleep on his feet. Old and worn around the edges, despite the impressive blue coat with the brass buttons, he straightened up when Morelli held out the scented card that his client had given him.
“Fifth floor, number two.” The doorman didn’t raise an eyebrow as he opened the door and let Morelli into the building. Mrs. Hart must get all kinds of visitors.
The door fell shut behind him and Morelli was alone. The lobby was a continent of pale marble, run through with streaks of gold, like pulled taffy. The elevator sat at the rear of the building: an ornate brass wire cage. When Morelli pushed the call button, the door opened silently, revealing a small boy dressed in a red suit with gold buttons. He looked like a monkey Morelli had seen once at Coney Island, dancing on the end of a leash while the organ grinder pumped his instrument.
“Fifth floor,” Morelli told him, turning to face forward. The boy moved the levers that closed the doors and started the machine skyward. Morelli had only ridden in a few of these contraptions and didn’t really trust them not to fall and crush him. He didn’t want to watch the boy fiddling with the controls, so he studied the small label on the wall announcing that it had been manufactured by the Otis Elevator Company in 1912.
The door opened into a smaller, but grander, foyer on the fifth floor. Here the marble was black with flecks of silver and gold. Ornately carved electric lamps lit the hall, which contained only two doors. Number one was to the left, on the south side of the building, and number two was to the right. Morelli crossed the foyer and knocked at the door.
There was no answer. Morelli knocked again. Perhaps it was such a large place that no one could hear him out there in the hall. Surely, she had a maid whose job would include listening for visitors, even unexpected ones. After waiting for almost five minutes, he considered leaving. He could go down, find a public telephone and call her. Mrs. Hart had asked him to call her when he had some information. Maybe she was ignoring him on purpose. He knocked one more time, more forcefully, with all the authority of a policeman. The front door opened an inch, but there was no one there. He called out her name. There was still no answer. Maybe she’d gone to church and didn’t quite close the door behind her? But she didn’t seem like the churchgoing type.
Morelli didn’t really want to walk all the way back downtown without talking to his client. There were too many questions to be answered, and not just about the job she’d hired him to do. Perhaps the maid was in a back room and hadn’t heard him knock. He could go in and wait for Mrs. Hart to return from wherever she’d gone. Morelli pushed gently on the door and it swung open silently. He peered into the entrance hall. There were no lights lit and it was quite dark, although he could see the morning sun slanting in from a doorway farther forward in the apartment. It was probably a parlor overlooking the park. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. A marble staircase rose in an elegant curve along the inner wall. Across from it sat an empty fireplace, its ebony mantel highly polished, even in the gloom.
“Mrs. Hart? Hello?” He walked down the hallway carpeted in thick oriental rugs that absorbed the sounds of his steps. He expected at any moment to hear a maid coming to investigate, but there was nothing. The apartment was silent. Morelli continued down to the open doorway. It did face the park. The room was paneled in rich cherry wood, the carved panels rising between the leaded glass windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. Light danced across an enormous glass mirror hanging along the inner wall. Large paintings hung between the ornate Victorian furniture. The apartment did not look like the style of a young flapper, but maybe it was all inherited. Morelli stepped completely into the room.
He saw immediately that a small mahogany table had been tipped over, scattering its cargo of china and silver across the carpet. Stepping closer, Morelli saw one slim foot pointing from beside a brocade-covered divan. There was no shoe.
“Mrs. Hart? Gladys?” His voice caught on the words. Morelli lunged forward and found her lying crumpled behind the divan, her head thrown back at an awkward angle. Her face was bloody, eyes swollen, but open and unseeing. A large dark bruise marred her pale cheek and a puddle of dried blood soaked the carpet under her head. Morelli stepped back, careful not to disturb anything lyi
ng around the body.
He stared at the body from ten feet away, taking in the scene. There could have been a fight; her dress was stained with blood but otherwise in good condition. Or perhaps she was surprised from behind and hit her face on the way down. He stepped around to view the body from the other side. Something glinted under the edge of the divan. He crouched to get a closer look. There were pieces of fancy, colored glass scattered across the carpet, along with many dead long-stemmed roses. One large piece caught his eye. It was the head of an angel, holding her arms up as if offering something. It must have broken when she fell, unless it was the murder weapon. It could have caused the bruise on her face, if someone had lifted the glass vase and swung it at her like a club. He was careful not to touch any pieces and leave his fingerprints. He stood up and looked around the room for more clues, but it was very tidy and there was no obvious explanation for the argument that might have caused her death.
He wasn’t going to get any answers to his questions here. And if he stayed any longer, he might become the person of interest in this situation. Morelli stood and made his way carefully out to the foyer. He wiped the doorknob with his handkerchief and pulled it shut. He needed to find a different way out of the building. Spying a small door behind the cage of the elevator, he opened it and was rewarded with a narrow staircase.
Hurrying down as quietly as he could, Morelli made a mental list what he’d just seen. The door had been unlocked. Mrs. Hart must have opened it for her killer. She struggled, but was ultimately unsuccessful in fending him off. It wouldn’t have taken much to inflict the damage he’d seen, from someone either uncaring or very angry. He wondered who hated her that much and whether it had anything to do with his questions. Morelli slipped out the back door into the alley.
The doorman and the elevator boy had both seen him and knew he was looking for Mrs. Hart. He ought to call the police, but they’d be as likely to take one look at him and decide he’d done it for her money. A suspect in hand is worth two on the street. He was going to have to figure this one out by himself. Given that he didn’t have any more information from Gladys, he had to find the redhead. She seemed to be caught up in this mess somehow.
Chapter Two
The Hart Mansion
The Previous Wednesday Evening
Sean O’Brien leaned against the doorframe and watched the people moving about the room. At this twilight hour, the lamps were glowing, and every surface seemed to sparkle. He tugged at the collar of his worn, dark suit and wondered again how he’d ended up at a party in this Park Avenue mansion. He didn’t belong here. His host, Aaron Hart, entered the room past Sean’s shoulder and stopped. He surveyed the assembled crowd before turning around.
“How are you, Sean, my boy?” He gripped Sean’s hand in a fearsome grasp. “Now, I can’t have you standing here up against the wall the whole night. Where’s your drink? How about a nice young lady to dance with?”
He pulled a reluctant Sean over toward the table that served as a bar and asked the man there to pour him a whiskey. Sean took a long sip. It was the finest whiskey he’d had the pleasure of enjoying. He raised his glass to his smiling host. Sean had known Aaron Hart for quite some time, had done work for him in the past, but had never been inside Hart’s home. When Sean had called him the other day about a business matter, he hadn’t expected to be invited to any party. But Hart had insisted, saying there were a number of things they needed to discuss. Sean was nervous that his cousin Maggie would be one of the topics, but there had been no chance to speak with Hart privately yet.
“Nice party, Mr. Hart. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Certainly, Sean. Have a good time and we’ll talk in a little while. But if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to someone first.”
Hart turned and walked through the crowd of well-dressed men and beautiful women. He took the arm of a young lady dressed in a golden gown. Her blonde hair shone a matching gold, curling against the back of her neck. It was cut in the new bob that was all the rage with the flappers. Sean couldn’t see her face from where he was standing, but Hart was having an intense conversation with her.
“That’s Angel,” said a voice at Sean’s elbow.
Sean turned to see an older woman dressed richly in a maroon gown decorated with feathers and jewels.
“My daughter.” She gestured toward the girl in gold. “I am Gladys Hart, but who are you?”
“Oh, pleased to meet you, ma’am. Sean O’Brien. I do business with Mr. Hart.” Sean gulped nervously.
“I see.” She looked him coldly up and down.
He was sure she knew just how out of place he felt in this gathering. There was a peal of silver laughter and they both looked back toward the center of the room. Angel was laughing at something that Aaron Hart had said, and he was smiling as he offered her a large box wrapped in blue and silver paper. Angel opened the box while he held it in his hands; it appeared to be quite heavy. She untied the large silver bow and lifted off the top of the box.
“This is so exciting; I can’t image what you’ve gotten me, Aaron.” Angel glanced up at Aaron Hart with a look that excluded every other person in the room. She folded back the tissue and lifted out a large piece of glass artwork.
“Oh, Aaron, it’s gorgeous. Thank you so much.” She twirled around, showing off the piece to her young friends who had gathered behind her to watch her open the present. “You shouldn’t have.” Angel reached up and kissed him on the cheek.
“Well, young lady, I saw it in Tiffany’s window and thought it was perfect for you. It’s called ‘favrile glass’ and Mr. Tiffany is the only one who knows how to make it.”
Sean could make out the shape of a silver angel somehow affixed to the sides of the pale blue, shimmering glass. Angel handed the heavy vase to one of her friends and pulled Aaron Hart out onto the dance floor. She laughed again as he took her into his arms and began to waltz around the room.
Sean looked back at Mrs. Hart and saw her eyes narrow as she watched her husband dancing with her daughter. There was a chill in her manner that he didn’t understand, but something was obviously not right.
“Can I get you anything, Mrs. Hart? A drink?”
Gladys Hart looked from Sean’s tight collar, down at his large, thick shoes, the crumpled hat in his hands, and then lifted her eyes to his face.
“I don’t think so, Mr. O’Brien. But please enjoy yourself.” She turned and left the room without another glance.
Sean turned back to watch Angel and Aaron Hart whirling around the floor. When the song ended, Hart left Angel with a group of her friends who clustered around her giggling, and walked over to where Sean was standing in the shadows of the room.
“Follow me.”
Hart led the way down a long, carpeted hall, into a lavishly appointed library. An enormous desk with stout, carved legs dominated one side of the room, and an ebony-black grand piano stood on the other side. Tall bookshelves lined both sides of the room. They were filled with rows and rows of leather-backed volumes, reached by rolling ladders secured to metal railings. Sean wondered if Mr. Hart had read them or if they’d belonged to Mrs. Hart’s first husband.
Hart stepped to a side table and poured himself a drink. He offered a glass to Sean and indicated a seat in one of the leather wing chairs facing the desk. Sean carried his whiskey over and sat down. Now they were going to get down to business.
“How’s Maggie, Sean?” Hart asked, sitting behind the desk and setting down his drink.
“I’m not sure, Mr. Hart. I haven’t seen her in a while.” This was the topic he’d dreaded. Sean was nervous about discussing her.
He was sorry that he’d ever introduced them. Sean had stopped by the Golden Ruby one night with Maggie to see Mr. Hart and get paid for a job. His cousin was a lovely, redheaded Irish lass, beautiful, but headstrong. Hart had taken a liking to her that day and he’d set her up in an apartment so that they could spend time together. Sean didn’t approve, but he could never tell Mag
gie what to do. She’d laugh in his face. But recently, she told him that things with Hart had become difficult. She didn’t say why.
“Well, give her my best when you do see her, will you?”
Sean was amazed that this was all Mr. Hart was going to say about Maggie. He felt very relieved. He wondered what else Mr. Hart wanted to talk about. Maybe it wasn’t the right time to bring up his own business.
“Now, what was it that you wanted to discuss, Sean? What’s so important?”
Sean looked at his feet for a moment and took a sip of his drink, gathering his nerves.
“Well, Mr. Hart, I know this is a bit unusual, me coming to you and all, but I have some business that I think might interest you.”
“What might that be?”
“Cocaine.” Sean let the word out quietly, as if afraid of who might be listening.
“Go on.”
“Well, my cousin Mickey and I, we have some that we need to sell, and I thought you might be able to help us with that. We don’t really have any sort of connections for selling a whole bunch of cocaine.”
“And you think that I do?” Hart took a sip of his whiskey and looked at Sean more closely.
Sean shifted nervously in his seat. “Well, Mr. Hart. You have so many connections in all sorts of places, I just thought that you’d be the one to come to with our needing help and all.”
“I’m not sure I do know how to help you, Sean, but I’ll need to know more about this cocaine. How much do you have and where did you get it?”
“My cousin, Mickey, he brought it to me. There’s about three pounds of it.”
“Where did he get it, Sean?”
“He was working on a boat, rum runners. He found it hidden. When they docked, he slipped off when so one was looking, then came to see me. We tried to sell the stuff on the street, but weren’t getting nowhere. Then Mickey got picked up and sent to Sing Sing for a short visit. I promised him I’d take care a this.”
“So, you thought I might have better luck finding a home for it? Don’t you think someone’s going to be missing that much cocaine and come looking for Mickey?”
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