“You just told me,” I said, with a wicked grin. Fio shook his head. “Well, I’ve been thinking more about my parents, and I’ve been studying their journal. They were innately interested in strategy and survival; teaching me to be intuitive; thinking and analyzing the nuance of any situation. Even in the games we played, it was just how they were wired. So, once I learned they’d been involved in intelligence, it all made sense. Then I took a good look at that picture of my mother with Louie Venetti. I think it’s your hand on her shoulder, Mr. Kirkland. You also seem heavily involved in the details for the Rochester house. Invested. It seems like that would be someone who cared a lot for my parents, not just me. And someone had to have taken that favorite photograph of me, my parents, and Aunt Evelyn. It makes sense that it was you.”
Mr. Kirkland opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but quickly closed it again.
“In some ways, all the secrecy seems ludicrous, but then again, we’ve never been the normal, traditional family,” I said, sipping my coffee.
“Pfffft,” said Finn. I looked at him with my brow lifted, saying, Do you have something to add? He just gave a quarter inch of a devious grin and looked away.
After a long pause, Aunt Evelyn looked at Mr. Kirkland like that was his cue to get a move on.
“Okay,” said Mr. Kirkland as he cleared his throat and shook his head just a little, like he was getting the cobwebs cleared. “First of all, Lane, we wrestled and wrestled with how much to tell you as you grew up. We figured you could handle it, but then again, we weren’t sure if any of the information would actually put you in danger.
“You’re correct about my, uh, business in the past. I worked with your father before and during the war. We worked on several assignments together and became good friends over time. He and your mother were already a team. We worked well together. Some of the information is classified still, but some of our missions were to investigate and recover stolen art and national treasures. Our government started to hear of wealthy families in Europe who tried to flee their country with the help of some sort of agency, only to discover their bank accounts drained. All the while, we were gathering intelligence. Being bookstore owners was the perfect cover.
“When Charlotte discovered she was pregnant, they went to Rochester, Michigan. They had no roots there, it was a quaint, unknown town, and they could make a fresh start. Matthew had a friend who had recently moved there, so he’d had a chance to get a feel for the little town. In our work, we had discovered the beginnings of a new gang responsible for all those massive thefts. Matthew and Charlotte felt like they couldn’t retire completely; there was so much at stake. After you were born, they would take a couple of missions here and there. That’s when Evelyn would come out to take care of you.”
Mr. Kirkland’s brow was knitted with concern and anxiety. But with the last few sentences, his face cleared of the darkness, and he held a reminiscent smile.
“I never saw your parents happier than when you arrived on the scene, Lane. Here it was a vastly different lifestyle than they’d ever experienced, and yet it suited them perfectly. We eventually did retire. That’s when I came here with Evelyn; she and I had been friends for a long time. I came just to visit, but then the back garden needed a lot of work, and Evelyn couldn’t cook to save her life.... A routine started that never ended. But I did visit your parents a couple of times every year.”
It was my turn to be shell-shocked. I mean, I had guessed at some of this, but to hear the details was another story altogether. With little to go on, I had been throwing darts in the dark, making the best supposition I could. I was going to need some time to mull this over.
I guess I had become used to not knowing my past. True, I had felt an odd void, like my life had been kick-started when I was ten; that I had suddenly existed with no preamble. But to abruptly know the bigger story that I had been part of was a very strange feeling. Something akin to finding out you’d been adopted after two decades of thinking otherwise. And speaking of a bigger story . . .
“Mr. Kirkland, I think it’s time to talk about the silver gun.”
Finn looked at me. Evelyn and Fio countered simultaneously, “What gun?”
“Er . . .” Mr. Kirkland mumbled, making me wonder if he’d suddenly turn back into that old, shy, murmuring butler.
I filled them in on my longtime dreams of the silver gun with the red scroll, only to see it realized in Danny’s hands.
All eyes turned to Kirkland, whose face held a visible argument in deciding whether to be forthcoming or to keep to himself as he had for the past decades.
“All right,” he said, in an aggrieved growl. We all sat back, ready to hear the tale. “Back in the war, Matthew and Charlotte and I discovered a gang that was behind most of the major art thefts. It was a group who called themselves the Red Scroll Network. The leader was Rex Ruby. He was vile and incredibly intelligent, and he created a deeply complex network of theft, extortion, prostitution, every crime you can imagine.”
“So the silver gun was his?” asked Finn.
“Yes. Rex loved symbols and mystery and puzzles. His megalomania knew no bounds. He had two silver guns made with the red symbol of his network on the handles. They never, ever left his possession. They were one of his trademarks.”
“How would I have a memory of the gun?” I asked incredulously.
“Matthew and I finally tracked him down. A long time after they moved to Rochester, we finally had solid intelligence on where to find him. We most definitely found him, and we most definitely killed him.”
“But . . .” Fio urged.
“But we only found one of the silver guns on him. Matthew and I decided to keep it quiet that we only found one. Those guns must have stood for something in his organization—everything did. Everything had deeper meanings, and Rex gained in status and power as the mystery of those guns increased. We didn’t want word to get out that one was missing. We wanted the myth of the guns to die with Rex. Matthew kept the gun, Lane. I’m guessing that you probably found him looking at it one day. But after your parents died, I never saw it again. It disappeared. Anything’s possible.”
“Regardless,” said Evelyn, putting everything together, “Danny definitely had one, and that means that this is all connected. The silver gun is pointing to the people behind the threats.”
“And,” I added, “if Danny’s dead, who has the gun now?”
I was mulling over this vast amount of information: Kirkland, my parents, Rex Ruby, the Red Scroll Network, New York, Rochester. “Wait a minute,” I said, with urgency, as something else monumental occurred to me. “Mr. Kirkland, were you there—in Rochester—the day my parents died?”
All eyes turned to me, then to Mr. Kirkland. Except Finn’s. His eyes remained on me. We exchanged a knowing, dark look. Mr. Kirkland took a deep breath, and I had my answer before he said it. “Yes, Lane. I was there.”
I closed my eyes as several images ran through my brain at once: my mom’s blue scarf, my dad’s red mittens and red coat.... Wait a minute. I thought I remembered a tan barn coat. My dad’s face as he turned back to us, reaching out . . . the cold water . . . a hard arm around my waist, dragging me toward the light.
I raised a hand sharply. “Wait. Mr. Kirkland, when you carried me up the stairs the day I had been pushed in the subway, it felt like déjà vu. You . . . Were you actually there at the skating party?”
He nodded, his eyes grave and dark, the lines on his weathered face deeper than usual. “Yes.”
“Did you . . . did you dive in and save me?”
I heard a sharp gasp from Fiorello. “Yes, Lane,” said Mr. Kirkland softly, with the kindest eyes I’d ever seen in my life.
Before the lump in my throat could overtake me, I had to ask one more thing. “Mr. Kirkland, my father was shot, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER 24
I am still far from being what I want to be, but with God’s help I shall succeed.
>
—ML
I shut my eyes as I tried to tease the details of that awful day to the surface. My father had been wearing his tan barn coat, but as he turned to my mother and me, a swelling red stain seeped out from the chest of his coat.
I said quietly, “I remember him turning back to us before we went into the water, and a red stain coming through his coat. What exactly happened that day?”
“Well, I was there at the party,” began Mr. Kirkland, looking into the past, telling a story that he didn’t want to tell. “I had come to visit you all. Your father had been doing his skating thing, where he zipped around the perimeter of the rink. I remember laughing as you and Charlotte started to chase after him. You had just about caught him, on the farthest part of the rink out into the lake. There was a loud crack, and at first I thought it was the lake creaking, but then I saw your father stumble and turn to you, and I knew it was a gunshot, maybe two in close repetition. Then I realized it had been the ice as well; a huge hole opened up. You, your mother, your father, and another man who had been nearby all fell in. I raced over and jumped in. You had been the last to go in. I found you and pulled you up. You were the only one I could save.”
“But I don’t understand, someone shot my father and the ice broke apart? That doesn’t seem possible.”
Mr. Kirkland bit his bottom lip in thought. “I know. We could never find more evidence to piece together what really happened, but when I went back to the scene later in the day, there was a fine black powder along the edges of the broken ice, suggesting an explosive.” He paused for a moment and then went on, “Your father was shot, but I believe he was not the only target. The explosion could have been to cover the shot fired or to intentionally take out all of you, I don’t know.”
I said, “Roarke thought the same thing. He heard about the fine black dust on the remaining ice. But we didn’t know about the gunshot.”
Fiorello’s eyes were the epitome of empathetic love and understanding. His son and daughter were lucky kids indeed. “Lane, dear, are you all right? This is a lot to hear in one sitting.”
“You could say that again,” I said as I rubbed the back of my neck. “Okay. Well, we will have to talk much more at length about this. But right now, is there something that might link this to what is currently going on here, in New York? Roarke found out about that other man who was also killed: Rutherford Franco. His Hollywood-crazed wife, Daphne, went to pieces afterward, and she and her daughter disappeared.”
Evelyn piped in, “You know, I seem to recall a mental hospital in Rochester, Michigan; maybe we could check that out.”
“Good idea,” said Finn.
“Given the timing of them in Rochester and their link to New York, plus Daphne having that platinum blond hair, I think that there is a strong possibility that the daughter is Roxy.” I filled them in on the specifics Roarke had discovered.
Finn spoke up after a long, contemplative silence. “There are multiple motives here, and I have an idea on how they all might come together. Donagan Connell and Daley Joseph work together, but Donagan’s been all but absent the last couple of weeks. He calls in orders and writes messages, but he’s not around. On the phone the other day, I overheard Daley talking to him about her. Daley didn’t sound too happy about that her, but he didn’t discuss it with me, either. I’m wondering if this woman is Roxy and if she and Donagan have formed a kind of partnership. That would account for his absence if he’s been more . . . involved with her. Personally and businesswise. So, if Roxy really is Rutherford’s daughter and she is behind some of this, maybe her personal motive could be to get back at you, Lane. In her mind, she might think that your family caused the death of her father.”
I felt guilty and angry at the same time. I had been ten years old at the time, so why get back at me? Then again, ever since hearing of that man’s death from Roarke, I felt somehow guilty and remorseful that there was another child who had lost a parent that day.
Finn went on, “And if she joined forces with Donagan and Daley, she could kill two birds with one stone. Get back at you and help them get Fio out of the picture. Danny worked with one or all of them. One of them has that silver gun. And God only knows what that means.”
“What do you mean, Finn?” asked Evelyn.
I supplied, “He means, the gun points to the threats here in New York City. But if that gun really is Rex Ruby’s, it could point to a whole lot more. It could mean that their gang is getting back together.”
We wrapped up our chat, discussing possible targets in Queens. We knew it would be big, it would be highly visible, and it would cause the most damage possible to the city and to Fio’s career. We decided to give it more thought, do some digging, and see what we came up with. We had just under ten days. Fiorello said he’d see me at the office the next day, while Mr. Kirkland and Aunt Evelyn graciously left Finn and me to walk home together.
* * *
It was after midnight. The air felt fresh and sweet. The buildings shimmered, the moon was almost full and a brilliant white, there were scores of people milling around going to restaurants, going out dancing, just walking around despite the late hour.
It reminded me of something I read by a friend of Aunt Evelyn’s, Hulbert Footner, who was working on a book about New York City. He’d brought over a chapter, and he had the best description of the city I’d ever heard. He and a friend had stepped out of the Astor into the middle of Times Square and they stopped to enjoy the scene before them. There was a phrase he’d said, about the way that you could see something ninety-nine times, but on the hundredth, be “arrested by its magnificence.” What a way to say it! He had such a poetic way of writing about the city. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on the book when it came out.
Personally, I was more partial to the parts of the city outside of Times Square, like the small section heading up to the Upper East Side, where we were now. But that part about how the city would capture your imagination at unsuspecting moments—it was perfect.
“You’re smiling, Lane,” said Finn, looking down at me and taking up my hand as we started to walk. Those familiar, warm shocks went up my arm. “What are you thinking about? How are you doing with everything we just discussed?” He tried to sound nonchalant, but anxiety seeped through the background of his voice.
“Oh, I was just smiling because I love living here.” I looked up at the buildings and the moon. I told him a little about that chapter by Hulbert Footner.
“I never thought about it that way. He’s right. It’s like a living thing,” he said.
He was right. It wasn’t the hectic nature of the city that invited you to jump in, it was the life itself. A living thing that had the capacity to invite you to be part of it.
“So . . . how long have you known?” asked Finn.
I knew what he meant. “Well, I wasn’t sure for a while. But you kept popping up in the right places at the right time.”
“But, how did you know—I mean really know—that I wasn’t playing on the wrong side? Like Peter thinks. He has reason to think that way, Lane. I mean, the whole point of my role is to look dirty. Not that it takes much. Only a whisper of corruption, and a reputation is lost. It will take so much more to get it back. I’ve fought with myself for a while about doing this kind of work and about being with you. I . . . I am so far from perfect.”
He was going down an old, despairing path. I blocked the path. “I don’t care about your perceived reputation. Valentine will be sure to fix it. And I know you’re not perfect, Finn.”
“You do?”
“Of course. You’re not perfect. But you’re good. There’s a big difference.”
“I’ve done things I wish I hadn’t,” he said, stopping me, releasing my hand. He turned my shoulders so we were face-to-face, forcing me, or perhaps himself, to confront this head-on.
“I know. I can tell,” I said, my eyes searching the gray-green of his.
“How can you see the things you do, Lane? You see things
that other people don’t.”
I stammered, “I do?”
“Yes, you see beauty and humor and color. And you see people, deep down as they are. Things that they try to hide. Things that go right by others, but you take the time to see, to really see and feel.”
I drew closer to him and touched his lapel, feeling the black fabric, listening to the cars and chatter floating by, smelling the hint of roses from the stand nearby mingled with coffee from the bistro and the smoke of a cigarette, enjoying the golden windows peeking into the darkness above us . . . every piece of the night.
“What happened with you and Peter? Can you tell me?” A light breeze ruffled his dark hair, and his eyes were intense with reflection, looking into the distance at a story, at a memory riddled with what-ifs and if-onlys.
“All right,” he said softly and firmly, having come to a decision. It felt like he was making a sacrifice, like he knew this could change everything. As we started to walk along, I glimpsed his stony countenance. He seemed ready to get it over with. “Well, it was a few years ago. I was working undercover, a position I’d taken only about a few months prior. I had been sent to check on a prostitution ring that had sprung up. I pretended to be someone, uh . . .”
“Looking for some action?” I supplied.
He coughed. “Ah, yeah. When I arrived at the place that was supposed to be the . . .”
“Brothel?” I contributed.
“Good God, Lane, how . . . ? Never mind. Anyway, I got to the place and met with the owner, told her the services that I’d require, and that I’d want to set something up for a party we were having the next week.” He winced. I wasn’t too thrilled with that part, either.
“We fixed a date for the party, and I left. When I came out, I ran into Pete and his date. They must have been coming home from a Broadway show or something. The . . . ahem . . . brothel was just east of Times Square. He saw me and recognized me from the department, but he obviously decided I was not there on business. A look of absolute loathing went across his face. Then . . .” His voice cracked. I braced myself.
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