by Kate Belli
CHAPTER 12
The door to the old Van Joost townhouse swung open, and Genevieve blinked in surprise.
Standing in the doorway was the largest and possibly least attractive man she had ever seen. He was a giant. Genevieve was tall, but this man loomed over her. His height was matched by his sheer physical girth, and it was obviously a powerful physique under his—oh, actually rather well-made and well-tailored—suit. Most alarming, however, was the man’s face. Several rough scars crisscrossed his broad cheekbones, one running across his mouth and down his chin, and it was obvious that his nose had been broken and not reset properly. All in all, he looked a bit like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, albeit in a very nice suit. Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, in a lovely suit, answering the door to what was now Daniel’s home and place of business.
The monster spoke. “Yeah?” he asked in a gruff voice, thick with a Lower East Side accent.
She cleared her throat slightly and handed over her card. “I haven’t an appointment, I’m afraid.”
The large man glanced at her card impassively, then opened the door slightly wider to let her step in. “Wait here a minute,” he commanded, then stomped down the hall toward the back of the house.
Genevieve nodded at his giant back. Though it was typically considered rude to leave a guest waiting in the hallway, there was no way she would budge from her assigned spot.
A scant moment later, the man thumped back down the hall, then led her to a large, well-appointed office with big sunny windows and a plush carpet from the Far East. “He’s coming,” the man grunted, closing the door behind him.
Genevieve took in the high shelves of books, the massive mahogany desk, and the deep-red leather chairs. She ran a finger over the back of one of the chairs facing the desk. Several neat stacks of paper and files resting on the desk’s wide surface caught her eye.
She shouldn’t. She really, truly, honestly shouldn’t.
The files in question sat in perfect, well-lined piles, all in a tidy row. They were utterly tempting, begging to be opened. What if the secret to Robin Hood was right here? Though she was alone, Genevieve pretended a sudden, intense interest in the view from the window behind the desk. If she happened to catch a better look at the files on her way around the desk, well, that would just be coincidence, wouldn’t it?
The window yielded a lovely view of the neat confines of the park on which the old Van Joost mansion—now the McCaffrey mansion, she supposed—was located. As the winter trees were still bare, she could see the well-ordered paths crisscrossing its expanse, lined with perfectly trimmed hedges. Unlike Washington Square Park, Gramercy Park was private, accessible only to the residents whose houses surrounded it. Casually turning her back on the window, Genevieve glanced at the desk. Frustratingly, the file surfaces themselves revealed nothing.
Unable to resist their siren song for another moment, Genevieve quickly flipped through the nearest stack. Legalese jumped off the pages: the document seemed like a motion to halt an eviction. The next pile was similarly fruitless, and the next.
Blowing a breath in frustration, Genevieve regarded the door warily and assessed her options. Deciding she was in for a penny, in for a pound, she lightly tugged on one of the massive desk’s drawers. It slid open easily, though a slight poking of its contents revealed nothing more interesting than pencils and—wait, was that a revolver?
Genevieve knew a bit about guns. She couldn’t have grown up around her brothers and not known. Not wanting to touch it, she peered into the depths of the drawer to get a better look. It gleamed evilly from its snug confines, almost daring her to test its weight in her hand. Ignoring the impulse, she noted it was a six-shooter, possibly Swiss in origin.
While this was interesting, none of the crimes thus far had involved a revolver. Genevieve made a mental note of the piece’s existence, then shut the drawer carefully and opened another.
Ah, this was more like it—telegrams. Glancing furtively at the door, Genevieve grabbed one and began to unfold the paper.
She had ascertained that the note was in reference to the transferring of some funds when the office door opened. Starting guiltily, Genevieve dropped the telegram like it was on fire, but it was no use. There she was, behind Daniel’s desk, drawer open.
And there was the owner of the desk in question, his cautious expression of welcome quickly changing to one of disbelief, followed by fury.
* * *
Outrage slammed into Daniel’s gut, hot and explosive, at the sight of Genevieve pawing through his desk. He expressed it with a slam of the door, striding forward and grabbing her arm. He shoved closed the open drawer and resisted the urge to shake her silly.
Goddammit, he was such a fool. He’d felt an unexpected surge of gladness when Asher had told him Genevieve was waiting in his office, recalling their silent exchanges from the Bradleys’ ball. And then he had rushed toward the room, pleasant curiosity about her visit welling up inside him, only to be confronted with—this.
How had he had forgotten? The damned press was all the same. They would all do anything for a story.
She stared up at him with big eyes, slightly shamefaced but unafraid. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink from embarrassment, and he could smell her clean, grassy scent.
“Are you only here to pry?” he ground out.
“Of course not,” she retorted. “I’m here to … get answers.” Her chin lifted in a now-familiar gesture of defiance. “So yes, in this instance, perhaps that meant prying.”
Exasperated, Daniel let go of her arm and ran both hands through his hair. He had told his secretary to leave her, unattended, in his private office. When he knew she was a reporter who was deeply interested in his background.
He was suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of the situation. Unable to help himself, he started to chuckle.
Oh, but the fun Maggie would have poked at him. After all these years of avoiding attachment, after he’d built up a hell of a good wall, someone was finally prying away at the chinks in his armor. It had to be a girl who was determined to be a journalist, didn’t it?
The girl who was now looking at him like he was crazy, even as his chuckles subsided. He held up his hands to show he was harmless.
“Pry all you want, Miss Palmer. You won’t find much of interest.” If she was looking for information on Robin Hood, it wasn’t there. Just legal documents relating to tenement disputes and police corruption.
Her brow furrowed and for a moment she glanced back at the desk, like she was going to take him up on his offer and start rooting through his things again. This set him chuckling all over again, and he stepped back to let her pass by.
Genevieve still regarded him warily but moved past him toward one of the big red leather chairs, where he gestured for her to sit. She did, and glanced longingly at the decanters on the sideboard. Daniel followed her glance and gave a soft, amused snort. He poured a measure into a cut-crystal glass and offered it to her.
“Whiskey?”
She grasped the glass out of his hand and took a deep sip, making him smile again. He did enjoy a woman who could hold her liquor.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “And I apologize for violating your privacy.”
Daniel settled into a chair opposite her and swirled his whiskey a few times, leaving her apology be for now. “Perhaps you should tell me why you’re here.”
She nodded. “There have been new developments with Robin Hood.”
He raised a brow at her. “I’m not sure why that is any concern of mine.”
She set her glass down with a bit more force than necessary. “Because you’re involved. You’re … helping me.”
“Am I?”
“Aren’t you? Why else keep lobbing these cryptic tidbits at me, or, or, take me to dinner and tell me about your past?” She suddenly sat up straighter and eyed him with suspicion. “Or is it the opposite? Are you trying to obfuscate matters and keep me from the truth?”
“I
have never maintained that I know anything, Miss Palmer, so I have no truth from which to keep you.” It was only a partial lie. “You pursued me. I was simply going about the general business of living when you began appearing at my every turn, including showing up on my doorstep and pawing through my personal effects, seeming to think I am up to my eyeballs in nefariousness. Yes, I told you about my past, hoping it would appease you enough to leave me The. Hell. Alone.” He punctuated the last word with a slamming down of his own glass and standing, causing a bit of the golden liquid to slosh onto the side table. Genevieve stood in response, eyes blazing. Several long moments passed as they eyed each other, and Daniel very seriously considered the ramifications of throwing her out of his house.
He knew, ultimately, it would do more harm than good, and draw more of her suspicion where none was needed.
And then there was that pull, that invisible cord that somehow bound them.
No, he was stuck with her. And she with him. To what end, he still wasn’t sure.
“I don’t believe you,” she finally said, her words quiet.
Daniel picked up his glass and sipped, buying a few moments of time. He eyed her over the rim of his glass.
She met his gaze head on. “Robin Hood has struck the Bradleys. And Elmira Bradley was murdered.”
Daniel held himself very still. Genevieve refused to release their eye contact, though he could hear her breath quickening.
“I need to know what you know,” she said softly. “People are dying.”
“I am being circumspect to prevent more from dying,” he said, matching her tone. That was all he could say for now. Anything further could endanger her, and him.
He heard the catch in her breath. The atmosphere in the room thickened with tension. He could see her calculating her options, trying to decide how much to push. He allowed the silence to stretch out.
“Is Robin Hood a killer?” she finally asked.
“What do you think?”
She tilted her head ever so slightly, still not breaking eye contact. “I think not.”
“Why?”
“His letters suggest no actual violence. They focus on greed, disingenuousness, hypocrisy. He brags that he gives the money from the stolen items to the impoverished. Robin Hood is about social embarrassment; nothing in the first three crimes suggests murder.”
“And this most recent letter?”
“I haven’t read it but have heard it follows the same pattern.”
“Couldn’t the thief escalate his crimes?”
Genevieve shook her head impatiently. The tension between them was shifting, morphing into something more collaborative and rhythmic.
“It just doesn’t feel right,” she said.
Daniel allowed a few moments to pass, digesting this. “No,” he finally agreed. “It doesn’t.”
He sat, picking up his glass again and taking a thoughtful sip, then wiping at the wet spot on the table with his hand. After a beat or two, Genevieve sat as well, waiting for him to continue. He turned the matter round and round in his head, and saw no other option.
It was time to come clean.
Partially clean, at least.
“At the Bradleys, you asked me how it’s all connected. The truth is, I don’t know that it is connected. I honestly don’t. I asked you to investigate the committee because it is related to my own work, and because I think it has potential to be more important than Robin Hood.” She opened her mouth to speak, but Daniel held up a hand. “Please, let me finish. I’ll admit I have suspicions about this committee. I believe it may be a sham. I am also willing to admit my suspicions might be a product of my own bias, as I’ve quietly been working on housing reform for years, on and off, and have seen how little interest the city’s government has in the matter. But now, with what you’ve told me about Reginald’s death … now I am thinking there might indeed be a connection to Robin Hood. But I don’t know what it is. This may all be a wild-goose chase, Genevieve.”
She leaned back in her chair and took another deep drink, looking as drained as he felt. Why was it that all of their interactions left him feeling as though he were swimming upstream, fighting the strong tides of the East River, as he’d done as a boy? He’d left those swims exhausted, wrung out, but also satisfied in some primal way. Wrangling with Genevieve Stewart had much the same effect on him.
Finally, she nodded again, slowly. “I understand. But I feel I have to do what I can to stop this. What can I do? What can we do?” She leaned forward, clasping her glass in both hands.
Again, that emphatic tug between them. It was undeniable, and strengthening.
He took a breath. “Did you look into the committee?”
“Yes.” She favored him with a cross expression. “There are countless connections between the various members. I didn’t find anything of significance.”
“No financial entanglements? Nothing?”
Genevieve blew out a frustrated breath and looked even crosser. “On the contrary, there are plenty. Too many. It’s like hunting for a needle in a haystack. Tell me what to look for.”
Daniel thought for a moment. “Any kind of financial connections that seem unnecessary, or unwieldy, or anything that looks … off. Have you tried the municipal archives?”
“No, but those are open to the public. You can look there yourself, if you like.” She leaned back again and took another drink.
“I’m not trying to shirk anything, Genevieve. It would be less suspicious if you went. Checking records is part of your job. If the need arises, I’ll pick up a different unpleasant task.”
She seemed inclined to argue for a moment, then nodded sulkily. “You’re right. But Daniel …”
He waited. “What is it?”
Genevieve shook her head, declining to say whatever had been on her mind. Daniel decided not to press.
She stood, smoothing the front of her deep-blue skirt. She held out her hand for him to shake. “So, partners?”
It was impossible not to take her hand, impossible not to feel that insistent pull. “Partners,” he agreed. “For now.”
Her mouth broadened into a smile. “Yes. For now.”
Daniel had his housekeeper fetch Genevieve’s jacket and gloves, and politely led her to the door.
“Daniel?” she asked, pulling on a yellow glove. She glanced around, seeming to want to make sure they were alone. “At what point do we go to the police?”
“We don’t,” he said, careful to keep his voice gentle. He ought to be frustrated with her naïvety, but he wasn’t. She was a product of her world, after all, just as he was of his. She had never had call to think the police were anything other than trustworthy. “Commissioner Simons is on the committee, recall.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“Genevieve.” He lowered his voice out of caution. “It’s just the municipal archives. They’re public records, in a public building. But do be careful.”
Her return gaze was full of worry, but she nodded and turned to go.
“Wait.” He stopped her. “Let’s meet later tonight. Lüchow’s? Ten PM?”
“Not Delmonico’s?” Her expression had lightened to one of mild teasing, but he could still see the concern around her eyes.
“Let’s mix it up,” he shrugged.
“Lüchow’s it is, then. And Daniel.” She turned in the doorway, glancing back at him with wide eyes. “I’m always careful.”
* * *
Satisfaction surged through Genevieve as the elevator doors opened with a noisy rattle. She stepped into the dark tenth-floor hallway of the Globe’s massive building and switched on one of the dim electric lights overhead. With just enough light to see, she bypassed the empty offices of the paper’s foreign correspondents and made her way back toward the appropriate records room.
She had found something in the municipal archives, a filing of paperwork relating to the recent formation of a corporation called Lexington Industries by Huffington and Clark. If she wasn’t mistak
en, this venture was not listed among some of the other, more publicly known collaborations, in which Clark had financed some of Huffington’s shipping interests. She had no idea if it was significant, but it pleased her to head into her late-supper appointment with something tangible from several frustrating hours of sifting. Perhaps Daniel could make heads or tails of it. She had made careful notes but wanted to double-check on whether the Globe had anything relating to Lexington Industries.
Genevieve consulted the timepiece pinned to her breast as she opened the door to the records room. Nine o’clock. She had just enough time to quickly scan the files of Huffington and Clark, and then in a different room she’d see if the corporation itself had merited a file yet, though she doubted it.
Glancing briefly though the records on both men, she found nothing. Retreating back down the hall, she fit her key to the offices into another room of files. The fifth floor, where her desk was located, was an open space, and there were probably several bleary-eyed journalists rattling around even at this late hour—she’d run into Verna, one of the secretaries, on the elevator tonight—putting the finishing touches on stories for the early edition. But the tenth floor was reserved mostly for the vast files of information reporters could access when they undertook research on a subject, as well as for the offices of journalists employed by the paper who were rarely in town.
Flicking on a light within the small space, Genevieve headed toward the appropriate drawer and hunted through the files. Sure enough, nothing on a corporation called Lexington Industries. She pondered the implications of this as she retraced her steps, turning the light back off and stepping into the hall to relock the door.
Just as a soft click informed her that the lock had hit home, the world around her plunged into blackness.
Someone had turned off the light at the far end of the hallway.
Her heart instantly sped to triple its usual rate. Pressing her back against the door she had just locked, Genevieve tried to make herself as small and quiet as possible.
