“Oh!” Rosie exclaimed. “Where did those come from?”
“Where, indeed?”
“I swear I never saw them before!”
“Uh-huh. I suppose your seamstress sewed them in there for safekeeping and they just worked their way loose.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, you got me. I found them upstairs.”
“Yeah, I figured that, but where?”
“The toolbox in the living room closet.”
“My guys looked there and didn’t see anything.”
“That’s because they didn’t look hard enough. The box had a false bottom.”
“And you knew enough to look for it?” he challenged.
Rosie tilted her head from side to side as she debated whether or not she should allow Riordan to believe she possessed some sort of sleuthing sixth sense. “Yes ... no ... well, I kinda stumbled upon it.”
“Stumbled?”
“All right, I dropped the box and the false bottom fell out.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I should teach that trick to my guys.”
“Perhaps you should. Now”—she reached for the statements—“can I have those back, please?”
He pulled them away from her and put them in his inside jacket pocket. “No. They’re police evidence now.”
“Did you have a warrant to take them from me?”
“Didn’t need one. They were sticking up from ...” He waved a finger at her bosom and blushed slightly. “You know ... they were in plain sight.”
“But I’m the one who found them! And you’re getting the statements sent to you from the bank anyway. You don’t need both.”
“Tell you what. I won’t give them to you, but we can look them over. Together.”
“You did the same thing to Katie. I know you did. She told me.”
“Yeah, so? What’s your answer?”
Rosie shuffled her feet reluctantly. “Well ... okay. I guess so.”
Riordan pulled the statements from inside his jacket. He removed the paper clip and placed it in his mouth.
“I can’t see them,” Rosie complained as she attempted to peer over his shoulder.
At her request, he held the stack aloft.
The cover statement, dated from late January of that year, bore the transactions for a savings-account holding at Flushing Bank that had been opened on February 5, 1942. The familiar four-column display possessed a space for transaction date, transaction type, withdrawal amount, and deposit amount.
The withdrawal column was empty.
“Finch opened this account with $10,000!” Rosie exclaimed. “How could he possibly have saved that much from his job at Pushey Shipyard?”
“He didn’t. Look at these deposits: $2,000 a week? That’s not his paycheck. Not from Pushey anyways.”
Rosie grabbed the papers and scanned them one by one. Each month—from January to the present—followed the same pattern. Four deposits, and a few recent withdrawals averaging anywhere from fifty to one hundred dollars.
“Finch was obviously on someone’s payroll, but whose?” Riordan asked.
She shook her head. “I have no idea. No idea what those withdrawals would be for either.”
“Hmph. I’ll take this back to headquarters and make some phone calls.” He smiled. “Care for a ride back home, Mrs. Keefe? Or should I call you Sherlock?”
“Mrs. Keefe will do. And yes, a ride would be lovely, thank you.”
With an exaggerated bow, Riordan indicated for Rosie to pass him. But upon recalling the bank statements still in her possession, he cleared his throat and beckoned her return. “Ehem.”
She stopped and attempted to play innocent. “What?”
“You know what,” he stated as he pulled the statements from her hand and, once again, secured them in his inside jacket pocket.
Chapter Fifteen
Rosie, after a silent car ride with Riordan, returned to her Manhattan apartment to find Katie, hat and shoes removed, sprawled upon the sofa, reading the latest issue of The Saturday Evening Post, which bore a Norman Rockwell image of Willie Gillis reading a newspaper while on KP duty.
“What the heck are you doing here?” Rosie asked. “You were supposed to go straight to Ma’s. Given the speed with which you left me, you should have been there an hour ago.”
Katie threw the magazine to the floor and leaped from the sofa. “Oh, thank goodness you’re home!”
“Yeah, you seemed really worked up,” she teased.
“I was. I am. And most of all, I’m so sorry, Rosie!” She threw her arms around her sister’s neck. “I shouldn’t have left you in that apartment alone.”
“Sure. You’re sorry now,” she teased. “Honestly, Katie-girl! I haven’t seen anyone disappear like that since I caught Dante the Magician’s act at the Roxy two years ago.”
“I’m sorry. Really I am. It’s just that I had promised Lieutenant Riordan I’d stay at home and not snoop anymore, and when I saw him ... well ... well, I ran.”
“And how!”
“At least I signaled to you before running off,” Katie rationalized. “Not just twice, but three times.”
“You did,” Rosie said.
“And I remembered the secret whistle, too.”
“Yes, but you were a tad off key.”
“I was not!” Katie insisted.
Rosie laughed. Sometimes it was far too easy to get her sister’s goat.
“And I plan to make it up to you. I called Ma when I got home and asked her to watch Charlie overnight. Why don’t we go to the movies and then grab a soda? My treat.”
“Katie ...” she warned.
“Oh, come on. It’s a new Andy Hardy. You know how I love those! We haven’t gone out, just the two of us, since before I had Charlie. It’ll be fun.”
Rosie would have loved to have spent what might be her last evening of freedom enjoying a night alone with her sister. However, not only did she need to meet Hansen, but she wanted Katie clear of the apartment when Riordan came to arrest her the next morning. “No, Katie. You said you’d move out tonight if I let you come with me to the Finches’ apartment. A deal’s a deal, remember?”
“Yeah, but I still don’t see what the big rush is.”
“The rush is that I have a lot to do if I’m going to be out of here by the end of the month. And it was a hot day, I’m tired. Besides, once we’re in Greenpoint, we can go out and have Ma babysit whenever we want.”
“I suppose.” Katie frowned, but then her face brightened. “Say, maybe we can dig up some old records and dance in the living room again. Remember when we used to do that? It’s been a while.”
“That’s because it’s hard to dance in a ten-foot-square room full of furniture.” Rosie gestured to the cramped living room.
“Yeah, but Ma’s house is bigger. And you’ll have your old room back. It might be fun. You know, like the old days.”
“I have no doubt it will. But right now, I need a shower and you need to get a move on.”
“Okay,” Katie groaned as she picked up her hat, shoes, and handbag from the scuffed hardwood floor. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Maybe. I’ll give you a call.” Rosie embraced her sister firmly.
The hug was so tight that Katie squeaked. “I guess I’m forgiven?”
“Yes.” Rosie laughed. “Of course you’re forgiven, lamb. You’d have to do a lot more than run away from the police to make me not love you.”
“Awww. I feel the same way, Rosie.”
“I’m glad. It would stink to find out my only sister was kinda fickle in her feelings.”
“That’s one thing you can never accuse me of.”
“I know, Katie-girl. Hey, when you get to Greenpoint, say hi to Ma and give Charlie a kiss for me, will you?”
“You bet!” With a giggle, Katie left, the scent of baby powder and Chantilly perfume lingering behind her in the warm, heavy air of the apartment.
Rosie checked the clock: four p.m.
Realizing s
he had just two hours to get to Logan’s in Greenpoint, she took a much-needed shower (her day at the shipyard and the foray into Finch’s apartment had left every inch of her skin feeling damp and sticky) and then changed into a tailored short-sleeved blue dress and a pair of white peep-toe pumps before setting off for the train to Brooklyn and, from there, the bus to Greenpoint.
Logan’s was a quiet drinking spot where many a laborer could find a cold beer and a hot meal at the end of a long workday. Built in the 1890s, its dark wooden booths, red leather upholstery, and rich wood paneling harkened back to the pre-cocktail-era tradition of men in fine suits gathering together at local clubs to converse over brandy and cigars. Fifty years later, the class of clientele and the dress code had changed, but the majority of Logan’s customers were still male.
Rosie felt heads turn the moment she walked through the light-obstructing, painted-metal door of the bar. For a moment, she felt completely out of her element, but fortunately, Frank Logan spotted her and, with a warm welcome, escorted her inside. “Mrs. Keefe. To what do we owe the honor?”
“I’m here to meet someone. Tall, Scandinavian-looking, name is Rudy Hansen.”
Frank looked surprised and awkward. “Ah, yes. He’s right this way.” Logan walked her to a dark corner table where a sullen Hansen sat contemplating his half-full pilsner glass. “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Keefe?”
“Yes, a lemon Coke with ice, please.”
“Right away,” Logan replied with a gesture of his hand.
“Thanks for meeting me, Hansen.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice what with your watchdog, Kilbride, barking and nipping at my heels,” he grumbled.
“He’s enthusiastic, to be sure, but you still could have said ‘no.’”
“And have you two hounding me until I agreed to give in? Better we meet now so I can get you off my back.” Hansen took a sip of his beer. “Let’s get this over with. What do you want from me?”
“I want to know about those rivets today. What happened?”
“They were bad,” he shrugged. “But Del Vecchio refused to listen to me.”
“Bad. Bad how? I don’t understand.”
“Bad as in defective. As in they wouldn’t heat. You’ve been on the job how long? Two weeks?”
“Just about.”
“Then you know the process. The heater uses his forge to get the rivets to the temperature where they become soft and can be flattened with a rivet gun, right?”
“Right. Got it.”
Frank Logan returned with Rosie’s Coke and, after checking on her tablemate’s beverage status, bid a hasty retreat behind the bar. As Hansen told his tale, Rosie sipped her soda in silence.
“So that it doesn’t heat too quickly, steel is tempered with carbon, nickel, or chromium. The rivets used for ships are tempered with carbon. More precisely, high-grade steel and mild, or low, carbon. In other words, they hold up to heating without melting, and if you cool them off in water, they stay strong and don’t change much.”
“So they can handle being in extreme temperatures and conditions,” she paraphrased.
“Right. They expand and contract instead of breaking down, which is ideal for something that’s going to be in water. The problem with the rivets I got today is they melted away instead of heating.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that they were most likely low-grade steel that’s high in carbon. The carbon takes longer to reach the desired temperature, but before it can, the steel in the rivet melts away.”
“Leaving you with no rivet,” she presumed.
“Not only that. When you take a hot rivet that’s made of steel and has a lot of carbon in it and drop it in water, it becomes hard and brittle.”
“And if you use those for shipbuilding what happens?”
“For starters, you can’t heat them to the same temperature you would use to heat a better rivet. They’ll melt, like the ones we saw today. And if you do manage to use them by heating them more slowly, then they’re likely to become brittle and snap with temperature changes and pressure.”
“And if they snap?”
“You get a hole in the side of your hull,” he stated bluntly.
Rosie leaned back in her chair. “Then that bag had to be a mistake. Why else would anyone take the chance of that happening?”
“Money. That’s the only thing I can figure. The shipyard’s probably trying to cut corners to turn a profit.”
“At the risk of our boys’ lives? I can’t believe that—”
“You don’t? You don’t think this sort of thing goes on all the time? Companies are always trying to save a buck and they don’t care how they do it. It’s only when someone gets hurt that they decide it wasn’t such a good idea. And by then, their pockets have already been lined.”
“Do you think Del Vecchio knew about the rivets?”
“No idea. All I know is that I didn’t receive those rivets by accident. They were left on that pier this morning for yours truly. I’m the best heater in the yard. Everyone knows it.”
Rosie begrudgingly agreed.
“I can only imagine,” Hansen continued, “that whoever left that bag there wanted me to test them out in order to see if they’d fly.”
“And if, like today, they didn’t?”
“Then they’d know they’d have to up the quality and lower the carbon on the next batch. Not go so cheap.”
“If that’s the case, it’s hard to believe Del Vecchio didn’t know about it. He’s the new shift foreman.”
“Whether Del Vecchio was in on the deal or received instructions from someone else, it’s tough to say.” Hansen drank the rest of his beer and held up a finger to order another round. True to character, he didn’t ask his tablemate if she wanted a second soda.
Rosie made a point of sucking noisily on the straw in her glass of lemon Coke, finishing the last sweet drops of liquid. If Hansen got the hint, he failed to act upon it.
“But I saw Del Vecchio rush you into the holding area,” she pointed out.“If he wasn’t in on it, why did he try to silence you?”
“He thought I was making trouble. At least that’s what he told me.”
She pondered the plausibility of this explanation. Between Rosie’s attack on Finch, Finch’s murder, and both scenes with Hansen, it had been an eventful week. Another outburst by Hansen, whether based on truth or not, could easily have agitated Del Vecchio’s already frayed nerves.
“The bag of rivets, where did they go?”
“Sweepers took them, I guess. They were gone by the time I got back from the holding area.”
“And that’s the last time you saw them?”
“The last time I saw them, heard about them, or spoke about them—until now.”
“Well, I guess that’s it for now.” Rosie pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. “Thank you, Hansen.”
“Yeah. Just don’t tell anyone at the yard that we met tonight, okay? I don’t want them to think I’ve gone soft.”
“I’ll be sure to keep it under wraps.” She smiled and made her way to the bar to pay for her soda.
“What’s the damage, Frank? Do I need to tap into my Swiss bank account?” she teased.
“An even dime for tonight, Mrs. Keefe, but, um ...”
“But what?”
“Well, I feel funny asking, but there’s also the matter of your husband’s bar tab.”
At the mention of Billy, Rosie felt a hole develop in the pit of her stomach. “Billy’s off at war, but tell me how much he owes and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Oh, I didn’t know he got called. When did he ship out? Last week?”
Her brow furrowed. Frank Logan had celebrated his seventieth birthday that past January. Was he starting to lose track of time and people? “Last week? Heaven’s no, Mr. Logan. He left three months ago.”
The color rose in Logan’s pockmarked face, staining it a bright crimson. “Umm ... I beg pardon, ma’am, but he was here just
two weeks ago. Patty, my cook, can vouch for it.”
The ruddy face of Patty, the short-order cook and makeshift bouncer, appeared in the window of the tiny kitchen, and gave a nod.
It took several moments for Rosie’s brain to process the barkeep’s words, but once it did, her knees buckled slightly and she suddenly felt lightheaded.
Logan rushed from his place behind the bar and placed a steadying hand on her forearm. “You okay?”
“Yes, I ...”
He helped her onto a barstool. “Here, sit down a minute.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, no problem. Just stay put and I’ll get you some water.” He went behind the bar and filled a clear old-fashioned glass with ice and a steady stream of water from the sink’s tap.
“Here,” he said, as he returned to Rosie’s side, glass in hand.
She took it in a trembling hand. “I’m so sorry about that. I don’t ... I don’t know what came over me.”
“No reason to apologize. I’ve never seen someone go white like that before. Must be the heat.”
“That—that must be it,” she replied, all the while her thoughts on Billy.
“Yeah, thought so. Got too hot too fast. Always does. Then next week it’ll probably snow again.” He punctuated the prediction with a disgusted wave of his hand.
“So, um, about Billy. You said he was here two weeks ago?”
“He was. Must have been a last hurrah before shipping out, huh?”
She tried to muster a smile. “Yes, that’s exactly what it was.”
“Thought so. I approached him about the bill, but he must have forgotten. No wonder, either. Boy, was he tight!”
“Hmm, you usually bring him home when he’s like that. Unless, of course, he wasn’t alone.”
“Alone?” Logan’s face flushed as he repeated the word evasively. “Oh ... ummm ... why no. No, he wasn’t.”
It was apparent from his flustered reaction that the companion was not male.
“I, um, I think I feel better now. How much is the tab, Mr. Logan?”
“Thirty bucks, but I don’t need all of it right now, Mrs. Keefe. Just give me what you can afford. What with Billy off to war, I know money must be hard to come by.”
Don't Die Under the Apple Tree Page 18
