A Curtain Falls

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  A CURTAIN

  FALLS

  ALSO BY STEFANIE PINTOFF

  In the Shadow of Gotham

  A CURTAIN

  FALLS

  Stefanie Pintoff

  Minotaur Books

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CURTAIN FALLS. Copyright © 2010 by Stefanie Pintoff. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pintoff, Stefanie.

  A curtain falls / Stefanie Pintoff—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-58396-5

  1. Police—New York (State)—Fiction. 2. Girls—Crimes against—

  Fiction. 3. Serial murder investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.I58C87 2010

  813'.6—dc22

  2010008708

  First Edition: May 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Craig and Maddie, without whom . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No book comes into being without the support of many people, each of whom has my sincere thanks. I owe my editor, Kelley Ragland, and her keen eye a great debt. My agent, David Hale Smith, is an invaluable source of encouragement and sound advice. Many thanks as well to so many others I’ve gotten to know at Minotaur: Andy Martin, Matt Martz, Hector DeJean, Anne Gardner, copy editor Fran Fisher, and all others who have played a role in bringing this book to publication.

  I also owe much to Natalie Kapetanios Meir for her insightful feedback and unwavering encouragement— as well as to Karen Odden and Mark Longaker, for their exceptional attention to detail. Thanks to Alison Sheehy for things theatrical and to Luci Hansson Zahray for things poisonous. As always, the staff at the New York Public Library and Bobst Library at New York University have been wonderful.

  Special thanks to Allen and Bobbi Pintoff, as well as Julie Torre; each has truly gone above and beyond. I also am grateful to James Hackett and Theresa Alvarez Hackett, Tim and Jill Vincent, April Longaker, Julie Cameron, Ed and Betty Smith, Chuck and Dotty Greenberg, and Scott and Erika Pintoff for going the extra mile in support of my career. Thanks also to all other friends and family who have done so much for me.

  Most of all, thank you to Craig, my best friend and writing partner— without whom this book wouldn’t be possible.

  PART

  ONE

  Crime is terribly revealing.

  Try and vary your methods as you will,

  your tastes, your habits, your attitude of mind,

  and your soul is revealed by your actions.

  —Agatha Christie

  Friday

  March 16, 1906

  CHAPTER 1

  Criminal Courts Building, opposite the Tombs

  Some will claim you can cut to the truth from the look in a person’s eye.

  I cannot. But with solid evidence, I can expose what might otherwise deceive. Usually, that is. For there are people so practiced in the art of deception that, no matter the evidence stacked against them, they persuade the most skeptical among us to believe a fairy tale. And no one had done it better than the woman who now sat at the massive wooden table opposite the judge, her thin hands pressed palm to palm as if in prayer, awaiting the jury’s verdict.

  For three days, I had marveled at her performance. She had dressed the part to perfection with a white lace-edged shirtwaist, a black gored skirt, button boots, and kid gloves. The effect was stylish yet conservative and sober— as befit a lady in mourning for her husband. As she answered each question on the witness stand, her manner had been shy and demure. Her voice, always tremulous, suggested she was just on the verge of tears. And throughout, she displayed a wide-eyed innocent stare, as though she could not quite believe what was happening to her. But what was truly an art was the timing with which her blue eyes watered just before she gazed through long, dark lashes toward the twelve men on the jury. Her every gesture was designed to convince them of one important truth: that she was completely incapable of the cold-blooded murder for which she stood accused.

  Her defense attorneys, two oversized men wearing ill-fitting gray suits, flanked her closely. Too closely, in fact. Next to them, she appeared frail, helpless, and vulnerable. I had no doubt that was exactly her plan.

  What would the jury believe: the evidence—or the story the woman had spun?

  Her case should have been a simple one, open and shut. She was accused of first-degree murder. The prosecutor’s argument had been persuasive, outlining how she had tired of her husband and desired her freedom. Others might have opted for divorce, but she had chosen a less conventional method— and replaced her husband’s bottle of Emerson’s Bromo-Seltzer with cyanide of mercury. And so, on the occasion of his last headache, he had reached into his medicine cabinet and taken poison instead of a cure. After four days of tremendous pain and violent retching, he had died.

  It could not have been an easy death to witness. It should not have rested easily on her conscience.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” The judge intoned the words the law required of him.

  The woman twisted a gloved finger.

  “We have, Your Honor,” the foreman replied, his voice low and grave.

  “Defendant, please rise,” said the judge.

  Her defense attorneys pulled her to her feet after she fell against the table, seemingly drained of her last ounce of strength. Her pale face beseeched the jury foreman for mercy.

  He returned her gaze without self-consciousness, and I knew the verdict at once— even before the words not guilty sounded throughout the courtroom.

  Amid gasps of surprise and murmuring voices, I turned away and quickly exited the rear of the building, eager to reach the street before the shouting crowds and hordes of news reporters swallowed me whole.

  It was a bitter disappointment. I had arrested her and secured the incriminating evidence against her: the testimony of the doctor who detected the strong smell of almond; the rec ords of the pharmacist who had sold her the poison; the words of the friend in whom she had confided her marriage troubles. The evidence was circumstantial, but solid. I had offered the truth, and her performance had refuted it. I could do no more.

  My feet landed with a heavy thud on each step as I ran down the stairs toward Franklin Street. It would have been a loss, of course, no matter the verdict. Justice was imperfect, even when the verdict was guilty. No trial could restore the dead to life. Or change the fact that, in this case, a nine-year-old girl’s future had been forever altered by the trial of her mother, the death of her father.

  What mattered was the risk this woman posed in the months and years to come. Would she kill again? Or had she been so thoroughly scared by her close call with the executioner, and her brief imprisonment in the Tombs, that she would now abide by the law? It was possible.

  But the act of shedding blood once made it easier to do twice— or so I believed. I had never taken the life of another, though I had certainly known my share of danger. It was a line I hoped never to cross.

  “Detective! Detective Ziele!” The voice that called out to me was loud and self-important. A sergeant huffed behind me, his large baby face lined with beads of sweat as he tried to catch up. As I stopped to wait for him, I realized I must have been practically sprinting as I made my way toward the City Hall subway station.

  “Captain Mulvaney told me you’d be finishing up at the courthouse. He sent me to give you the message tha
t you’re needed up-town.”

  Declan Mulvaney was the burly Irishman who had been my partner in the earliest days of my career, when I was a patrolman on the Lower East Side. He had recently been promoted to captain of the Nineteenth Precinct, which covered the Tenderloin— an area that vied with the Lower East Side for the dubious honor of being the city’s most crime-ridden neighborhood. Though our careers had diverged along different paths, we had remained close. And it was unlike him to summon me in this manner.

  The officer now clutched his side, out of breath. He was displeased to be executing this summons. Normally, a sergeant would have avoided this sort of errand, so there must have been no one else available.

  “What’s happened?” I began to walk again, forcing the sergeant to follow me.

  “The captain needs you at the Garrick Theater. From the sound of it, someone put on quite a show this morning.” He smirked, pleased with his own sense of humor.

  “Mulvaney’s waiting for me there?” I asked, determined to ignore the man’s attitude.

  “Yeah.” His response was gruff. “There’s been a murder. Some actress killed.”

  I stopped walking and turned abruptly to face the man. “There are murders every day, all over this city. And Mulvaney’s in charge of one of the largest precincts. Why does he need me for this one?”

  As captain, Mulvaney had no shortage of resources. If he had asked for my help, then it was for a specific reason. These days, I split my time between the city and the village of Dobson, fifteen miles to the north, where I had moved almost a year ago with every intention of settling into a quiet life. But my colleagues in the city— and the lack of any real work in Dobson since my last case, a tragic murder, had ended four months ago— seemed to dictate otherwise.

  The sergeant looked at me in a way that made clear he was sizing me up, trying to decide what to tell me. That he knew little and was authorized to say nothing was to be expected. But rumors had certainly reached his ears, of that I was certain. And he needed my cooperation.

  “My guess is the case involves someone important. The big brass are keeping news of the murder under close wraps, and they’ve got a man in custody already for questioning,” he finally said.

  It was likely that the sergeant was right. If a suspect was in custody already, then either significant evidence had been left at the scene— or there had been pressure to arrest someone immediately for show. But neither rationale explained why Mulvaney would want to involve me. There must be some additional complexity to the case.

  Mulvaney’s sergeant went his own way once I reached the City Hall station and descended the stairs.

  As I waited on the subway platform, I became aware of someone else— a man— behind me. He stared intently in my direction.

  I moved several feet farther into the crowd.

  But as I edged down the platform, he seemed to follow me, drawing closer and closer. Downtown, so near the courts buildings, I could not help thinking of those I had helped to bring to justice over the years. No doubt many harbored a grudge.

  The man drew even closer.

  Just then my train arrived, rushing to a stop with a great gust of air. The doors opened, and as passengers disembarked, I stole a backward glance and caught a glimpse of his face. Underneath a brown derby set at a jaunty angle, his sharp nose and protruding chin were oddly familiar. Was it—?

  But no. I must be mistaken. After so many years, it would be impossible.

  I stepped into the train, the doors slammed shut, and the man remained behind. Through the window, I watched him disappear into the crowd. But the memory of his face continued to trouble me all the way uptown, until I reached my stop and my thoughts returned to the crime scene awaiting me at the Garrick Theater.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Garrick Theater, 67 West Thirty-fifth Street

  It had begun snowing and the air was thick with oversized flakes. They transformed the sky into a mass of white, but melted the moment they reached the ground, creating a slush of mud and sand. A typical March snow. I shivered as a few flakes made their way underneath my scarf to the warmth of my neck, and I became conscious of the dull ache in my right arm, aggravated as always by the cold and damp. I’d learned to anticipate the pain in such weather— ever since the day two summers ago when I’d injured my arm aboard a rescue boat taking in survivors from the Slocum disaster. Though the injury should have been temporary, the poor skills of the doctor who treated me had rendered it permanent.

  I thrust such thoughts out of my mind as I turned onto West Thirty-fifth Street, dodging a horse and carriage that careened around the corner. It was trying to avoid a polished black automobile that monopolized the center of the street, occasionally sliding on the wet road. The streets were filled with horses and cars, bicyclists and pedestrians, creating a free-for-all of sorts. It was no wonder the daily papers were filled with accident reports.

  As I approached the Garrick Theater, I was immediately struck by the fact that the sergeant was right: for what ever reason, the murder inside was being kept quiet. No police officer stood outside the theater, though it would have been standard protocol to post someone by the door to keep the public at bay and deflect the questions of reporters and curious onlookers. Where I would have expected a bustle of activity, today it was as deserted as the surrounding theaters.

  At this hour of the morning— it was near eleven o’clock— the theater district slept. It would be late afternoon before ticket offices opened and actors arrived for makeup and rehearsals. Only come evening would the entire neighborhood light up with the electric billboards that adorned each theater’s marquee and gave Broadway its newest nickname: the Great White Way.

  I entered the Garrick through its grand columned entrance into the red-velvet lobby, beyond a large, polished oak ticket booth, and went into the main house, where I finally observed small groups of policemen hard at work. The hysterical wail of a woman arose from somewhere backstage. Organization and chaos almost always existed side by side at a crime scene.

  What commanded my attention, however, was the scene onstage— where a single spotlight centered on a woman. She reclined in a pose that stretched the complete length of a green-and-gold settee, surrounded by a full set of props and scenery. Her hair, studded with glittering jewels, was piled atop her head in a mass of rich mahogany curls, some of which draped beguilingly upon a pillow above the armrest. She wore a frilled concoction of garnet satin, bordered by lace and ruby sequins that sparkled under the glare of the lights. Her face was fully made up, with rouged lips and cheeks, and she looked directly forward, not at all shy of the spotlight’s glare. And when I gathered myself and walked down the center aisle toward the stage, her eyes seemed to meet my own, their bright cornflower blue framed by a dark circle of mascara. She was more stunning than I could ever have imagined and looked every bit a majestic leading lady.

  Except that she was dead.

  As I made my way toward Mulvaney, whose broad, six-foot frame towered above his companion’s, I swallowed hard, for thick dust had caught in my throat. It always did in enclosed, windowless spaces. Today, in the spotlight’s glare, I could actually see the offending particles floating in the air.

  Mulvaney’s voice was clear as it rose above the din of police activity, loud and determined. “Wilcox said to move nothing. So I’m moving nothing ’til he gets back.”

  He referred, of course, to Max Wilcox— the new coroner’s physician who regularly worked cases here in the Tenderloin.

  The shorter man’s voice sounded angry. “Did you tell the doctor she’s been here since late last night? We can’t leave her like this for much longer. It’s indecent. And Frohman’s man will have a fit if he can’t set up on schedule for tonight’s performance.”

  “There’s been murder done in this theater, by God. His schedule will adapt.” Mulvaney roared the words, but the cadences of his thick Irish brogue could not help but mute the sting they might otherwise have held. He crossed his arms
defiantly.

  The man arguing with Mulvaney was small and dark, with a compact body and narrow black eyes. He wore a drab brown suit, which made me suspect that he was a plainclothes detective. Whoever he was, he was not particularly intimidated by Mulvaney’s rank.

  “Frohman’s got connections, you know. You make him cancel when he doesn’t want to, you’ll pay a steep price.”

  I knew that Charles Frohman was the found er and manager of the Theater Syndicate, which ran more theaters than any company in the world. Well connected and not easily crossed, he ruled the Great White Way, which was so important to the city’s burgeoning economy, with a tight control that his detractors said was actually a stranglehold.

  But Mulvaney was not one to be intimidated, either— though as a new precinct captain, he would do well to avoid making powerful political enemies. When he spoke next, it was with some restraint. “The world doesn’t revolve around Charles Frohman, what ever he and those who work for him may think. She stays ’til Wilcox comes. If tonight’s performance is canceled as a result, then so be it.”

  The other man’s eyes narrowed.

  Backstage, the woman’s hysterics rose to a high-pitched scream that made Mulvaney flinch, though he greeted me warmly as I approached.

  I responded in turn before offering my hand to the man in the brown suit. Mulvaney introduced him as David Marwin, a senior detective under his command.

  “I hear you’ve worked with Mulvaney before,” Marwin said. “Why don’t you try to talk some sense into him?” He then excused himself to join the ongoing search backstage.

  Mulvaney waited until the detective was no longer in sight. “Once you get around the fact that he’s too pleased with himself, he’s not a bad fellow.” Then he looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Lucky I knew you were in the city today for the Snyder case. The verdict came down, I assume?”