“We get someone else to do it.”
Jacobs looked up at that then perched the glasses on the bridge of his nose. His small black eyes peered over the tops of the half-lenses. A predatory smile curled his thin lips. “I have someone who can help with that if need be,” Thaddeus said with a satisfied grin. There were nods around the table.
“Someone needs to be there,” Jacobs observed coldly. “Beyond needing to be sure the bastard is fed to these wolves, we should be ready to step in and finish it if the outcome appears uncertain.” Weasel, of course, had himself in mind. He wouldn’t mind sliding his blade into that damned detective if need arose. Might be more of a challenge than what he’d done to that whimpering Clora Devine.
The captain rubbed his chin in thought. “I’m not against it,” he said slowly. “Has to be one of us he’s not seen before. Wouldn’t do to have him recognize one of us before the trap is sprung.”
Jacobs nodded in apparent agreement. He didn’t give a shit about being recognized. He could be as inconspicuous as a priest in a confessional when he needed to be. He’d take his chances with that, so long as there was a chance for blood.
“I’ll rely on you to carry out that task, Bart … assuming, of course, that Braddock hasn’t seen you before we set this in motion.”
Jacobs just grinned.
“Okay, Captain, so what’s the plan? How’re we gonna make sure of the whys and wheres and whatnots? I mean, this has to be arranged just so,” Matt said.
Thaddeus steepled his fingers under his chin, a wisp of a smile creasing his face. “Some little arranging, Earl, but nothing we can’t see to. Here’s how I see it.” The captain laid it out for them, what to do if Braddock came by again, what to say, what not to, and how to handle the situation if it appeared he was showing particular interest in any of them.
Thaddeus said. “We’ll have no more than an hour’s lead on him, so there’s not much room for error. Matt, you and Lebeau will be the point men tomorrow. Braddock showed the most interest in you, so Watkins, you take tomorrow off. Any questions?”
Thaddeus looked around the room. He looked back to Watkins. “And, Watkins, listen to me well. Stay out of your place tomorrow, and keep the hell away from your usual haunts. You hear me, Private?” Thaddeus waved a finger for emphasis.
Watkins nodded. Maybe with some luck he’d be able to find Braddock himself and settle the whole affair, he thought. Tomorrow would be the day to do it.
Captain Sangree looked at Watkins hard. Watkins had had his uses over the years, but in truth he wasn’t more than a twelve-year-old in a man’s body. The captain figured he’d stuck to the work as much because he had no idea what else to do as out of any conviction in what they were doing. He was lazy, stupid, and dangerous, as his drunken expose to Bucklin had demonstrated. Though he’d been loyal to the cause in his way, and a good man in a fight, his uses in the present circumstances were very limited. Watkins was expendable. He was the kind of man the captain wouldn’t mind losing, the kind he’d gladly sacrifice for an objective—not like his brother at all. Franklin was a diamond to Watkins’s clay. Holes in the line ought to be filled with clay, after all. Save the diamonds for the important things, the cutting of things uncutable. But that wasn’t how things had gone so long ago at Gettysburg. The diamond was under the sod. The clay sat before him, dull-eyed and needing a shave. Captain Sangree sighed. “Let’s move on then. We’re running late, and I have arrangements to make.”
Tom noticed the Black Maria on the side of police headquarters as he walked up to the building. The wagon—a black box on wheels, with a single door in back—was used to transport prisoners. Every morning the wagons would make the rounds of the precincts, picking up those arrested the day before. Prisoners would be brought to the Tombs, for processing and to await arraignment. Before the prisoners were hauled to the Tombs, they’d be paraded in Byrnes’s rogues’ gallery during morning parade. The fact that none of these men and women had been convicted of anything yet didn’t seem to bother anyone.
Tom went in and waved to the desk sergeant, who sat at a raised oak desk, with heavy railings on either side. He bounded up the broad staircase to the second floor. He turned down the paneled hallway, past the offices of various superintendents and departments, their high oak doors reeking of importance. At the end of the hall, he made a left to the front of the building where the new detective bureau offices were. Tom got a warm reception when he strode into the squad room. Slaps on the back, robust handshakes, and lots of “atta boy, Tommy,” “Good to see you back,” and “You’ve got sand, Tommy” almost overwhelmed him. It seemed there were no secrets here. Any thought he might have harbored of pretending to have been sick vanished. Chowder Kelly pushed into the small crowd, clapping a thick hand on Tom’s shoulder.
“Good to see you back, Thomas. The streets of the city ‘ave been runnin’ riot without your calmin’ influence. Barely able to see above the flood of crime and lawlessness this past week.”
Tom laughed doubtfully. “Is that so? Thought you boys had a better lid on things.”
“Oh, we’re tryin’, Tommy, but the floodgates’re open, an’ the criminal classes are taxin’ our poor abilities to hold back the tide, they are. Why, no more’n a week ago we found Venkman—you remember Venkman, Tommy? Well, we found the Dutchman all busted up and shot through the middle by some fella name o’ Finney. And would you guess—Finney was stone cold too! Oh, you missed all the fun, you did.” Chowder aped a broad wink. “You bein’ sick and all.”
“Sounds like it. I remember Venkman; big stupid German with a long sheet?” Tom said, playing along.
“Very stupid and very long. That would be him. Nobody here mourns his passing; Finney neither.” There were similar comments around the group.
“Finney I don’t know.” Tom scratched his head and looked at the ceiling. “Course I read about it in the papers while I was laid up.”
There was a twinkle in Chowder’s eye. “I suppose you did at that.”
“Detective Braddock!” Chief of Detectives Byrnes’s voice boomed above their heads.
“Yessir!” Tom called back immediately.
“May I see you in my office?” the chief boomed back.
The little crowd melted faster than snow in April. Tom exchanged a look and a shrug with Chowder.
“Good to see you back, Thomas,” Byrnes said as he closed the office door behind Tom. The chief of detectives had a large office, with high ceilings and a big door with his name and rank stenciled on the frosted glass. “How’re you feeling?” Byrnes asked, looking closely at Tom.
“Very good, sir. Ready to get back at it.” Which wasn’t precisely the truth, but close enough. His stitches still pulled and oozed, and his hand hadn’t gone back entirely to normal size. He’d even get a little dizzy if he got up from a chair too quickly, but he could get by.
“Excellent, excellent,” Byrnes said as he strolled around to the other side of his desk. The room smelled of the cigars that Byrnes smoked constantly. The walls were hung with an endless array of photographs of Byrnes with politicians, officials, business and civic leaders, even one with J. P. Morgan himself, all of whom seemed to be very pleased to be in the company of the great detective chief.
“We have to watch our health, you know. Fresh air, good solid food, vigorous exercise, those are my prescriptions for a sound constitution. Don’t you agree?” Byrnes asked, pounding his chest.
“That’s the truth, sir. But I’m near to tiptop now,” Tom said without feeling it.
“Well, that’s fine, that’s fine.” Byrnes put his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “You know, there’s a couple of men who came in on the Black Maria this morning who you might know.”
Tom became instantly wary. “Really?”
“Yes, I believe so. Haven’t seen these boys through the system in a while. Don’t really belong here from what I hear.” Byrnes’s neck challenged his stiff starched collar as he glanced down at some
papers on his desk. He was a big florid walrus in a tight suit that barely buttoned across his middle, but he was a man of some vigor when it came to enforcing the law as he saw it. He also knew the score as well as any in the department.
“I’ll be interested to see them,” Tom said flatly.
“Coogan brought them in, you know. Good man, Coogan, a bit zealous at times, and overly jealous of what he sees as his, if you take my meaning.” Byrnes peered at Tom from under overgrown brows, his mustache balanced on a pursed lip. “You might want to see to this personally, Detective. I’ll not have friction between departments.” Byrnes turned and looked out his window at Mulberry Street, his hands still clasped behind his broad back. “Got plenty of other problems to deal with in this city, Thomas. Don’t need Coogan mucking up the works. I imagine he’s overreacting to this Finney thing.” Byrnes words ricocheted off the glass, hitting Tom in the guts like the sharp twist of a knife. His stitches began to ache.
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
“Good man, Braddock,” Byrnes said encouragingly. “Dismissed,” he added without turning, then watched Tom in the glass as he left.
Tom closed the door to Byrnes’s office behind him. He walked through the rows of desks that filled the squad room, his eyes down, looking at the worn maple floorboards. He wanted to go down to the holding cells but felt it was better to wait. He’d see who they were in good time, but curiosity gnawed at him like a maggot. Tom must have looked the way he felt. Chowder came over to his desk.
“What’s going on, Tommy? You look down. Byrnes giving you a hard time?”
“Nah. Byrnes is okay. He gave me a tip. Just not sure exactly what to do about it.”
“Ah, well, then, all will be revealed in time, don’t you know. The priests ’ave been sayin’ that for centuries. Any time they can’t figure why God’s doin what he’s doin, they say that sort of rubbish: ‘It’s God’s will, or the Lord works in mysterious ways’ and such. My favorite is ‘God has a bigger plan.’” Chowder chuckled with an ironic, almost bitter set to his mouth. “It’s just their way of sayin’ they don’t know what the fuck is goin’ on whilst appearin’ to know the mind o’ God. So, don’t worry about not knowin’ what to do, Tommy. When it comes right down to it, nobody does.”
“Very deep, Chowder. We really have to talk philosophy some time,” Braddock said sarcastically.
Just then Byrnes came out of his office, and the squad assembled for roll call and briefing. A half hour later they were all headed down to the cells for the rogues’ gallery. It would have been the right thing for Coogan to have alerted Tom before arresting some of his own, but he supposed that was payback for Venkman and Finney. He’d have a talk with Coogan later and try to smooth things over.
Sure enough, when the “rogues” were trotted out, there were two of Tom’s boys. One ran a small brothel. The other owned a bar, with the usual vices on the side. Hardly big fish. This was going to set Tom back maybe thirty to forty dollars a month each, about as much as the average man made in two weeks’ time. It wasn’t a big dent in Tom’s collections but it was hurtful nonetheless.
“Fuckin’ Coogan,” Tom muttered under his breath. At least he could offer some discreet assistance in getting them out a bit sooner, depending on which judge they went before. The two of them stared daggers at Tom. He couldn’t blame them. Just yesterday afternoon he was drinking their beer and taking their money.
“Fuckin’ Coffin too, that son of a bitch!”
Chowder nudged him. “Kettle on the boil, Tommy boy?” he whispered, while Byrnes droned on about crimes and criminals.
“Hmph. Was I that loud?” Tom asked sheepishly, looking around at the other detectives.
“Just a tad, laddy. What set you off?”
“Och, nothin’, Chowder. Just an annoyance. I’ll set it right by the end of the day.”
Chowder turned to appear to pay attention to the Chief, saying out of the corner of his mouth, “I’d expect nothin’ less, Thomas.”
Lebeau saw him first. Braddock was walking fast with the look of a predator. Tom’s head swiveled side to side; his eyes were bright, even from this distance. Earl gave a whistle, and Matt turned to see Braddock striding up the bridge approach, just past the terminal.
“He’s got up a head of steam, Earl. Lookin’ for somebody, seems like,” Matt observed, trying not to be too obvious. “Keep to the work, Earl. Let him come to us.” He put his head down. Earl just grunted and bent to his work. Matt moved within supporting distance. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Braddock loomed closer. He could feel those eyes fix on him. The head stopped swiveling, and he barreled straight for them. When Braddock blotted City Hall from his sight, Matt stood and glanced in his direction.
“Morning, boys,” Braddock said, but this time it sounded none too friendly.
“Mornin’.”
“Looking for that fella Watkins. Where can I find him?” Braddock asked brusquely.
“You’re outta luck this mornin’, Detective,” Earl said laconically. “Watkins di’n show today. What’re you takin’ an interest in him for?”
Braddock ignored Earl’s question. “Where I can find him?” he asked with forced patience.
“You’d have to check at the bridge office,” Matt answered, shrugging. “Watkins moved lately. I ain’t certain of the address. Might have it on file. Ask for Jacobs, he’ll help.”
“Right. I’ll need to talk to both of you later. Don’t make me come looking for you,” Tom said in a tone that said he wasn’t about to trifled with. He had no reason to suspect these two of anything, but they were friends of Watkins’s, and Tom sure as hell suspected him.
“You know where to find us,” Matt said, matching Braddock’s tone.
Braddock stared back hard at Emmons, weighing his answer and tone. “That I do,” he said finally. “By the way, you boys right- or left-handed?”
Matt and Earl stood watching as Tom walked up the span toward Brooklyn. “Couldn’t have gone better if we’d wanted. Wonder why he’s fixin’ on Watkins?” Earl said, scratching his head. They’d been lucky that it was Watkins that Braddock was after. The captain’s plan was looking better and better. The timing of keeping Watkins out of work today seemed more than just luck.
“And what the hell was that bout bein’ right-handed?” Matt shrugged. They were both right-handed.
“Don’t matter. We won’t be seeing him again.” The satisfaction was clear in Matt’s voice. They both grinned.
As Braddock rounded the New York tower, Earl said, “Best be goin’. Cover me with Hightower.” Earl trotted off to set the wheels in motion.
Tom could see the row of town houses on Columbia Heights. He’d have thought it ironic that in many ways his reaction to this walk out on the bridge was very much like Emily’s. Moments before, striding away from Earl and Matt, he had been focused, intent on finding Watkins. Being out on the approach already, it seemed best to take the direct route straight across. Doubling back to the Fulton Ferry would have wasted twenty minutes, time Tom was in no mood to waste. Yet, as the span soared up and over the river, Tom found himself transported. As he looked back, the teeming city seemed suddenly small, inconsequential. Everything was small, everything except the looming towers. Their gothic arches left him craning and open-mouthed. He had a sudden urge to put his hand on the stones. They were only stones, but he wanted to feel them all the same. He sensed the weight, the tension, the harmony of the bridge. He grasped a suspender cable, surprised at its size. They looked so weblike and thin from down below, but it filled his hand, rigid, braided, and tense. The twisted steel rope vibrated almost imperceptibly, as if a harmonic thrummed through it, a sort of metallic, vibrating life-blood. Tom imagined he felt the pulse of the bridge. A broad grin spread across his face.
With a conscious effort, Tom shook off the spell. He had a job to do, and sightseeing had no part in it. Still, he let his eye be drawn up the cables. He watched some riggers wrapping marlin around suspen
ders and stays. He never fully appreciated how brave a thing it was to work in the cables. Sullivan glanced down at the stranger below. Patrick chuckled to himself and gave a little wave. Braddock smiled and waved back.
Tom’s thoughts turned to Emily; he was amazed that the woman had seen this marvel through to completion. He didn’t think he could have done what she had—in fact, he knew it. He tried to imagine what it would be like to learn engineering from scratch, the math, the measurements, the mechanical drawings. What would it take to learn what she had and work side by side with the engineers? Picturing her, at lunch at the Astor House, he couldn’t imagine she had done such a thing. He had heard it said that she was the real engineer of the Brooklyn Bridge. Walking the span, the reality of that notion was hard to get his head around.
By the time Tom walked into the bridge office, his mood had mellowed, but he was no less determined. He found Jacobs and, after a brief introduction, asked if he had a record of Watkins’s address.
Bart Jacobs peered over his glasses, fixing his small, dark eyes on Braddock. “Has this Watkins fellow been involved in a police matter, Detective Braddock?” Weasel was doing his clerkish best and succeeding admirably.
“He’s wanted for questioning” was all Tom said.
“He’s a suspect, then, I take it? What was the crime, if I might ask?” Jacobs persisted, wanting to get all he could before sending Braddock to his fate.
“Murder, Mr. Jacobs. You may recall that one of your workers, a Terrence Bucklin, hasn’t reported for work for a week past?”
“In fact I do,” Jacobs pointed a pencil at Braddock. “Used to be common when the caissons were being sunk. Could hardly keep track of them. Different story now. But yes, Bucklin was missed.”
Tom just nodded. “He was found murdered. Watkins may know something about it.”
“How ghastly!” Jacobs said, putting a hand over his mouth in shock. “Well, sir, we’ll be happy to render what assistance we can. Let me look up that address for you. Watkins moved recently, as I recall,” Jacobs said while he thumbed through a record book.
Suspension Page 26
