Luca would eat up the attention. He would have the reporters eating from the palm of his hand and spinning the story in his favor. “It’s easy to make people believe you, Cicero. As long as you believe you’re the hero of your own story, others can’t help but believe it too.”
Beneath the office door a sheet of paper peeked out.
Hamish bent and picked it up. A telegram:
FLORENCE (STOP) HE’S BEEN LOCATED (STOP) CICERO
Cicero.
Hamish settled into Reggie’s chair and ran his hands over his knees. He closed his bleary eyes a moment before realizing that if he left them in that state, he would fall fast asleep from the near sleepless night before. He opened them again. There was always more than one explanation for something. That was something he had learned from his mother’s occupation. She would sometimes tell him little tricks and tips from her trade before tucking him in. One was that there was more than one path to the same answer, more than one interpretation to any event.
Cicero wasn’t just a nickname, nor just a Roman politician from Caesar’s time. Hamish recalled his father’s newspapers from all major cities fanned over the dining room, Hamish slowing his step on his way to his room after a late night at the library. Al Capone hid in Cicero. A suburb of Chicago. Hamish could almost pinpoint it on a mental map. Wondering why his mind hadn’t made the connection earlier.
If Cicero meant the city, then maybe that was the key to unraveling what Luca had left in Chicago.
Luca. He didn’t want to think about Luca. But he was everywhere. Even in this office that he left Reggie in for hours every week.
What a horrible mess of logical thinking! For as soon as his mind spiraled out in one direction it snagged on Reggie—Reggie with the button nose and beautiful figure. Reggie with her summery alto voice and her freckles and her smile. Her laugh and her brain and her kind heart. The way her fingers butterflied through his hair, stirring a sensation that offset the chest pains and thumping nausea. But what right had he to assume someone would feel this way about him? Hamish with his shakes and his insecurity.
He belonged in his tower with the bells clanging in his mind. He couldn’t offer her protection. He couldn’t hope that she would turn to him in trouble when a man like Vaughan Vanderlaan filled any room he entered. There was a chance, his mind chimed, that she felt the same way. That he hadn’t imagined her leaning into him with silky smooth eagerness the night they danced. That when she looked his way she did so with the same wistful delight. That when she caught his eyes, she might feel the same aching heart-drop.
He didn’t deserve the attention of someone so remarkable. He was awkward and odd and his mind caught in a million directions before tripping through his uneven voice. But that was where the true grace of the matter intervened. If she cared, what was undeserved was a by-the-way.
Winchester Molloy would have gotten the girl by now. Hamish crooked his fingers in his braces.
Reggie arrived, finally, panting but smiling. “Well, I lost them,” she said proudly, closing the door behind her. “At least for now.”
“I’m sorry for leaving you there.”
“Are you kidding? I was just about to thank you.”
“Thank you?”
“For letting me fight my own battle. For not jumping in my line of defense. For trusting that I could handle this on my own.” She flung her arm out to the office. “I told those reporters I meant to solve this murder.” She emphasized the last word while their eyes met. “And I mean to.” She swept the room with her gaze. “So this office will now double as the office for a scandalous nightclub and a headquarters for our deduction.”
“You mean—”
“Were you not serious last night when you were telling me about your intrepid private investigator mother and your need to see your cousin’s innocence?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Knock, knock.” Nate peeked from the open door.
“Hello, Nate.” Reggie was catching her breath.
Hamish raised a hand in Nate’s direction.
Nate studied him closely. “Glum?”
“My cousin was arrested, they’re now writing off a murder as an accident even though I know in my soul it was more than that, and my name is associated with notorious nightclub scandals.” Hamish was angry, but not at Nate. He was tired and burned out like a popped lightbulb.
“Is that all?” Nate grinned.
Hamish laughed despite himself. “Petty problems, aren’t they?”
Reggie stretched then peered out the window. “They followed us!”
“What?” Nate looked over her shoulder. “We’ll go out the back way. Come, come. Nothing that can’t be solved by a trip to the top of the world.”
“Pardon?” asked Reggie.
Nate didn’t respond, just led them through a hallway they had never turned down and then out a back stairwell. “There are rumors Cyrus Dallin’s statue of Revere is going to grace our dear Prado.” Nate was like a kid on the morning of his birthday. He snatched at any moment to talk about his beloved neighborhood. “Can you imagine, they thought of putting it over in Copley Square! Copley Square, of all places. Tell me, on what part of the great Revere’s legendary ride did his steed’s hooves ever traipse over Copley Square?”
“I don’t know,” Hamish said.
Reggie smiled and soon they were in the sunshine and a safe distance from the office.
“Here.” Nate grabbed Hamish’s elbow and pointed to the mall before them. “Just behind the North Church. It would be glorious. We deserve it. Over here in our little conclave of brick and rubble. To redeem what they tore down a few years ago as ‘undesirable.’”
“Tenements, you mean?” Reggie recalled an earlier conversation, her pace matching Hamish’s.
Soon the rear of Old North Church was before them, its steeple stabbing the sky. Hamish thought back to his early days in the city—to using it as a compass.
A man stretched his crooked smile wide when Nate approached the front of the church. He waved them in through the grand doors leading to rows and rows of box pews. At the front, an altar was bathed in summer light through the stained glass, teased by the reflection of the overhead chandeliers.
“I want to take my friends upstairs, Harold.” Nate’s eyes sparkled.
“Anything for you.” Harold pointed the way to the staircase. “After what you did for my Mary.”
“It was nothing.” Nate shrugged.
“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Nate asked with a wide smile, first to Hamish, then to Reggie. “You just turned green.” He nodded at Hamish. “Just take it one step at a time and watch your head.” Nate led them up a steep stairwell cloistered on either side by russet brick. Hamish kept his eyes on the back of Nate’s head, the pins holding his kippah in place sparkling in the light. Reggie’s heels were a light tread behind them.
“Paul Revere was a bell ringer here,” Nate said. “They brought all these bells here but no one knew how to ring them or had the time. So there was Revere and the other neighborhood kids.”
Hamish watched his shoes a moment. The stairwell grew narrower and higher and the sun blasted from the narrow window on the precipice of another level. He felt more like Quasimodo than ever. He breathed in and out, two fingers wedged in the slight part between the buttons on his shirt. But he kept going.
“There!” Nate said, turning to them both.
Reggie, on the other hand, had no hesitation with the height, sidestepping Hamish and immediately walking out into the sunlight.
When Hamish finally stepped out, staying as near the door as possible, the North End spread before him in tiny flecks of color, pinpricks amidst the rambling red and black shingles, and the tall tower of the Custom House and the cathedralesque dome of Faneuil Hall broadened into the squat grandeur of the State House and the steeple of the Old South Meeting House. Hamish forgot himself a moment, shoved his trembling hands into his pockets, and drank in the city. It elated him. This city. This w
onderful city. This canvas of grime and light, of bustle and promise. His breathing steadied.
“You can imagine them swinging a lantern here, just so.” Nate stabbed through Hamish’s thoughts. “One if by land. Two if by sea.”
Hamish nodded. “Your sanctuary?”
Nate smiled and tapped emphatically at his kippah. “Some sanctuaries are for all, wouldn’t you say? No matter what religion or race or creed.”
Hamish took the vantage the height afforded him. He nodded. “Yes. Sanctuary.”
“I know everything about this place.” Nate leaned over the rail, startling Hamish.
“Everything looks different up here,” Reggie said from beside Nate.
“You’re like me, Reggie. You’re good at watching people. But I believe in every thread of life’s tapestry being sewn in for a purpose.”
“You need to come closer, Hamish!” Reggie chided.
Hamish leaned over the rail. Seeing the straight, steep line to the ground, he felt a sudden panic and backed up a step.
“Inside are change-ringing bells. The same bells that live in Notre Dame in Paris.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Nate had turned from the Charlestown side and was peering down over Salem Street. “This is my little corner of the world. And from up here you’re not really close enough to see the little problems plaguing each and every person. You just see a community.”
“You belong here too, Hamish.” Hamish felt a warm light move through him. The side of his mouth turned up an inch toward his cheek.
“Take it from me. You do.” Nate opened his arms out to the city as if he could tug it into a tight embrace. “This neighborhood and I are longtime friends, and I can always tell a good apple when I see one. And I can always tell when someone needs a trip to the top of the world.” He tapped Hamish’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you here to conspire.” He raised his voice a little. “Reggie, take your time.
“You need to learn how to find your way out.” Nate always had pragmatic advice. “So you can always come here if you need to escape.”
Hamish took in the view of the city a little longer. He saw one large perspective and not the little nuances of people’s ordinary day.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Reggie was leaning over a little too far and Hamish resisted the urge to reach out and pull her back. “It’s funny how you think you know something. You get really familiar with it and then, when you suddenly see it in a different way, it’s like you’re meeting it for the first time.”
She turned, the breeze catching a bit of her pinned hair. It tickled over her forehead. One strand he wanted to reach out and touch fluttered over the freckles of her nose. She brushed her hair from her face. “Nate loves this neighborhood. He knows every nook and cranny. I had some time to get to know him. Before I met you.” She walked over to him and joined him, leaning against the wall. “He loves his history.” She looked up at him expectantly. “Does Luca? Is that where you got your nickname? We studied Julius Caesar in school.”
Hamish shoved his hands into his pockets. His right fingers were starting to tingle, as if they might begin to tremble. “When I was a kid, I was made fun of a lot. The glasses. The fact that I kept to myself. I don’t blame the kids.” Hamish dug his shoe into the concrete. “I was always in my own little world. For extra protection. I would memorize all the paragraphs in Notre-Dame about the structure and the gargoyles and I would picture myself hidden up there. Protected by the monsters and the saints and the stone. I would imagine what would happen if I stepped out and joined the other kids. Playing stick hockey in the street. And I would imagine them thinking I was nothing but a Quasimodo. I would embarrass myself somehow, or trip over a sentence, or start to panic.” He buried his hands deeper in his pockets. “My parents thought it was odd. They tried to force me out of my shell. But Luca . . .” Hamish turned his face up to the sun, past Reggie and over the rooftops and the glistening water. “Luca thought that I was smart. That’s all he thought. He was never around enough to see me be awkward or not fit in. He just knew I got good grades and could be anything I wanted. A doctor . . .”
“Or a lawyer,” Reggie said softly.
Hamish nodded. “And so he started calling me Cicero. He had heard about him once. Probably, like you, studying Shakespeare.” Hamish paused then let out a low breath. “If we are going to confront him, we need something concrete.” He didn’t know why, but he trusted her. Trusted her enough to tell her his misgivings about his cousin. “Luca can’t stand for people to hypothesize. And he remembers everything. We would need a clear strategy.”
Reggie pursed her lips. “A long memory?”
“Oh, the stupid things he remembers. From Sunday school. Roman history. The entire roster of the Red Sox.” Hamish focused on the rooftops below. It almost felt like he was leaning above the summer and taking a look at it from beyond.
“So someone who would know where all the pieces fit. To ensure that anyone who wanted to take advantage, to use a scheme like the one Nate thinks Baskit and Schultze use to keep slum tenements running . . .”
“While making investments clean through clubs.” Hamish hated her train of thought, but he couldn’t deny it.
“A good memory would serve someone involved in this kind of thing well.”
“And keep it from having to be transferred to paper.”
“No paper trail.” Reggie whistled.
“No paper trail.”
Hamish’s pace was slower than usual as he pedaled Hanover until the Custom House and Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market spread familiarly before him. He picked up speed, pumping up the slight hill to Washington Street, holding tightly to the handles. Maybe he was empowered from the perspective high above the city, but something surged through him and he lifted his hands off the bars. The wheels fluttered a little without the usual balance. But soon he grew used to it and spread his arms out a moment. A passing motorist yelled out his window but Hamish ignored him, speeding up. The city was as glorious down here as it had been from up in the steeple, and Hamish smiled despite himself. Despite the night. Despite Luca’s arrest.
He put his hands back on the bars just as he swerved past the Parker House, slowing to a gradual stop outside of Luca’s building.
Hamish fell asleep the moment he sat on the couch in Luca’s sitting room. A deep sleep. When a hand grasped his shoulder, he leapt up, heart racing.
“Easy there, Cicero.” Luca plopped at the end of the sofa.
Luca looked tired but relieved. With no pomade in his hair, his black locks fell over his forehead and made him look younger, though Hamish could swear his eyes had aged. He forgot for a moment his anger and suspicion. Instead, he was just Hamish again, Luca showing up when he promised and taking him to a baseball game. His grin spread wide.
“I was so worried. I saw that police officer, Vasser. Reggie and I went to the Flamingo to see if we could find anything that could help you.”
Luca chuckled and patted Hamish’s arm. “You know I can take care of myself, Cicero.”
“I knew they couldn’t keep you long. They had no motive or concrete evidence.”
“Funny.” There was a darkness to Luca’s voice. “That almost sounds like a question. Even if they had either, they couldn’t keep me.”
“Are you out on bail then?”
“Eh? No. Not required.” He patted Hamish’s knee before springing from the sofa in the direction of his liquor trolley. He poured himself several fingers of whiskey and lifted it to his nose. “Two dry days does not make for a happy Luca.” He swirled and sniffed, finally tasting. His face relaxed and a true smile stretched. “Join me? Toast my release from the clink?”
Hamish shook his head. “Publicity has been through the roof.”
Luca sipped silently. “Never should have picked up that stupid stick. Schultze! I wouldn’t have shoved his mistress down the stairs.”
“I know that.”
“Of course you do.”
&n
bsp; “Do you think one of your rivals wanted to see you fail? Charles Galbraith, maybe. From the Dragonfly?”
“You’re thinking too much.”
“I don’t think it was an accident, Luca. When Reggie and I were at the Flamingo, Ben Vasser just let us in. To a crime scene!”
“You look like you slept less than I did.” He smiled distractedly. “Thinking too hard. Let’s just go with the police on this one. It was an accident. Don’t get your chest all in a knot. I don’t want a stuttering, shaking cousin on my hands.”
It stung, but Hamish ignored him. “Reggie and I saw her neck, Luca. You were there too. There was some kind of struggle. We went back today and there was blood on the wall. Just at the top of the stairwell. You saw the gash beneath her hairline and the red mark on her neck.”
“Cicero.”
“You sound tired. I shouldn’t have sprung this on you.”
“Don’t try to placate me.”
“I’m not! I just think you must be tired. You were in jail, for heaven’s sake. You should go to bed.”
Luca was up and refilling his glass. “Don’t tell me what to do. And leave this alone. You’re not a detective, for pity’s sake.”
“I just think I could help. If I can help. Reggie and I found her. And I want to solve this. I don’t like people linking your name with it.” Hamish pulled one of the piled newspapers from the side table.
CLUB OWNER ARRESTED, IMPLICATED IN FLAMINGO MURDER
Hamish held it out to Luca.
“Well, what is it your father always says? A poor headline is dead in the water the moment it drops. I am not implicated at all in an accident.”
“An accident!” Hamish spat. “An accident? You can’t believe that.”
Luca’s eyes were bleary. He rubbed his palm over them. “Clearly our electrician wasn’t up to the task.” He yawned. “It was a quick job. I don’t blame him. The girl tripped and fell in the poor light.”
Murder at the Flamingo Page 20
