He passed on the coroner’s report.
“She was obviously a woman of substance,” he said. “The daughter of a wealthy man. I doubt she ever worked a day. Somebody brought her to the Points and left her there to make a statement.”
He stood up and paced the confined space. “She was left in the exact spot as Schneider. And killed the same way. Her death is a message to somebody… but to whom?”
Benson leaned back in his chair, then spun about to gaze at the empty wall where a better office would have a window. A handful of pictures, carefully torn from newspapers, were tacked haphazardly across the space. They were Police Gazette illustrations of cases he’d once worked on. The cases that had got him into this office. Finally, he stood up and faced Muldoon.
“We have to find out who she was and why she was killed, without the Captain knowing we think the two murders are connected. He’s going to want to see us about this one, maybe not today, but certainly tomorrow. It’s already gotten too much publicity. We’ve got to hang on to it, figure it out before Graham comes charging in.”
Muldoon nodded. “I’ll check the precincts. See what they have for missing persons. She isn’t on any reports that’ve come through here, yet. Maybe they’ve got some we haven’t seen.”
“And I’ll check the papers,” Benson said. “There may be an advertisement. Perhaps somebody asking about the whereabouts of a missing young lady.”
They parted company. Benson headed for the corner newsstand and Muldoon went uptown, toward the nearest precinct house. His task kept him occupied nearly the whole day, but he came up empty-handed. At each precinct, it was the same. He found a long list of missing husbands, mainly immigrant men… and of them, mostly Irish. Few of them would ever be seen again, he knew. Some of them had probably been murdered, but most simply vanished, abandoning their wives and children, and the squalor of New York City for adventure out West. Each precinct also had a shorter list of women’s names. Most of these were probably victims of foul play… kidnapped or murdered. Like the men, many of them would never come home. He wondered if some of them, too, had simply headed west in search of a new life. He scanned the lists of women’s names and descriptions, and then turned to the longest lists in each precinct. The ones with children’s names on them. He hated reading each name, each age, each date a child had gone missing… so many young ones, so many who had met violent ends.
As he scanned the lists of women and children, he looked for one that would match his unidentified body, but each time he came up empty. The girl in the morgue wouldn’t end the uncertainty of some family whose daughter’s name was already on the list, but marked the beginning of the terrible journey for yet another family.
The sun slanted low in the afternoon sky when he finally made his tired way back to Mulberry Street.
“I checked each of the papers,” Benson said with frustration. “I thought maybe, possibly, there would be something already printed. But I scanned every damn rag in town. Nothing. So, I went to each of the newspaper’s offices. I thought I’d get a jump on tomorrow’s papers. But they hadn’t taken any ads for a missing girl today.”
“I didn’t have any luck, either.” Muldoon ran a hand through his hair, pushing the unruly waves back from his forehead.
“Well, we’ll just have to try something else tomorrow. It seems to me a rich man would know his daughter is missing. He should have reported it.” Benson paused for a moment and gazed up at the ceiling. “Maybe we’re going at this from the wrong side. Maybe she’s not a rich man’s daughter. Maybe she’s his whore.”
Muldoon didn’t believe that. There was something about her face, innocent in its final repose.
“Okay. Tomorrow, if I get a chance, I’ll go see the seven sisters,” he said.
Benson nodded. “I’ve still got my other cases, so you’ll have to go alone. I’ve got to solve that damn theft the Captain stuck me with.” He related the particulars of the case, a missing sapphire necklace. Muldoon commiserated, but couldn’t get engaged in the conversation, couldn’t really offer the help Benson looked for. Finally, he stood and took his leave. He needed to get back to the Points. One window overlooked both bodies. One man could have seen what happened. Even if he denied it. Kavanagh was next on his list.
CHAPTER 16
Muldoon
leaned against the ramshackle building across the street from the grocery store. He turned his collar up against the relentless drizzle. He could see the grocer inside, his broom moving rhythmically as he cleaned up after a long day. Every inch of Five Points overflowed with dirt, dust, and filth. One man with a broom couldn’t hope to make a dent in the mess. The streetlamp lighter walked along the street with his long pole. At the end a flame burned, and just below it, a shepherd’s crook-like appendage protruded. The man pried open a lantern with the crook, turned the long shaft, and lit the wick. He pushed the glass closed and moved on to light the next one.
The evening settled in as Muldoon waited for Kavanagh. He had arrived at the corner store several hours earlier, and asked for the tenant.
“He isn’t in,” the grocer said. “Mr. Kavanagh hasn’t been home since yesterday morning. It’s not like him to be out all night.”
Kavanagh had said he feared foul play. But Muldoon thought about the woman who’d been dumped just outside the man’s window.
Shortly after dusk, a figure broke from the constant flow of passing people and stepped onto the stoop. He tapped on the door and the grocer stopped sweeping. As he opened the door, the proprietor glanced across the street at Muldoon where he leaned up against the building. He straightened and walked slowly toward the pair, the crowd parting around him. He held his heavy nightstick in one hand, just in case, though he rarely needed it.
“Hello,” he said as he neared.
“Good evening,” Kavanagh said. A nervous tick twitched above his right eye.
They stood outside silently a long moment and Muldoon gazed steadily at the man. Interesting, he thought, as Kavanagh paled.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Muldoon asked. The grocer had disappeared, leaving only the two of them on the step.
“Uh… aye, certainly,” Kavanagh said. “If you want… though I don’t know what it could be for. I thought I answered all your questions.”
“So, you haven’t heard, then?” Muldoon asked as he swung the nightstick rhythmically into his hand. Thwack, thwack, thwack.
“Heard what?” Kavanagh glanced over his shoulder as if afraid of what might be out there. He motioned toward the door. “Well, come on, then.” Muldoon’s gaze followed where Kavanagh’s had gone, hoping to catch sight of… what? Crimson cat-eyes reflecting the dim glow of the streetlamp?
He followed Kavanagh to his room and entered its darkness. Muldoon wanted to see the man’s expression. Kavanagh fumbled about for a moment, then struck a match. It sputtered, a bright pool flashed for just an instant before flickering out. Muldoon remembered the cheap matches. He’d used them himself. Now, he bought only the good ones, phosphorous that hadn’t been mixed with a touch of dirt. Maybe the man was exactly what he portrayed? A white-collar office worker down on his luck. Kavanagh lit a second match and set it carefully to the stub of candle on the table. The faint light barely reached into the corners.
“Sorry,” Kavanagh said. “I can only afford the one candle.”
Muldoon used whale oil lamps in his own place. At first, he’d hesitated at the extra expense. But as he grew confident in his ability to earn money from wrestling in addition to his regular policeman’s pay, he gave in. He wasn’t paid particularly well, and certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford to live in the style he was beginning to enjoy, except for his skill in wrestling. He earned more from grappling than he received from the city. Was Kavanagh, like him, a man on his way up… or down?
“Now, what can I help you with?” Kavanagh asked with an air of innocence. He pulled his spectacles from his shirt pocket and swiped a cloth across the lenses.
“Where were you last night?”
Kavanagh stared at him sullenly, a veil of distrust clouding his expression.
“I know you weren’t here. So, don’t even try to say you were. Your landlord’s already told me so.”
“I… I… ” Kavanagh looked wildly about, as if searching for a way to escape. Finally, he dropped his gaze to the floor and shoved the spectacles back into his pocket. “I was gambling,” he said.
“I thought you weren’t a gambling man. The way the grocer has it, you’re an upright man, just a bit hard on your luck right now. Is there something else you need to tell me?”
“Well… um, I have a bit of a problem. With the dice, I mean. I can’t seem to stop myself. That’s where I was last night. I spent the day looking for work… and then,” he looked down at his shoes as a splash of red spread across his face. “And then I spent the evening gambling.”
“You didn’t come home?”
“No. I… I stayed the night in a saloon. This place would’ve been all locked up. So, I didn’t even try. I just stayed out.”
“So, you don’t know about the murder.”
“Murder?” Kavanagh asked. “I’ve already told you, I was asleep when that man was killed.”
“No,” Muldoon said. “The one last night was a woman.”
Kavanagh snapped straight, as if a soldier to attention. “Another murder? Here?”
“In the same place as the last.”
Kavanagh moved to the window and peered out into the gloom. The candle’s paltry light reflected in the black glass.
“If I’d been home, maybe I would have seen something this time. Maybe she wouldn’t be dead.”
“She was dead already. Dumped, just like the last one.”
“Strangled again?”
“Aye.” He damned the press for printing so much information. How could he tell what a man knew, or what he’d learned from reading it in the paper?
Muldoon searched the man’s face, but he couldn’t see any hint to his thoughts. Kavanagh wasn’t nearly big enough, he reflected. He might have killed the girl… but Schneider? He didn’t know why he wasted his time. This was obviously a dead end.
“By the way,” Muldoon asked, as he opened the door to leave. “Where, exactly, were you last night?”
“Billy McGlory’s,” Kavanagh said. “All night.”
Muldoon nodded and stepped out into the darkened store, and then outside. He walked toward home. He’d found out all he could this night. He needed to see Kelly, but the Captain had barred him from going to the Tombs. Perhaps Benson could go for him tomorrow. And he’d go see the sisters. He hadn’t had a chance yet. Still, something bothered him. What am I missing? He adjusted his collar against the cold, then looked up at Kavanagh’s window as he passed. Two glittering red eyes glared out at him. And then they were gone. His heart lurched, and then he almost laughed at the trick his imagination played on him. Beyond the wavy glass, Kavanagh’s single candle flickered. Muldoon took a step back and the flame seemed to split into two through the undulating glass.
CHAPTER 17
April 19
Muldoon
couldn’t sleep. He rolled over and looked again at the twin sticks on the low table next to his bed. No candles were lit, but light filtered in through the space between the curtains that covered the big front windows. He’d left them open several inches to take advantage of the weak light, plus, he didn’t really want to be alone with his thoughts. Keeping them open seemed to connect him to the mass of New Yorkers slumbering through the night. He remembered Meg McAllister’s prophecy. Was the girl the lamb she’d spoken about? Five, maybe six deaths? And what was the darkness within? He shivered, then shook his head angrily. He didn’t believe in fortune telling. Meg was ill, maybe crazy. He couldn’t believe in some kind of demon stalking the night. His quarry was a man.
His gaze kept returning to the sticks. He picked them up and felt them. He had retrieved the first, the one from Schneider’s place, taking it from the vault at headquarters. Nobody cared. The booze, too, had disappeared he’d noticed. The case had been solved as far as the department was concerned.
He slid up into a seated position, his back against the headboard. He picked up the sticks and felt their smoothness. Someone had spent a lot of time carving them, carefully shaping them so each fit the recesses between a man’s fingers. Their surfaces were wavy, not flat. Each was long and thin, like a writing instrument, or the handle of a letter opener, or maybe a bit wider? More like a very fine walking stick? The bare wood was pale, lightly aged, not too many years old, nor yet recently formed. He placed them end to end and fitted the broken edges together. The jagged ends fit perfectly, two pieces of a whole. Their six inches became twelve. The softly ridged wood formed a pattern, a spiral, winding slowly down the length. And along the spiral those two initials, A.R. repeated themselves. But what bothered him was the other broken edge. The first stake, the one from Schneider’s was broken at both ends. That meant there was at least one more piece out there. One more piece to find. A thought nagged at him, like the missing section. Did it mean that the killer’s work wasn’t complete? A wrestler… and a pampered young woman. He had to find the connection! If he didn’t, it seemed likely someone else had an appointment with death. Not the least of whom was Kelly McAllister.
Thump.
Muldoon glanced up at the shadowed ceiling above. He was certain it was a footstep, stealthy, not the normal groans and creaks of an old building settling for the night. He held his breath a moment and listened, but the sound didn’t repeat. But… yes, there it was again, further down the room. Casper Biggs kept the room up there. What could he be doing in the dead of night? He slipped from his bed, thanking God he was below, not above, where Biggs couldn’t hear the sounds of his movements. He moved quickly to the wall and placed his hand against the partition. He felt it shudder lightly as Biggs’s door silently opened and then closed.
A pair of brown canvas pants and a dark shirt, civilian attire, hung on a peg by his door. He yanked them on, pulled the suspenders over his shoulders, slipped on his boots, and grabbed his flat Irish cap. He shrugged on a heavy workingman’s coat. As the front door clicked shut, he stood behind his heavy drapes, thankful he hadn’t yet replaced them with transparent Irish lace. Casper Biggs stopped just outside the door and glanced back at Muldoon’s window, then moved quickly off the porch and stepped into the darkness of the street.
Muldoon slipped out of the building behind Biggs. He was confused. Where could the man go in the middle of the night? Why hadn’t he noticed before? Then, he realized he hadn’t had rooms directly beneath the man before. He remembered Mrs. Dunn had lost her keys a couple of months back. Biggs must have taken them, and got a matching key made. He fumbled in his pocket, feeling for his own key. Then quietly, furtively, he followed Biggs. He stuck to darkly shadowed areas, hurried through pools of light under streetlamps, and evaded Biggs’s occasional backward glance.
Avoiding the Points, Biggs led Muldoon toward the docks. The small man’s hand returned again and again to his side, and Muldoon knew it was for the comforting touch of a gun in his belt. Biggs knew his route well. He paused to avoid a policeman’s path, and stayed in the darkest parts of the street. It made Muldoon’s job easier. He, too, remained hidden in the dark.
What could the man be doing? Muldoon wondered. As they neared the shore, he watched from the shadows. Biggs clambered down into a small boat. Several other men were already aboard. Quietly, a big man pushed the craft away from the dock, toward Jersey.
He was baffled. He didn’t like the man, but he still couldn’t figure why Casper Biggs would be out in the middle of the night. The man had a secure job, and he was a cantor in his church. Maybe not a pillar of society, but still, he was relatively respected in the community.
As the boat slid out of sight, Muldoon ran across the dark pier toward three other boats tied there. He pulled up short, surprised to see them occupied. He’d
expected to commandeer one, “borrow” it for his short expedition across the harbor. But each had a man at the oars. Quickly, he regained his composure and climbed into the nearest. The grizzled seaman eyed him suspiciously, as he took in his working man appearance.
“Take me across,” said Muldoon as he fished in his pocket for cash.
But the man just sat there.
He handed across a wad of paper bills. He didn’t particularly like the greenbacks, but they were quiet in a cop’s pocket. Nothing worse than coins jangling at the wrong time. The man took the bills and smiled appreciatively. Muldoon knew he’d overpaid, but he needed to get across and this man knew he wasn’t one of his regular fares.
As they moved out into the light fog rising from the sea, Muldoon leaned forward in his seat. “There’ll be double that if you wait for me on the other side.”
The man smiled wickedly, the blackened ruins of his teeth bared. “All right, mister,” he spoke in a nasal, low-class twang. “You ain’t one of them. Maybe youse a copper? Or a niggah lover? I don’t know, and I don’t care. But I’ll get you across. And if you get out of there, I’ll even be waiting for you. But I need some more of that green afore you leave. As security like, in case you don’t make it back. Make it worth my while to ditch out on my regular fares.”
Muldoon nodded, and then counted out a couple more bills. The man grabbed quickly, his gnarled fingers closed around the cash and stuffed it into his pocket. He wouldn’t hang around on the Jersey side waiting for his return, that was certain. No, he’d quickly go back to the far shore and ferry more men across. But the promise of additional cash might bring him back for one last, secret pickup.
“Who are they?”
“Don’t know, and don’t care,” the seaman spat a long stream of tobacco juice across the bow. “Since you ask… ” He leaned closer toward Muldoon. “I think they’re the devil worshippers. The one’s that have the papers buzzin’. Long as they don’t harm me, and come carryin’ lots a green, I don’t care.”
Paradise Park (The William Muldoon Mysteries Book 1) Page 9
