Two Parts Bloody Murder

by Jen J. Danna

  “That theory works for me,” Rowe said. “I’m still waiting on trace reports from the fibers we pulled off the body. If the body was transported by car and there aren’t car carpet fibers, then that supports the idea the body was wrapped. That’s your copy of the file over on Lowell’s desk, by the way.”

  “You hand-delivered a copy? Why didn’t you just email the report?”

  “I did that too. But I wanted some air so this gave me an excuse to get the hell out of the office.”

  Leigh’s gaze flicked from the remains to Rowe. “You wanted to find out where we were on the remains,” she accused.

  “Okay, yes, I did. It’s not my case, but it’s on the outskirts of my case and I have a vested interest at this point.”

  Matt clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re welcome in the lab anytime. God knows my students and I invade your morgue often enough.”

  Rowe glanced around the mostly empty lab. “I thought it seemed quiet around here. Where are your students?”

  “Down at the Old North in the charnel house. We’re waiting on tests that are out of our hands right now, so it gave them a chance to get back to their own projects in the interim.” Matt turned to Leigh. “Have you talked to any of Peter Holt’s contacts?”

  “Actually, I just came from his office. He was an investment officer at Rutherford and Fisk. Everyone there seems genuinely devastated by his loss. His mother described him as ‘boring’ but his coworkers appear to have respected him. He was steady and solid with a very level head. I spoke at length with one of the vice-presidents and he said they hadn’t had any problems with Holt, either inside the office or with any clients. He hadn’t lost any accounts and his portfolios were all in good shape. Before that, I spoke to Cheryl Ballantine, who his mother described as his ‘casual girlfriend.’ In reality, it was more of a friends-with-benefits arrangement. She was upset about Holt’s death, but it was clear she considered him more of a friend than a life partner. They were friendly, but there wasn’t enough invested there, at least on her part, to lead to murder.”

  “Both work and personal issues seem less likely when you consider the tie between the two victims. I think we’re not seeing the motive for the death because we don’t have the whole picture yet,” Matt said. “I think we need to go back to the nineteen-thirties to figure out how this whole thing started. Then maybe it will make more sense.”

  “Let me do some research at home tonight,” Rowe suggested. “Assuming we’re looking at Charles Ward, let me see what I can find on him in any of my books.” He pushed back his cuff and grimaced at his watch. “And that’s it for my playing hooky today. I have a lunch meeting I can’t miss.” He started for the door. “I’ll let you know if I find anything relevant.” And he disappeared out the door.

  Leigh shook her head in bemusement at his rapid exit. “I can’t believe he snuck up here.”

  “He’s the medical examiner for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He can do whatever he damned well wants. His office is just across the street, so it wasn’t that far out of his way. And he didn’t sneak. I know what it’s like to be involved in only part of the investigation, so if he wants in on this, I’m not going to object. He’s an excellent resource at any time, but especially now.”

  “I agree.” She gazed up at him. “So … feel like a tour of my attic tonight after dinner?”

  “You bet. I’m fascinated by what you might have up there.”

  “I may only have massive spiders and piles of dust. Just be warned.”

  “I promise not to shriek like a girl every time I see one of your massive spiders.”

  “That makes one of us,” Leigh said dryly. “But let’s give it a shot. Maybe Great-Grandfather can help us solve a case from the grave.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE: IZZY AND MOE

  * * *

  Izzy and Moe: a very effective team of Prohibition agents. While disguising themselves as vegetable vendors, gravediggers, streetcar conductors, fishermen, icemen, opera singers, and Democratic National Convention delegates, Isidor “Izzy” Einstein and his partner, Moe Smith, made 4,932 arrests and confiscated an estimated 5,000,000 bottles of illegal alcohol. After a busy day rousting Prohibition scofflaws, Izzy and Moe liked to sit back and enjoy their favorite beverages—beer and cocktails.

  Wednesday, 8:48 p.m.

  Abbott Residence

  Salem, Massachusetts

  “Ready?” Leigh looked down at the old wooden steamer trunk they’d just dragged from the corner of her dim and dusty attic. Solidly built of sturdy wood, it was banded with steel straps.

  “Let’s do it.” Matt flicked open the rusty latch that secured the contents.

  They each grabbed a corner of the lid and eased it up. Inside, the trunk was filled to the brim with books, clothing, documents, and pictures. A worn, olive-drab uniform jacket, the metal buttons dulled with age, lay on top of the pile.

  Matt freed the sleeve to reveal the double chevron patch sewn onto the top of the sleeve. “A corporal. How long was he in the Army?”

  “Less than a year. He was twenty-one when he was drafted and sent over in the summer of nineteen-eighteen to take part in the Second Battle of the Somme. It’s where he earned this.” She extracted a small leather box. It opened with a squeak of disuse, revealing a circular bronze medal depicting the winged form of Victory holding a shield and a sword hanging from a short, rainbow-hued ribbon. A narrow bar clasped across the ribbon read “Somme-Offensive.” Leigh lifted the medal gently from the box and handed it to Matt. “It’s the Victory Medal—the Silver Citation Star—for gallantry in battle.”

  “Leigh, this is amazing.” He turned the medal over and Leigh read the words “THE GREAT WAR FOR CIVILIZATION” and the names of the Allied countries listed on the back. “Why is it up here in a trunk? You should have it framed and displayed.”

  “You think so?”

  “I would. It’s not just a piece of history; it’s something to be proud of. Your great-grandfather was quite a guy—served in the First World War and then came home to become a cop.”

  “Speaking of which …” Leigh reached in for the small soft-cover book that peeked out from the pile. “I remember the story behind this.” About three-by-five inches, the navy front cover had a circular hole near one corner that penetrated deep into the body of the book. “He was carrying this book in his breast pocket the night he got shot.” She held the book up over her heart. “It was in the early nineteen-twenties when he was new to the Boston P.D. and was still walking the beat. There was a Mob gunfight down the street and a stray bullet caught him in the chest as he ran toward the sound of gunfire. He got hit right here.” She poked her index finger into the defect left by the bullet before handing the book to Matt.

  He opened the small volume, spreading the pages wide. At the top of both pages was the title “BOSTON STREET DIRECTORY.” Underneath, a running list of names streamed down the page in alphabetical order, accompanied by their street address and occupation. “The bullet made it about three-quarters of the way through before it was stopped.” He looked up to meet her eyes. “It must have been partially spent to be stopped by this, but he was still lucky. Considering where he carried it, if the bullet got into one of the intercostal spaces between his ribs and entered the thoracic cavity, it could have killed him.”

  “Which would have been the end of me,” Leigh said. “He was only newly married at the time. My grandfather was the second of five children and wasn’t born for a few more years.” Rising up on her knees, she started carefully sorting through the trunk contents, removing unrelated items one at a time. “I know some of his stuff from his time on the Boston Police Liquor Squad is in here. Ah … here we go. This is the photo I told you about this morning.”

  She handed Matt a black and white photo, the paper yellowed with age. In it, five men in tuxedos sat on wooden chairs in front of a row of metal lockers. “That’s him, second from the left.” She tapped the photo above the head of a slender man with thinn
ing hair and sharply intelligent eyes. His tuxedo jacket was pulled back to reveal the law enforcement badge pinned to his waistcoat. “This is part of the squad on their way to check out some New Year’s Eve parties at a couple of swanky Boston hotels.”

  “They were a separate department within the Boston P.D.?”

  “Yes, one specifically mandated to bust rum-runners, club owners, bootleggers, and the Mob—anyone who was heavily involved in booze back then. They tended to work closely with the Feds, who were tasked with enforcing Prohibition.” She bent back over the trunk. “I’m sure there’s a journal in here that will be useful to us.”

  “Like a diary?”

  “More like the notepad I carry. He kept his notes in it. I don’t think he specifically held onto it after he retired from the force, but, after his death, it was found in a drawer, tossed in with a bunch of papers. The family had moved from Boston to Salem by that time, and my grandfather was already with the Massachusetts State Police. The journal meant something to him, so he held onto it. I know it’s in here somewhere because last time Dad and I went through this trunk—” She lifted out a photo album and her pulse skittered. A leather journal lay on top of a short stack of books. “Got it.”

  She settled back on the dusty wood floor beside Matt. Once dark brown, the worn leather was faded to a soft coffee color, the front and back covers tied closed with a tattered ribbon. Leigh carefully slipped the ribbon free and opened the book. Scrawling dark ink covered the lined pages.

  Matt leaned in to study the writing. “Looks like it starts in nineteen-thirty-four. Bootlegging … hijacking … firearms too. Was that part of their investigation?”

  “Not specifically, but it was all part of the Mob mentality. Find the booze, find the guns protecting it.” She started to slowly flip through the pages scanning for names and locations. “There are names I recognize here. J.L. Lombardo for one. He was involved in Mafia activity in this area and the B.P.D. knew it. And look at the clubs they were watching: The Cocoanut Grove. The Cotton Club.” She flipped a page to a section of notes and a large diagram. “Look at this. The Faneuil Hall Club. The owners kept their booze in sacks in another building across the alley. When a customer wanted a drink, they got a big, long stick and reached across the alley, catching one of the sacks and hauling it over. After the drink was poured, they pushed it back. Whenever they got raided, there wasn’t any stock of booze on-site. But clearly the cops figured it out. Look at this drawing.” She pointed to a rough sketch of a room outfitted with pulleys and ropes. “This must have been how they managed it.”

  “Pretty damned ingenious.”

  “Remember how much money was at stake. People would really go the distance to get a drink and were willing to pay for it.” She flipped to a page with names listed under the title “Wanted for Questioning.” She ran a finger down the page, stopping about halfway down and letting out a low whistle.

  “What?”

  “Look at this. Charles Ward is listed here on a list of potential suspects wanted for questioning.”

  “But this was for the Boston P.D. Didn’t Ward live in Lynn at the time?”

  “He did. But he also probably spent a lot of time in Washington when Congress was in session. There must have been a reason the Boston Liquor Squad wanted to question him.” She flipped several pages. “I don’t see anything else on him, but we have to go through this carefully. There might be something useful for us in he—”

  Her phone rang. Sliding the book into Matt’s lap, she shifted her weight and pulled her phone from her back pocket. “Abbott.”

  Wednesday, 9:06 p.m.

  Abbott Residence

  Salem, Massachusetts

  Matt picked up the journal, leaning in to study the yellowed pages. The old-fashioned handwriting was narrow and slanted, making the content hard to distinguish, but if he stared at it long enough, the lines and dots coalesced into words.

  Leigh laid a hand on his thigh, drawing his attention from the journal. “Can I put you on speaker?” she said to her caller. “It’ll save me explaining all this to Matt. We’re in my attic right now, going through my great-grandfather’s records from his days with the Boston P.D.” Leigh set the phone on the corner of the trunk. “Go ahead, Rowe, you’re on speaker.”

  Rowe’s voice was slightly tinny, but his usual vigor came through loud and clear. “First of all, you remember I explained what ‘blue ruin’ was?”

  “Bathtub gin,” Leigh said. “We remember.”

  “Well, apparently this time it’s a bit more than that. It’s also the name of that club.”

  Leigh went absolutely still beside him. “The speakeasy?”

  “Right. All the clubs had names, but the hidden ones didn’t hang a sign over the door. Although if you think back, this one had a sign of sorts.”

  Matt scanned his mental image of the room. The bar. The open dance floor. The small stage. The blackjack table—

  Leigh beat him to the answer. “The mural. The one of the Roman ruins behind the blackjack table.”

  “That’s it,” Rowe said. “The Blue Ruin. That was their sign and their advertisement, all in one.”

  “Pretty smart,” Matt said. “And if the cops came and if they could hide the booze, it would just look like a downstairs jazz club.”

  “Apparently that didn’t work out so well for them,” Rowe said. “Now, I have some info on both the club and Ward. It took me a while to connect the name of a Prohibition-era club to that location specifically, but after that I hit the Boston Public Library. They have newspapers that date back to that time.”

  “Find anything good?”

  “Quite a lot, actually. First of all, Charles Ward disappeared as originally suggested on February fourth, nineteen-thirty-six. The papers made quite a fuss over it then, and, as you might imagine, fingers were pointed toward the Mob. But as we said before, this doesn’t have the feel of a Mob hit. They investigated, but I think the cops knew that too.”

  “It was too quiet,” Matt said. “When the Mob killed, it wanted to make a point.”

  “Exactly,” Rowe agreed. “And felt free to make that point often. In Chicago alone, by the time Prohibition was repealed, over eight hundred were dead in bootlegging-related shootings.”

  “Rowe, a question. I’m not from here, so I’m not as up on the local history as you and Leigh. Who was running the show back then when it came to the gangs?”

  “Originally, it was the Irish. The Gustin Gang had a hand in almost everything—gambling, larceny, prostitution—and then when Prohibition came along, they got into rum-running and hijacking. They’d dress up like federal agents with fake badges and stop trucks at intersections, hijacking the vehicles and then selling the contents. Until they hijacked the wrong truck.”

  “Let me guess, they picked off booze belonging to a rival gang.”

  “Filippo Buccola and Joseph Lombardo, to be specific. Fifty thousand dollars’ worth. Frank Wallace, head of the Gustin Gang, and Lombardo agreed to a meet in the North End where the Italians ruled Boston.”

  “Still do …” Matt said. “And have some of the best restaurants in town.”

  “Wallace, his brother, Steve, and their enforcer, Bernard Walsh, went to the meet. Wallace and Walsh died in a hail of bullets, Steve barely escaped. The balance of power in Boston tipped, and the Italians were on top for the next fifty odd years, especially after the Boston and Providence crime families merged to create a New England crime family with Buccola as boss. At the time we’re talking about, the mid-to late-thirties, it was the Italians running the show.”

  “So where does Charles Ward fit into this?” Leigh asked.

  “We know he was a congressman at the time. But you have to understand how politics and crime families sometimes rubbed shoulders back then.”

  “Back then?” Matt cast a sideways glance at Leigh who nodded in agreement. “I don’t think it was just back then.”

  “Good point. But the issue here is that there was a
lot of give-and-take between the Feds, who were in charge of enforcing Prohibition, local police departments, politicians, and the gangs themselves,” Rowe said. “Even now, the FBI makes deals with gang members to turn evidence or inform on rival gang members. It’s a complicated relationship every which way. Politicians put pressure on the Feds or the cops, who sometimes look the other way when things are going down or when evidence gets lost. Many of these guys never went to jail when they absolutely should have, or only served a very short time.”

  “So then where does Ward fit into this mess?”

  “I think this is the kicker. I found some indications that Ward owned property in Lynn, and I’m not talking about his house. In one article, he was directly tied to the Adytum Building.”

  “He owned the Blue Ruin?” Leigh asked.

  “Maybe he was a law-abiding politician by day and a booze peddler by night. He wouldn’t have been the first. The money involved in these activities was significant.”

  With a jerk of shock, an image suddenly shot into Matt’s mind: intricately inlaid Roman columns and arches, meticulously crafted from tiny pieces of blue enamel, and carefully set into gold ovals, their luster dulled with age.

  “Hold it.” Matt’s hand shot out, closing over Leigh’s wrist with enough force that she winced. He immediately loosened his hold. “Sorry. I just had a thought and I think it’s a big one. The mural of the blue Roman ruins … it occurs to me that we’ve seen something else with that theme before but didn’t really account for it.”

  “What?”

  “I saw the photo of the cuff links found in Peter Holt’s pocket in the case file. Think about it—blue ruins. Ward owns a club called the Blue Ruin and his grandson is found carrying cuff links depicting blue ruins. We’ve gone off coincidences for this case, right?”

  “Bloody hell.” Rowe’s voice exploded from the phone. “I didn’t even think about that and I pulled them out of his pocket. They’re old, Abbott, easily old enough to have been Ward’s. And their styling—very Art Deco. What if they were Ward’s private advertisement about his club? Or his way of flaunting his ownership in a clandestine way? Almost like he was thumbing his nose at society?”