The junior officer in charge had been expecting me.
“You came down quicker than we thought,” he said with a grin. “No rush to press charges if you’d like to keep them in the cooler a bit longer.”
“Not that some of them don’t deserve a stay at the Tombs, but I’m hoping you have one man in particular,” I said. “Tall and broad shouldered with white-blond hair and other Scandinavian features. Possibly a Swedish accent.”
“I’ll check,” he said, leaping to his feet. “Meanwhile, why don’t you and the captain make yourselves comfortable in the viewing room.”
The viewing room was a chamber just off the main hallway, characterized by a small slit in the wall that allowed a view of the holding room while still providing some measure of privacy as the potential convicts were paraded in front of it.
Mulvaney, keeping his frustration barely in check, exclaimed out loud, “It makes no sense. Who is this Swedish man who is killing judges in the name of Leroy Sanders?”
“I agree. Leroy Sanders must be the key. We find out who he is and we’re on our way to solving these murders,” I said. I was about to continue but was interrupted by the officer from the Tombs. “Here they are,” he said.
A lineup of six blond men passed in front of the window, standing alternately face forward, face left, and finally face right.
“Second from the left was one of my attackers last night,” I said to the officer, pointing out the stocky blond who had carried the bully stick. “You can book him formally on charges of assault. But he’s not the man we’re looking for.”
“We have a few more in the pen who may interest you,” the officer replied. He stepped outside to direct those men handling the lineup. Five of the men followed one policeman to the left to be released; my attacker was led to the right for booking.
A parade of several more lineups passed in front of me, and I was able to identify Savvas and the swarthy man with sour breath as my other attackers. But I saw no sign of the elevator operator from the Breslin Hotel.
After the junior officer retreated to help book my assailants, I turned to Mulvaney. “You put Mike Burns in charge of interviewing everyone at the Breslin; he must have a lead on our Swede. Where can we find Burns?”
“The commissioner has been breathing down my neck for any leads from the Breslin murder. While I don’t typically like my men going around me, I told Burns to report his findings directly to the commissioner. He’s one of my best men and he knows how to handle sensitive information. I knew I would be tied up with you all morning,” Mulvaney said. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Almost one o’clock. I daresay we can catch him. Besides,” he added more grimly, “the commissioner’s certain to learn of the beating you took last night. He may as well hear it from you.”
My stomach clenched, even though I recognized the truth in what Mulvaney said.
* * *
We stopped by police headquarters at 300 Mulberry Street only to learn that the commissioner was taking lunch at Lombardi’s on Spring Street.
I was famished, having been unable to eat Bridget Mulvaney’s hearty breakfast, so Lombardi’s was almost music to my ears. “May as well join them for lunch,” I muttered, as we retraced our steps downtown again—not bothered in the least.
Lombardi’s was packed when we arrived. Several construction workers were lined up outside the door, waiting to buy as much of a tomato pie as two cents would get them.
We made our way past the line to the dining area, where two rows of red and white checkered tables were packed with diners. We found General Bingham sitting in the rear next to the large brick oven that encompassed almost the entire back wall. The General was helping himself to a large tomato pie slice. Mike had apparently finished; he was now surrounded by papers and talking to the General at a rapid clip. He didn’t notice our approach, but the General did.
“Captain. Detective. Sit and join us.” He wiped his gray handlebar mustache with his red napkin. “We’ve got plenty of food; help yourselves.”
Mulvaney and I each took a slice of tomato pie and gratefully accepted the glasses of water that a waiter brought over. And while I typically would have had a hard time eating anything under the commissioner’s stern gaze, I had no problem with a Lombardi’s slice under my nose.
“You came to report progress,” he said, turning a careful eye to my injuries. “Progress that came at some personal cost, at least to the detective.”
“Aye,” Mulvaney said, “we have something to report—as well as to check. You see, we believe Detective Burns may hold the key to unraveling our case. We’ve found the murder weapon that killed Judge Porter. And we also have a good physical description of the man who purchased it at A. H. Funke’s. We hope that the detective’s interviews at the Breslin may have yielded the man’s identity.”
The General laughed, loud and deep. “And Burns was just telling me that his interviews yielded no information whatsoever.”
Mike Burns flushed in embarrassment. “This is news to me, General.” Turning to Mulvaney, he asked, “What type of man are you looking for?”
Mulvaney and I took turns filling him in as to this morning’s progress. When we had finished, I said, “So, based on the gun shop’s description and the matching signatures, we’re looking for the Breslin’s day elevator operator who took us upstairs the same morning Judge Porter’s body was discovered. We saw him with our own eyes—and I’d recognize him anywhere.”
“But he wasn’t among the anarchists you rounded up after last night’s beer hall meeting,” the General said thoughtfully.
I indicated that he was not.
Mike Burns gave us a bewildered look. “But I interviewed all three elevator operators who work at the Breslin. Not one comes close to matching your description.”
A sick feeling took hold of my gut. “You’re sure they have only three operators?”
“I’m sure,” Mike replied. “You’re welcome to look through my notes.” He passed the stack of papers to Mulvaney, who immediately began flipping through them. “I’ve got names, addresses, and physical descriptions of everyone we spoke with. And I definitely remember the elevator operators: I spoke with each of them extensively about each person they took up and down in the hours before the murder.”
“But no one mentioned a man with blond hair?” I demanded.
He indicated they had not.
“Then how do we account for the fact that he operated our elevator that morning?” Mulvaney asked.
Mike shrugged. “Maybe he took advantage of the regular guy’s five-minute break. Maybe he had to retrieve something left behind. Or maybe he simply wanted to see how the investigation was coming along. All I can tell you is that nobody mentioned him. No one else even saw him.”
“But we did,” I said. “And a man matching his description signed for the weapon at Funke’s.” I pulled the register Sully had given us out of my leather satchel. “Here: put this into evidence. And when you check it against the hotel register, you’ll find that his signature is a perfect match.”
“But you think it’s a false name?” Mike asked.
“We don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “I can’t find any reference to Leroy Sanders.”
“Get our newspaper contacts to search the name,” the General instructed gruffly. “And, Mike, run it past our embedded anarchist spy. I want him pulled in anyway.”
We were silent for some moments, watching the General finish. When he at last pushed his plate aside, he spoke.
“Gentlemen, I fear we may have a modern-day Haymarket Conspiracy on our hands—right here in New York, twenty years after the first. Perpetrated by men who will use any means of violence to disrupt all we hold dear. These men aim to martyr our city’s protectors of the law. Our esteemed judges. Our hardworking police officers,” he said with a pointed look to me.
He was overreaching, but this was not the time to point out that I was in no danger of becoming martyred. Certainly not
like those policemen who were killed in the violence of the Chicago Haymarket riots that followed a factory workers’ strike gone wrong. During a demonstration that followed, a pipe bomb had been thrown into police ranks, killing seven officers and injuring over sixty others. A group of anarchists had later been convicted of conspiracy to commit murder; some were hanged, others pardoned, and most people believed that the true perpetrators of the violence had escaped justice.
“I fear we are dealing with a larger conspiracy than we first imagined,” the General was saying, his face drained with worry.
He was a hard man to like, but in that moment I felt sorry for him: his responsibilities were a heavy weight to carry.
He folded his napkin. “Have you gentlemen finished eating?”
Without waiting for us to answer, he backed up his wheelchair and motioned for Mike to assist him in getting out. Mulvaney managed to take a final bite of lunch as Mike stepped behind the General’s chair and pushed him carefully through the restaurant; there was just enough space between the rows of tables to accommodate the wheelchair’s width.
“I want to prosecute those men who attacked Detective Ziele to the fullest extent of the law,” the General said when we had reached the street, Mulvaney and I walking alongside Detective Burns as he pushed the General. “And arrest those anarchist leaders responsible. Charge them all with attempted murder.”
“But General—” I began.
He cut me off. “We’ll reduce the charges later. But right now, I want the full attention of all the papers. Let them whip the public into a frenzy of anger.”
I refrained from saying that more angry people was the last thing this city needed. Emotions already ran hot, too close to the surface.
“Captain, I also want you to be sure to tell the press that our fine officer was assaulted because we’re on the murderer’s trail and getting close to the truth.” The General stopped his chair and turned round to face Mulvaney. “I’m counting on you not to fail.”
“We won’t, General,” Mulvaney said. His voice brimmed with a confidence I did not share. Then again, he was playing a political game that I wanted no part of.
We had reached Houston Street; headquarters were just ahead.
“Carry on, gentlemen.” The General waved us away.
* * *
Mulvaney shook his head the moment the General was out of earshot. “He’s intent on brewing a tempest, isn’t he? And we’ve no choice in the matter; we’ve got to follow his orders.”
He paused, looking uncomfortable. “There’s one more thing, Ziele.”
I looked at him, surprised by something in his voice.
“It’s Alistair. He was the last to see Judge Porter alive. Yet, by your own admission, he has told you nothing. I’m going to have to bring him in.”
I stopped short. “To the station house for questioning? That won’t work, and you know it. He has powerful connections at every level in this city. You’ll not get him to say a thing he doesn’t want to—and ruin any chance of his cooperation.”
“What choice do we have?” His voice was rough. “Why won’t he talk to you? He claims to be your friend.”
It was the same question that troubled me.
“Give me one more chance,” I said. “Now that the shock of the judge’s death has worn off…”
Mulvaney shot me a dubious look. “All right. But we need real information from him, not academic theories.”
“Understood,” I said. “I’ll try to catch up with him now.”
I left him to make my way uptown, thoroughly afraid. Afraid of what Alistair might tell me—and equally afraid of the consequences if he once again refused to come clean.
CHAPTER 16
The Dakota, 1 West Seventy-second Street. 3:00 P.M.
I had just arrived at the entrance to the Dakota when I saw a man in a dark trench coat jump into a hansom cab.
Alistair.
“Going somewhere?” I called out.
He did not hear me. The carriage door closed behind him, and I quickened my pace. The driver, a heavyset man with gray stubble covering his chin, grabbed the reins to start the horse.
“Stop!” I sprinted the last few paces, grabbing my badge out of my pocket and holding it high.
The driver hesitated—and relaxed the reins. His horse snorted, pawing at the ground, impatient to leave.
“Hold up! I need to speak to your passenger.” I ran to the carriage door and pounded on it, hard. “Open up!”
“Hey—watch yourself,” the driver said, looking down at me with an expression of annoyance. “Give the gentleman a second. That latch can be tricky.”
I watched as the door opened a crack. I grabbed it—and pulled it the rest of the way.
Alistair sat inside, his face ashen and lined with worry. His trench coat had been removed, and I saw that he had dressed in haste. His shirtwaist was untucked, not fully buttoned; his hair was uncharacteristically mussed.
“I was coming to see you,” I said. “We need to discuss Judge Porter.”
He managed a faint smile. “Not now, Ziele. I’m on my way out.”
I held the door. “This is important.”
“Can’t do it now. I’ve got an appointment.” His right hand, trembling uncontrollably, reached for the door.
I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The appointment can wait. This is a murder investigation—one that you insisted I join and that has now claimed the life of two of your friends.”
“I know, Ziele.” His eyes had a vacant expression as he repeated it. “I know.”
“What is wrong with you?” I asked, my voice incredulous. “Good God, man. I’ve put my career on the line for you. I need your cooperation.”
He covered his trembling right hand with his left.
“I know you were shocked and in no condition to answer questions earlier. But I can’t put off getting a formal statement from you.”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
I made a noise of exasperation. “You’ve no idea how much I’m trying to help you, do you? How much I’ve protected you? You were likely the last person to see Angus Porter alive before he was brutally shot to death. You certainly were the last to spend any significant time with him. And your conversation during those hours just may hold the key to identifying and apprehending his killer. Yet what do you tell me? Absolutely nothing.” I shook my head in disbelief. Alistair’s stubborn refusal to cooperate infuriated me.
“You’re not an ordinary policeman. You’re my friend. You ought to believe me when I say I have nothing to add to your investigation.”
“Don’t you understand that it’s not just me? This is a citywide investigation led by Commissioner Bingham himself. I answer to him as well as to Captain Mulvaney—and both are men who demand results. They want you to answer important questions.”
“Just let them try…”
“No one is looking to threaten you; we just need your cooperation.”
“I have no help to give you, Ziele,” Alistair said with some measure of contrition. “I don’t know why Angus was killed within hours of leaving my home.”
“We might figure it out together if you’d talk to me,” I said.
One of the lobby attendants from the Dakota came up behind me, interrupting us. “Professor, the electric motorcar you ordered for your trunk just arrived. Since you hadn’t left yet, I thought I’d better ask if you wanted to go with it.” He paused when he noticed Alistair’s blank stare, adding, “I’ve got another lady waiting for a cab. She’d be happy to take this one.”
Alistair came to himself again. “Thanks, Tom,” he managed to say, “but I’ll travel separately. Please send the trunk ahead.”
I was dumbfounded. “Where are you going, Alistair, that you require luggage?”
He stared at his right hand, which had begun to tremble again.
“Alistair, answer me!” I said, becoming alarmed now. “What’s going on here? I need the truth—the whole truth that you’ve ke
pt from me.”
A dark shadow clouded his face. “I’ll telephone you later.” He reached outside with his umbrella and tapped the roof, calling to the driver, “Let’s go.”
I thrust half my body into the carriage. “Not until you talk to me.”
“Unless you’re prepared to arrest me, Ziele, step out of the cab and let me go.”
“Don’t force my hand.”
Our eyes locked and held—and I saw the flash of naked fear in his eyes.
“Simon!” Isabella’s voice called to me from the Dakota’s Seventy-second Street gated entrance.
I glanced backward, and she called out again, insistent.
“Stay here,” I said to Alistair. “I’ll be right back.”
“Simon,” Isabella said as I approached, “I’ve found something important. Can we talk?”
It was rotten timing.
“Of course,” I said in a rush, glancing behind me, “but I need one more minute with Alistair. Can you wait here?”
“Of course.” She gave me a puzzled look. “That was Alistair in the cab?”
“Yes. I’ll only be a moment.”
“But—” She bit her lip and her eyes widened.
I turned in an instant—only to watch Alistair’s cab race away and disappear down West Seventy-second Street.
“Where is he going?” Isabella asked, her face pinched with worry.
“I don’t even know,” I said, feeling as though I’d just been sucker-punched in the gut. “I’ll ask one of the attendants.”
“It’s not like him to leave like that.”
“Something’s wrong,” I said, watching as Tom, the attendant who had helped Alistair, unloaded an elderly lady’s packages from her cab. “Would Alistair have left you a note?”
“Maybe.” She sounded doubtful.
“Come, sit a moment,” I said, leading her back into the courtyard to the wooden benches where residents waited for cabs or for their cars to be brought up.
“Mrs. Sinclair, do you need a hansom cab?” Tom raced over to ask.
“No, thank you,” she replied, her voice clear. “Tom, do you know where the cab with Professor Sinclair’s luggage was headed?”
Secret of the White Rose Page 16
