Murder in the City of Liberty

by Rachel McMillan

  Nate turned his spoon over. “Hamish, you know that your cousin is . . . was . . . well, what he was at the very least. There were loose ends when he left.”

  “Kelly’s concerned about a new housing development running him out. He wanted me to look at the papers. I thought you might be a better person. You know all about the zoning laws. Can they even build that close to the harbor?”

  “I do what I can, Hamish, but I cannot control everything that happens.”

  “The North End Clark Kent,” Hamish said fondly, referring to Nate’s favorite Action Comic superhero. “Property developer by day, swapping services by night. You need plumbing done at a fraction of the cost of your horrible landlord? No worries, if you can tutor Mrs. Rossini’s son in calculus every other Thursday . . .”

  “You make too much of it. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else with papers full on their desk.”

  “Surely you can look through what Kelly gave me and see if at least the zoning laws and building codes are legitimate. I might have a case before they start building. If you see that it isn’t up to par.”

  Nate shrugged. “I can’t be responsible for every last slum housing project that men like them want to build in our neighborhood. And I am not sure either of us want to work for a man who leaves Reggie to swim with the fishes. This is more than a legal request.”

  Hamish convinced himself he was too tired to press on, but he couldn’t help it. Something about Nate’s answers tingled his fingers. It wasn’t a new sensation: Hamish was well versed in being able to tell when people weren’t being entirely truthful with him. But Nate had never given him the sensation before. “Well, look through the paperwork with me tomorrow. It’s a little damp. I hung it up with her socks.”

  “I trust your instincts, young DeLuca. And so should you.”

  Hamish returned to the sitting room while Nate retired upstairs. He was never sure why Nate called him “young”—his friend was only a few years older. For a moment Hamish mulled on the compliment. Nate trusted him to do the right thing. Then his thoughts spiraled to how evasive his friend was being. He decided not to dwell on that. It was late and he was tired, nerves wired. Trust your instincts. He focused and exhaled, dropping into the chair adjacent Reggie, feeling the heat and sputter of the fire. If Hamish had trusted his instincts, it wouldn’t have taken as long as it did for him to discover the truth about his cousin. Luca Valari had worked his charm to become the center of a network that used illegal means to give protection to men with deep pockets. Hamish tried to accept what it really was and found his mind’s eye arrested by several shady men in the pictures Reggie was so eager to line up to see. If Hamish trusted his instincts, he would have known that showing up for a physical the last time he was home in Toronto would have ended with his being turned away from enlisting to fight with his countrymen in the war starting overseas. What was it about a comfortable fire and silence that set his mind raging? Once it started on one thing, it snowballed into every possible thing he couldn’t control or had failed at. A flicker of a look at Reggie and he wondered if he had failed her too.

  “You’re thinking rather loudly, Hamish.” Reggie sounded sleepy.

  “Sorry if I woke you.”

  “I was thinking of tonight.” Her voice trembled a little like the rest of her.

  He reached across and adjusted the blanket covering her feet and legs. “You should rest.”

  “Hamish, I could just be hallucinating . . .” Her voice cracked a little. “But I could swear that I saw—”

  “Suave’s man,” Hamish said. “Kent.”

  “Arthur.”

  “Arthur?”

  “Not as worthy of a movie villain as Suave, is it?” Reggie adjusted the blanket. “I overheard the police use his full name the night . . .” She waved away you were shot from the end of the sentence.

  “I was hoping we’d never have to hear of him again—with or without a name.”

  Reggie stretched and yawned. “Me too,” she murmured. “You have good instincts, Hamish. Mine tonight were . . .”

  He looked over and she was asleep again, leaving Hamish to watch the sputtering embers in the fire. He rose and stoked it, fixated on one tricky coal that glowered and sparked with the strike of the poker. It settled then toppled onto the rug, seething into an ember. Hamish startled before wrestling it back into the grate. Good instincts? Hamish wasn’t so sure.

  Chapter 3

  All of the glorious Daughters of the Revolution to which her mother and her mother before her ascribed would have spiraled themselves into a tizzy of apoplexy incurable by any amount of smelling salts: Regina Van Buren slept on a sofa belonging to two bachelors. This was not something listed in her Journal of Independence—but she figured she would scrawl it in with an accompanying check mark to note the occasion. She awoke to the sun peeking through the curtains. The light had exchanged from the last snap and crackle of fluttering embers in the fire grate to the bright morning. Hamish DeLuca’s soft breathing in the chair adjacent. His shoulders slumped, head resting on his shoulder, long legs stretched out, a beanie hat still tugged over ears that stuck out a little, covering most of his ebony hair.

  Reggie smiled and tried to subdue the sneeze that tickled her nose. She couldn’t, and the high hiccup of a squeal stirred Hamish. He blinked. Soon his startling blue eyes, fuzzy with sleep and without the border of his black-rimmed glasses, studied her. Then registered. He startled into an upright position, raked the beanie off his head, and tossed it aside, his hair matted in its shape. His right hand, she noticed, was already shaking a little as if it had not truly found repose in sleep.

  “Oh, Reggie, I am so sorry. I should have noticed or stayed awake or found a cab or . . .”

  “It’s all right.” Reggie adjusted the quilts over her, catching a peek of her attire . . . not hers, really. A sweater and cozy trousers and . . . ah! There . . . She focused on her stockings and garter and dress draped haphazardly as a reflector for the last of the fire’s shadow. Her face flamed a moment in a realization that sleep had dimmed. “You just did what you had to do to keep me from freezing to death.”

  Hamish adjusted his collar: buttons of his shirt undone, offering a clear visibility of his collarbone and chest, the scar branded from Suave’s bullet. A lady would have immediately recovered herself and turned away. But Reggie allowed herself a moment more, surprised at the feeling that spread over her and warmed her more than the blanket or the hearth expelling the last of its heat.

  “May I use your facilities, Hamish?”

  “Hmm? Oh! Absolutely. Yes.” He ran his hand over his face and then combed his fingers through his matted hair. It stuck up a little with the effort. Reggie rose, keeping the blanket around her, trailing like a makeshift toga, and retrieved her clothes from the line dangling over the fireplace.

  When she returned, her clothes wrinkled and her hair (extremely curly from her damp adventure the night before) pinned as best as it would stay, Hamish had changed into his usual white cotton shirt and suspenders, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His hair was tamed and his glasses were affixed on his nose. He scooped coffee into a jar while the kettle whistled from the stovetop. She tugged it from the stove and handed it to him. The blanket was still draped around her shoulders like the cape worn by the hero in the Action Comic Nate liked so much.

  “Thanks.” His smile was a little bashful and she didn’t blame him. They had been in close quarters all night. The last time she had accidentally spent a night with Hamish DeLuca, they at least had the office door between them.

  “I meant to stay awake and check on you.” His voice was low in apology.

  “You were just as exhausted as I was, Hamish.” She stifled a sneeze. “Caught a chill!”

  Hamish peered at her concernedly. “We’ll get you warmed up. Keep the blanket close.” He tugged at its end and a smile creased his cheek, wakening its irregular dimple.

  “So if we did see Arthur Kent”—Reggie accepted the steaming
mug of coffee with the extra milk he knew she liked—“that might mean he is tying up some of Luca’s loose ends.”

  Hamish brought his own coffee over to the table and they sat. He dunked his spoon in the steaming cup and twirled it around a few times. “Then why not just come right out and threaten us? If he thinks maybe I have something on Luca?”

  Reggie sipped her coffee and began a sentence that morphed into a quick greeting to Nate who appeared in the doorway. Surprisingly, he looked less rested than she and Hamish, with dark circles cutting his eyes and the usual glimmer on his face dimmed.

  “Morning, you two. Hamish, a large cup of that, would you?”

  Nate always took his coffee straight black, and he drank it with little notice to its temperature.

  “Nate, did you sleep at all? Hope you weren’t worried about little old me.” Reggie held up the end of the blanket.

  “I figured you’d survive,” he said drily. “A lot to tackle this week. Nothing as dangerous as you two, though.” He leaned toward Reggie. “You’re sure you’re okay?” He grasped her hand and squeezed.

  “Right as rain, Nathaniel!”

  “Perfect! Now Hamish can see if he has learned anything from Rosa Leoni.”

  “Rosa Leoni?”

  “She has been coming by once a week to teach us bachelors how to navigate our way around a kitchen so we can impress gorgeous young ladies like yourself. Go poach an egg or three, young DeLuca.” Nate’s demand was belied by the fond look on his face. “So, this Kent fellow . . .”

  “He was sniffing around the Flamingo two summers ago,” Hamish said over his shoulder as he cracked a few eggs into a pan. “And we’ll be having scrambled, not poached. Nate, go find a loaf of bread, will you? Your bubbe left some of that challah. Some of my aunt Vi’s jam should be on the bottom shelf of the icebox.” Hamish cracked another egg. Reggie liked watching his long fingers from over the rim of her coffee cup. “Because Luca should have done something with Frank Fulham. We all know what kind of something, and he couldn’t.”

  “Luca’s a real saint,” Reggie said.

  “Why not just find Luca, then?” Nate said. “Unless he is somewhere in Boston again. You haven’t heard from him?”

  “I honestly haven’t. I don’t know how I would be able to keep something like that from you two.”

  “And yet I so hoped that Luca had used this second chance to make himself an honest man.”

  “Don’t be facetious, Reggie.” Hamish didn’t look over his shoulder, scrambling eggs with a wooden spoon.

  Nate swallowed his coffee. “This could be something to do with revenge on Luca through you . . .”

  “They tried that. Suave shot me. Luca still left. That establishes what kind of relationship we have.”

  Where there might have been a hint of bitterness in Hamish’s tone, he had finessed it into a fact. He might not understand it, but he accepted it, and she knew he still was much fonder of Luca than he let on. Missed him too.

  Nate collected the milk and newspaper from the door at the sound of a knock. He passed the arts section to Reggie with a smile.

  A few moments later they tucked into bread with lemon jam, huge glasses of milk, and scrambled eggs seasoned with oregano and Parmesan. Reggie couldn’t remember tasting anything so delicious. “I should have more near-death experiences. Because right now, it seems like Hamish DeLuca is a bona fide chef.”

  Nate laughed and some of the light missing in his eyes took residence. “You must have been very scared indeed!”

  “Oh hush, Nate!” Hamish scowled. “More?” He ladled eggs onto his friends’ plates.

  “Whether this Kent fellow is sniffing around or not, we are all on the same team.” Nate raised a nub of challah bread smeared with lemon jam in a makeshift toast.

  “And what team is that?” Hamish asked easily, stabbing hungrily at a forkful of eggs. He was still as lanky as the day she had met him in the cannoli line at Mrs. Leoni’s bakery, but his appetite had grown. While her growing appetite appeared in a few extra curves around her chest and waist, his was balanced by his constant cycling around the city. And, she supposed, by the fact that even while he was sitting, he was never quite still. Even now, during a short rest from shoveling eggs in his mouth, his right hand shook slightly. She studied him while Nate read the latest from the sports page. The Boston Patriots, a farm team in Charlestown that often provided fodder for the Red Sox scouts, was the second leader in the secondary league. Errol Parker—known as Robin Hood—was the team’s intrepid base stealer. When Parker’s name was mentioned, both Hamish and Nate spiraled into a language Reggie could not understand. The only thing Reggie knew about baseball was that it sometimes kept Hamish and Nate from concentrating on Winchester Molloy: New York Gumshoe.

  “If Luca’s past is following him and it involves you, then it involves all of us,” Reggie said with finality. “All for one.” She raised her coffee cup and wrinkled her nose at Nate in the same fashion as Myrna Loy putting William Powell in his place in The Thin Man.

  “Oh! The Musketeers references are starting.” Nate rubbed his hands together. “I was waiting for this.” He took a dramatic breath. “All for—”

  “I bet you were just counting the moments,” Hamish said.

  “It was inevitable.” Nate smiled.

  “Wait? Which Musketeer is who? I am not Porthos.” Reggie sipped her coffee.

  “Well, you can’t be Athos,” Nate said.

  “Why not?” she wondered.

  “I’m Athos, actually,” Hamish said.

  “No, you’re D’Artagnan. Clearly.” Nate looked at him with the same pragmatic precision he loaned his clients at the Housing Development office. “Or maybe . . . wait! Aramis was the pious, convicted one, right? You can be him.”

  “Oh, enough of this!” Reggie sighed.

  “And one for all.” Hamish raised his coffee cup with a smile that stretched just wide enough to settle in Reggie’s chest and winnow its way down to her toes.

  Well, this is more than inconvenient, she thought, with him looking like that. She sank into his smile, letting it linger, erasing the night before so that all that surrounded her were the two faces she held most dear in all the world. She caught herself. Vaughan. Of course, Vaughan. Well, two of the three faces she held most dear. The scent of eggs sprinkled with foreign seasonings, bread twisted and strengthened with the levity of Nate’s faith, and she was a part of a makeshift family—more hers because she chose it. Chose it in spite of Hamish’s cousin’s blight on the independence she had found in their new city and the slow churn toward the profitability of their office.

  Chapter 4

  Reggie seemed to be fully recovered, and the daylight and banter had erased Hamish’s sharp panic. Reggie was going to be fine. The weather, too, held promise.

  As the days and the fright passed, Hamish repeatedly pondered the Christian Patriots pamphlet he’d tucked into the space between his blotter and his desk at the office. What? he thought. And Why?

  The next time they heard from Pete Kelly, which was over the telephone, it was to see if they had made any headway on keeping property developers from his building. Hamish still didn’t know but had asked Nate to find out what shipped in and out. Reggie made a noise that denoted how unimpressed she was at helping a man who had left her to sink soggily in his part of the ocean. She retaliated by refusing to speak to him, handing the phone to Hamish with a look far stronger than any word could convey.

  “Is there any reason you just left Reggie and me?” Hamish said after listening to Kelly string together an irritated slew of words about their inefficiency and abandonment. “We come all the way out there, I look through your files, and you take off?”

  “Business. Last minute. You’re still going to check on the validity of Hyatt and Price?” The reception was scratchy. Hamish assumed this was due to the wind at the harbor.

  “I’ll try. You know, there is still the very valid option of having my friend Mr. Reis . . .�
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  But Kelly didn’t have time for more discussion. Hamish clicked the receiver. Blew out a breath of air.

  “Get anything out of him?” Reggie’s smile was bright. They both knew the answer to that. Hamish scrubbed the back of his neck and wished he could be more for her.

  “Whoever showed up must have startled him or something. He dropped us as quickly as he did just now, and he took all of that time to get us there in the first place.”

  “And if that person had been Kent?” She shrugged her answer to her own sentence. Hamish didn’t have anything to offer either.

  “If he really is concerned about these Hyatt and Price plans, he should go to Nate,” Hamish said again.

  Nate kept a careful collection of consolidated files and ledgers. He was meticulously organized. Nothing seemed to go on around the North End without Nate’s awareness of it.

  They’d even found themselves with an ally from the police force. Rob Reid occasionally had a lead for them or called on them on a case. Before Reid, Hamish’s introduction to the Boston police force had included those on Luca’s payroll, those who were willing and ready to turn a blind eye. Reid was to the letter. It made both Reggie and Hamish feel secure that there was someone on their side. Hamish scrawled a note on his ledger to ask Reid about Kelly.

  The investigation part of their business was not as constant as Hamish’s need to do discounted legal work and look through contracts for North End inhabitants. While traditional business arrangements would see money exchanged for services, the North End residents knew that the rich got richer and slumlords kept parts of the neighborhood from truly evolving from the tenements that housed its largely immigrant community. As the Depression tapered off and Roosevelt’s New Deal gave way to a surge of optimism, the old ways died hard and Nate was at the ready to keep property and development business thriving, while also acting as the middleman in several transactions. He had an ongoing system and file of names, talents, and skills, and the community had been built and sustained through his careful attention and extensive knowledge. Meanwhile, Hamish, a fresh new lawyer, was a quick learner and fastidious student, having spent the better part of his tenure in Boston reading up on property and employment law. Often, it was enough for a client to state that they had legal counsel to scare action into place.