Murder in the City of Liberty

by Rachel McMillan

  Luca exhaled, then said gravely, “Tell me everything, Cicero. I’ll take care of it. See? I knew that number would serve you well someday.”

  Chapter 17

  Reggie was surrounded by balled sheets of paper. She was trying—and failing miserably—to write three letters at the same time. One (and most importantly) to Nate’s bubbe expressing her condolences. Another to Vaughan’s parents attempting to explain why she committed the unpardonable sin of ruining their engagement party by running off on her groom-to-be. And the third to her own parents. Or maybe she should just call. Or maybe she should write because words on a page meant she would buy some time with the distance and the post before they could send their response. Then again, they could telegraph their response. Bite the bullet, Regina!

  Hamish was at his desk mapping out something and mumbling about Hugo’s “point of intersection”: another obscure Notre-Dame mention. Really, it was almost a perfectly normal day.

  She reached for the telephone when it clanged. Listened. Inspector Reid.

  “Bricker’s dead!” Reggie let the phone fall without clicking it on the receiver. She turned to Hamish.

  “H-how did he die?”

  “He was found outside a pub in Charlestown. Hamish, do you need a glass of water? You didn’t like the man and now you look like you’re about to fall over.” His fingers were underneath his brace. Her initial diagnosis was shock. “You said yourself he had it coming.”

  Hamish nodded before the words came out. “I didn’t want him to die.”

  “I know that. He had a lot of enemies. Reid said it looks like it was a fight. He probably let his mouth run off.” She paused. “Guess we can cross off one suspect for Toby’s murder. One living suspect. Oh! That sounded rather cold, didn’t it. My mother would remind me that he was someone’s son, too, and . . . Hamish! Heavens! Are you all right?”

  Hamish blinked several times quickly and his breath caught in his chest. Reggie was accustomed to Hamish’s bouts of anxiety, but never used to them. But she was used to Hamish. Which is why his reaction pricked at her.

  “You know something.”

  “I . . .”

  “You’re not the only person who can tell when they’re being lied to.”

  “I know that.”

  “So tell me.”

  “I called Luca.”

  It was Reggie’s turn to fall back. “You what?”

  “I called Luca last night. I went home, Reg, and it was so empty. And I couldn’t figure anything out and I called Luca and told him what happened. That Nate was hurt. What was happening. I told him everything.”

  “How did you even get his phone number?” She held her hand over her chest.

  “Philip. His driver? You remember him. He slid me his number ages ago. Said Luca was looking out for me.”

  Reggie blinked at the face she thought she knew: thoughtfully etched contours and lines, bright blue eyes and slightly longish nose. Dear to her in the way no other face in the world was. “The Hamish DeLuca I know wouldn’t call in a hit from his cousin.”

  “A hit? It wasn’t like that. It was . . .”

  Hamish’s right hand was uncontrollable and every word came choppily like a boat on mounting waves. But she couldn’t recall being that angry before. Not after Vaughan’s ill-timed proposal at her parents’ garden party, not even to this extent during her employment with Luca Valari. But now. She saw red. The nerves in her arms tingled and tightened.

  “I wanted him to get one of his men . . . his people to threaten him. To show Bricker he wasn’t invincible. That he couldn’t get away with terrorizing half of the city with his stupid views. That even Dirk Foster couldn’t protect him. I told him not to go too far.”

  “You couldn’t,” she seethed, jabbing her index finger into his chest. “Because you’re Hamish DeLuca and you always believe in right over wrong.” She shook her head. “You didn’t do it.”

  “I did, Reggie. I called Luca.” He tried stoicism, but she saw something flicker in his eyes: an uncertainty taking residence there. He gulped a breath and sank forward against the desk.

  Reggie slammed her palm down on the desk, jostling the radio, telephone, and typewriter. “Do you really think that Luca could solve anything? Bricker is dead! Did we really need another murder? We would already know our first suspect!”

  “Luca promised me he wouldn’t kill anyone. Those weren’t his words. But the gist was there. We’re partners, Reggie. You should support me on this.”

  “I can’t believe you thought this was the answer. You knew what Luca would do!” She knew her voice sounded shrill; it certainly hurt to speak. “He left you. Shot and bleeding on the floor of his stupid club. Do not give me that look! I had to stay and answer the questions and move that horrible gun into your hand. You think he cares one iota about helping your friend? Evening a score is more like it. That’s not the kind of loyalty you want, Hamish. And it’s not the kind of loyalty Nate would want.”

  “I know there must be more to this, because Luca said he wouldn’t go too far.”

  “Hamish! Luca doesn’t know how to do anything but go too far. He feels he owes you because of what happened at the Flamingo. You know he would overcompensate for his own guilt. The first request his beloved little cousin has asked of him and Luca will . . .” Reggie spread her hands to finish the sentence. “I didn’t think it could get any worse, and there you are—making it worse.”

  “I was going mad, Reggie. Someone has to be accountable for Nate. No one is even close to solving what happened to Toby, and Nate is our friend. You do what you can for your friends.”

  “I met him first,” she sobbed. “Before you! He was the first true friend I made outside of my stupid family. He gave me a lifeline here in Boston. He’s my friend too. And my heart is broken and now—you broke it even more.”

  She blinked a film of tears from her eyes and caught his own. Hamish was breathing heavily and he blinked several times at her, probably trying to see through his own tears. They stared silently a moment, Reggie almost unable to keep their eyes locked, watching the hurt behind his. How could she love him so much and hate what he did so passionately at the same time?

  “I’m sorry Reggie,” Hamish said unevenly. “I am sorry that you don’t see why I felt I had to do this, but since I did, I guess we are at an impasse.”

  “Where is Luca, Hamish?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. And our seeing Kent was not an accident. He wasn’t some ghost. That past has followed us here. All along I thought that perhaps we were solving Errol’s mystery, when really you have just dragged us into Luca’s domain again!”

  “If he were here, he would come and see me! He wouldn’t send Phil, who came to me and gave me his number and said Luca is looking out for me!”

  “Luca only looks out for himself! Hamish! You are better than your cousin! I will not follow you into his world. Getting out of his world got you shot!”

  “Reg . . .”

  “You might think, Hamish, that your biggest limitation is the fact that sometimes your heartbeat speeds up and sometimes you take a moment to catch your breath. It’s not. It’s him.”

  “I had to do something before it was too late.”

  “It’s already too late.”

  Reggie wanted to scream. Of course, Van Burens did not scream. Van Burens weathered everything with a calm demeanor. She twisted the ring on her finger and took a breath and looked at the stranger who had suddenly stepped into the man she saw before her. And her heart clutched tightly and threatened to splice and splinter. How can I possibly weather the future I am stepping into if you are not my constant? her heart shouted. The world was shifting on its axis. Nate, of course. Hamish . . . Her Hamish. She cocked her head and looked at him so intently she wondered if she could stare completely through him. Her head told her that he was broken and worried and had acted impulsively. Kind Hamish with his almost-smile and big blue eyes. Hadn’t she acted impulsive
ly when she slapped Vaughan and ran away from home? But her impulsive actions wouldn’t see violent results. She had no doubt that Luca would take things to the extreme. Luca lived in extremes. She couldn’t let Hamish hover under his cousin’s shadow.

  Reggie’s heartbeat mounted and she wondered if in this moment she was finally understanding what rippled through Hamish every day of his life. “I didn’t recognize you, Hamish. Not when you called your cousin. I didn’t recognize the Hamish who would do that—for whatever reason.” His eyes met hers. She wavered a moment, reaching out, clutching the desk to keep steady. “And I hate that.” Her voice was low. “It frightens me.”

  “We have a case to solve.”

  “Hamish, you might be dragging us into something that we cannot get out of. Not just one case. Not just a mystery here and there with your human empathy and my gumption. It’s Luca!”

  “Reggie, there is a very, very good chance Bricker was responsible for Toby’s death. He—he’s left-handed! He hated the kid! He hates Parker! In which case I did nothing more than jumpstart justice.”

  Reggie wiped her hand over her face. “Are you listening to yourself?”

  “I am sounding pretty rational.”

  “I repeat: you’re not the only one who can tell when someone is lying.”

  “Perhaps not. Wish I could have been there when you accepted Vaughan Vanderlaan’s proposal!”

  Reggie shook her head vehemently. “No. No. I won’t let this continue. Because the Hamish DeLuca I know doesn’t even possess that tone of voice. Would never think of saying things like that. Would never cut or hurt with words. You need to go back to being the Hamish DeLuca that I need. And if that means ending this conversation, then—”

  “Is that what these three years have been to you, Regina? Me being the Hamish that you need? Do I just live and breathe and act for you while you go and slide another man’s ring on your finger?”

  Hamish’s own long fingers were a perfect triangle around a pencil where he was working through a diagram tying the tapestry of the spring and summer together.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Reggie coaxed her voice through the black tunnel it seemed to be happy lodging in.

  They fell apart a moment. Then together when Reggie peered over the blotter on his desk.

  When Reggie saw Dirk’s name scrawled in Hamish’s bold, slanted hand, the past snuck up and tapped her on the shoulder. Men with rower’s shoulders and sun-kissed hair, the glisten of daylight on water, one young man teasing her for her freckles before Vaughan stepped in and stalled him.

  “I don’t think Dirk is capable of killing anyone,” Reggie said.

  “Is he left-handed?”

  Reggie couldn’t remember. Reid said that the driving blow was from the left side, but could Dirk be competent in strength from both sides? She knew he fenced and boxed. What might men of his station and training pull off in a moment? “I don’t know . . .”

  “Is he capable of truly hurting someone? Someone like Nate? Maybe you should ask Vaughan.”

  “Hamish!” Reggie said.

  Hamish’s pencil was over the diagram, eyes intense. He used his lawyer voice, free of any tremor or ripple, hands solidly stretched to balance his weight across the desk as he studied his notes, always more than what he thought he was.

  “I think men like Dirk—at least from what I have seen—so take that for what it’s worth—try to find a web. In this web, there are people who will lift them up. Dirk needs to have the upper hand.”

  “I suppose . . .” Reggie started a sentence she didn’t know how to finish. Her mind was a flood of fancy cocktail parties and revelries after football skirmishes. Was she justifying Dirk? He was one of her own, wasn’t he? And she was marrying Vaughan. Hamish and Reggie had sat in this office a thousand times before, but the four walls had never closed so tightly.

  “Dirk could play the system,” Hamish said plainly. There was an undercut tension in his voice, bubbling like a volcano to the surface. “And men like him are always looking for the next large paycheck, which means the people we work with are an easy target for the next Big Person strolling into the North End promising a cut.”

  The intensity pricked the dimple in his cheek. Maybe she had held him up too high, thinking he could be completely removed from mistakes. That he was always innocent. That he would never steer off the course she set for him. It was unfair. She hated when expectations were placed on her.

  Parker was the missing piece. If it were sheer prejudice, that would make it a separate case altogether. Reggie blinked, inspected her manicure. “I know they’re connected. I can read it in your eyes.”

  Hamish startled a moment, his breath sharp. “I don’t know. Two men were left-handed. Bricker and Kelly.”

  Had she listened to too many serials? Had he read too many books? Were mysteries meant to be solved by two people with overactive imaginations?

  Would Kelly kill a kid for a manifest? Didn’t he have his own manifests? Black-market goods she spent far too long studying as icy water threatened to claim her whole?

  The bells in the North Square chimed. Pealed from the Old North through the Prado over the space waiting to be filled by Dallin’s statue. This was her world. But it seemed new nonetheless.

  She kept a passive tone. “Dirk isn’t the only one sounding off those Christian Patriots ideas. The first time Errol was here he mentioned it.”

  Reggie closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them, the office was the same. Not, as was her futile hope, a blank slate where Hamish had not walked in and looped his name and bad judgment with his cousin’s.

  She drifted into a long reverie, unaware that such a long stretch of time had passed until the bells from nearby St. Stephen’s announced the hour.

  Hamish’s glasses were on top of black hair in need of a trim, his long fingers drumming the desk. She wasn’t certain his fidgeting was anxiety; he could have just been deep in thought. Shouldn’t she be able to decipher between the two at this point in their relationship?

  “And does it surprise you that the coach favors Parker?” Hamish said.

  “Favors? Tolerates.”

  “I mean clearly he is the best player on the team, but there has to be some difficulty in featuring a man of his color in a sport that is very old-fashioned in its ways. Treadwell. They did get in a fistfight.”

  “Do you think Winston is pretending when it comes to Errol? But how could he be? They’re the best in the league.”

  “But you heard what Errol said. That there have been scouts. Maybe he holds it against him that he could leave and take his talent with him.”

  “And is he uncouth enough to shove a pig’s heart in the man’s locker?”

  “If Luca taught us anything, it’s that it is easy to find someone who can do work for you.”

  “How likely, Hamish, is it that one of the scouts from the Red Sox would take a chance on Errol? We’re still too far behind.”

  It was almost like a game of tennis at her mother’s country club. Back and forth and back and forth. Posture and poise. Remember your training.

  “All I do know is that it is easy to have limited views.” She remembered Dirk Foster at a fancy dinner during their first investigation involving the Flamingo Club. Dirk was prejudiced toward the unemployed and destitute. The same hardworking, down-on-their-luck people who funneled out of the temporary employment agency every day. Errol Parker had the color of his skin working against him. And Reggie was certain that would inspire far more vehement retaliation than men out of work.

  “I need something happy,” she said. “I’m going to Leoni’s.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.” He took a beat, watched her. She felt exposed under the study of his blue eyes. They weren’t magnified as they had been behind his lenses, but somehow he was the microscope and she the specimen on the plate. It unnerved her and she twisted the ring on her finger. Which drew his attention downward a moment.

  “Reggie, we have to w
ork through this. I know you hate me for what I did. I hate myself. But I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” He stopped, swallowed, and she knew he was evening out his stutter, rolling his tongue in his mouth, attempting to keep it from tripping over what came next. It pricked at her. She was doing this to him, throwing him off. The tips of his ears were red, exposing his humiliation. He blinked several times and tapped under his brace. Reggie found a place on the wall just behind his left shoulder to focus on. His breathing was coming more quickly. “It’s too strange here. With you . . . j-judging me like that.”

  “Something you said earlier. About a threat. Luca threatening Bricker. What if the threats toward Errol were something to do with his altercation . . . the one in the paper?”

  The phone jangled. It was Reid again. Apologizing.

  Reggie clicked off and looked at Hamish. “Reid thinks that perhaps we were missing something about Nate. That maybe he was helping the development at Kelly’s place.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Reggie!” Hamish had been sitting but was up again, out from his desk, standing, tapping a pencil against the side in an incessant rhythm. “The police cannot think that about Nate.”

  “I know it’s ridiculous.”

  “But you saw him taking piles of paper home every night. He wasn’t talking to me anymore—definitely wasn’t talking to you.”

  “We know that, Hamish. I am not disagreeing with you. But it looks a certain way. Reid is giving us a notice. He was there the night you met Toby at the ball game.”

  “What motive would Nate have to kill a teenager!”

  “You’re shouting at me! I am just the messenger!”

  “How can you stand there and even entertain these ideas?”

  “I am not entertaining anything. I am just reciting what the police told me.” She gestured to the phone.

  “Reggie, I can’t listen to this.” Hamish’s hands raked through each side of his hair, teasing the black waves up a little.