Murder in the City of Liberty

by Rachel McMillan

  This act was completely lost on Hamish: glasses halfway down his nose, studying papers, rapping a pencil in his absent way. “This makes absolutely no sense.” He nudged his glasses higher with the crook of his finger. “I confess, Rosa, that I only started learning property law when I moved here. But there are neighborhood jurisdictions.” He didn’t seem to register Reggie, squinting at the fine print on whatever Rosa was showing him. Reggie knew in her soul it was made up. Hamish had already helped advise her mother.

  This was what her nana’s pawned pearls had purchased: an erstwhile stream of damsels in distress to counter the occasional almost-drowning adventure. Reggie showed her teeth in a smile, inspected her careful self-manicure and the russet half-moon design on her fingernails. Rosa left and Hamish waved her over.

  “I think I figured something out last night.” He reached into his satchel and produced several finished games of battleship.

  “I don’t want to play right now.” She was tired. Annoyed.

  “I know. I don’t want to ever play again. But this is where Nate was hiding his information. The papers we could never find. The connections.”

  “What?”

  “Every letter here . . . See? A surname.” Hamish took out another piece of paper. He pointed at the letter portions of the grid with his pencil. “Reggie, Nate was scared of something. Acting strange. And part of that strangeness was his moving everything from his office to our home. The one thing I did find from him was a list of all of the family names he usually works with. We’ve been here long enough to be able to fill that. Now look. It’s here.” He pointed to a few dots. “It’s the last letters of surnames aligned with the numbers of an address. It’s a crude system, but I think it is a system. The best he had to keep anyone from seeing where people connected. The services he helped trade.”

  “But how would we know who was matched with who?” Reggie had played the game a few times but was by no means an expert.

  Hamish gave her a half-moon smile. “I think it is in the position. On the grid.” He chuckled. “In Hunchback, Quasimodo can see all of Paris’s streets from above. All the people and houses tiny specks below. He has a view of Paris no one else has. Nate has a view of the North End no one else has.”

  “This is a crazy theory.”

  “But it might be right.”

  Reggie sighed. “Who do you think he was keeping this from?”

  “Kent, for one.”

  “Kent.”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean what?”

  “You have a look.”

  “Oh, come on, Hamish, not all my thoughts are yours.”

  “So you have thoughts.”

  Reggie sighed. “You keep forgetting I am angry with you. Well . . .” She spread her hands. “Somewhat angry with you. Truth be told, I sometimes forget to hold my grudge.”

  “Reggie . . .” Hamish’s voice darkened.

  “Why does it have to be Kent? I know someone who would love control of the North End. Someone who might figure enough time had passed for him to pick up where he left off.”

  Reggie didn’t expect an immediate response, and she found it disconcerting to watch Hamish’s train of thought behind his eyes, no doubt aligning with her own. “But Nate. He wouldn’t . . .”

  “Wouldn’t what? Get his way? He has you exactly where he wants you. Again. Still! You think your weakness is your hand or your anxious episodes or your tripping on words. It’s not your heartbeat, Hamish! That’s not your weakness. He is still your weakness!”

  “He is not! He has no influence over me!”

  “You called him! Bricker! Bricker was his influence!”

  Hamish raked his fingers through his hair. “I was trying to do something right.”

  “I know! But it’s not up to you to pick fights and fix the world. Just because you can step into a corner of the world doesn’t mean it is your space. Hamish, Nate’s misfortune had nothing to do with who he is . . . It was what he does.”

  Hamish was silent long enough for Reggie to feel the pulse of the ticking clock through the rapping of her fingers. “If you’re right, then I killed Bricker.”

  “What?”

  “Because I called Luca . . .”

  “Hamish.”

  “Reggie!”

  Reggie swallowed. “You didn’t kill him,” she said softly.

  “You told me I did! You’re changing your mind?” She supposed he wanted the words to be forceful, but the pleading in his eyes belied anything but fear.

  “You made a stupid mistake, Hamish.”

  “One that I won’t forgive myself for.”

  Reggie studied him a moment. His eyes were on his long fingers, the ones on his right hand shaking slightly. “But you will. Eventually. You will have to. So . . .” She inhaled. “Why don’t I forgive you first, and then you at least have some forgiveness until you can catch up, huh?”

  * * *

  It was strange not having Nate to call on. For any reason—battleship codes or Hamish’s guilt. Reggie knew he would have pointed them in the right direction after a few wry asides. Instead, they visited Thomas Greene. Reggie remembered him vaguely from a case last year involving his mother. She supposed it didn’t immediately spring to mind because she hadn’t been central to solving his problem. Rather, he had needed Hamish to ensure his mother was treated fairly.

  His insurance office wasn’t in the North End, where he lived, but on Hadassah Street near the Park Plaza. It was small but costly. He said he paid the rent not for the space but for the location, to try to accumulate higher quality clientele. Reggie sauntered past Hamish with a look he read as her giving him an extra few beats before he would have to smooth the worry from his face.

  “And Pete Kelly has been here?” she said brightly.

  “Just once.”

  At this, Reggie looked to Hamish.

  Hamish studied the paperwork and assured her it was legitimate. There were a few addendums he puzzled over, but Thomas waved them off.

  “I have been in the insurance business since I graduated. These are usual protocols.”

  Hamish took a copy nonetheless, thanking Thomas profusely. He laid it on a little thick as they left his office and stepped into the sunshine.

  “What are you thinking?” Reggie asked, a question posited as much to satiate her own curiosity as to solve their mystery.

  “Hyatt and Price have no intention for this property development and housing to be a success.”

  “What makes you say that?” Reggie asked as Hamish steered them toward the Common. The black wrought-iron fence framing a span of green and centuries spread before them. Reggie kept his pace on the sidewalk rimming the park.

  “Greene. He couldn’t even find his mother a home. Had to come to us. I know—I know that sounds crass. But it’s true. A true Realtor, a proper Realtor for a firm of Hyatt and Price’s caliber, would want the best in the city.”

  “So they want their project to fail?”

  Hamish shook his head, then drew a line with his pinky finger, slicing the air between them. “On both sides of this we have sheer stupidity. No! Don’t look at me like that. I won’t stand on ceremony. Stupidity!” He smiled. “On one side we have Kelly: he stands to earn on the black market, more so as the prospect of entering the war becomes nearer. Across the border, people will want what is scarce. Nylons. Liquor. Who knows? He stands to make a buck, especially with his prime waterfront property. Boats easily move in and out.” Hamish took a beat, blue eyes roaming from Boylston Street to the steeple of Arlington Church: a breath away in their sight lines. “On the other side we have Hyatt and Price. A firm host to views that are at their core very antiwar. War, to them, and according to the pamphlets, is a conspiracy. They quote The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. One treatise of many that believes there is some form of Jewish conspiracy. But they don’t stop there. They prey on any group of people they think are lesser than themselves. War, to them, just gives their inferiors power.�
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  “So munitions?”

  “If they found out that Kelly’s property was being used to transport munitions? Like we found on Toby’s manifest? They would think it was their duty to stop it. This is more than slum housing. Though the slum housing was two birds with one stone. The uneven ground and obvious disarray would hopefully drive out any unwanteds while still keeping Kelly from his enterprise.”

  Reggie fell back on the heels of her oxfords. “And Toby?”

  “Toby was an errand boy.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Something intersected. Someone may have been using Toby to work for both sides. The side that wanted the cheap housing, the side that wanted Kelly to keep his shipments.”

  “So what you are saying is . . .” Reggie put her index finger to her stained lips.

  “Yes?”

  “None of this has anything to do with baseball.”

  They took a taxi back to the North End to decide what to do next. It was around lunchtime.

  They bought sandwiches to go from Leoni’s and retreated to the Prado. The sun was scorching, but the breeze tickling the rambling trees and over the red bricks was a nice reprieve.

  Reggie and Hamish were mostly silent while eating. Reggie felt as if a yardstick dangled between them, keeping them at a safe distance. Sure, he was animated under the spell of solving a problem. But he also tried to be a gentleman next to an engaged lady. Reggie folded the paper from her sandwich.

  They reclined, a large stretch of fountain between them, watching the water spray. Reggie couldn’t sink into the moment like a comfortable old sweater—her ring caught the rainbow in the water. She folded her arms.

  Hamish was far away for a moment. He nudged his glasses up with the crook of his index finger, his gaze lost in the color of the Prado. The trees weeping down over the red brick. The pedestrians spilling between the bordering churches at either end.

  Reggie saw an intensity in his eyes, but also a sadness. She slid over slightly and nudged him with her elbow. “You’re thinking of Nate.”

  Hamish shrugged. “Or maybe I am just thinking that I don’t want this place to change.”

  The stroll to the office was silent, punctuated by the familiar sounds of a North End afternoon: shoppers bartering with grocers under striped awnings; a car horn a street over; tourists playing with their bulky Kodak cameras, the click of the button immortalizing historic tableaux Hamish snapped in his mind as they made their way back to the office.

  Several moments later, so deep in thought, Hamish didn’t even look up when the phone rang. Reggie voiced her usual greeting, excitement rising in her voice so that she had to check herself and smooth her skirt. “How?” she asked, covering the mouthpiece and murmuring, “Officer Reid,” to Hamish.

  “That hot dog vendor. Had a crisis of conscience when his nephew was in a fight. Pete had apparently slipped him some money. From what I know about Pete, that seems to be a common thing.”

  Reggie signed off and looked up excitedly at Hamish.

  Hamish’s eyes were wide behind his glasses. “And?”

  Here Reggie bounced a little in her chair. “And!”

  “Stop the jack-in-the-box routine, Reggie, and tell me.”

  “Pete Kelly had a few people at the ball game working for him. To say the least.”

  Reggie and Hamish rang Errol for his sister’s address, then wasted no time finding it.

  When they arrived, Errol answered the door.

  “Is your sister here?”

  Errol nodded. “Jean’s in the kitchen.”

  The house was simple but immaculate. All furniture and spaces had been dusted. From the front of the house, Reggie’s nose made out the kitchen.

  “The church ladies are going above and beyond,” Errol said. “Smell that? Roast chicken and potatoes and bean salads and casseroles to feed dozens. My sister hasn’t had an appetite. Can’t blame her.” He turned to Hamish. “Did you listen to the game last night? No amount of roast chicken could change the way I’ve been playing.”

  “Maybe you should take time off. It can’t be easy to focus on the game.”

  Errol motioned for Reggie and Hamish to take a seat in the sitting room. “If you want anything to eat, there’s lemon pie . . .”

  They both declined. But Reggie accepted the offer of two Cokes straight from the icebox.

  Errol returned and handed the bottles across the couch, his sister not far behind him. While Errol was chatty, Jean was not. “I don’t know how I’m still waking up, you know? When something cuts your knees out from under you. I guess I just keep myself going forward. I think it’s because I still want to prove that I can do it. For him. For my sister too.”

  “Do you want anything to eat?” She looked tired but prim. Starched collar and ironed skirt as if anticipating company, falling back on manners that seemingly exhausted her.

  “We’re fine,” Reggie said. “Thank you.”

  Reggie tried not to look at her. It went against every last inch of her upbringing. She knew she was being rude, but she wasn’t sure what her eyes would betray. This woman had seen countless officers. Had seen her brother’s and nephew’s names in the paper. Had to live with the blown-out wick of the candle of a kid who wanted to go to Cincinnati. Who was young and energetic and hardworking, probably determined to raise his mother from this crooked sofa (with one wonky leg) and the slight crack in the clean front window. To live up to his uncle.

  “May we take a look at his room?” Hamish asked moments later, after taking a long slug of Coke. “When we’re finished here?” Hamish felt like a smart and determined kid who had become the go-between for men who both had a desire and claim on Kelly’s property.

  Toby’s mother nodded. Hamish was drawing circles on the table with his thumb.

  “Hard for me to go in, you understand,” Errol said. “But if you think it might help, then please go ahead.”

  Silence. Reggie and Hamish exchanged a look. Reggie remembered the first night she saw Errol on the field, the way he stepped to the plate and owned the field, drowning out the sounds from the stands, planting his shoes on either side of the plate and swinging the bat as if it were an extension of his body. The same Errol, in front of her, seemed small and deflated: shoulders hunched, staring at folded hands on a shiny-clean wooden table.

  “Are you still planning on moving into Mr. Kelly’s property?” Hamish asked after a moment.

  “No. I haven’t decided what I am going to do now.”

  “Any scouts come yet?” Reggie asked, to lighten the tone but also because she remembered how much of an influence it seemed to have in their first conversations about his prankers.

  Errol shook his head. “And there won’t be if I keep playing like this.” He spread his hands. “But I will keep playing, you know. And I am happy that I took the time to seek you out.”

  Their Coke bottles finished, Jean collected them with a smile before retreating to the back room, leaving Errol to point them upstairs. The banister was dark wood and each step covered with worn carpet. On the next floor, first door to the right, they would find what had been Toby’s bower.

  Bower was the word Errol used, and as soon as Hamish and Reggie crossed through, she could see why. It was a sanctuary. The door had a sign—Please Knock—written in careful calligraphy. Each wall featured banners and pennants from the Boston Patriots. Errol told them he always offered to pay for Toby’s tickets, but Toby wanted to earn his frequent attendance. Reggie figured this was why he ran errands and messages for Pete Kelly.

  On the mirrored dressing cabinet, Reggie found a pile of ticket stubs. Toby didn’t want to forget a moment. Each game a relic.

  Otherwise, the room was a study of an average boy. At least from what Reggie could see from corduroy comforter to print curtains.

  Dust speckles appeared with the slice of light from the window. A few building blocks rested on the hardwood floor. From long before. A lifetime before. Reggie approached Toby’s desk.
Her breath caught at the pile of half-finished homework. The boy’s pencil scrawl beginning a thesis on the fall of Rome. Pennants from the Reds and maps of Cincinnati littered the walls.

  Reggie’s eyes stung.

  Meanwhile, Hamish studiously inspected every inch and corner. This room was a life. A mausoleum. All that remained of a vibrant human cut off before he was able to fulfill his potential.

  Reggie carefully, gingerly, explored the other papers in careful piles. Most was homework. Another sheet—peeking out—was something else entirely. Reggie removed it.

  “Hamish!” Her eyes didn’t leave the fine print and insignia she immediately recognized.

  “Eh?”

  “I think I found something.”

  Hamish joined her and they studied the paper together. “There’s far more on this than should be allowed at some little warehouse on the wharf.” Hamish looked over lines and lines of goods. “Imagine this! Fish. Pigs.”

  Reggie startled. “What?”

  “Someone could easily play some horrible pranks after receiving some of these goods.”

  Reggie scanned another piece of paper while Hamish continued with the fine print. “Guns. Ammunition.”

  Hamish stole a look over her shoulder. “Were there guns and ammunition when you were there, Reg? That you saw? When we were first at Kelly’s?”

  Reggie nodded. “I think so.” She squinted. Flummoxed. Reaching for memory. “I was trying to notice, Hamish. Just like Nora Charles would. But then I fell into the water and—”

  “Because all I saw was alcohol and cigarettes. Weapons are something new. And something that would mean a lot. You know this, Reg. From the night we were at the Christian Patriots meeting.”

  He took the paper from her. “Let me see this. I don’t think this has anything to do with Kelly going quietly. I think this has something to do with a man still desperate to make a buck even though he knows he is cornered. They’re bigger than he is.”

  Hamish’s mind churned over everything that had happened and somehow rested on Toby. A kid who would do anything for a buck. From either side of two parties invested in a property. For completely different purposes.