by Caleb Carr
Having seen enough of both the butcher’s work on the ground and the way that the cops alternately laughed at and ignored what Lucius was saying about it, I turned to look at the boys who’d found the body. They were all still full of the shock and excitement of the thing and were continuing to jump around and laugh nervously. I took note that I knew the skinniest of their number and drifted over to talk to him.
“Hey, Nosy,” I said quietly, at which the skinny kid turned and grinned. I didn’t have to tell him not to call out my name in front of the cops: he belonged to the gang of boys what ran with Crazy Butch, one of Monk Eastman’s lieutenants, a group that I’d served with for a time before my incarceration on Randalls Island, and he knew I wouldn’t want any contact with the bulls, being as, once you were a kid that they’d marked as a troublemaker, they took a kind of sick pleasure in riding you wherever they found you, whether you’d done anything wrong or not.
“Stevepipe!” Nosy whispered, pulling his sheet of canvas tighter around himself and rubbing at the large, oddly shaped protrusion on his face that’d given him his name. “You cabbyin’? I thought you was workin’ for that crazy doctor.”
“I am,” I said. “Long story. What happened here?”
“Well,” he said, his feet starting to dance in excitement again. “Me and Slap and Sick Louie, here”—I nodded to the other boys as Nosy indicated them, and they returned the greeting—“we was just walking the waterfront, you know, seein’ if maybe there was any unclaimed baggage lyin’ around the pier—”
I chuckled once. “‘Unclaimed baggage? Jeez, Nosy, that’s rich.”
“Well, you gotta call it somethin if the bulls grab you, right? So, anyway, we’s workin’ our way down to the pier, and we seen this red package just floatin’ out there. Figured it might be somethin’ tasty, so we dove on in, as we’s in shorts, anyway. Got it up here okay—but I guess you can figure what it was like when we opened it.” He whistled and laughed. “Brother. Sick Louie musta puked eight times—only got half a stomach, anyway—”
“Hey, hey,” Sick Louie protested, “I told ya a million times, Nosy, it’s my intestines, I was born widdout a buncha my intestines, dat’s what does it!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Nosy said. “So we went for a cop, figurin’ maybe there’s a reward involved. Shoulda known better. Now they won’t let us go—figure maybe we had something to do with it! I ask you, what would we be doin’ sawin’ people up? And how, for Chrissakes? I got one kid’s an idiot”—he flicked a thumb at the boy called Slap, who, when I took a closer look, didn’t seem to be catching much of what was going on around him—“and another kid with half a stomach—”
“I told you, Nosy!” Sick Louie protested again. “It’s my—
“Yeah, yeah, your intestines!” Nosy shot back. “Now shut up, willya, please?” He turned back to me with a grin. “Fuckin’ morons. So—whattaya got goin’, Stevepipe, what brings ya here?”
“Ah,” I said, looking back at the crowd around the piece of a body and seeing that they were starting to break up. “Came to fetch a couple of pals.” Cyrus and the detective sergeants had started to move my way. “And I gotta go. But I’m coming down to Frankie’s this week. You gonna be around?”
“If these cops ever let us go,” Nosy answered with another cheerful grin. “Imagine tryin’ to hold us for a thing like this,” he went on as I moved away. “It ain’t logical! But nobody ever said cops was logical, eh, Stevepipe?”
I grinned back at him, touched the brim of the top hat, and then rejoined Cyrus and the Isaacsons, hurrying with them back to the hansom.
The cabbie had passed out again, though when Cyrus climbed back in he woke up with a start and whimpered a little, like maybe he was hoping the whole ride down had been a bad dream. “Oh, no … no, not again! Look, you two, I’m going to the cops if—”
Marcus, who had perched his feet on the little iron step on one side of the cab as his brother did the same on the other, flashed a badge. “We are the cops, sir,” he said in a firm tone as he slung a satchelful of instruments over his shoulder and then laid a solid grip on the side of the passenger compartment. “Just sit back and be quiet, this won’t take long.”
“No, it won’t,” moaned the old man, resigned to his predicament. “Not if the ride down was any measure …”
I got into the driver’s seat and cracked the reins, and we crashed back onto the cobblestones of Clarkson Street, leaving behind the strange scene on the waterfront and figuring—wrongly, it turned out—that we’d seen and heard the last of it.
My mind was still full of thoughts of both that bloody sight and my disheartening encounter with Kat and her mark as we dashed back east But when we reached Hudson Street again and turned north, my attention was finally distracted by a familiar and—given the situation and my brooding—welcome sound: the Isaacson brothers, taking off after each other as soon as there were no other cops around to hear.
“Just couldn’t resist, could you?” I heard Marcus say over the din of the mare’s horseshoes on the stones.
“Resist what?” Lucius answered in a kind of squeak, already on the defensive as he clung for life to the side of the cab.
“You just had to take the opportunity to lecture them all, as if we were in some elementary school classroom,” Marcus answered in irritation.
“I was recording important evidence!” Lucius answered. Glancing back once, I could see that they were leaning in toward each other over Cyrus and the bewildered cabbie, like a pair of bickering kids. Cyrus just smiled at me—we’d seen a hundred scenes like this before. The cabbie, however, seemed to be thinking that the strange spat was further evidence that he’d been abducted by lunatics.
“‘Recording important evidence,’ “Marcus echoed. “You were grandstanding! As if we don’t have enough problems in the department right now, without you acting like an old schoolmarm!”
“That’s ridiculous—” Lucius tried. But Marcus wasn’t having any of it.
“Ridiculous? You’ve been that way since you were eight years old!”
“Marcus!” Lucius was trying to get a grip on himself. “This is no place to bring up—”
“Every day, when we’d get home from school—‘Mama! Papa! I can recite my whole day’s lessons, listen, listen!’”
“—no place to bring up personal—”
“Never occurred to you that Mama and Papa were too goddamned tired to listen to your entire day’s lessons. No, you just went right ahead—”
“They were proud of me!” Lucius hollered, abandoning all attempts at dignity.
“What were you thinking?” Marcus bellowed as I drove the grey mare past Christopher Street and then east on Tenth, in order to avoid any chance of seeing Kat again. “That Hogan’s going to go back to Mulberry Street and say, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, those Isaacson boys certainly know their business—showed us a thing or two!’? One step closer to getting forced out, that’s all we are now!”
The “discussion” went on in that vein right up until I turned the cab north on Broadway and spun it around in front of the Hotel St. Denis. There weren’t two better detectives in all the world than the Isaacsons, they’d proved that much during the Beecham case: trained in medicine and law in addition to criminal science, they kept up with advances in tracking theories and techniques from every corner of the world. It was their knowledge of the still unaccepted science of fingerprinting, for instance, that’d put the first crack in the Beecham case. They had an arsenal of cameras, chemicals, and microscopes that they brought to bear on any problem what might seem totally incomprehensible to your average detective; but they did love to bicker, and most of the time they went at it like a couple of old hens.
Cyrus gave the cabbie a little extra cash and I gave him his hat back as we left him to recover his wits in front of the hotel. Then we walked quickly over to Number 808 and got back into the elevator. Once inside, the detective sergeants brought the volume of their argument down, but no
t the passion.
“Marcus, for God’s sake,” Lucius seethed, “we can talk about this at home!”
“Oh, sure,” Marcus mumbled, straightening his jacket and smoothing back his thick hair. “When you can bring Mama into it.”
“Meaning?” Lucius asked in some shock.
“She’ll take your side. She always does, because she can’t stand to hurt your feelings. Sure, she’ll tell you she always loved to listen to you recite. But she was actually bored stiff. Trust me—she used to say so when you weren’t around.”
“Why, you—!” Lucius started; but then the elevator reached the sixth floor and bumped to its usual weighty stop. The sign that Sara’d had painted on the door seemed to jolt the brothers back to adult reality, and they both fell silent, dropping the whole thing as suddenly as they’d picked it up. As for Cyrus and me, it’d been all we could do to keep from laughing out loud during the elevator ride. But as we stepped back into the old headquarters, seriousness of purpose returned to us, too.
CHAPTER 5
We found Mr. Moore, Miss Howard, and the señora more or less where we’d left them, though it was clear from the way that Mr. Moore had drawn a chair up close to the Linares woman and was listening to her intently that she’d made quite an impression on him. A large part of that, of course, was Mr. Moore’s always being an easy mark for a charming lady—and Señora Linares definitely had charm, even through the scars, the bruises, and the veil, which she’d pulled back down over her face. Miss Howard, meanwhile, paced and smoked, horrified, I think, not only at the violence that had been done to this woman but at how often such violence was done to so many other women, rich and poor, without their being able to do a damned thing about it.
Señora Linares watched the Isaacsons enter the office with the same uneasiness she’d displayed on first meeting the rest of us, but Mr. Moore stepped in quickly to put her at her ease.
“Señora, these are the men I was telling you about. The finest pair of detectives in the entire New York City Police Department. Despite their official capacities, however, their discretion may be completely relied on.” He then looked up with a grin to shake hands with Lucius and Marcus. “Hello, boys. Bad doings on the waterfront, I hear.”
“John,” Marcus answered, returning the smile with a nod.
“Just another murder that looks unsolvable to Hogan’s crew,” Lucius added. “Though if you ask me, it’s a simple case of—”
“Yes, but they didn’t ask you, did they?” Marcus said, at which Lucius shot him a final look promising true rage if he went on. Marcus let it go and turned to give Miss Howard a polite but very sincere hug. “Hello, Sara. You look wonderful.”
“You’re an excellent liar, Marcus,” she answered. Then she went over to give Lucius a peck on the cheek, knowing that he’d never dare get physical with her on his own. “Hello, Lucius.”
The peck brought a flush to the younger Isaacson’s whole head, and he quickly pulled out his handkerchief to mop at his brow. “Oh! Why, hello, Sara. It’s—it’s wonderful to see you.”
“I wish the circumstances could be happier,” Miss Howard answered, turning to her guest. “Gentlemen, this is Señora Isabella Linares.”
Both the Isaacsons’ eyebrows went up. “The wife of Consul Baldasano’s private secretary?” Marcus asked quietly.
The señora only nodded slightly; Mr. Moore, for his part, turned away, shook his head and mumbled, “I am a reporter, I really ought to know these things …” Then, aloud to the Isaacsons, he went on, “Listen—why don’t I take you fellows into the back for a cup of coffee. Fill you in.”
The detective sergeants, confused but intrigued, readily agreed and went along. The rest of us were left with a slightly awkward moment, which Miss Howard, ever skillful at such things, stepped in to smooth. “Cyrus? The señora said that she very much admired your playing. Perhaps you know something from her homeland?”
“No,” the señora said, gratefully but with purpose. “No, señor, I am—in no mood for such melodies. And memories … the tune you played, it was of your people?”
“It’s an American folk melody,” Cyrus explained, moving back to the piano and sitting. “Like most of its kind, it doesn’t belong to any one people.”
“It was so moving, truly,” the señora answered. “Might I hear another?”
Cyrus inclined his head, considered the matter for a moment, and then softly began to play the old tune “Lorena.” The Linares woman sat back in her chair and sighed heavily, just listening for a few minutes. Then she put a hand on Miss Howard’s arm. “I pray we are doing the right thing, Miss Howard. And I pray that I am not, in fact, mad.”
“You’re not,” Miss Howard answered firmly. “I’ve had some—experience with lunatics.”
“Your Señor Moore, he seems less certain.”
“It’s his way. He’s a journalist. They come in two varieties, cynics and liars. He’s of the first group.”
Señora Linares managed a small, painful chuckle at that, and then Mr. Moore and the Isaacsons returned to the room. Marcus paused at the drapery-covered pool table and set the instrument satchel down on it. As he then moved further toward us with Mr. Moore, Lucius opened the satchel and began to carefully lay out the gleaming tools that were inside it.
Marcus stood by Miss Howard, while Mr. Moore crouched by the Linares woman. “Señora, in order for us to help you, we must be sure of several things: first, the extent of the injuries to your face and skull, and second, the details of what happened in Central Park and at the El station. With your permission, these men will examine those injuries and ask you some questions. You may find it tedious—but I assure you, it is necessary.”
Another heavy sigh came from Señora Linares, and then she sat forward, lifted her veil, and removed her hat altogether, saying only, “Very well.”
Marcus immediately fetched a standing electrical desk lamp from nearby, placed its shade above the señora’s head and face, and then spoke softly: “You may want to close your eyes, ma’am.” She complied, shutting the one lid that she could move, and then he switched on the bright light.
Seeing her injuries, Marcus’s face tightened into a wince—and mind you, this was a man who’d just been studying a body that’d been decapitated, dismembered, and sawed in half. The woman really was a wicked mess.
Lucius joined his brother, holding several medical and measuring instruments, some of which he handed to Marcus. Though Cyrus’s attention was riveted on the scene taking place under the little half shell of bright light in the center of the room, he kept on playing, sensing that it was calming Señora Linares. As for me, I jumped back up into my windowsill and lit up a cigarette, not wanting to miss a minute of the proceedings.
“Sara,” Lucius said, as he moved toward the señora’s head with what looked like two steel probes, “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind taking notes?”
“No, no, of course not,” Miss Howard answered, grabbing a pad and pencil.
“All right, then, we’ll begin with the injury to the back of the head. That occurred when you were attacked in the park, señora?”
“Yes,” she answered, a little pain revealing itself in her face. But she didn’t move.
“And that was exactly where and when?” Marcus asked, also studying the wound.
“Thursday evening. We had just left the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I often take Ana—my daughter—I often take her there. She is very fond of the sculpture hall, I don’t know just why. The figures make her so excited, full of smiles and wonder…. At any rate, we usually sit afterwards by the Egyptian obelisk outside, and she sleeps. The obelisk, too, has always fascinated her, though in a different way.”
“And you were hit right there—right out in the open?”
“Yes.”
“Yet no one witnessed it?”
“It seems not. It had rained earlier in the day and was threatening to do so again—perhaps people wished to avoid it. Although there were several very kind
persons about when I awoke.”
Lucius glanced up at Marcus. “You see the angle? And there’s no laceration.”
“Exactly,” Marcus answered, his tone also businesslike. “Probably no concussion.” Then, to the señora: “Any unusual physical side effects after it happened? A ringing in your ears, perhaps, or bright spots in your vision?”
“No.”
“Dizziness, a feeling of pressure inside your skull?”
“No. I was examined by a doctor,” Señora Linares continued, becoming a little more sure of herself. “He told me—”
“If you don’t mind, señora,” Lucius said, “we’ll try to disregard other reports. We’ve had a lot of experience with New York City doctors—and their opinions—in cases like this.”
The señora grew quiet at that, looking kind of like a little girl who’d spoken out of turn at school.
“No concussion, then,” Marcus mumbled. “Pretty neat job.”
“Perfect angle,” Lucius said. “Somebody good—unless … señora, you say you never saw the person who struck you?”
“Not at all. I was unconscious immediately, though I don’t think for very long. But by the time I awoke, he had fled. With Ana.”
“You say ‘he,’ “Marcus remarked. “Any reason?”
The señora looked suddenly confused. “It—I don’t know. It never occurred to me that—”
