by Blake Pierce
“So do you think I was right to go there?”
“Yes,” he said, clearly not wanting to give the answer.
“And do you think the killer targeted Deidre, or do you think he was out looking for me?”
“Looking for you. Gold, what is this? Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because I need all of you to know that I’m on to something here. And forgive me for saying so, but…I could carry my plan out without any of you. I didn’t have to come to you. but I did, because it’s the smart thing to do. It’s safer. Easier.”
Lottie spoke up, her arms crossed and her eyes bright. “Darling, the plan is just about the craziest scheme I’ve ever heard. And that’s saying a lot. But I don’t have a doubt it will work. Not a bit. Even if he wasn’t looking for you specifically, I agree with you that he’s going after women with power. And with this plan, you’d be damn near the most powerful woman in the city for a day or two.”
“Want me to level with you?” Frank asked.
“Probably not,” Ava said. “But I guess you should.”
“The plan isn’t awful. It’s risky, though, and I think you’re a ditzy broad for even considering it. The one reason I can’t get on board with it is because you’d be going against Minard’s commands. You’re already going against his command because he told you not to show up again after yesterday. And while I’m sure you’re a perfectly fine person, I’m not ready to lose my job for you.”
“You won’t. When it’s all over, Minard doesn’t need to know you were part of it at all.”
Frank looked around the room to Frances and Lottie. He shook his head, whispered a curse, and said: “Go through the plan one more time.”
She did. It only took about three minutes this time (compared to the ten minutes it had taken the first time) and by the time she was done, she could tell that she had Lottie and Frances on her side. With the plan discussed a second time, Frank stepped further into the office. He closed the door behind him and looked to the candlestick phone on Frances’s desk.
“Fine,” he said. “Go on. Call the radio station.”
***
Ava walked back into the radio station on Broadway at a few minutes past noon. Just like on her previous visit, Hank Armstrong was ecstatic to see her. Before he led her back to the broadcast booth, they went over the script one last time. Hank seemed pleased to help, but also a little cautious.
“This isn’t false advertising, now is it?”
“No, not at all. I’ve already spoken with Jack Dooley at the Key Factory. He’s lining a band up as we speak.”
“Hot damn! I might even have to make an appearance then. This is not something I want to miss! You want some air time? Want me to interview you?”
“No, that’s okay. Just…with so much on the line, I thought I should be here when it goes on the air.”
“Of course,” Hank said, clapping his hands. “I’ll make the announcement after the current song.”
They sat together in the booth and listened to the last half of “Crazy Blues” by Mamie Smith. Ava’s nerves were on fire but the level of excitement escalating inside of her mostly drowned it out. When the song reached its end, Hank gave Ava a wink and positioned himself behind the microphone. He started the recorder and then began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your old buddy Hank does what he can to keep his ear to the streets. I always like to hear about new musicians first and I especially love to play them right here on your favorite station before anyone else. But today…oh boy, I’ve got something for all of you jazz lovers out there that’s going to get you all up in a tizzy! Our good friend Ava Gold, the NYPD Women’s Division superstar, has a treat for you all. Seems that when word got out she’s a fine singer as well as a fine cop, people got very interested. And for that reason, our friends down at the Key Factory have a special treat for you all tonight. Tonight, for one night only, Mrs. Ava Gold will be performing with a specially assembled band. The show starts at nine, folks…and believe me, you don’t want to miss this one! Come on down and have a listen and support this wonderful lady, and your local jazz clubs! That’s nine o’clock tonight, Mrs. Ava Gold at the Key Factory!”
He stopped recording, pulled away from the microphone, and set up another song. When it was playing, the drums leading in for a pair of trumpets, Hank looked over to Ava. “That work for you?”
“That was perfect, Hank!”
“Good! I’ll play it once every half hour just to make sure words gets out.”
“Thanks so much, Hank. If this goes well, you could end up playing a big part of catching a mass murderer.”
“That sure would be something,” Hank said. “Bust listen: you be careful out there tonight. And most importantly of all, you tell that bum Jack Dooley to save me a table.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
When she arrived at the Key Factory, Ava’s nerves were surprisingly calm. Maybe it was the stage or the familiar building—or maybe even some of the familiar faces. Even an hour before the show was set to begin, there was a warm familiarity that seemed to seep right into her bones. There was a calm to the place that she always thought of as the quiet before a thunderstorm; you could see the dark clouds rolling in but there was nothing yet—just silence.
She felt it the strongest when she met with the band. She’d not played with any of the artists, but knew of two of them by reputation alone. They talked about the proper set list and what sort of approach to take; they were to perform ten songs, all of which the band knew relatively well, and Ava knew all of the words to. She’s been selective with the songs, not wanting anything that would really test the vocal abilities that she had not pushed in over a year. She’d get a few runs and a high note here and there, but noting over the top. Ava’s nerves started to act up. She felt a little guilty when she realized they were there mostly because of the gig—not the possibility that the killer might be in the crowd and that her career could very well be on the line.
With the setlist decided on, Ava started to work her way through the crowd. She chatted with a few familiar faces from her past and had to remind herself that, unlike Hank Armstrong, Jack Dooley had no idea that Ava asking to sing at the Key Factory was all part of an elaborate sting operation. If he had known, Ava doubted he would have greeted her with such a vibrant smile. Even an hour before the show was set to start, the Key Factory had filled up to almost its maximum capacity. It had been a while since Ava had been on a stage and she doubted the vast majority of the people in attendance would even recognize her.
With her nerves still all over the place, Ava would have done anything for a nice, stiff drink. She of course knew that Jack could easily arrange that for her, but she didn’t think it would be right for a cop to take an illegal drink when the very owner of the place could be arrested for having booze.
As it got closer to showtime, she saw that Hank Armstrong had indeed showed up. He gave her a wink and a get on with it gesture. The band was on stage, making their final adjustments, and when the drummer took his seat behind the bass drum and looked at her, she knew there was no more stalling. She walked up on the stage with her heart in her throat.
Even before she started singing, there was a thunderous roar of applause. She looked out and for the first time, realized there were lots of women in the crowd—perhaps there to support her as a cop, a singer, maybe even a mother and widow. She smiled out to them all and raised a hand in greeting. Scanning the crowd, she saw Frances sitting near the back. On the other side of the building, leaning against the wall and fitting in a little better than Ava expected, was Frank.
Seeing them, her nerves settled a bit. So when the drummer led in with the intro to a local piece that had been bouncing around the clubs lately—a vocal-based tune called “Heavy City Rain”—Ava wasn’t as terrified as she thought. In fact, when she stepped up to the mic, she was surprisingly at ease.
By the time “Heavy City Rain” was over, half of the crowd was on their feet and
dancing. Her voice, not having sung in a few months, cracked a few times, but no one seemed to notice. The band paused for only a moment and then went into a Love Austin song. It wasn’t a very popular one, but the crowd did not seem to care. There was loud applause, delightful yelling, and the sound of cheap shoes slamming and tapping on the floor as the crowd danced. Ava sang it with compassion because it had been one of Clarence’s favorites. She nearly got choked up and had to keep reminding herself that this was more than just a gig. She was trying to draw out a killer.
As Ava worked her way through the set, she had to hold back tears a few times. God, but she had missed this. Not just the crowds and the singing, but the feeling of music totally capturing a room. She could feel the bass and the drums and each note from the horns pressing against her. She could feel the thrum of it in her body. Her lungs ached when she held the longer notes and it was bliss.
She was sweating by the time the eighth song started—a slower one, giving her voice a bit of a break. She looked the crowd over during this rest and again noted Frances and Frank. They both looked surprised, almost in awe of what she was able to do on the stage. Ava wanted to take some sort of reward from that, but there was another thought that dulled it: There’s a good chance the killer is also out there in this crowd somewhere.
This thought sat heavy with her until she came to the final song. The band waited behind her, all beaming and coated in sweat. Ava approached the mic and, wiping sweat from her own brow, did her best to play her part while also tipping her hand for the killer if he was in the crowd.
“Thank you all so much for coming out and making me feel welcome. This next tune is the last of the night and—”
This was greeted by groans and boos, which she smiled through.
“—I hope it sends you off well. You see, in addition to my work as a policewoman, I’m also a mother. And I have a special little boy waiting for me back home. So get your feet moving to this one for me, would you?”
With that, she and the band launched into a sped-up, horn-infused version of Gene Austin’s “Bye Bye, Blackbird.” For Ava, it was over far too fast. After the last note, the crowd applauded her through a haze of sweat and cigarette smoke. She spotted Frank and Frances shifting a bit in the back. As Ava made her exit from the stage, she spotted Frank heading out the door and back onto the street.
As politely as she could, Ava made her way through the crowd as several people tried speaking to her. One of these people was Jack Dooley. He was smiling so wide she thought his face would split in half.
“You have to come back,” he said. “Did you hear that crowd? They adored you!”
“Well, it’s certainly nice to be adored,” she said as she walked over to the old bar area. She reached under it and retrieved her purse, which she’d stashed there for safekeeping earlier. “But Jack, I really do need to get going. I’ll come by and visit again soon, though, okay?”
“You better!”
Ava slowly made her way out of the crowd, pressed against the wall. After a few more greeting from people in the crowd, she finally made it to the door. There, she saw that Frances had also made her exit. Ava pushed through the door and when she stepped out into the street, the fresh air was welcome. She loved the vibe and energy of a show, but she’d nearly forgotten just how suffocating some of those smaller venues could be when they really packed the house.
Wasting no time, Ava started forward. She was already certain of the route she would take. It was essentially a shortcut back to her apartment, so it wasn’t even like she was really going out of the way. It would take her down two alleyways, though, and that was where she felt the killer would approach her.
She came to the first alley and stepped in. The darkness and shadows fell around her like a cloak. Ava took a deep breath and looked inside her purse where Clarence’s Smith and Wesson Model 10 gleamed softly. She then cast her eyes ahead and walked further into the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
She hated that every sound she heard scared her. When a feral cat snaked its way between a garbage bin and the wall of the neighboring building, Ava nearly drew her Model 10 out of her purse. When she heard a man’s laughter from somewhere on the other side of the alleyway, she was sure it was the killer—William Gault—mocking her from behind for a moment.
She came to a split in the alley after a few moments. Straight ahead would take her into an area she was not familiar with. A left would lead her closer to home and the second alleyway that would take her there. She took the left, not wanting to veer away from her plan. She walked the alley, still feeling the pulse and thrum of the music inside of her. She knew she’d still feel it tomorrow, bouncing in her head like a strange, pleasant headache. She thought about what Jack had said, about having to do it again and—
Her train of thought was broken when a man stepped out of the shadows up ahead. He was standing directly between her and the street, his back perhaps twenty feet away from the end of the alley and the street beyond. The light in the alley was almost non-existent but his posture implied that his hand was hidden in a coat of some kind—which was odd in and of itself being that it was almost an eighty-degree night.
Ava kept walking, pretending she had not yet noticed him. When the man started walking forward to meet her, she slowed and eventually stopped.
This is it, Ava thought This is the killer…be on your guard. Be ready to fight.
“Are you Ava Gold?” the man asked. His voice was charming, almost sweet.
Ava slowly reached into her purse for the Model 10. The man apparently did not see this. He kept walking closer, closing the distance to less than five feet now.
“I am. What is it to you?”
“Nothing, I just—”
He came at her then, the hand coming out of his coat. Ava pulled the pistol from her purse, only to have the barrel snag on the inside. By the time she freed it, the man had struck her. His shoulder went hard into her chest, spinning her against the building behind her. As her back struck the wall, she raised the Model 10 and fired. She instantly heard the sound of a ricochet, indicating she had somehow missed the man from this close up—likely because when he’d struck her, he’d gone low. For what, she wasn’t sure, but she could feel him trying to drag her down to the ground.
The man wasn’t especially strong, but there was as urgency to his movements. It almost seemed like he knew he didn’t have long. Or maybe he had not been expecting the sort of defense she had managed to dish out to this point—and certainly not the presence of gun.
She could not get a good enough angle to reposition the gun, so she settled for a left-handed upper cut. She was not strong at all in her left arm but when her fist clipped the man’s chin, there was enough force behind it to make him stumble back. When he fell on his backside, Ava noticed another figure coming down the alleyway. This one was coming from the street. There was just enough light from the streetlamps reaching this figure for her to see that it was Frank Wimbly. Behind him, Frances also came bounding into the alley.
At about the same time the man started to get up from the ground, Frank was there. He shoved the man hard against the wall and pulled out a set of handcuffs with lightning speed. Ava grabbed the man, spun him around, and slammed him back into the wall for Frank to get a better position to cuff him.
“William Gault,” Frank said, “you’re under arrest for the murders of three women, the attempted murder of a fourth, as well as the murder of your mother.”
“Mother?” the man asked, incredulous. “You daffy copper, what the blue hell are you talking about?”
“Save it, Gault,” Ava said as Frank spun him back around to face them. “You’ve been—”
She saw the man’s face and her heart sank. “Damn,” she said.
“What is it, Gold?” Frank asked.
“Ava?” Frances asked, stepping behind her.
“It’s not him,” Ava said. “This isn’t William Gault.”
Frank eyed the man ha
rd and then uttered his own curse. He shoved the man back against the wall again in frustration. “You’re right. What the hell is going on?”
“Who the hell is William Gault?” the man asked.
“Who are you?” Frank asked.
“Like I’m gonna tell you,” the man said. He then spat into Frank’s face.
Before Frank could retaliate, Ava did it for him. She went to work on the man’s midsection like it was a punching bag. Three quick sharp hooks that doubled him over. She then righted him and delivered a jab to his face that sent him rocking back against the wall yet again.
“Hey!” the man screamed. “You can’t do that!”
“You attempted to attack a female officer,” she said. “We can do worse if we want.”
She drew back her fist to prove her point, but Frances stepped between her and the attacker.
“Hold on,” Frances said. “You’re both sure this isn’t Gault?”
“Positive,” Frank said.
“There’s a photograph of Gault in his records from the asylum. This looks nothing like him. Which brings us back to the question…” Ava reared back to punch him again. “Who are you?”
The man cowered against the wall, flinching out of fear of the punch. “Little Johnny Jones!”
“Who?” Ava asked.
“Ah, hell,” Frank said. Turning to Ava, he said, “Little Johnny Jones. An accomplice of our friend Tony Two. Another mobster. Coming to put a scare into you, I bet. Trying to send a message for takin’ in Tony.”
