A Barricade in Hell (26 page)

But every man in the station knew Archie Baldwin was Jack's friend, and by this time they'd have passed around the story of Gabe and Jack yelling at each other. He pretended not to see them staring, acting as if this were any other case and that his heart wasn't pounding.

Closing his office door was a relief. He sat behind his desk, gesturing toward the guest chair. “Have a seat, Sal. I can send for coffee if you like.”

“No thanks. I have a social engagement in about an hour. One of my wife's charity fund-raiser dinners.” Rosen set his black doctor's bag on the floor and tossed his overcoat over the back of his chair. He unbuttoned his expensive-looking gray dinner jacket before taking a seat. “Drinking station house coffee might keep me awake all the way through the mayor's speech. This won't take long.”

Gabe leaned forward, hands steepled on the desk, acutely aware of how anxious he appeared. But he was anxious. He needed Sal to confirm his hunch. “Any surprises with your examination of Baldwin?”

“Only one. That he succeeded.” Sal stared at the floor, frowning, before looking back at Gabe. “Don't get me wrong, a really determined man will find a way to kill himself. But he was tied to the bars with knots done behind his head. Tying those knots so they'd hold his weight, or without falling and tipping the bedframe over before he'd finished looks damn hard. And if he was raving the way you said? That would make hanging himself that way twice as difficult.”

He cleared his throat and asked the obvious question. “You don't think he could have managed on his own?”

“I don't know, Gabe. Officially, I can't say it's impossible.” Sal shrugged and fussed with the crease in his trousers. “Unofficially? I can't rule out someone helping him along. I might know more once I do the autopsy.”

Gabe's heart thudded and quieted again. He'd known Baldwin hadn't committed suicide, but hearing Sal say it brought an odd sort of relief. A fresh onslaught of guilt followed almost immediately. Not letting Miss Fontaine know about Maddie Holmes had been the right decision; mentioning Archie Baldwin might have condemned him. He couldn't say one balanced out the other.

And on the heels of guilt came full-blown rage. Someone, maybe one of the men working in his station, had killed a prisoner under Gabe's protection. That one of his officers might have betrayed his trust was a sickening thought.

Gabe wanted that person found, to look him in the eye and make sure he'd never have the chance to hurt anyone again. Then he and Jack would find a way to lay the blame where it ultimately belonged, at the feet of Effie Fontaine.

For all of this they needed evidence. And if Archie's death showed him anything, they needed to be careful. His decision to follow his instincts and place guards on Sadie and the baby, as well as Delia and Isadora, had been the right choice.

“Fair enough, Sal. I'll wait for the autopsy.” Gabe leaned back in his creaky chair, already making a list of longtime members of the squad, men he was certain he could trust. “You said you were coming to see me.”

“I brought you a copy of the autopsy report for the girl who washed up under the pier. You asked me to tell you if her throat was cut.” Sal pulled out a large manila folder from his bag and passed it across the desk. “There was too much tissue damage for me to be able to tell for sure if her throat had been cut or not. But I can say for certain that blood loss was the probable cause of death. I don't think there was more than a cup or two of blood left in her entire body.”

Gabe flipped open the report, reading the typed sheets and Sal's neat, handwritten notes. His father had taught him that once was chance, twice a coincidence, but three times was a pattern. Three murders in a little over a month, corpses drained of blood, was definitely a pattern.

Where there were three, four would follow. He swallowed down the queasy feeling welling in the back of his throat. “I'm guessing that you didn't find anything to tell us who she was.”

“If you mean her name, no.” Sal stood, gathering up his overcoat and bag. “I can tell you she was in her late twenties or early thirties, well nourished, and that there was no evidence of serious illness. No scars, no birthmarks. She'd had at least one child in the past, so she might have been married at one time. Still might have been. She wasn't wearing a ring.”

“Thanks, Sal.” He pushed back his chair, coming round the desk to offer his hand. “How soon before you have the report on Baldwin?”

“Not for two or three days. My wife would never forgive me if I bowed out on her big night for work, especially after I swore nothing would keep me away. The
Examiner
promised a big write-up in tomorrow's paper. Pearl wants me in all the pictures too. She thinks it will be good for my career.” Sal gave him a wry smile. “That reminds me of the second thing I came to tell you. The press has been nosing around some of the boys from the morgue, asking questions about the Wells case. I thought you'd want to know that your name and Jack's have come up more than once.”

He wasn't surprised. Bradley Wells's murder had made front-page headlines for days. Murders in poor neighborhoods rarely got attention from the papers, but high-profile cases always saw a rash of editorials demanding the police find the killer quickly. The Wells's case wasn't any different.

Asking questions and digging for the next big story under those circumstances made sense. A half-decent reporter wouldn't need to look far to find more of Gabe and Jack's open cases.

A really good newspaper man might start making connections, just as he and Jack had. That worried Gabe. The number of victims tied directly or indirectly to Effie Fontaine was already too high. “Any reporter in particular?”

“A new kid over at the
Call
. Samuel Clemens Butler is his name.” Sal pulled a pasteboard card out of an inside pocket and passed it to Gabe. “Claims to be second cousin to
the
Samuel Clemens, but I don't know how seriously to take that. Butler left that card with the graveyard shift and made it known he'd like to meet you. He hasn't been in town long, but he's already starting to make a name for himself.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Gabe read the calling card and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “And if Butler shows up again, your staff can tell him I'm not in the habit of passing out information on my cases or discussing police business with reporters. Let me know if he gives you any trouble.”

“I will.” Sal gave him a long look. “Be straight with me, Gabe. Any particular reason you want to scare this kid away?”

“Keeping him alive is the only reason I need.” He stuffed his hands deep into his trouser pockets, hiding his clenched fists, and smiled. “Butler has no idea what he's stepping into. I'd like to keep it that way.”

“Your cases, your rules.” Sal opened the door. “I'll get my report to you as soon as possible.”

Gabe waited for a moment or two after Sal left before dropping heavily into his desk chair. He slid down in the seat and covered his face with his hands, craving darkness and quiet, even if just for a few minutes. No one could fault him for taking time to think.

And he needed to think, to breathe and sort through all he knew so far. He'd never figure out how to catch Fontaine without taking the time to lay the bits and pieces of information all out, building a trail that led back to her. The only way to get ahead of her was to backtrack.

Fontaine's connections to Amanda Poe, Baldwin, and Wells were all too clear. The link to Thad Harper and others missing from the neighborhoods near the docks was through the men who worked for her, but he'd be a fool to think she didn't know what was going on. Tying her to the murders in Chinatown or the bodies washing up under the docks was a problem, but Gabe knew that somehow, Effie Fontaine was responsible.

Not knowing her reasons bothered him a great deal. Gabe spent a long time trying to figure out why an advocate for peace and nonviolence would murder people. Money was a possible motive, but Fontaine claimed to have a benefactor and hadn't demanded money from the Poe estate or from Adele Wells. Thad Harper and the people living on the waterfront who'd vanished certainly didn't have any money.

No matter how he approached the subject of what Effie Fontaine might have to gain, he came up empty. Gabe rarely considered insanity alone as a motivation for crime. He considered it now.

A knock on his office door startled him. Gabe sat up abruptly, blinking his eyes against the bright glow of the desk lamp. He took a second to steady himself. “Come in.”

Sergeant Bailey stuck his head around the edge of the door. “Lieutenant Fitzgerald's on the phone, Captain. He's changed his mind about staying home tonight. He wanted to know if you'd pick him up on the way to Miss Bobet's house or if he should meet you there. The lieutenant's holding on the line for an answer.”

The fight with Jack had eaten at him, overshadowing all his thoughts about Effie Fontaine and their interwoven cases. Now some of the dread camping out in his chest vanished. He'd thought Jack would take longer to cool down and come to his senses, but he hadn't factored in Sadie's influence or her ability to make her husband see reason. Those who thought Sadie was flighty didn't know her well at all.

“Thank you, Sergeant. Tell the lieutenant I'll pick him up on the way.” Gabe checked to make sure his desk was locked. “And have a car brought around front, if you would.”

Bailey bobbed his head. “Yes, sir. Should I find Henderson to drive you?”

“Not tonight.” He grabbed his coat and fedora off the rack in the corner. If things were going well, Marshall Henderson was working his way into Eli Marsh's good graces. “I won't be coming back to the station tonight. I'll drive myself.”

Sergeant Bailey hurried back toward the front lobby. Out of habit, Gabe surveyed the office one last time. He reached for the chain to turn off the lamp and hesitated, thinking hard. Deciding.

He bent and unlocked the shallow top right-hand drawer of the desk, the drawer he almost never opened. Gabe lifted out the pistol and the shoulder holster resting inside, heart hammering loud in his ears. The pistol didn't show once he'd donned his suit jacket again.

Carrying a gun wasn't something he was used to or that felt natural. He'd needed a weapon once in all his years on the force, chasing down and apprehending the man who'd killed his father. The weight of the pistol dragged at his shoulder, the metal pressed against his side icy through his shirt. Ominous.

Second thoughts crowded in, but the cold shiver on the back of his neck was too strong to ignore. Gabe buttoned his jacket and left.

He could always put the gun back in the drawer tomorrow.

 

CHAPTER 17

Delia

I'd eaten enough supper to be polite, taking a small bite or two of everything before pushing my plate away. Isadora's cook—a stout Swedish woman named Ella—noticed my lack of appetite but did little more than frown. No doubt she was used to the way Dora picked at food and rarely ate.

Randy and Officer Russell both took seconds of roast beef, yams, and yeast rolls, and then thirds, alleviating some of my guilt. The two men ate large slices of chocolate cake as well. I didn't see how Ella could feel her efforts had been slighted after their show of enthusiasm.

We helped clear the supper dishes away and went back to the parlor. Dora took a pack of playing cards from a drawer, holding them up to Officer Russell. “You owe me a rematch and a chance to win back my two dollars, Thom. Five-card draw this time, I think.”

“If you insist, Miss Bobet.” Thom unbuttoned his uniform jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, grinning broadly. “Never let it be said I didn't give you a fair chance at getting even.”

Dora's lip stuck out in the pretty little pout that meant she was flirting, but wasn't at all serious. “Well, I've been practicing. Taking my money might not be quite so easy this time. Randy, Delia, would you like to play poker with us? It will be scads of fun, I promise. Gabe and Jack may not break free for hours.”

Her lightheartedness was all for show, a ruse designed to hide how deeply Archie's death had shaken her. Randy and Thom would never guess, but I saw right through her charade.

That didn't stop me from playing along. If Dora could put on a brave face, so could I. “I'd love to, but someone needs to mind the kitten and keep her inbounds. I'll cheer you on from the settee.”

My weak excuse earned a skeptical look and a raised eyebrow, but Dora didn't comment beyond that. She turned to Randy with a small, hopeful smile and laid a hand on his arm. “Please say you'll play.”

Randy Dodd blushed furiously, right up to the roots of his hair. “You'll have to teach me how. I've never played poker before.”

“Really … Never?” Dora's face lit up. “Poker's not at all difficult, I promise. You'll pick the game up in no time.”

Thom was already shuffling the cards, whistling cheerfully in anticipation. She hooked an arm though Randy's and walked him to the table. He was an innocent being led to the slaughter and I thought about warning him, but I trusted Dora not to let Thom go too far. Better Randy learn about losing at poker here and now, in the safety of Dora's parlor, than from some of the older men at the station.

And there was always the chance Randy Dodd possessed hidden depths of skill. He might surprise both Thom and Isadora.

I collected Mai from her basket and curled up on the settee with the kitten, starting at each gust of wind that rattled the windows. Imagining the long, low creaks and groans of roof timbers to be footsteps of the ghosts that had tormented Archie, come to confront me with my failures, was all too easy. That I knew real ghosts would never cross Dora's barriers didn't matter in the slightest. Guilt seldom respected boundaries.