A Barricade in Hell (3 page)

Another thing went on Gabe's list of things he wanted to know. Discovering the fastest ways in and out of this tangle of homes and shops might give them an idea of which route the murderer used to escape, and who might have seen.

“Captain, do you want me to leave the car right in front with the squad cars? It's pretty crowded up ahead and I'd have to block traffic.” Marshall glanced over his shoulder and back to the road. “Otherwise, I'll get you as close as I can and we can walk.”

“Do what you can without blocking the entire street.” Gabe slicked his hair back and put on his battered fedora. “I'm not the chief. Walking won't kill me.”

They parked four doors down from the druggist's shop, blocking the entrance to a narrow lane that ran between a butcher and a milliner's shop. This lane was only five small brick cottages long, the hedges between their minuscule front gardens frost-burned and winter brown. Marshall came round the car and opened Gabe's door. Lace curtains twitched on the front window of the cottage closest to where they'd parked, confirming his opinion of the neighborhood's watchfulness.

“Go on ahead, Marshall. I'll catch up.” The lanky young patrolman set off at a brisk walk to carry out his orders and find Jack. Gabe got out more slowly, using the time it took to rebutton his overcoat to stand on the sidewalk and look around.

Men from his squad had formed a line to keep curious civilians away, blocking the sidewalk on either side of the druggist shop. A few officers were still mounted on the tall, brown Morgan horses they rode on patrol, using the advantage of height to keep an eye on the crowd. Parked police cars barricaded the curb and spilled into the middle of the road. More well-dressed people gathered on the other side of the street, craning their necks and straining to catch a glimpse of what might be going on.

This was like other quiet neighborhoods he'd worked in, home to bankers and prosperous merchants, full of small storefronts that catered to their well-off clientele. He understood what drove the residents to discover why the police had arrived in force, disrupting their ordered lives. People needed to know if the block where they lived was still a safe place for their children to play or for their wives to walk after dark. Gabe could pick those men and women out of the milling crowd, read the concern and fear on their faces.

What he'd never understand was the desire some people felt to turn tragedy of any kind into a carnival. He could pick those faces out of the crowd as well: eyes too bright, smiles gleeful, expressions harboring no trace of nervousness or fear. Gabe saw those faces at every murder scene, at every raging fire. At times he got near enough to smell their excitement.

Those were the faces he studied and remembered, the faces that held joy where none should exist.

Jack waited for him at the foot of the druggist's steps, his ever-present moleskine notebook in one hand and a worn pencil in the other. His brown herringbone suit was well pressed, a common occurrence since he'd married Sadie and their housekeeper, Annie, took charge of his wardrobe. The plaid cap perched on top of his red-brown hair did a poor job of containing the unruly mess, but nothing had ever come close to taming Jack's tangle.

Gabe's partner looked calm and in charge of the investigation, directing officers to different tasks and taking brief reports of what they'd found before sending them off again. But Jack tapped his pencil against the edge of the notebook, a nervous, staccato rhythm that grew faster as soon as he spotted Gabe.

After being partners for twelve years, they knew each other's habits and signals. This was a warning. There was more going on here than Gabe knew, something worse than murder first thing on a Monday morning.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know what was worse than murder; not that he had the choice.

Gabe ignored the knot forming between his shoulders and kept the public mask he wore while working firmly in place. High-profile cases always drew the press sooner or later. The newspaper photographers with their Speed Graphic cameras mounted on tripods and the reporters scribbling notes were right up at the front of the crowd, positioned so they had a clear view. He and Jack were on display, their every expression scrutinized.

That reporters had beaten Gabe to the scene was another bad sign. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Tell me what you've found so far.”

“One victim, Bradley Wells, a twenty-six-year-old white male. The victim's wife called the Columbus Street station last evening. He didn't arrive home on time and didn't answer the telephone when she called the shop. Mrs. Wells got worried and asked the police to check on her husband.” Jack flipped through his notes. The tremor in his hands was slight, but Gabe saw. It gave lie to the flat, professional tone in his voice. “Captain Pearson sent two men from his squad out last night. They poked around the outside of the building, but didn't find anything suspicious or go inside. A second call came in this morning. This time the patrolmen broke down the back door.”

Gabe, was beginning to understand at least part of Jack's reaction. If the coroner's report came back that Wells had been alive when the first call came in, the newspapers wouldn't hold back. But he knew it took a lot more than fear of bad press to give Jack the jitters. “Where did they find the body?”

“Mr. Wells's body is in a storeroom. No windows, only one way in.” Jack snapped his notebook shut. “I thought you should see the scene before the coroner moved the body. Follow me, Captain, and I'll show you.”

He followed Jack up the steps, anxious to get out of public view. With his back to the cameras, Gabe muttered quietly so only Jack could hear. “Bradley Wells … I know that name from somewhere.”

“You should.” Jack held the pine-framed door open and shut it firmly again as soon as they got inside. The shade was pulled over the window in the center, closing them away from curious eyes and cameras. “Bradley Wells is—was—Commissioner Lindsey's son-in-law. He married Adele Lindsey three years ago.”

Gabe wiped a hand across his mouth. “Christ Almighty. The second phone call this morning came from Lindsey.”

“You got it on the first try. I knew you made captain for a reason.” Jack led the way toward the back of the shop, threading around upturned bins of penny candy and smashed apothecary jars, their contents splashed across polished oak floors. Footprints tracked through crushed peppermints and spilled white powder, spreading it further. “He called Pearson personally and got him out of bed. Lindsey ordered him to get some men over here to break down the door. I gather from the chief that threats were involved.”

Gabe stopped at the back counter, trailing a finger through swirls and drifts of black fingerprint powder. The register stood open; all the money was still inside. He brushed the powder from his hand. “Since Pearson and his men aren't here, I'd say Lindsey's threats didn't work.”

“Pearson didn't get around to sending any of his men out until after he'd had breakfast. He's had it in for the commissioner since Lindsey leaked details of a case. When Lindsey found out, he went straight to the mayor. The chief didn't have much choice but to suspend Pearson.” Jack pulled back a bead curtain hanging over a doorway and waved Gabe through. “And that, Captain Ryan, is how we ended up drawing the short straw.”

The back room was L-shaped, with an empty, narrow passage that ran from the doorway and turned a corner into a deeper, wider room. If anything, the mess here was much worse than out front. Broad wooden shelves against the back wall had been stripped bare, everything on them flung to the floor. Jars, crocks, and canisters lay abandoned, whatever they might have contained carted away.

Traces of chalky powder smudged the floor and trailed back the way they'd come, but Gabe couldn't tell if his men had tracked it in on their shoes or if the dusting of white had been there all along. Shards of broken glass crunched underfoot. Tiny slivers caught in the dark crevices between floorboards glittered under the single bulb dangling from the ceiling.

Bradley Wells's body was spread-eagled atop a long yellowed-pine worktable in the center of the room. A heavy white cloth trimmed in gold and black braid covered him from shoulders to knees. Lengths of rope looped his chest under the fabric, ends tied to the table legs. His shirt and shoes were missing, but Wells still wore socks and trousers.

Baker had set up his camera to take pictures of the body. Gabe circled around behind the camera to avoid being blinded by the magnesium flash going off. Each burst of harsh light revealed details obscured by the dim overhead bulb: Wells's peaceful expression, the outline of his hands folded and lying on his chest under the fabric shroud, the way one leg was pulled up slightly, knee bent; the gaping slash across Wells's throat.

What he saw didn't make sense.

Patrolman Baker finished with his photographs and began packing his equipment away. Gabe moved closer to the table, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. “Baker, ask the coroner to wait outside until the lieutenant and I finish. And deliver those photos to my office as soon as they're ready.”

“Yes, sir.” Baker finished taking apart his tripod and snapped the case closed. He wiped sweat off his upper lip, staring at the body. “I've been on the force seven years and this is the strangest thing I've seen so far. Got any ideas about what happened, Captain?”

“Not a one.” Gabe grimaced. “Not yet, anyway. Go develop those pictures for me.”

Baker hurried away, leaving them alone with Wells's body. Jack walked the margins of the room, surveying the damage and nudging empty crocks with his foot. He made notes in his moleskine as he went. “Whatever the senior Mr. Wells kept in the back room was what the killers were after. They didn't leave anything behind.”

“We need a list of the medicines kept in this storeroom. I want a list of the customers he dispensed them to as well.” Gabe moved to stand at the head of the table. The victim's skin had the waxy sheen of death, his slightly parted lips unnaturally pale. “Some older druggists are still selling old-style patent medicines without a prescription. People will pay a lot to keep their habits secret, especially in a respectable neighborhood like this. Maybe someone found out and wanted a piece of the old man's business. Could be Bradley wasn't the one they expected to find.”

“That might explain the robbery, but not how he was murdered.” Jack whistled through his teeth. “The way Wells is laid out gives me the willies. Murderers don't usually drape their victims in an altar cloth.”

“I just want to cover all the angles, Jack. Ask the right questions.” Gabe lifted the edge of the cloth, examining Wells's hands. They were smooth and unblemished, with no scratches or marks to indicate a struggle. Bradley Wells hadn't put up a fight. He let the cloth drop back into place. “I'd really like to know if Wells was the intended victim or just got in the way. And between you and me, all this makes me nervous too. It reminds me of something Dora told me about. A ritual of some kind, but I can't remember what.”

“Show Dora the photographs if you think it will help. As long as you warn her first, she'll be all right. We might get a lead about who to look for.” Jack wiped a hand over a shelf and held it up. “Whoever did this was very careful to tidy up afterwards and not leave anything for us to find. One person couldn't have done this alone, not and handle Wells too.”

“The way he was murdered is all too tidy, if you ask me. I can't say the same for the mess they made of the storefront or the floor in here.” Gabe made a sweeping motion with his arm, taking in the empty shelves and Wells's body. “And you're right, there had to be at least two people involved, maybe more. Either they've been planning this for a long time or they've killed this way before. They knew exactly what they were doing.”

The cloth draping Wells's body was almost pristine, with only the tiniest flecks of rusty brown marring the surface. Gabe glanced at his partner and gestured toward the body. “The killers cut his throat. What happened to all the blood?”

“I asked the coroner that as soon as he arrived. Dr. Gometz said that there's a slim chance Wells was already dead before his throat was cut. Bleeding would be limited if his heart had stopped.” Jack scratched a few more notes. “But Gometz can't explain why there isn't any blood at all. No blood around the wound, no seeping, no blood pooling in the lower extremities or under the body—nothing. He refused to speculate until after he does an autopsy.”

Raised, angry voices came from the front of the store. The bead curtain hanging across the entrance to the back room clattered and banged against the wall. Heavy footsteps stomped on broken glass, and a deep, booming voice shouted Gabe's name. “Ryan! Where the hell are you?”

He exchanged looks with Jack. “Lindsey's here. That arrogant son of a bitch thinks he's going to supervise.”

Robert Lindsey loomed over almost everyone, man or woman. At six foot six, broad across the chest and broader still at the shoulder, he was an imposing figure and wasn't above using his size to intimidate people. But he'd also honed the art of politics to a fine edge. Lindsey learned early on in his career that being jolly and accommodating was the quickest way to impress those in power.

A former mayor was impressed enough to appoint Lindsey to a five-year term as commissioner of police, an administrative position that required no real experience or training. His appointment had been a huge mistake. Lindsey saw the police, from the chief down to the newest rookie walking a beat, as underlings to bully and use for his own political purposes. The present mayor, a former cop himself, longed for an excuse to fire Robert Lindsey.

Gabe intercepted Lindsey just before he turned the corner into the main storeroom. He put an arm out, blocking the way. “Commissioner, I have to ask that you wait outside. I can't allow a civilian inside a crime scene. This is an active investigation.”