A Curtain Falls (17 page)

Mulvaney practically growled at me before he responded by pounding his fist on the desk. “You’re not to disturb Charles Frohman at home. You seem to misunderstand the extent of this man’s connections. He is on excellent terms with the mayor, the commissioner, the whole lot of them. They like the greenbacks his shows bring to this city.”

His frustration spent, he sank back in his chair. “The fact is,
they’ll have my job if I interfere too much where I’ve been told to leave well enough alone.”

Mulvaney and I were virtually alone at the precinct house. It was deserted this Saturday night, except for a lone patrolman downstairs at the main desk, well out of earshot.

I started pacing back and forth in front of his desk. “You see why I need to talk with him, though. If Frohman’s not involved, one of his employees may be. The murders are occurring at
his
theaters. And the control this killer exercises over his victims is not unlike how Frohman handles his actors.” I spun around to face Mulvaney. “Perhaps there’s a way for me to speak with Frohman informally, in a manner that leaves you out of it. Say, if I happened to cross paths with him at a party or theater event?”

The words were barely out of my mouth before he slapped his hand against the desk and burst out laughing, his exasperation momentarily forgotten. “You, Ziele? At a theater soiree? Since when have you ever been to an event like that?”

I chuckled myself, shaking my head. “You know perfectly well I haven’t. But there can always be a first, right?”

Still amused at the thought, he added, “It seems more up the alley of your sidekick professor. Where is he to night, anyway?”

“He took Isabella to the symphony.”

After dinner, they had rushed up to Carnegie Hall for a performance by the New York Philharmonic. Alistair kept season tickets, and apparently tonight’s program featured the Brandenburg Concerto, a favorite of Isabella’s.

“Hmmph. Well, in any event, he’d be more likely than you to wangle an invitation to a theater gathering.” His voice grew stern again at the end. “But I can’t see it working. You’ve got to give up on Frohman.”

“So the commissioner doesn’t actually want the case solved— he will risk scapegoating the wrong man?” I pivoted to face him again.

Mulvaney looked at me with a mixture of frustration and weariness. “Come,” he finally said. “Are you taking the train home? If you are, I’ll walk with you. I’m headed in the direction of Grand Central myself.”

I agreed, and it was only when we were outside and the glare of the streetlight illuminated his face that I noticed the deep lines of exhaustion that ran along his forehead. He reached up to button his trench coat a bit higher, though tonight’s weather was much milder than we’d experienced with yesterday’s brief snowfall.

We walked in silence for some blocks before he finally spoke.

“What is it they say, Ziele? Be careful what you wish for . . .” He sighed. “I’ve always wanted to be a precinct captain. But it can be a thankless job. Too many people with competing interests to balance.”

“Are you saying I’m now another interest you need to balance? You asked for my help, remember. This was your case, not mine.” I was curt as I reminded him of the fact.

“That’s not what I meant. . . . The commissioner, you see—” he started to say, but fell silent before he finished.

“The challenges are greater now, I know,” I said more gent ly. “But we’ve faced them at every level, you and I. Remember when we first started out? We were barely out of training and we discovered our supervising officer—”

“Was on the take?” He cut me off with a rueful expression. “I do. You almost confided in Elliott, only to find out he was involved, too.”

I fell into step along his long strides. “And that was at the height of Roo se velt’s reform efforts. He did a good deal as police commissioner to clean up corruption, but even he couldn’t entirely remake the way the force did business.”

Mulvaney grinned. “He put in the system that allowed you and me to join the force. That ought to count for something.”

Our current president, Teddy Roosevelt, had been New York City’s police commissioner in 1896, when Mulvaney and I had taken the entry exam required of all new patrolmen. We were lucky. Before Roosevelt, there had been only one route onto the force: through a patronage system that depended on bribery, recommendations from the well connected, or both.

Though no one among the passing crowds could possibly have overheard us, I lowered my voice before saying, “We decided then, you remember, that what mattered was the victims. We’d fight against any instance of corruption that interfered with their getting the justice they deserved. The rest wouldn’t matter.”

Mulvaney nodded sagely. “You called it a matter of picking the right battles. I remember.”

I set my jaw. “Well, I’m picking this one. Because we’ve got two victims— Annie Germaine and Eliza Downs— whose interests are at stake.”

Mulvaney pivoted to look me in the eye, and for a split second I thought he was going to erupt again. Instead, he gave me a resigned look. “Ziele, you would’ve made a helluva lawyer if you’d had the chance to finish college. I can’t argue with you.”

“So how can you justify protecting Frohman if there’s a chance he— or one of his underlings— is involved in the deaths
of these two women,” I said roughly. “The only acceptable answer is that you can’t.”

“Right now,” he said, his face white, “the most I can offer you is this: do what you must. And if you can do it while making no waves— and without my being the wiser— then it should be all right.”

We parted on those terms at Grand Central. And as I made my way to a bench opposite track 19, where my train was due in ten minutes’ time, I decided I’d done the right thing by not telling Mulvaney about Timothy Poe. I resolved to feel no guilt in keeping Timothy’s scandalous private life from Mulvaney for now. Had he known, he almost certainly would have rushed to rearrest the actor— if not from his own conviction that Poe was guilty, then from the certain knowledge that Poe was a scapegoat to please even the toughest of higher-ups.

And that would have done no one involved any good, least of all the two women whose deaths I was charged with investigating.

Twenty-five past nine o’clock. Knowing my train should by now have arrived on the track, I gathered my hat, worn brown satchel, and evening newspaper. Today’s headlines focused on various St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in the city, including the usual parade up Fifth Avenue. I was looking forward to reading lighter fare— a welcome respite from this murder investigation and the dark thoughts it bred.

I shoved the paper deep into my bag. I didn’t notice the man who stood just a few feet in front of me.

So his voice took me entirely by surprise when I heard it— though some half-forgotten memory allowed me to identify its
deep, husky baritone almost immediately, long before I looked up and my eyes confirmed it.

Two words were all it took.

Hello, son.

Grand Central Station

It had been more than ten years since I’d last seen him. There had been no goodbye. In fact, there had not been so much as a note. He’d left it to Nick Scarpetta— the owner of the gambling joint where my father had played his last hand— to inform my mother of his departure. Nicky was a gruff but good-hearted man of few words, and I’d never figured out how he’d managed to tell my mother the devastating news: not only had my father gambled away the last of their savings, but he’d left town with another woman.

Like most con artists, my father was gifted with words. And while he typically used his talent to facilitate his latest con game or extricate himself from a tough spot, I’d always thought he owed it to us to say a final goodbye. Of course, what ever he said
would have been a lie. Still, words might have helped my mother to better stomach the bitter truth.

He leaned against the edge of the bench, where a lamppost illuminated his unmistakable chiseled features. He looked good, as always, a reflection of his excellent taste in clothing. So, though his shoes were worn and in need of polish, his trousers were well tailored, and his coat— a fine, dark wool— had obviously been purchased on a day when he was feeling flush. And his face was one that women considered handsome: intelligent brown eyes, strong rugged features, and a ready, charming smile. He was taller than I, with a much broader frame. But now that I was older, I recognized his face as strikingly similar to my own— albeit without the charming smile and heavy lines of age.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

All I could manage to comprehend was how curious— how downright odd— it was to see him before me after so much time.

“Ah, Simon,” he said easily, flashing a wide smile. “Not even a hint of plea sure to see your old man? Don’t tell me you already knew I was back in town.” He coughed, drawing his handkerchief to his mouth in seeming embarrassment.

“I didn’t know,” I said coldly. But in a flash, I recalled all the times in recent days that I had felt someone was watching me, following me. I now assumed it had been he.

“Of course not.” He effortlessly slipped into the seat beside me and crossed his legs. Placing a finger against his chin, he seemed to be sizing me up.

“You look tired, Simon.” It was a pronouncement. “You work too hard. I’ve been watching you.”

I didn’t respond for a few moments.

“Why are you back?”

“Can’t a father want to see his son once in a while?” His tone was cajoling, his attention completely centered on me— and I was reminded of how, as a boy, he had always won my mother over after a night of heavy losses. Whenever he gave his complete attention to anyone, he managed to make that person feel prized, important. It could be intoxicating to the object of his attentions. But I knew it was a practiced form of flattery.

“Once in a while?” I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Try ten years.”

“Touché.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “My circumstances became untenable here, you understand. I owed a great deal to some rather unsavory people. I had a large price on my head.”

I leveled my gaze at him. “From my earliest memory, you were
always
indebted to loan sharks. You
always
had a price on your head. But you typically handled your problems by going to ground until you felt it was safe to come out of hiding. What was different, that last time? Was it the woman?”

Before he could answer, he was seized by a coughing fit that lasted a full minute. “Just a second, my boy. I could use some water,” he said apologetically.

I dutifully got up and procured him a glass from a vendor nearby, whose stand offered most sundry items the evening’s commuters might need, from mixed nuts to newspapers. By the time I returned with the water, a lady had joined our bench. She sat next to two oversized white hatboxes, studiously eating a sandwich.

After I managed to squeeze past her, by mutual agreement my father and I moved farther down the bench. He took a sip
from the glass and seemed to recover himself, then he resumed our conversation exactly where we’d left off.

“No, I didn’t leave New York because of a woman, Simon,” he said with a strange look. “I know you won’t be able to understand, but I needed a fresh start.”

“And Mother . . .” My words were cold as ice.

“Your mother was a fine woman,” he said firmly. “And don’t think that I’m unaware that she deserved better than the likes of me.”

“Well, there at least, we agree. But it didn’t stop you from choosing another. Are you still with her?”

“Not her, no.” He coughed.

“But you’re not alone,” I said sharply. He never had been.

He paused for a split second, then continued. “I heard your mother died last year.” He was uncharacteristically sober. “I’m sorry.”

“She was never the same after you left.”

“And you lost the girl, too.” He drummed his fingers together. “Beautiful young lady. What was her name?”

“Hannah.” My voice was dry, stiff.

“Of course, of course.” He tapped a finger against his temple and flashed another smile, assuming I’d understand. “I’m not getting younger, Simon. My mind isn’t what it was.”

But he had never remembered anything that didn’t concern him.

He was continuing to talk. “Charming girl, she was. Would’ve made you a great wife.” He coughed. “So many died that day. Still inconceivable to me that one burning steamship could cost so many lives. I heard about the Angers and the Felzkes—”

I cut him off. “Too many . . . far too many were lost that day.” Over a thousand people had died when the
General Slocum
steamship burned and sank, many of them friends and neighbors. I’d boarded one of the police rescue boats, the moment I’d heard. We’d rescued a handful. But I’d watched as scores of desperate people leaped to their deaths— some doomed by the faulty life preservers they wore, others by the fellow passengers who jumped too closely behind, knocking them unconscious in the water. Sometimes, when my mind played its worst tricks on me, I imagined I had seen Hannah herself take the final leap to her death. But most of the time, I succeeded in telling myself I was mistaken.

He coughed. “Simon, I can’t undo what’s been done. But I am here to make amends if I can.”