Brooklyn on Fire (20 page)

“I hope I didn’t offend you in some way.”

“What offends me is this little cat and mouse game you’re playing, so let me end it. I don’t have people killed when they cross me. I don’t have to. I make their lives so miserable that they want to kill themselves.”

“I see.”

“It’s a fine distinction. In fact, I prefer they suffer for the rest of their lives rather than die and be relieved of their misery. That makes them an everyday reminder to others who might contemplate similar action.”

“The machinations of a mogul. Interesting.”

“Hopefully educational, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Huntington said as he began to rise, but Mary stopped him.

“So, using your premise, wouldn’t killing Patricia Cassidy and framing my brother for murder be a way of making me suffer for the rest of my life? That is, if you were angered by my actions. You couldn’t have been by theirs. You didn’t know them.”

He slowly sat down again. “You’re a bright woman, Miss Handley. Have you ever considered a career in business?”

“This is my business.”

“I mean real business: building industries, creating an empire. I can always use smart people.”

“It’s astonishing how quickly one can go from the enemy to the employed. In this case, it only took one little theory.”

“A sound theory, too, possibly even compelling, except for one crucial fact. I don’t commit murder or have people killed. I don’t have to.”

“It sounds plausible, but I am curious what your theory of the situation is.”

“I’m not a detective, Miss Handley.”

“Modesty, all of a sudden? I’m not asking you to hand me the killer, but you are obviously a great observer of human behavior or you wouldn’t be as successful as you are.” Mary thought that complimenting him seemed like a reasonable plan. She hoped his feeling of superiority would make him slip.

Huntington leaned forward. “If it were me, I’d try to find out who hired this actress to impersonate Emily in the first place. Whoever it was wanted to embarrass me, but why? I believe the word you detectives use is ‘motive.’ What was theirs?”

“That’s it?”

“What else do you want?”

“What you suggested might perfectly well solve your questions, but what about mine and my brother’s?”

“Isn’t it all a game of dominoes?”

The look on his face told Mary that he knew something, but as far as he was concerned, he was through. Huntington stood up.

“Well, this has been a perfectly nice little chat. Now I must tend to the others.”

Mary quickly rose. “It appears you’re aware of a connection between the two murders.”

“Only two? Why not three, four, or five?”

He was being flippant. Or maybe he wasn’t. Either way, he was good at keeping her off-balance. “This is no joking matter.”

“It couldn’t be,” he said. “I have no sense of humor.”

As he strolled toward the dining room, Mary asked, “I know you’ve planned some sort of retribution for me. If it isn’t my brother, what is it?”

“As luck would have it, your brother’s misfortune is my fortune: it has caused your family pain as your actions have done to mine, and it has tarnished your credibility. I no longer have to plot anything and can concentrate my efforts on more important matters. Good afternoon, Miss Handley.” And with that he disappeared into the dining room.

On her way back to Brooklyn, Mary kept reviewing her meeting with Huntington. He was a tough person to read. Was he trying to lead her astray or was he attempting to help? Why was he so cryptic in his supposed clues? More importantly, why in the world would he want to help her, a woman who, no matter how inadvertently, had put such stress on his family?

Mary had no absolute conclusions about Huntington. For the moment, she had decided to keep her knowledge of Archer’s being a bastard to herself, saving it for a time when she might need to use it as a device to combat Huntington or to squeeze information out of him. Right now, his involvement in Sean’s dilemma was ambiguous at best. She considered taking at face value his statement about Sean’s misfortune being his fortune. And it was very possible his suggestion that more murders were involved could be an attempt to send her off in more directions to make her agonize even further over her brother’s predicament. Or he may have done that for more personal reasons than just sport. Maybe he really did frame Sean.

In any case, Sean was her brother and she couldn’t afford to play a game of odds. She had to speak with him immediately about this. His life was at stake.

W
ILLIAM
G
AYNOR WAS
in Sean’s cell when Mary arrived. He had been advising him on how he should answer questions from District Attorney Ridgeway and other prosecutors. It was a simple approach and easy to follow: stay mute unless Gaynor was there.

“Technically, they shouldn’t deny you counsel,” Gaynor had said, “but it’s a gray area. One thing that isn’t gray though is the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution. Keep pleading that until they get sick of it and agree to send for me.”

Sean was sitting on his cot, his right leg nervously fidgeting up and down. “I’m afraid we’re too late on that. I’ve already made the mistake of talking to them.”

“What did you tell them?”

“What I told you—the truth.”

Gaynor was not pleased with this news, but there was no point in making Sean more nervous than he was. “Okay, well, don’t worry about it. From now on, that’s what you do.”

Mary was begrudgingly escorted by the same guard who’d been convinced of Sean’s guilt and who was unhappy that he now had high-priced counsel. He grunted his displeasure but didn’t speak as he opened the cell for Mary to enter, then slammed the door and left.

“Pleasant fellow. Sorry I’m late. I had to make my way through the reporters outside.” She quickly turned to Gaynor. “Don’t worry. I stayed completely mum.”

“Thanks for getting me a lawyer, sis, and congratulations.”

She looked at Gaynor again and he shrugged. “I thought he knew.”

“Which makes you happier: the engagement or getting Mother off your back?”

Mary laughed. “George is fabulous. I can’t wait for you two to spend time together. You’ll really like him.”

“I know I will.” Sean’s smile suddenly disappeared as he thought of Patti and as the reality of his situation settled back in, both filling him with sadness.

“Sean—”

“Don’t mind this, Mary,” he said as he turned away, his voice cracking. “It happens every once in a while.”

Mary’s instinct was to go to him, but Gaynor signaled her to give him a moment. It was strange, but she couldn’t help noting that Sean’s tragedy had made her feel closer to him than she had ever been. His masculine façade of having to be the big, superior brother had been stripped away, leaving him vulnerable and accessible.

It didn’t take long for Sean to gather himself. He turned back toward Mary and said, “I’m happy for you, sis. I really am.”

Mary needed to get back to business or both of them might fall apart, and that would do no good at all. “Well, you might not be,” she replied, “after you hear what I have to say.”

Mary told Sean and Gaynor about her meeting with Huntington. Gaynor sat pensively listening as Sean got angrier with every word. Finally, Sean exploded.

“That bastard killed Patti just to get back at you! What kind of ass—”

“It’s just a theory, Sean. He may have had nothing to do with it.”

Gaynor spoke softly, “But it may explain what happened earlier today.”

“What happened?”

“Judge Moore denied Sean bail.”

“That doesn’t make sense. He has no record, he’s a policeman, the evidence is circumstantial—”

“An influential man like Huntington can make that happen with one phone call. It’s also not uncommon when the prosecution really wants a conviction.”

Mary shook her head. “That means we have to examine every possibility. I need to know more about the murder case you were working on, Sean.”

“What does that have to do with Patti?”

“Possibly nothing, but Huntington alluded to other murders. He may have been trying to throw me off, but if it’s true, your case, just because it was your case, would probably have the greatest chance of having something to do with Patti’s death.”

Sean nodded solemnly, not saying a word. It would be some time before the mention of Patti’s death would stop having an effect on him. He took a moment to gather himself and then told Mary everything he remembered about Gabrielle Evans, the old lady who was murdered in her Clinton Hill house. He told her how messy the house was and how he had found the button, which seemed like a clue despite everyone’s doubts. He also mentioned how he had discovered which coat that button would fit and had gotten a list of local stores that carried it.

“I went on my day off every week, first to stores and then to interview the people who bought the coat. Sometimes Patti would go with me, and we’d make a day out of it.”

“Patti went with you?”

“Sometimes. Then we’d picnic in the park. She loved doing that.”

Sean started to drift off again, but Mary needed to keep him focused. “Where’s the button and the list, Sean?”

“It’s in the top drawer of my dresser. I put them under my socks. I visited all the names with the exception of the last four and hadn’t found anything yet. I thought I was onto something but maybe it was just wishful thinking.”

The guard appeared outside the cell. “Okay, Handley, time to go.”

Mary looked at him. “You can’t force me to leave.”

“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to your killer brother. This is just a holding cell. We’re moving him to the Raymond Street Jail.”

The Raymond Street Jail was known as the Brooklyn Bastille for its deplorable conditions and the depravity of its inmates.

“You can’t do that. He hasn’t been convicted yet. And besides, the convicts there will tear him apart. He’s a policeman.”

“Not anymore.” He motioned to Sean. “Hands behind your back.”

Sean did as he was told, and the guard opened the cell. As he put handcuffs on Sean, Mary looked to Gaynor, who grabbed his attaché case.

“This stinks of sleazy politics. I’m going to find Judge Moore. If you don’t hear from me, Mary, I’ll meet you at your office in the morning.” And he was gone.

As the guard led Sean out of the cell, he looked at Mary, his desperation palpable. Mary watched as the guard walked him down the hall. Sean turned his head briefly, his voice pleading.

“You have to find the killer, Mary. Please find Patti’s killer.”

“Don’t worry, Sean. I’ll get him, whoever it is.”

Mary wasn’t sure Huntington was the culprit, and any number of people had that kind of political clout. Fighting the unknown was extremely frustrating. Mary ducked back into the empty cell. She didn’t want Sean to see her—his only hope—break down into tears.

I
T WAS ONLY
four thirty 
P.M.
and Superintendent Campbell was sneaking out of work early. As he stepped outside, he turned to his left and was soon taken aback by the sight of a very irate Mary marching down the street in his direction.

“What the hell is going on, Chief?”

“Mary, what—”

“They just transferred Sean to Raymond Street. You know perfectly well what will happen to him there!”

“I’m sorry to hear that. No one told me—”

“You’ve got to stop it. Do something, Chief. Please.”

“I’ll try, but Ridgeway is intent on making an example out of a policeman gone wrong.”

“In order for him to make an example, Sean has to be alive when they put him on trial, and he won’t be if he stays at Raymond Street. You know that and that ambitious bastard Ridgeway should know it, too.”

“You need to go home, Mary.”

“How can you suggest that? Sean could be dead by morning.”

“Mary—”

“You’re the superintendent of police. Can’t you do anything?”

“I will do everything I can, but you know who the real decision makers are. If any one of them sees you in this state, you’ll do Sean more harm than good.”

“I’ve got to do something. I can’t just…” Mary was frustrated and angry. Still, she saw the logic in his words and knew he was right. “Okay, Chief.”

Mary left as quickly as she had arrived. She was a detective, and even though Superintendent Campbell was her friend, she didn’t want him to see her cry, which was happening too frequently as of late.

A
NDREW
H
ASWELL
G
REEN
looked into the mirror above the dresser in his bedroom as he unsuccessfully tried to comb his hair with his left hand. He put down the comb and felt the plaster of Paris cast that ran from his fist to his elbow on his right arm. He had punched a wall, and the wall had won. Green had lived a life of restraint, refusing to let negative emotions like anger influence his actions. What had caused his uncharacteristic outburst was a second note, which he had found in his coat pocket after he’d been to the market.

The note read, “Back away from public life or your perversions will be revealed.”

Green was almost seventy years old and had never married. He had shared his house with former New York governor Samuel Tilden, another confirmed bachelor, until Tilden’s death in 1886. It was easy to arrive at conclusions about two confirmed bachelors living together, which made it almost impossible to avoid the truth. Green was gay. Nineteenth-century mores allowed for confirmed bachelors as long as they kept their sexual activity discreet. Now it appeared someone was threatening to raise Green’s profile.

Green’s body of work had always overridden any concern about his sex life. He had made substantial improvements in cleaning up New York City politics and helping the city grow both physically and culturally. It seemed a comical irony that at his age, when sex was virtually nonexistent in his life, someone was extorting him about it.

He was worried—not for himself but rather for what he still wanted to accomplish and couldn’t if these extortionists had their way. He felt the anger surge through him again.

Screw them,
he thought.
Let those bastards come at me.

He quickly gained control of himself. He had to avoid punching another wall.

F
RIDAY-NIGHT DINNER AT
the Handleys’ wasn’t the same. The absence of Sean and his awful situation made Mary wish for the old days when her mother would randomly attack her for no apparent reason. At least that would signal some semblance of normalcy.

Only the mild clanging sounds of forks and knives occasionally hitting plates could be heard as the three Handleys silently worked their way through their meal. Finally, Mary could take it no longer.

“Sean is going to be all right. I promise you both I’m going to find Patti’s true killer.”

“We know that, Mary,” Jeffrey replied. “It’s just that until then…it’s hard.”

Elizabeth didn’t acknowledge Mary’s proclamation. She kept attending to the business of eating her dinner without picking her head up.

“Mother, I
will
free him. You know I will.”

Elizabeth continued eating in silence, once again not reacting to Mary’s words. After a few moments, she put down her utensils, patted her mouth with her napkin, and turned to Mary.

“I appreciate your attempt to provide us with some comfort, Mary. I really do. But you need to have a look at it from our perspective. My unmarried daughter, whose experience is a drop in the ocean compared to the prosecutors gunning for my son, says she’s gonna work wonders. Pardon me if I don’t jump up and start callin’ for champagne.”

“I’m good at what I do.”

“I’m sure you think you are.”

“Why is it that you never believe in me?”

“Because you never do what a girl should do.”

“I see. And a girl’s supposed to clean the house, tend to children, and make Irish stew as she waits for her husband to come home.”

Elizabeth stood up. “Don’t you dare make a mockery of my life!”

Mary stood to face her. “Why not? You always make one of mine!”

It was now Jeffrey’s turn to stand. As he did, he also extended his hands out toward each of them with his palms up, indicating for them to stop. “That’s enough. Our problems are big enough without you two going head-to-head!”

“This is entirely your fault, Jeffrey. I told you not to coddle the girl, but ever since she was a baby—”

“You’re right. I’m guilty of loving my daughter. Please forgive me.”

“I love her too, but children need direction. Look what you did with all those books. She’s almost twenty-six and an old maid, for God’s sake!”

Mary shook her head in amazement. “So, once again that’s the crux of the matter, what everything always boils down to: my not being married.”

“Family and children, they’re the most important thing in life for a woman. If you don’t have that, you have nothing.”

“Then rest easy, Mother. I have something.” Mary realized this was as good a time as any to reveal her good news.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What you’ve been nagging me about for years. I’m engaged.”

“Stop it, Mary! I hate it when you fool with me like that.”

“I’m not fooling with you. George Vanderbilt and I are engaged.”

Elizabeth paused for a few seconds, taking it in.

Jeffrey immediately ran over to hug her. “Mary, darling, that’s wonderful! Congratulations!”

Elizabeth stayed put and emitted an emphatic, “Hah!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Rich men like that make a habit of promising poor girls the world in order to take advantage of them. I hope you didn’t let him touch you.”

“Elizabeth!” Jeffrey quickly jumped in. “What kind of thing is that to say?”

“It’s the truth. That’s what everyone in this house always avoids, except for me. If he wanted to marry Mary so badly, he’d have given her a ring. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

“Really, Mother, is that the truth?” Mary opened her pocketbook, pulled out the ring box George had given her, and opened it. “Is this the kind of ring you had in mind?”

Elizabeth gasped, unable to speak. Jeffrey bent down to get a closer look.

“That’s worth more money than I’d make in two lifetimes.”

Confused, overwhelmed, Elizabeth managed to get out, “Why isn’t it on your finger?”

“George and I haven’t found time to get it sized yet.”

“It’s…it’s exquisite.”

As Mary put the ring and ring box back in her pocketbook, she said, “I’m glad you like it, Mother, because when I’m home making up the wedding list, that might help you get an invite. Right now I’m on the fence about you.”

As Mary stormed out of the house, something she was all too used to doing, Elizabeth called to her. “You shouldn’t keep a ring like that in your pocketbook. It isn’t safe.” But before Elizabeth could finish, the door had slammed.

Elizabeth and Jeffrey slowly sat down, absorbing what had just transpired. After a while, Elizabeth turned to Jeffrey.

“Our daughter’s engaged,” she said, still somewhat in shock. Then, with even more incredulity, she continued: “To a Vanderbilt.”

She looked at Jeffrey. They rarely imbibed, but he got out a bottle of scotch and poured them each a drink. They downed the scotch in a silent toast as if speaking it out loud would jinx it. Then they reached out and squeezed each other’s hands tightly, trying to revel in the good news and ward off the bad.