In the Shadow of Gotham (36 page)

That was the last I really heard of what they were saying. Isabella was a diligent record keeper, and I had located some notes she must have jotted down this very morning. On one page, in her clear, rounded handwriting, I saw she had meticulously tabulated all moneys allocated to Alistair’s research from Dean Arnold’s discretionary fund. Funds supposedly earmarked for Michael Fromley’s case. Funds signed for and spent with forged signatures. Next to the list was a name—the Golden Dragon—one of Chinatown’s most notorious gambling joints.

There were hundreds of gambling houses throughout the city, but they were not created equal. When we had examined the recreational habits of first Michael Fromley and later Lonny Moore, names like the Bronze Door and the Fortune Club had surfaced. The former was a high-class gentleman’s establishment; the latter was a workingman’s entertainment hall. But the Golden Dragon was of another species entirely. Run by a man called Lou “the Bottler” Oaks, it was a gambling house of last resort,
patronized by only the most desperately addicted. Any vice—be it gambling, opium, prostitution—could be indulged at the Golden Dragon.

What set the Golden Dragon apart even from rough joints like Saulter’s was its credit system. Loan sharks were on hand, ready and willing to loan money on the spot so patrons might lose even more. A loan from the Golden Dragon came at a steep cost, and most customers who took advantage of it paid dearly, with interest rates so high a $100 loan quickly became a $1,000 debt. And anyone unfortunate enough to miss their installments would pay first with their limbs, then with their life. It certainly placed the large sums taken from Alistair’s funding in an understandable context. If Isabella had somehow figured out who had taken the money and why, then her discovery may have placed her in danger.

Yet—unless she’d questioned someone about the matter—how could anyone else have known of her recent discovery? She had wanted to speak with Alistair, presumably about what she had learned. Failing that, what had she done next?

The pit in my stomach deepened, and I looked at Alistair with trepidation. He had been less than forthright with me throughout this investigation and I did not wholly trust him. But I knew he would not risk Isabella.

“Isabella may be in grave danger,” I said. “It’s imperative for us to find her right away.”

“Why is she in danger? Ziele, this kind of talk is completely unhelpful if you cannot also tell us where to look!” Alistair was becoming overwrought with worry.

“Isabella wrote down a name, the Golden Dragon,” I said, going on to explain what that meant. “She didn’t dream it up; she found it somewhere in the papers she was examining.”

“Then let’s split up these papers and take a look,” Tom said.

But soon we had finished scanning through each stack to no avail.

“Whatever she found,” I said, “she must have taken it with her.” Agitated, I tapped my fingers on the desk.

Alistair was despondent. “That makes it almost impossible to figure out where she went.”

Tom did not complain, but he rubbed his forehead as though he had a terrible headache.

“There’s no reason to dwell on what we don’t know,” I said. “We need to focus on what we do know—and what we can find out. But I need you to think hard, Alistair. Stop panicking and think.”

I walked over to the blackboard that lined one wall of the small office, and I redrew my triangle showing Sarah Wingate, Michael Fromley, and the unknown killer. Under each name, I abbreviated everything we knew. For example, Sarah had discovered funds gone missing. Michael Fromley had frequented Mamie Durant’s as well as numerous gambling joints until he found himself blacklisted because of his behavior. For the killer, I wrote that he had access to Fromley. That he owed significant sums of money and likely had stolen from Alistair’s fund to cover his debts. That he had increasingly managed to threaten our own investigation and the well-being of those helping us. “What else?” I tapped the chalk against the board.

When Alistair said nothing, I pressed on. “You must focus more intently than you’ve ever done before. Think about everything you’ve learned because now you need to put it to use. This isn’t about understanding a criminal type who interests you. It’s not about tracking a killer after the fact. It’s about saving Isabella. She doesn’t have much time—if it’s not already too late.”

Alistair looked at me uncertainly and swallowed. “Our killer is unraveling.” His voice was rough, so he cleared his throat. “Each day, he grows more desperate and acts with increasing violence. Based on what you tell me about the Golden Dragon, and assuming Isabella was correct in identifying the killer’s connection to it, I would guess the killer suffers from an addiction, probably to opium. If his supply is exhausted—or he cannot gain access to the increasing amounts he needs to satisfy his craving—then he becomes increasingly agitated and desperate.”

“So his erratic, violent behavior may be the result of drug withdrawal, in addition to the pressure of our investigation?” I asked.

Alistair nodded.

“We can’t discount a gambling addiction, either,” I said, explaining why. People were less familiar with the symptoms of gambling addiction, but many were the same as symptoms of drug addiction: the restlessness and anxiety, sometimes so severe the person experienced sweats, chills, or both. The constant lying. The need to spend more and more money to support an increasing habit. For where once $1 or $10 bets satisfied, only $50 bets would do. I knew the symptoms well.

“Whoever this killer is,” I said, “he’s no longer trying to intimidate us through ten-dollar bribes and boxes of evidence. He killed Sarah Wingate. He just killed a witness to her murder. And he won’t hesitate to kill Isabella unless we can reach her and stop him.”

“What are the chances of that?” Alistair asked. He ran his hands over the taut lines on his face, looking suddenly old.

“No chance at all unless we try.” I waited. “He’s close to us. He’s been watching our every move. That means we’re close to him—even if we don’t know it.”

Alistair picked up a paper from Isabella’s stack of notes and reread it. As I looked over his shoulder, my mind began to race in multiple directions until it led me to a single promising idea. I grabbed the list of money sums Isabella had compiled and excused myself.

“Keep looking for anything that may help. I’ve got to make a telephone call,” I said, muttering the last words. I didn’t want their questions.

“Declan Mulvaney, please.” Impatient, I waited for my old partner to pick up. It seemed an eternity—but was probably only a few minutes—before I heard his familiar, reassuring voice on the other end of the line.

“Ziele, how are you, old boy?”

“I’ve been better,” I said, my voice strained. I explained the urgency of the situation before moving on to the purpose of my call. “Do you know the Golden Dragon?”

“The gambling den?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s one of the toughest gambling joints in the city.” Mulvaney didn’t mince words. “Why?”

“Do you have any influence over the owner? I need information.” I waited.

Mulvaney’s silence was long and studied.

It was an open secret that the police and the city’s gambling joints were partners in an unusual arrangement. When protection money was regularly paid to the governing police precinct, then the police ensured those gambling dens were not raided. As long as the payoffs arrived on time, the police would turn a blind eye to whatever illicit activity went on. But if the payoffs were late, then the house would be raided, trashed, and closed down.

“The place is up to date, Ziele,” he finally said. “If you could wait until next month’s payment is due, then I could try. But I’ve got nothing on them right now.”

“And no contacts?” I asked. I was desperate now. “Anyone with a good relationship who could ask them some questions?”

“They’re tough customers, Ziele. I can’t help you there.”

“How about some advice, then?” I asked, explaining my situation: that I needed to locate the name of a customer who had borrowed—and still owed—large sums of money. I didn’t know the customer himself. But thanks to Isabella’s careful comparison of Sarah’s notes with new evidence she had somehow discovered, I had the dates he had borrowed money and a list of amounts owed to the Golden Dragon.

“What about Nicky at the Fortune Club?” I took a deep breath after I said it. “Would he have the connections to get the man’s name?”

Mulvaney chortled. “Only you, Ziele, have the imagination to think of that—finding a man based on an amount of money. Only you.” Then he grew sober. “I think Nicky could do it. You’re right on that count.” There was a long silence. “If you go that route, you know what you’re risking, right?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I was on guard now.

“Nicky’s always taken care of you because of his deep regard”—he drew a breath—“the affection, even, he held for your mother.”

He waited for my reaction, but I gave him none. I was not unfamiliar with the rumors that had swirled around Nicky Scarpetta and my mother. But I had never dignified them by acknowledging them, and I would not do so now.

After a moment, he continued, saying, “Be careful, Ziele.
You deal with the devil, it’s only a matter of time before the devil wants his due.”

“Nicky is not the devil,” I said, objecting strongly to his characterization.

“No,” Mulvaney said, adding sagely, “but Nicky’s favors are not free. Not for most people. And when he wants payment, it won’t come cheap.”

“You think I should be concerned?” I asked, taking him more seriously now.

He thought a moment. “Yeah, I do. But then again, you want to save the girl, right? There are worse things you could do. You got scruples about this, maybe you ought to have been a rabbi or a priest. They’re the ones that get to have scruples in this life.” He considered what he had said. “And I’m not even sure about them.”

And so our conversation ended. I thanked him and replaced the telephone receiver on its hook.

I stared at it for another few seconds. Then I took a deep breath and picked up the receiver once again. “Four-seven-six Franklin,” I said to the operator—and waited for someone at Nicky Scarpetta’s Fortune Club to pick up the telephone.

I explained my plan to Alistair and Tom while I waited for Nicky to call back with the information I needed. He had agreed to follow through, just as I had expected. “Yeah,” he had said, “The Bottler owes me a favor. I got no problem calling it in.”

We waited in agonizing silence, but Nicky was quick to call back.

I picked up the phone, my anticipation high.

“I got the name for you,” Nicky said without delay.

“Who is it?” My heart seemed to be beating loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“Theodore Sinclair,” he said. “No doubt about it. Your dates and amounts made a perfect match.”

I sighed in exasperation. “It’s not his real name. Theodore Sinclair was the son of one of my colleagues. He’s been dead two years.”

Alistair, overhearing, dropped his head into his hands.

“Can you get me something more?” I asked Nicky. “Like a physical description, maybe the address where he lives? If this guy owes thousands of dollars, as the list I’ve seen suggests, then the Bottler’s men know exactly where to find him.”

We waited some more.

“It’s almost as if he’s out to destroy you, Alistair,” Tom said. “Whoever he is, he is stealing from your fund; assuming the name of your son; and taking your daughter-in-law. You really have no idea who he may be?” Tom was careful with his last question, but it needed to be asked.

“I—” Alistair was cut off by the telephone’s ring.

I answered it on the first ring. “Ziele here.”

“All right,” Nicky said, “I got the address and description. The description ain’t much help. Customer looks like half the fellas in this city. But you’ll get him from the address. You ready?”

“Go,” I said. I had a pencil in hand, and with Tom and Alistair watching eagerly, I first wrote the physical description: brown eyes/hair; medium, stocky build; square jaw; visible injuries.

Nicky explained, saying, “He got roughed up last week when he didn’t pay up.”

Then the address: I wrote down 508 West 112th Street, apartment 5B.

Thanking Nicky again, I hung up.

Alistair and I looked at each other. His face was ashen.

“You know who it is?” I asked.

But his ice-blue eyes reflected confusion. “I’m hoping I’m wrong.”

“We’ve got his address. Let’s go find out,” I said, my voice grim. Almost as an afterthought, I asked Tom, “Will you wait here in case she returns?”

“Wait a minute,” Tom said. “I still don’t understand. Who is it?”

Alistair looked away, then walked out of the small office, leaving it to me to answer Tom’s question.

“These words describe a lot of men in this city,” I said, tapping the piece of paper I carried. “I’m hoping my own suspicions are wrong.”

Alistair and I each kept our own counsel as we headed south on Amsterdam Avenue to 112th Street. My own mind filled with disparate images that, though once unconnected, now came together in rapid succession and assumed larger significance. The purple bruise he had suffered when I first met him. Our half glimpse of him in the Bowery, when we had convinced ourselves we were mistaken. His restlessness. His lies. His profuse sweating. These individual images, one by one, linked together until they formed a picture and I saw him whole.