Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
Suspension (33 page)
“I'll see to it, sir.”
“Good man, Braddock,” Byrnes said encouragingly. “Dismissed,” he added without turning, then watched Tom in the glass as he left.
Tom closed the door to Byrnes's office behind him. He walked through the rows of desks that filled the squad room, his eyes down, looking at the worn
maple floorboards. He wanted to go down to the holding cells but felt it was better to wait. He'd see who they were in good time, but curiosity gnawed at him like a maggot. Tom must have looked the way he felt. Chowder came over to his desk.
maple floorboards. He wanted to go down to the holding cells but felt it was better to wait. He'd see who they were in good time, but curiosity gnawed at him like a maggot. Tom must have looked the way he felt. Chowder came over to his desk.
“What's going on, Tommy? You look down. Byrnes giving you a hard time?”
“Nah. Byrnes is okay. He gave me a tip. Just not sure exactly what to do about it.”
“Ah, well, then, all will be revealed in time, don't you know. The priests 'ave been sayin' that for centuries. Any time they can't figure why God's doin what he's doin, they say that sort of rubbish: âIt's God's will, or the Lord works in mysterious ways' and such. My favorite is âGod has a bigger plan.'” Chowder chuckled with an ironic, almost bitter set to his mouth. “It's just their way of sayin' they don't know what the fuck is goin' on whilst appearin' to know the mind o' God. So, don't worry about not knowin' what to do, Tommy. When it comes right down to it, nobody does.”
“Very deep, Chowder. We really have to talk philosophy some time,” Braddock said sarcastically.
Just then Byrnes came out of his office, and the squad assembled for roll call and briefing. A half hour later they were all headed down to the cells for the rogues' gallery. It would have been the right thing for Coogan to have alerted Tom before arresting some of his own, but he supposed that was payback for Venkman and Finney. He'd have a talk with Coogan later and try to smooth things over.
Sure enough, when the “rogues” were trotted out, there were two of Tom's boys. One ran a small brothel. The other owned a bar, with the usual vices on the side. Hardly big fish. This was going to set Tom back maybe thirty to forty dollars a month each, about as much as the average man made in two weeks' time. It wasn't a big dent in Tom's collections but it was hurtful nonetheless.
“Fuckin' Coogan,” Tom muttered under his breath. At least he could offer some discreet assistance in getting them out a bit sooner, depending on which judge they went before. The two of them stared daggers at Tom. He couldn't blame them. Just yesterday afternoon he was drinking their beer and taking their money.
“Fuckin' Coffin too, that son of a bitch!”
Chowder nudged him. “Kettle on the boil, Tommy boy?” he whispered, while Byrnes droned on about crimes and criminals.
“Hmph. Was I that loud?” Tom asked sheepishly, looking around at the other detectives.
“Just a tad, laddy. What set you off?”
“Och, nothin', Chowder. Just an annoyance. I'll set it right by the end of the day.”
Chowder turned to appear to pay attention to the Chief, saying out of the corner of his mouth, “I'd expect nothin' less, Thomas.”
L
ebeau saw him first. Braddock was walking fast with the look of a predator. Tom's head swiveled side to side; his eyes were bright, even from this distance. Earl gave a whistle, and Matt turned to see Braddock striding up the bridge approach, just past the terminal.
ebeau saw him first. Braddock was walking fast with the look of a predator. Tom's head swiveled side to side; his eyes were bright, even from this distance. Earl gave a whistle, and Matt turned to see Braddock striding up the bridge approach, just past the terminal.
“He's got up a head of steam, Earl. Lookin' for somebody, seems like,” Matt observed, trying not to be too obvious. “Keep to the work, Earl. Let him come to us.” He put his head down. Earl just grunted and bent to his work. Matt moved within supporting distance. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Braddock loomed closer. He could feel those eyes fix on him. The head stopped swiveling, and he barreled straight for them. When Braddock blotted City Hall from his sight, Matt stood and glanced in his direction.
“Morning, boys,” Braddock said, but this time it sounded none too friendly.
“Mornin'.”
“Looking for that fella Watkins. Where can I find him?” Braddock asked brusquely.
“You're outta luck this mornin', Detective,” Earl said laconically. “Watkins di'n show today. What're you takin' an interest in him for?”
Braddock ignored Earl's question. “Where I can find him?” he asked with forced patience.
“You'd have to check at the bridge office,” Matt answered, shrugging. “Watkins moved lately. I ain't certain of the address. Might have it on file. Ask for Jacobs, he'll help.”
“Right. I'll need to talk to both of you later. Don't make me come looking for you,” Tom said in a tone that said he wasn't about to trifled with. He had no reason to suspect these two of anything, but they were friends of Watkins's, and Tom sure as hell suspected him.
“You know where to find us,” Matt said, matching Braddock's tone.
Braddock stared back hard at Emmons, weighing his answer and tone. “That I do,” he said finally. “By the way, you boys right- or left-handed?”
M
att and Earl stood watching as Tom walked up the span toward Brooklyn. “Couldn't have gone better if we'd wanted. Wonder why he's fixin' on
Watkins?” Earl said, scratching his head. They'd been lucky that it was Watkins that Braddock was after. The captain's plan was looking better and better. The timing of keeping Watkins out of work today seemed more than just luck.
att and Earl stood watching as Tom walked up the span toward Brooklyn. “Couldn't have gone better if we'd wanted. Wonder why he's fixin' on
Watkins?” Earl said, scratching his head. They'd been lucky that it was Watkins that Braddock was after. The captain's plan was looking better and better. The timing of keeping Watkins out of work today seemed more than just luck.
“And what the hell was that bout bein' right-handed?” Matt shrugged. They were both right-handed.
“Don't matter. We won't be seeing him again.” The satisfaction was clear in Matt's voice. They both grinned.
As Braddock rounded the New York tower, Earl said, “Best be goin'. Cover me with Hightower.” Earl trotted off to set the wheels in motion.
Tom could see the row of town houses on Columbia Heights. He'd have thought it ironic that in many ways his reaction to this walk out on the bridge was very much like Emily's. Moments before, striding away from Earl and Matt, he had been focused, intent on finding Watkins. Being out on the approach already, it seemed best to take the direct route straight across. Doubling back to the Fulton Ferry would have wasted twenty minutes, time Tom was in no mood to waste. Yet, as the span soared up and over the river, Tom found himself transported. As he looked back, the teeming city seemed suddenly small, inconsequential. Everything was small, everything except the looming towers. Their gothic arches left him craning and open-mouthed. He had a sudden urge to put his hand on the stones. They were only stones, but he wanted to feel them all the same. He sensed the weight, the tension, the harmony of the bridge. He grasped a suspender cable, surprised at its size. They looked so weblike and thin from down below, but it filled his hand, rigid, braided, and tense. The twisted steel rope vibrated almost imperceptibly, as if a harmonic thrummed through it, a sort of metallic, vibrating life-blood. Tom imagined he felt the pulse of the bridge. A broad grin spread across his face.
With a conscious effort, Tom shook off the spell. He had a job to do, and sightseeing had no part in it. Still, he let his eye be drawn up the cables. He watched some riggers wrapping marlin around suspenders and stays. He never fully appreciated how brave a thing it was to work in the cables. Sullivan glanced down at the stranger below. Patrick chuckled to himself and gave a little wave. Braddock smiled and waved back.
Tom's thoughts turned to Emily; he was amazed that the woman had seen this marvel through to completion. He didn't think he could have done what she hadâin fact, he knew it. He tried to imagine what it would be like to learn engineering from scratch, the math, the measurements, the mechanical drawings. What would it take to learn what she had and work side by side with the engineers? Picturing her, at lunch at the Astor House, he couldn't imagine she had done such a thing. He had heard it said that she was the real engineer of
the Brooklyn Bridge. Walking the span, the reality of that notion was hard to get his head around.
the Brooklyn Bridge. Walking the span, the reality of that notion was hard to get his head around.
By the time Tom walked into the bridge office, his mood had mellowed, but he was no less determined. He found Jacobs and, after a brief introduction, asked if he had a record of Watkins's address.
Bart Jacobs peered over his glasses, fixing his small, dark eyes on Braddock. “Has this Watkins fellow been involved in a police matter, Detective Braddock?” Weasel was doing his clerkish best and succeeding admirably.
“He's wanted for questioning” was all Tom said.
“He's a suspect, then, I take it? What was the crime, if I might ask?” Jacobs persisted, wanting to get all he could before sending Braddock to his fate.
“Murder, Mr. Jacobs. You may recall that one of your workers, a Terrence Bucklin, hasn't reported for work for a week past?”
“In fact I do,” Jacobs pointed a pencil at Braddock. “Used to be common when the caissons were being sunk. Could hardly keep track of them. Different story now. But yes, Bucklin was missed.”
Tom just nodded. “He was found murdered. Watkins may know something about it.”
“How ghastly!” Jacobs said, putting a hand over his mouth in shock. “Well, sir, we'll be happy to render what assistance we can. Let me look up that address for you. Watkins moved recently, as I recall,” Jacobs said while he thumbed through a record book.
A repulsive little man, Tom thought, though he couldn't say precisely why.
“Yes, here it is, 39 Cherry Street. A somewhat unsavory address. An appropriate domicile for an unsavory character, if I might be so bold,” Weasel said, smiling at Tom over the tops of his glasses.
“Yeah. Listen ⦠if you see Watkins, you are not to tell him I've been here. Got it? Don't try to detain him yourself, he may be armed. Just send for me. Here's my card.” Tom handed it over.
“You may rely on me, Detective.” Jacobs squinted at the card for a second and placed it in his vest pocket. “I certainly have no intention of trying to stop a murderer, heavens no! I know my limitations. I'm afraid that a pencil is my weapon of choice, Detective. Not a man of violence, you see.”
Braddock nodded, giving Jacobs a patronizing smile. Though the clerk didn't look to be a “man of violence,” as he put it, there was still something about those eyes. Braddock dismissed the thought and extended his hand to shake with the man. His hand gripped Tom's like a bundle of steel wire. Tom was surprised at its strength.
“Good-bye, Mr. Braddock.” An obsequious smile lifted Jacobs's lip. His teeth were none too good, Tom noticed.
The address Jacobs had given him was unsavory to say the least. In fact, it was one of the most notorious tenements in the city. Most called the place Gotham Court. Erected in 1850 as a model tenement, it soon became one of the worst examples of its kind. Two rows of back-to-back houses, five stories high, 234 feet deep and 34 feet wide, formed number 37-39 Cherry Street. Narrow alleys running the length of the buildings served as entryways. Somewhere near 500 people lived in those buildings, with no running water, no lighting, little ventilation, no toilets, no sewers, and only occasional garbage disposal. The infant mortality rate was one of the highest in the city. Cops made a point of not going there alone. Doing so could be very unhealthy.
Though he hated the loss of time, Tom made a detour once he was off the bridge. He hadn't even stopped to talk to Matt and Earl, wanting to make up for his earlier dawdle. He headed for the Second Precinct. Even though he knew that Cherry Street was out of their territory, he didn't want to go to the Fourth for backup. That was Coogan's precinct, and there was no one there he trusted enough for that. It didn't take long to find Sam. The desk sergeant told Tom he was making his rounds and gave Tom a good guess where he'd be. Tom could smell the chowder from half a block away, and sure enough, when he went in the door to Chowder's place, Sam was at a small table facing the door. He saw Tom come in, in midslurp.
“Hey, Sam, how's it goin'?” Tom said, flopping into a creaking chair.
“Mmph. Hot chowder. Join me?”
Tom checked his pocket watch. “Sure, I guess. Won't have another chance to eat for a while.”
“What's up? You're lookin' better,” Sam said, eyeing him over his soup spoon.
“Yeah, feeling okay. Listen, I've got to go up to Gotham Court. Need some backup.”
Sam looked up, interested. “Who're you after?”
“Man I think killed Bucklin.”
Sam's spoon stopped midway between bowl and lip.
“Really? Wouldn't mind taggin' along.” He sighed. “Got some horseshit to take care of, though. Captain's on top o' me. Reports and all. You know how it is.”
Tom shrugged. “What about Jaffey?”
Sam laughed. “Not enough you takin' a shot at him? Now you've got to give him some action too?”
“Something like that,” Tom said sheepishly. “You heard about our little misunderstanding. He takes getting shot at better than most. Besides, it was you told me he was all right, as I recall.”
Other books
The Domino Game by Greg Wilson
Beauty and the Reclusive Prince by Raye Morgan
Boswell's Bus Pass by Campbell, Stuart
El Gran Rey by Lloyd Alexander
Rolling in the Deep by Rebecca Rogers Maher
A Trick I Learned From Dead Men by Kitty Aldridge
Under a Georgia Moon: Georgia Moon Romance Book 1 by Cindy Roland Anderson
Waves of Reckoning (The Montclair Brothers) by Terri Marie
Hell on Heels by Anne Jolin
An Unforgotten Bet: (A Contemporary Romance) by Marcucci, Emily
