Ten Days in August (3 page)

“How should I know, Hank? I'm just a hollow-headed woman. No one tells me anything.”

“Oh, come now. Bitterness doesn't suit you.”

She sighed. “Jonathan and I dined with Mr. and Mrs. Beekman last night. Mrs. Beekman implied Mrs. Astor herself would grace us with her presence, but alas, we continue to be beneath her notice.”

Hank gazed at Amelia, from the curls atop her head to the delicate jewelry at her neck and wrists, to the intricate pattern of embroidery on the bodice of her gown, to the satin slippers peeking out from under her skirts. It was a marvel to him that Amelia had triumphed over their childhood as kids in Greenwich Village. They hadn't been poor, not like the immigrants in the tenements in his precinct, but they hadn't been rich, either. Both of their fathers had worked in factories off Washington Square Park before and after the War, and both had lost their jobs as factories moved to Brooklyn and other places outside of the city. Hank's mother had been a seamstress, and she'd worked her fingers to the bone to support them while his father had struggled to find work. Amelia's family hadn't fared much better.

That Amelia had caught the eye of Jonathan Cooper while out for a walk in Central Park one day would probably never cease to amaze Hank. That Jonathan Cooper, who had made his fortune in steel and dabbled in architecture, had fallen for a girl like Amelia would never cease to amaze New York's elite, who had been reluctant to adopt her as one of their own at first. Some rationalized Cooper's actions as being those of a New Money man unused to having to conform to society's rules and so allowed a few eccentricities. By all accounts, Amelia had charmed the stockings off nearly everyone she met, though, so society quickly forgot the scandal. And now Amelia was this finely appointed creature who no longer had to worry about money and instead worried about whether or not she'd be invited to Mrs. Astor's next ball.

“What is really troubling you?” she asked. “You would not have come uptown just to put forward the idea your murderer might move in one of my circles.”

Hank met her gaze. “Honestly, this case is getting to me.”

“How so?”

“I'm not sure. Perhaps because the body was discovered at . . .” He trailed off, wondering if he should elaborate.

But, of course, Amelia was his oldest friend and she knew him better than he knew himself sometimes. “Do not be concerned with my delicate sensibilities. Tell me plain. What concerns you about the case?”

He let out a breath. “The victim was a working boy at a resort where men go to find the companionship of other men.”

“Ah,” she said. She lifted her skirts slightly and walked across the room to a side table where a bottle of whiskey sat proudly. She picked up a snifter and filled it with two fingers before handing it to Hank. Then she did the same for herself. Hank watched her take a sip and savor it on her tongue before swallowing. He mirrored her, letting the rich flavor fill his nostrils before he swallowed. It burned nicely on the way down. “So you're worried men of a certain type are being targeted? Has there been more than one murder?”

“I spent the afternoon studying the file for another murder committed a couple of months ago. I do believe the crimes are related.”

“Dead working boys both?”

“Yes.”

“Could be a coincidence.”

“Which occurred to me.” Hank sipped his whiskey.

“But you don't think it is.”

“No. But I can't prove it yet. I will, but I don't have enough evidence. There's something else, though.”

Amelia took a step toward him. “What is it?”

“Commissioner Roosevelt has been stamping out corruption, as you know.” Hank used a mocking tone, hoping to convey what he thought of this endeavor. Amelia smiled faintly. Hank went on, “There are too many unknown outcomes. Perhaps I'll be left to find the murderer and be hailed a hero, but I doubt there is much heroism in finding the killer of a prostitute, particularly a male one. If anything, the murderer will be praised. Roosevelt may decide this resort is too depraved to be allowed to continue its existence and will shut it down, giving men like the victim one less place to go.”

“Men like yourself, too.”

Hank's heart pounded as he contemplated this possibility. “Yes, although I have not indulged in quite some time.”

“Since Roosevelt took over as president of the police commission.”

“Never let it be said you are hollow-headed. But really only since this damned appointment to Acting Inspector. One of these days, they're either going to fire me or officially promote me to a position in which more eyes will be on me all the time.”

Amelia nodded. “This crime bothers you because it involves men like you, and you're worried investigating it further will put you into some places that will garner the attention of one blustery, mustachioed police commissioner, and therefore you are afraid to investigate lest it end your career even as your greatest desire is to find this killer. Have I got the right of it?”

“You could be Watson to my Holmes.”

She grinned. “Try not to worry too much, Hank dearest. I believe things will turn out for the best in the end.”

“I can only wish I had your faith.”

“Well, in the meantime, you might want to practice your soapbox speeches, because the promotion is a bit of a political one, is it not?”

Hank felt grim about the prospect. “Indeed. I'd have some discretion over which cases I pursue, at least, but it is a much higher-profile position.”

“You'll be fine. I've never met a smarter man. Aside from Jonathan, of course. That is, you are both intelligent, but in different ways.” She laughed and put her glass down. “Jonathan would, of course, excel at a position in which he had to give speeches. You, perhaps not, but I feel certain you will make the most of the opportunity.”

“Or I'll get myself fired.”

“Such an optimist.” She approached him and took the snifter from his hand. “Please do stop by more often and talk to me if you need any help. You know I am always available to you.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it. I should probably go now, though, and let you attend whatever business you have with your husband.”

She waved her hand as she put the whiskey snifters on a side table, presumably to be collected by a servant. “Oh, it is just Jonathan's horrid friend Mr. Knight. He brought him home with him from the club this afternoon and now they are laughing together like old friends. Would you like to meet Mr. Knight?”

“Would I? Not if he's horrid.”

Amelia clucked her tongue. Hank extended his arm to escort her and she tucked a hand into his elbow. “He has an unfortunate habit of commenting on my fair bosom whenever Jonathan is out of the room. I don't care for it. I mentioned it to Jonathan, but he laughed it off, calling Mr. Knight an eccentric.”

“Men.”

“Indeed. I'll let you make your own judgments before you depart for the evening. They're in the parlor down the hall.”

Hank walked Amelia down the hall and entered a grandiosely decorated sitting room. Jonathan Cooper, who was thin and neat with wire-framed glasses sitting at the end of his nose, sat primly in a lushly upholstered chair. The other man in the room was burlier, with curly dark hair and a broad chest. He had a body that seemed better suited to cutting down trees than to being a captain of industry, as Hank assumed he was if he sat in Jonathan's parlor.

“Oh, Amelia, there you are. And Mr. Brandt,” Jonathan said. “Nice to see you.”

“Likewise,” said Hank. He meant it; he'd always liked Jonathan.

Jonathan motioned toward the burly man. “Allow me to introduce you to Brigham Knight. He's an up-and-coming architect with Daniel Burnham's firm.”

“A pleasure,” said Hank.

“Mr. Brandt is a police inspector,” said Jonathan.

“Are you?” said Knight, practically oozing with condescension.

Hank kept himself from rolling his eyes. He knew the moneyed residents of upper Fifth Avenue had little time for such vulgar professions as police work.

“Mr. Brandt is also a very dear friend of mine,” Amelia cut in, sounding a bit defensive.

Hoping to diffuse the tension, Hank said, “I take it your acquaintance with Mr. Cooper is borne of your architectural background. I hope we have not intruded on a business discussion.”

“Not at all,” said Jonathan. “Although Mr. Knight does have some revolutionary ideas.”

“We were discussing skyscrapers,” Knight said. “Wave of the future.”

“Skyscrapers?” said Hank.

“We live on an island with a finite amount of space. When we run out of space in which to build out, we must build up! Steel is the key, Mr. Brandt. It is the only material strong enough to support a sky-high building. The newspaper offices on Park Row are just the beginning.”

“Now you've uncorked him,” Amelia murmured.

“The firm has its eye on a plot of land near Madison Square. The owner won't sell, but I have a vision of an efficient office tower, rising up above the squat buildings below, with a view as far as the eye can see from the upper floors.”

“Where is there left to build near Madison Square?” Hank asked.

“I want to tear down the electric signs on the flatiron-shaped piece of land across from the square, right at Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Imagine a building there, how majestic it would look.”

“That little sliver?” said Hank. “It's barely wide enough to stand on. You want to put a building there?”

Knight stood tall and laughed, his voice booming. “I like the challenge of it.”

“All right. You don't think—”

Amelia grabbed Hank's arm and pulled him back. “Well, Mr. Brandt was just leaving. He merely stopped by to give me a bit of news about one of our childhood pals.”

“Oh. Yes,” said Hank. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Knight. Nice to see you again, Jonathan.”

Amelia practically pulled him from the room. Graves waited by the door and handed Hank his hat as they arrived.

“I'll not have you starting fights with my guests,” Amelia said.

“I apologize. You're right, though. He is horrid. Of all the cockamamie ideas, a skyscraper!” Hank glanced back toward the parlor. “How tall do you think you could build a building before it toppled over?”

“I imagine that is something Mr. Knight wishes to discover for himself. Perhaps we should not ruin the surprise.”

Hank was reluctant to leave the livable warmth of the Coopers' house for the boiling streets outside, but he donned his hat and bowed to Amelia. Perhaps it would not be so bad now the sun was setting. “Thank you for whatever help you could provide.”

“Do update me when you find your criminal.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and do not forget about the charity ball next week!”

Hank suppressed a groan. “The charity ball?”

“Yes, dearest. I realize the mail has not been the most reliable of late, but surely you've received your engraved invitation by now.” She raised an eyebrow and there was a gleam in her eye, which Hank found a little alarming.

“I have no business at a charity ball.”

“Nonsense. You are my friend. Wear your best suit and you will blend right in. Besides, it is a noble cause. We are raising money to help the children suffering downtown. Think of the children, Hank.”

Hank wished for a hasty departure now. He couldn't think of anything less enjoyable than a charity ball where he'd be forced to hobnob with New York's elite. “I will consider it.” He stepped through the door. “Goodnight, Amelia.”

“Sweet dreams, Hank.”

 

As the sun set on a day that had brought nothing but misery, Nicky sat in his dressing room and rouged his cheeks.

He'd thought about Inspector Brandt quite a bit as the day wore on. Brandt had a ruggedness about him Nicky found appealing. He could practically hear Julie or Charlie joking about his fondness for rough trade, but there was more than that to Brandt, something real.

Not that it mattered. Nicky intended never to see him again. It wouldn't be much of a challenge, give that it seemed likely the police wouldn't bother to try to solve the mystery of poor Edward's death.

By some miracle, Julie had acquired enough ice to put in front of fans so cool air blew around the ballroom, but back here in the dressing rooms, the performers' makeup dripped off as soon as they applied it. Nicky stared at his assembled melted cosmetics, feeling frustrated; singing and dancing were about the last things he wanted to do tonight. Edward was dead, the heat was oppressive, and any joy Nicky had for performing tonight was only for his paycheck.

Charlie knocked on the open dressing room door, so Nicky motioned him in. Charlie closed the door behind him. “I heard about Edward.”

“Yes.”

“Is it true you saw him?”

The mental image of Edward lying on the floor, covered in grime, mouth agape, blood pooling at his head, hit Nicky in the face. He wished he could push it aside, but he imagined it would be quite a while before he managed that feat. “I did.”

Charlie seemed to cotton on to the fact Nicky didn't want to talk about it; he nodded and sat at the table beside Nicky. He reached for the makeup and leaned toward the mirror to apply it. Charlie was about ten years too old to really be called a “boy,” so he painted his face to look younger. Nicky wasn't sure he was very convincing.

“Are you worried?” Charlie asked, his tone light, as if Edward's death were an idle concern.

“I don't know.”