The Letter Writer (25 page)

“I'm with you. I won't waver. But we need a way forward. Preferably one that will attract as little attention as possible.”

“I believe I may have found one. A means of finding our fourth German.”

“Gerhard Muntz?”

“I was able to ascertain that, of the four, he alone was from Bavaria. That told me he was far more likely to be Catholic than the others. And for the Catholics of this city, there is one place where the down-and-out—and, yes, those who are too frightened to show themselves by day—are known to gather during the day's smallest hours. A worker's mass, held especially for those with nocturnal employment. It takes place every Sunday at two thirty in the morning, at St. Andrew's, near Chambers Street. A location, I might add, that is quite convenient to the Bowery.”

“Sounds like a shot in the dark.”

“Be that as it may, I believe that this shot may have already struck the bull's-eye, if I use the idiom correctly.”

“You've found him?”

“An assistant rector, a contact of mine at St. Andrew's. He reports the recent and regular Sunday presence of a shy and lonely man who goes only by the name of Gerhard.”

“Our Gerhard?”

“Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. Monsignor Cashin, who presides at St. Andrew's, told my contact that he believes this Gerhard lives in a flophouse.”

“Then why not just check the flophouses? Starting tomorrow morning, if you want, when everyone's still asleep.”

“Do you have any idea what you are asking? Have you not been to the Bowery?”

“We're talking about, what, five or six places?”

Danziger threw up his hands, as if the number might be infinite.

“Dozens. Scores, even. From the top of my own head I can name at least eight. The Alabama, the Marathon, the Crystal, the Owl, the White House, the Grand Windsor, the Palace, the Newport. On and on, each with a clientele that pays by the night, moving on to some other bed if he feels the least bit threatened or uneasy, as our Gerhard certainly must. Seek him door to door and we shall only scare him deeper into hiding. We must wait for Sunday. Or, rather, for very late this Saturday night. We will attend the worker's mass.”

“And if he doesn't show?”

“Then we will try again the following Sunday.”

“By then he'll be dead. Or I'll be off the case. If I haven't been yanked already, once Hogan makes a few phone calls. Even if he shows, how will we recognize him?”

“The father, my contact, has promised to point him out. Gerhard always takes communion. The father will signal when he comes to the altar to receive the host.”

“Worth a try. I doubt even Mulhearn will care what I'm up to on a Saturday night.” Then he frowned. “Olivia. I can't just leave her.”

“Then you must plan for her safekeeping.”

“It'll be asking a lot of Eileen, but I guess she'll have to.”

“Make your arrangements, then, and meet me at the church at two thirty. I will arrive early, and sit near the front on the left.”

Danziger stood, wavered a bit, and took a moment to steady himself. Even with the shave and the nicer clothes, he once again looked old. This time his eyes were the giveaway—the blue now tinted by a somber grayness, a squint of effort. Then he turned and strolled off into the park, brushing his right hand against the marble memorial in passing.

By the time Cain got home it was nearly dark. Pete the night doorman informed him that Olivia and Eileen were again at the park. As he climbed the stairway he thought he smelled cigarette smoke, and he unlocked the door to see Linwood Archer seated by an open window with a huge revolver in his lap.

“Shut it slowly behind you and don't move,” Archer said.

“How'd you get in?”

“You've been ducking me, Cain. Figured a house call was in order.”

“Fine. I've got something for you.”

Cain reached inside his overcoat, which prompted Archer to raise the revolver until it was aimed at Cain's chest.

“No, no,” Archer said. “Take your hand out of the pocket nice and slow, and drop it to your side. We'll do this my way.”

Through the open window they could hear a neighbor's radio. Once again, the voice of Red Barber provided the play-by-play.

“Runners on the corners with nobody out. Newsom looks like a lost ball in tall grass out there on the mound.”

“Nice,” Archer said as he stood, his finger on the trigger. “Don't even need your own radio to hear the bums. But what if you're a Yankees fan? I hate the fucking Dodgers.” Reaching behind him with his free hand, Archer shut the window while keeping the gun trained on Cain's chest.

“That's better. Besides, wouldn't want to disturb your neighbors with any excessive noise.”

Cain took a slow step backwards toward the door.

“Hold your horses, Cain. Go into the kitchen and sit down.”

He did as he was asked, taking care not to make any sudden moves. Archer followed.

“What's this I hear about you paying the DA a visit this afternoon?”

News traveled fast, and through unlikely channels. Cain wondered if this was Gurfein's idea of a nasty joke.

“Hogan wanted to hear about a case,” Cain said. “Some con artist named Kannerman.”

“Not what I heard.”

“Yeah? Then what did you hear?”

“This and that.” He waggled the gun back and forth. Cain sensed Archer was bluffing, and was fishing for more information. “The commish doesn't like to learn about this kind of thing from a third party, Cain. It tells him that Hogan knows more about what's going on with your work than he does. How long you spend in his office?”

He was about to say that the meeting hadn't been in Hogan's office. Then he decided he liked the idea that Archer didn't have his facts straight. It meant there were probably other gaps in his knowledge, maybe even big ones.

“Not long. And you'll be pleased to know he was in a mood to help. He said pretty soon he might hand over all kinds of dirt on crooked cops in the fourteenth.”

“How soon is pretty soon?”

“What if I told you it doesn't matter?”

Archer narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you'll kindly let me reach inside my coat for a second, I'll show you.”

“Okay, but no funny business.”

Archer held the gun steady while Cain pulled out eleven arrest reports that he'd stolen that evening from the binders for March and April in the 95 Room. All were cases that had been checkmarked in the arrest record ledger for special handling. And, rather than just writing down the names and then waiting for the reports—and, thus, the evidence of the scheme—to disappear, he'd decided to steal the reports. The names listed on them showed which subjects had undue influence inside the precinct. In addition, the cops participating in the scheme had become so stupidly brazen that they'd left several attached notes, which included phone numbers listed for collection purposes. Cain was pleased to discover that for two of the notes he recognized the handwriting, because it was the same as on the note Maloney had left on Cain's desk the other day with his returned sidearm, after he'd been shanghaied to his lunch with Harris Euston.

He explained it all to Archer, who nodded, seemingly impressed, even raising his eyebrows when Cain told him about the Murder, Inc. connection on one of the gambling arrests.

What Cain didn't tell Archer was that he'd also recognized one of the phone numbers which appeared on two of the notes discussing collection. He'd seen the same number several other times recently, on phone messages left for him at the office by Harris Euston's secretary at Willett & Reed. Cain had already logged the names of the two suspects from the attached reports, figuring they'd turn out to be law clients of Euston's. Archer and Valentine would figure out the connection soon enough, he supposed.

“If you want to see who's already made payments to get their cases wiped clean,” he told Archer, “all you've got to do is check the old arrest record for erased check marks next to the names. I saw at least twenty-five of them. One of them was that bookie, Ericson. And Valentine was right. It all started in January.”

Archer shook his head. “What a bunch of stupid fucks, leaving a trail like that.”

“You're talking about guys in their late thirties and forties who still haven't made sergeant. Are you really that surprised?”

“Not where money's involved. Ericson. The commish will like that. He'll like all of this shit.” He flipped through a couple of the arrest reports. “But some of these names…Art Wheeler? Herman Keller? Frankie Disch? Who the fuck are these guys?”

“You tell me. You guys are supposed to be the experts on that old Tammany crowd.”

From the hallway came the sudden sound of footsteps and cheerful voices headed up the stairs. Olivia was home. Archer smiled again. He leaned over and stubbed out his cigarette on the kitchen table—slowly, so that it left a round black dot that looked just like the ones on Werner Hansch.

“Not to worry,” Archer said. “I'll go the way I came.”

He crossed the room to the window, threw open the sash, and climbed out onto the fire escape.

“You should try locking your windows, Cain. Crime around here, it's pretty appalling.”

EILEEN O'CASEY WAS ALREADY
more than an hour late when the phone rang. Cain answered in a state of nervous anticipation. It was indeed Eileen.

“I'm sorry, sir, but I can't make it tonight.”

“What do you mean ‘can't'? You
have
to!”

“It's beyond my control sir. It's…It's a family emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“I'm sorry, sir. If it was within my power, I'd be there. You know I would. But it isn't possible.”

“Maybe I can help. Or I could bring Olivia to you. There's still time, so just tell me what—”

“No, sir. It's not possible, sir.” She was rushing her words, completely flustered. “I'll be there first thing Monday. Goodbye, sir.”

And with that she was gone, meaning Cain was now in need of a babysitter at twenty minutes before midnight. His scheduled rendezvous with Danziger at St. Andrew's Church, where they hoped to catch the elusive Gerhard Muntz, was less than two hours away.

If he were back in Horton, he would've just called on his neighbors. The Turners to the left, or the Whitcombs to the right. Either would have happily taken in his daughter at any hour of the day. Here, no such luck. His failure, he supposed. Neighbors lived above, below, and to every side of them here, yet he didn't know a single one beyond a nod or hello in the hallway. How else could so many people be lonely on an island of millions?

He tried Beryl's number with only a faint hope of success. He and Olivia had eaten dinner with her earlier, but from there she was going to look after her uncle Fedya for the rest of the evening, and would probably be staying for the night. Cain had no idea how to reach the man. Danziger might know, but he had stopped answering his phone after dark ever since taking the anonymous call asking for Max Dalitz.

Not long before two a.m., when it was time to leave, he stood in Olivia's doorway watching her sleep. He had decided to lock the doors and windows and write a note, in case she woke up while he was gone. But at this hour there wasn't even a doorman on duty, meaning anyone might come up the stairway unimpeded. He couldn't help but remember Archer, sitting by his open window with a smirk on his face and a gun in his lap.

Okay, then. Think this through. His destination was a church, a place of worship, located only a few blocks south of police headquarters. They would be among worshippers and holy men, with candlelight and hushed voices. If Gerhard showed up, he'd be coming for solace, not violence. How bad could it possibly be? He crouched by the bed, kissed Olivia's forehead, and tousled her hair.

“Sweetie, I'm sorry. You have to wake up.”

“Why is it dark? Is it morning time?”

“No, sweetie. Still nighttime, it's very late. But Miss Eileen couldn't come, so you'll have to go with me.”

“Go where?”

“We're going to church.”

“Now?”

“To a Catholic mass, so it will be kind of different. It's a service for people who have to work really late, and I have to talk to somebody there, so get dressed. C'mon, we have to hurry.”

She yawned and sat up. Then, in the trusting way of children, she climbed from bed and began dressing just as he'd asked. Her eyes got wide for a second.

“Catholic? Like the ones Grandpa talks about? Will they be taking their orders from the pope?”

“Miss Eileen's Catholic, sweetie. They're just like you and me. It'll sound kind of different. The hymns and prayers, mostly. They'll probably do some speaking in Latin.”

Or so he assumed. Cain didn't really know. In Horton there hadn't been a single Catholic church, although Raleigh had a few. She nodded and pulled a shirt over her head. Five minutes later they were out the door.

“It's different out here this time of night,” she said, wide awake now. “It's all quieter.”

Spookier, too, although he knew she would never say it. Even the smells were different. The piney scent of sawdust from the West Side Lumber Company was stronger now that the noise and exhaust of traffic was mostly gone. There were no cooking smells, and no one was hanging out the wash, or playing stickball. Only a few windows were illuminated.

The subways were still open, running on wartime hours. Cain was surprised by the number of riders, and by how many of them seemed to be traveling to and from jobs. The war machine, he supposed, noticeably more vigorous than even a few months ago. Aircraft factories and shipyards were now operating around the clock, plus all the businesses that supported them, fed them, cleaned for them, and so on.

“Look!” Olivia said, gazing out the window of their car. “They're racing us!”

She always liked it when a train pulled even on a parallel track, the subway cars swaying and rumbling as they competed for a few seconds. Cain stared at the riders in the other car, mirror images of the ones in their own—reading papers, dozing off, staring at their feet.

“They're going to beat us!” she said, as their own train began to decelerate, brakes shrieking.

“That's an express. It always wins.”

Cain's eyes locked onto the face of a woman across the way. His reaction was disbelief, until Olivia spoke up.

“That lady looks like Mommy!”

It
was
Mommy. Or seemed to be, although she was in profile, and partly in shadow. Then she turned to face them, and the illusion vanished. Not Clovis.

“I don't think it was her,” Olivia said. “That's not her coat. Or the kind of hat she wears.”

“Right you are,” Cain said, although neither of those observations had occurred to him. Olivia had a better memory than he did.

The other train zoomed forward before descending into a deeper tunnel. Disappearing with it was the woman who was almost Clovis. Neither Olivia nor he spoke, and when he glanced at her she looked down at the floor. Cain felt like the rushing train had sucked the air right out of his lungs. They pulled into the next station, the platform again surprisingly crowded. He didn't fully regain his composure until the train reached Chambers Street.

“Okay, sweetie. Here's where we get off. We've got a bit of a walk ahead. Four or five blocks, so stay close.”

The streets here were quiet, too, and even more imposing. Taller buildings with darker windows, deeper shadows.

“This is like the time we went looking for owls, when the moon was full,” Olivia said. She held on tight to his hand.

“You're right. It's kind of the same thing. Anybody who's standing up there in a window can see us but we can't see them. Just like an owl, way up in a tree.”

“Do you think people are watching us?”

Not the most reassuring question at this hour, but he was the idiot who had brought it up.

“Oh, probably not. I think everybody's sleeping, don't you?”

She nodded but squeezed his hand. His palms were sweaty, and he was sure she noticed.

A block later they heard the first faint strains of an organ, gothic and foreboding, as they turned left onto Centre Street. They were only about seven blocks south of police headquarters, but at this hour it seemed a world away. The music grew louder as they headed up a narrow passage between the looming Municipal Office Building on the left and the U.S. Courthouse on the right. A sinner, passing through the eye of the needle, Cain thought, tapping into memories from a distant summer at Vacation Bible School.

Other late-arriving worshippers approached from the right, climbing grimy marble steps to the open door. Cain and Olivia followed them in, and were greeted by an impressive sight. Stained glass windows glowed from high on both sides, above a balcony that spanned three sides of the church. The congregation, standing for a hymn, was mostly dressed for work. There were factory workers in coveralls, waitresses in uniform, and, here and there, tattered down-and-outers who'd drifted in from the Bowery. The air smelled of incense, candle wax, and body odor. Up front, a priest in white and gold vestments sang along with his flock.

A biblical verse in huge lettering caught Cain's eye from the right side of the altar: “A New Commandment I give unto you. That you love one another as I have loved you.”

A worthy sentiment, ignored in wartime on a global scale.

Olivia tugged on his hand. “When do we sit down?” she whispered.

“When everybody else does. I'm looking for someone.”

The hymn ended. Everyone knelt at their seats as the priest began a prayer. Cain bowed his head until it was over.

“What's that thing they're doing with their hands?” Olivia asked.

“Making the sign of the cross.”

She frowned, then figured it out. “Like they're drawing it on their chests?”

“Yes. I see him. Let's go. He's over on the left, so we'll go up that aisle.”

“The old man who's looking back at us?”

“Yes. That's Mr. Danziger.”

“The one you said was mysterious?”

“Shhh!”

They slid down the wooden pew, settling in to Danziger's left. Olivia, who'd managed to scoot in ahead of Cain, sat between them. Not the optimum arrangement, but if anything Danziger seemed pleased after having initially reacted with surprise—perhaps even alarm. He smiled benevolently at her. Then he looked across at Cain, the smile gone, and mouthed the words “He is risen.”

So, then. Gerhard was here. And before the hour was up, they would try to intercept him, right here in the church—all of it happening in full view of his daughter, unless Cain could spirit her away first to a place of greater safety.

The priest began to speak, and throughout the church every face but Cain's turned toward the front. He instead scanned the back of the pew in front of them until he found what he was seeking. He reached across Olivia for the Bible. He set the book in his lap and placed his right hand atop the black leather cover. And then Cain, who hadn't set foot in a church for nearly a year, closed his eyes and silently began to pray.