The Widow's Secret (4 page)

Washington, D.C., 1894

T
hrough the window of the ladies' hotel on F Street, Jocelyn and Katya watched Operative MacKenzie swing aboard a streetcar. He was on his way to a meeting with the chief of the Secret Service, and Jocelyn's muscles were skeined together in painful knots. “Do you think he's an honorable man?” she asked Katya, who nodded with more decisiveness than Jocelyn felt. She waited in silence while the maid wrote on her tablet.

Is very good man. Likes you.

“Rubbish. He's behaved like a gentleman, but he's no different from anybody else. I'm under investigation, that's why he brought us to Washington with him.” The knowledge chafed, yet not once during the six-hour train journey from Richmond had he treated her like a criminal.

Of course, neither had he accorded her the familiarity he'd extended when she'd all but swooned in front of Clocks & Watches. Since Chadwick, Jocelyn had not handled death with any degree of equanimity. Swallowing, she tried to
banish the memory of the faces of the crowd, ghoulishly craning for a view of Mr. Hepplewhite's body, found sprawled in the stairwell that led to his upstairs apartment. Operative MacKenzie had refused to share any further details, but Jocelyn's vivid imagination needed no embellishment.

Katya scowled and wagged a sheet of paper in her face.
Is differernt. Sees YOU, not hare.

“Dear Katya, it doesn't matter, especially if Operative MacKenzie's chief believes I'm involved with some notorious counterfeiting crowd.” She stared blindly down to the street below, watching the soothing motion of a white-coated street sweeper pushing his broom. Perhaps if she went for a stroll…

Katya followed her, and Jocelyn sensed her reluctance to end the discussion. “By the way, you misspelled two words,” she said, hoping to divert her. When it came to reading and writing, Katya was a perfectionist.

She could also be as contrary as a goat.
Don't spelling matter. He likes you. Sees more than red
hare.
You lissen. Be careful. Should tell me things. I take care of you.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the watch,” Jocelyn retorted wearily.

She fretted over how easily she'd refused to confide in Katya, who after two years knew more about her than any other living soul. Yet with little effort Micah MacKenzie managed to wrest from her secrets she had never shared with anyone.

Of course, Micah MacKenzie was also the first adult male in ten long years to touch more than her gloved hand. Hating the sick sensation swimming about her middle, Jocelyn tormented herself by imagining his reaction had she plonked down beside him on the train seat. He would have been courteous, of course. But she would only have shamed herself and
embarrassed them both, acting on that frenzied need for connection, however ephemeral, to someone other than Katya, who offered a dollop of comfort.

No doubt he'd offer that comfort when he slapped his handcuffs on her wrists, after being ordered by his chief to arrest her.

God in heaven,
she longed to hurl the angry cry,
what did I ever do to make You hate me so?

 

Micah took the steps up into the Treasury Building three at a time.

Nodding, occasionally speaking to people he passed in the maze of hallways, he tried to juggle his mounting uneasiness with the conviction that he would be able to do the right thing, for everyone.

Especially Mrs. Tremayne Bingham. Regardless of the mounting evidence against her, he could not bring himself to believe she was guilty of anything but an ill-advised marriage. A faint memory surfaced, something his mother once mentioned about the Tremaynes, about why an old, distinguished Southern family married their daughter off to a Yankee from New York City. Next time he visited her, he might risk asking.

A fellow operative was just leaving the chief's office when Micah reached the top-floor offices of the Treasury Department.

“You've stirred up a hornet's nest, MacKenzie,” he said. “Best put on some armor.”

“Thanks, Welker.” Confidence dissipating, Micah stepped inside the office with a sense of impending doom.

Chief William Hazen, appointed to head the Service earlier in the year, greeted him but remained seated behind his ornate walnut desk.

“You're late, Operative MacKenzie.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Humph. Well, I have a meeting in ten minutes, so let's see what we can accomplish with the time we've got.” Rising, he came around the desk to stand in front of Micah. “According to your telegram last night, you confiscated the watch you loaned Benny Foggarty, along with some hopefully vital evidence. Let's see it.”

Micah removed the watch case from his coat pocket, flicked it open and withdrew the bill and coin, handing them to Chief Hazen. “Bill's damaged bogus goods, as you'll see, but the front is some of the best work I've stumbled across in years. Paper's hardly distinguishable from ours, including the silk fiber. Possibly made in England, or Connecticut.”

Beneath a thick handlebar mustache, Hazen's lips compressed in a thin line. “Most troubling. I believe the ten-dollar gold piece is from one of the coin mills operating out of New Jersey.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Though the amount of gold wouldn't cover half a filling in a tooth. Most likely underneath the shiny gold surface we'll discover a blend of copper, antimony, possibly tin. Just last week we seized a sizable quantity of those materials, which, by the way, included a stack of bona fide silver dollars.”

Micah nodded. “Milling's good but not top rate, and I thought the weight wasn't quite right.”

“What about the handwriting on the back of this bill?”

“Obviously, it will require thorough examination downstairs, but if you're asking my opinion…” Micah hesitated, then finished honestly, “I didn't recognize the handwriting. Benny could have forged it, or it could be the work of the person he stole the goods from. It's also possible the network has found someone new in Richmond….” His voice trailed away. No sense stating the obvious.

“A fortunate happenstance, your securing the evidence
after losing Foggarty.” His movements deliberate, Hazen set the watch, coin and bill on top of his desk, then turned back to Micah. “Let's talk about this woman—your telegram gave Tremayne as her name, right? Tell me about her.”

Loyalty, honor, integrity and faith all clashed as Micah waged an internal battle with his conscience. Mrs. Tremayne might have resumed using her maiden name for any number of reasons. Yet the extremity of her self-imposed isolation, and her fear, struck a false note. An innocent citizen who discovered obvious forgeries would have instantly conveyed them to the local police. An innocent citizen would have greeted an operative of the Secret Service with relief, and immediately handed over the evidence.

Jocelyn Tremayne Bingham—and he could not ignore the connection—had only been willing to part with the watch, bill and coin after practically passing out at his feet from fear.

Yet a complicated personality did not make her a criminal.

Until Micah thoroughly checked out her story, he was reluctant to reveal her ties to the Bingham family. But as a sworn operative for the United States Secret Service, he was balancing his way across a fraying tightrope.

“MacKenzie!” Chief Hazen barked. “What's the matter with you?”

“Sorry. Yes, as I explained in the telegram, her last name is Tremayne, Christian name Jocelyn.”
God, forgive me for lies of omission.
“She's a widow, but lives in a comfortable town house in a well-to-do neighborhood. From my initial interview, I'm prepared to presume innocence instead of guilt. I do not believe she knows Benny Foggarty, nor had any idea that he had passed her stolen and forged goods.”

“Humph. Under the circumstances I'm not sure a single visit can support such a conclusion.” Face inscrutable, he tugged out his watch, checked the time and cleared his throat
again. “In my brief tenure as chief, I've heard a lot about you, Operative MacKenzie. They say you have an instinct about people. Call you the dragon slayer of lies. Claim you can convince counterfeiters to forsake their evil ways and work with us instead.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, studying Micah's discomfiture. “For the past several years you've been tireless in your pursuit of a family most everyone between here and New York would swear in a court of law are upstanding citizens. Philanthropic do-gooders whose hearts as well as pockets are lined with gold.”

“Yes, sir. There were those who praised William Tweed for his contributions to New York City's railways, despite all the graft and corruption. I believe the Binghams are worse than Boss Tweed. My father—”

“I'm aware of your father's part in bringing our attention to this family,” the chief interrupted testily. “I'm equally cognizant that his murder was never solved and information he promised would clinch the case against the Binghams was never delivered. In eight years we've been unable to verify that proof ever existed.”

“If we had more men working on the case now…”

“At the time of your father's murder, we did. Two of them were fired, and rightly so, for their unsavory methods.” Lips pursed, Hazen contemplated Micah for an uncomfortably long moment. “My predecessor informed me that although your father's death was the primary motivation for your decision to join the Secret Service, your first allegiance has always been to the Service, not revenge. You're an exemplary agent, MacKenzie. Don't do anything rash to jeopardize my opinion of you.” He crossed over to stand directly in front of Micah. “Now. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?”

Micah squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir. Although we've never learned the details, we've known Rupert Bingham's
only son and heir, Chadwick, died five years ago. We did not know, however, what became of his wife. We do now.”
Lord, please give me the right words.
“Jocelyn Tremayne is Chadwick Bingham's widow. After his death, for some unknown reason—though we can conjecture several—she reverted to her maiden name. Lastly, I haven't been able to verify it, but…” The words choked his throat and he clenched his fists, until the remnant of painful emotion faded and he was able to finish. “I don't believe there were children born of the marriage. Mrs. Tremayne refuses to discuss her husband at all.”

He met the older man's gaze without backing down. “Her marriage into the family does not indicate culpability, and her reticence concerning her husband may have more to do with a reserved personality than fear of exposure.”

“Fear of exposure, you say. Well, I can enumerate some of your conjectures now. The woman was married to one of the richest men in the Northeast. It's possible Chadwick Bingham was one of the malefactors. It's also possible that his wife was, as well. On the other hand, it's possible Mrs. Tremayne is innocent, and disappeared because she knows too much about her husband's family.”

Micah was grateful for the twig of an olive branch, however grudgingly extended. “My point exactly, sir. We cannot rule out some strong circumstantial evidence that the watchmaker's murder in Richmond is connected to our case. The modus operandi is too similar. In fact,” he added casually, “because of my concern for her safety, I insisted that Mrs. Tremayne and her maid accompany me here to Washington. She needs protection, not persecution.”

“It is not the job of the Secret Service to protect civilians!” Chief Hazen exploded. Red-faced, he jerked at his silk bow tie as though it were about to strangle him. “Even if the
mandate existed, the funds are not available. We're under-staffed and underbudgeted, thanks to those mouthpieces down the street in Congress.”

“Mrs. Tremayne insisted on paying all expenses.” To the point that she refused to leave her house otherwise, Micah recalled with a faint smile. “And I believe, sir, that earlier this year after two operatives learned of suspicious threats against President Cleveland, you transferred those operatives here to Washington, to monitor them and their families. Keep them safe, same as we're trying to keep the country's currency safe? That's all I'm trying to accomplish with Mrs. Tremayne.”

The chief was shorter than Micah by several inches, but at that moment Hazen loomed over him like a sober-suited Goliath. “I may concede the point, Operative MacKenzie. But, mind you, don't test my goodwill much further. Don't ever withhold information from me again, or presume to act without authorization. We've spent over a decade shining the tarnish off our badges, proving this organization is peopled with men of honor and integrity. I will not let the Agency's reputation deteriorate again, especially now, poised on the threshold of a new century.”

“I understand, Chief Hazen. I give you my word it won't happen again.” Sweat pooled in the small of Micah's back, and he had to force himself to stand tall, not to beg, or rush into explanations that would only sound like rationalizations. “If you meet Mrs. Tremayne, sir, I believe you'll see that my actions were justified.”

The chief heaved an explosive sigh and clapped a firm hand on Micah's back. “Then bring the lady here, and be done with it. I'd like to meet the woman who turned my best operative's head.”

“Sir, I—”

“However…don't let anything, including a mysterious young widow, place you in a potentially compromising position.”

Each move deliberate, Chief Hazen walked over to the window and stared outside, toward the White House, hands clasped behind his back. “I want this counterfeiting network unmasked, stripped of its tentacles and every last member in jail by next spring, Operative MacKenzie. Every principal, every shover, every engraver, every wholesaler—the lot. I want the molds, the plates, the paper, even the blamed ink! I don't care whether it's Rupert Bingham himself, his brother-in-law or nephews. I don't care if the ringleader turns out to be their butler, or the bootblack. Get these malefactors behind bars. Do whatever you have to, legally, in order to learn the identities of the persons who are undermining our country's economic stability.”