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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Postscript

  Also by Richard E. Crabbe

  Copyright

  For Chelsea

  Acknowledgments

  WITH GRATITUDE TO Peter Joseph, my editor, whose judgment and insight I have come to rely on. His emphasis on economy and pacing have shown me the error of my ways and made this a better book.

  Thanks go to Richard Barber, my agent and friend. His unstinting generosity of time and effort have kept me from sudden death on publishing’s minefield.

  And to Kim, my wife, the anchor of my life and the sirocco of my dreams, I give my love.

  I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain,

  And troubles swarm like bees about a hive;

  I shall believe the heights for which I strive

  Are only reached by anguish and by pain;

  And though I groan and tremble with my crosses

  I yet shall see, through my severest losses,

  The greater gain …

  —ELLA WHEELER WILCOX, Faith

  1

  THE FLOATING BETHEL rolled on the oily, black waters of the East River, riding the swells of a passing steam tug. Its steeple sketched lazy arcs against the moonless sky like the needle of a compass, searching for true north. There was no sound save for the restless slap and swish of the river against barnacled hulls and pilings. The church windows were dark. The organ was silent. Any souls in need of saving would have to wait for the light of day.

  Detective Mike Braddock wondered whose idea it had been to build a church on a barge in the East River. New York had no lack of churches and wouldn’t seem to need another, especially not the floating sort. Still, the little church had bobbed on the river for many years now. The notion had been to bring a church to the seamen of the port, who notoriously shunned those inland, where finery trumped soul-saving most Sundays.

  Mike glanced at the other officers in the steam launch, all men from the harbor police, the steamboat squad as it was called. All five of them were armed to the teeth. They were hard men, used to the cutthroat brand of criminals that worked the waterfront. Mike had insisted they be handpicked by their captain for this job. They were the best the squad had and they knew what they were about.

  The police dock was watched, they’d told him. On moonless nights, when the gangs did their best work, there was always a watcher, ready to signal the comings and goings of the water cops. So tonight they’d headed upriver to throw any scouts off and had ducked in behind the Floating Bethel at the foot of Pike Street.

  “We’ll sit tight here for a time,” the sergeant in charge of the squad said. “Stay outa sight an’ be sure we weren’t spotted.”

  Mike nodded. Though it had been his informant who’d tipped them, it was the steamboat squad who’d be running the show. Mike checked his watch. It was nearly one. Almost time. He watched as a big gray rat ran across the barge and up a hawser to the dock, where it disappeared behind a barrel. He could hear the squeak and scuttle of others. Where there was one to see, there were always at least three more hidden in the shadows. That was the way with rats regardless of how many legs they walked on.

  The gang Mike was after was a last remnant of the Hookers, so-called for their territory around Corlears Hook, just up the river. They were getting more ambitious from what he’d been told and tonight they’d planned on looting a ship anchored just south of Governor’s Island. Though Mike didn’t usually concern himself with waterfront crime, this was a special case, a chance to grab the whole gang in the act, the kind of case that made a career.

  Being the son of the legendary Thomas Braddock, captain of the Third Precinct, a man as appreciated for his facility at cracking skulls as cracking cases, did not provide a sure ticket to the top. In fact, the pressure had always been a notch higher, the expectations greater. He accepted that. He’d never asked for special treatment or plum assignments. Tom wouldn’t have helped if he had and he definitely wouldn’t have approved. Mike had wanted to earn his stripes on his own merit. He’d done well enough, rising through the ranks to detective sergeant in solid if unspectacular fashion. Still, he wanted more.

  “Let’s get moving,” Mike said. The sergeant looked about one more time and nodded. They’d lain hidden for more than half an hour, enough time to throw off anyone who’d seen them leave the dock. The patrolman at the wheel threw a long, brass lever and the launch started to back out into the current. The propeller churned up the black waters. The stink of salt water and sewage rose off the river like a choking hand. The shoreline was dotted with open drains for miles upstream. Human waste, horseshit, brewery dregs, slaughterhouse effluence, and industrial wastes of every description drained in sluggish streams under the city. The river was the biggest sewer of all.

  As they cleared the cover of the Floating Bethel, the men scanned the shoreline, searching for signal lamps in darkened windows. Once out in the river, the engine was reversed and the bow turned toward the harbor. They gathered speed, the heavy waters whispering behind, so that in minutes the steeple’s outline was lost in the tangle of masts and hulls moored on the waterfront. One of the patrolmen threw a small shovel of coal into the boiler, lighting his face briefly. It was their only show of light, still, Mike wished they’d had one of the new naphtha-powered launches, which needed no stoking.

  In a few minutes they were closing on Governor’s Island, heading for Buttermilk Channel between the island and the Brooklyn waterfront. One by one the men checked their weapons. Rounds were chambered and safeties thumbed. Once they cleared the channel, they’d be exposed. There’d be no time to check weapons then.

  The plan was to make a dash from the cover of the island and surprise the Hookers while still on the ship. Mike knew how often plans went wrong. Everyone aboard did. The Hookers had been close to impossible to catch in the past and even harder to hold. They’d fight if given the chance. With men in their ranks like Smilin’ Jack O’Banion, Joey Bones, and a one-eyed thug known as the Oysterman, the Hookers were as hardened and vicious a collecti
on of butchers as the city had ever seen. Mike’s men were ready though. Two of them had model ’97 Winchester pump shotguns. The short-barreled riot guns had six loads of buckshot, carrying nine .32 caliber balls to a load. The others were armed with standard-issue revolvers, but they all had at least one backup tucked in a waistband or pocket. Mike had his service revolver, but preferred a new Colt .38 auto. He kept the revolver as a backup. Though the automatic wasn’t much good for anything beyond fifty feet, it could fire as fast as he could pull the trigger. He carried it in a holster under his left arm. Its bulk felt hot against his side, the leather holster damp with sweat.

  They could see the ship, a big sidewheeler called the Warrior Prince. It swung at anchor, its bow pointing off toward the Statue of Liberty. The tide had turned an hour before and she was turning with it. They couldn’t see anything, no activity, no other boats near. The cop at the helm throttled up for the dash across the open water. They’d decided to run flat-out, then cut the engine, and drift to the ship’s side in silence. The wind picked up and the bow skipped through the water. They all crouched low as a mist of salt spray dashed over them. The engine thumped like a galloping horse. Mike found himself remembering another night fifteen years before, an age ago it seemed, when he was just sixteen and barely shaving. He, his father, and Mitchell Sabattis, the legendary Adirondack guide, had pursued a murderer for more than a hundred miles through lakes, rivers, and forest in the wildest reaches of upstate New York. On a moonless night, they’d rowed after him for miles up Long Lake, sweat and spray soaking them. That had been a chase for the ages. This little dash was nothing by comparison.

  A hundred yards off and the engine went silent. Their momentum and the tide carried them in toward the hulking form of the steamer. The twin masts cut across the stars and the massive, rounded sidewheel housing loomed above their heads as they closed in.

  “There,” one of the men said in a hoarse whisper, pointing to a darkened space behind the sidewheel. A launch just slightly bigger than theirs lay in the shadows. They couldn’t see if anyone was aboard. The sergeant tapped the patrolmen with the shotguns, pointing where he wanted their weapons trained; one on the launch, one on the ship’s rail. They bumped against the side of the launch a few moments later. Mike held his .38 on it as two men clambered over the side. A few seconds later, the men waved an all clear.

  “Up,” the sergeant said and they began to rise. But at almost the same instant there was a commotion from above, muffled shouts and stamping feet. They all looked, turning their eyes toward the starry sky as a body came hurtling over the side. There was no cry, no sound at all except a laugh like the barking of a dog. There was no time to react, no place to go. The body crashed into them, a leg landing square across one man’s back, the rest of the body striking with splintering force, then careening overboard, arms and legs at impossible angles. It splashed into the harbor and disappeared.

  The patrolman was down, moaning in the bottom of the launch. A voice from up on the steamer said, “What da fuck? Hit our goddamn boat!”

  Two heads appeared over the rail, black balls on hunched shoulders. The sergeant and another patrolman didn’t see them. They were bent over their fallen man. Mike and the rest saw well enough, heard one of them curse, and for a moment they disappeared. “Up!” Mike shouted, but it was too late. In a burst of sound and light a hail of bullets rained down on them. Splinters flew off the deck and rails, lead pinged off the iron boiler. There was the unmistakable sound of bullets on flesh. Men dove and ducked for whatever cover they could find. Mike hid behind the boiler. An officer fell on him. Someone stomped on his hand and he almost lost his pistol. It seemed as though nobody was returning fire. The boat rocked. Curses and cries rang out. A shotgun boomed. Mike got himself untangled as it fired again. He was looking up and saw a chunk of the ship’s rail disintegrate in splinters. The firing stopped from above, though it was hard to tell as the steamboat squad fired blindly, those that were able.

  “Now! Move!” Mike bellowed. He stood on the stern and grasped the sidewheel housing, pulling himself up, and setting his feet on the footholds built into it. One officer followed, two others climbed up the side. One man lay motionless in the launch. The sergeant groaned on his knees, trying to tie off a wound in his thigh. A pistol cracked from somewhere behind Mike as his head cleared the big ship’s rail, throwing up splinters from the housing as he climbed. He turned and saw a dark form about twenty feet away on deck, saw a flash, felt a tug at his jacket. He brought the .38 around and snapped off three shots. He didn’t know if he hit anything. He didn’t stop climbing. A moment later, he dropped on the deck in a crouch. The officer hopped down at his side. There was a form sprawled on the deck just feet away, a black mass on the gray boards. Mike checked him. The top of the man’s head was gone, from the eyes back to the ears.

  “One of them,” Mike said to the cop. “Shotgun.”

  The other patrolmen came over the rail. There was no more firing, just a ringing, black silence. There was no light aboard save for the distant glow from the city, which cast a tangled net of shadow from the masts, smokestack, rigging, lifeboats, and dozens of objects Mike couldn’t identify. Mike signaled the men to go aft toward where he’d last seen the man who’d shot at him. With a twist of his head and a nod in the other direction, he went forward, the third officer close behind. They crept toward the bow, going from shadow to shadow. They were beside the massive structure of the walking beam engine when Mike kicked something soft and fell to one knee over a body. He put the Colt to the man’s side as he pushed away. There was a groan.

  “Who’s that?” the officer said.

  “Dunno.” Mike looked closer. “One o’ the crew maybe.” He felt for the pulse at the man’s neck, then went over the body, feeling for wounds, starting with the hands, wary that it might be one of the Hookers playing possum. “Blood,” he said. “Don’t think he’s shot though.” He shook the body and slapped the man’s cheek. The eyes fluttered. “We’re gonna get you some help,” Mike whispered. “Can you hear me?” He got a nod and a grunt in reply. “How many of them? Where are they?”

  “Fi-six,” the man managed. “Fo’c’sle.”

  Mike didn’t know a fo’c’sle from a main yard. He exchanged a look with the officer, who nodded toward the bow.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ll be back for you.”

  The ship had a raised forecastle, or fo’c’sle as the seamen called it. A companionway door led down into a deeper darkness. The door hung open. They crept to opposite sides, careful of the noise their hard shoes made on the wooden deck. Mike took a quick look down the stairs. Only the top three steps could be seen. The rest was too black to make out.

  “Lemme go first,” the officer whispered. “You don’t know these ships like I do.”

  “What’s down there?”

  “Crew’s quarters, mostly. Should be another door not far from the bottom. Careful. Steps’re steep.” The officer stepped into the door with Mike turning in just behind him. From the stern pistol shots cracked, followed by the booming of shotguns, coming so fast they were hard to separate. Mike turned and ducked. From somewhere in the blackness of the fo’c’sle companionway there came a rattling series of explosions. Mike could not tell how many shots there were or even if the patrolman had the chance to fire back. The deafening sound of the firing and the impact of the patrolman’s body as it toppled back on him were almost indistinguishable events. He was knocked flat, his head hitting the deck. He thought at first that he must have been hit. A sickening panic swept over him as he felt a trickle of blood on his face and his head went fuzzy. He tried to sort out what had happened, but things were moving far too fast for rational thought. There were shouts and feet pounding up the stairs, then more shots, throwing up splinters from the deck and jerking the body of the patrolman sprawled atop him. Twisting, Mike brought the Colt around, saw shadows appear in the doorway. He fired until there were no more bullets. The shadows disappeared with a tumbling crash
down the companionway. Mike rolled from under the body, found his service revolver, and emptied it down the companionway, firing blindly.

  Mike reloaded the Colt, dropping as many bullets as he managed to load into the magazine. The sound of running feet brought him around, but he held fire.

  “It’s us,” one of the cops said. “We got the other one. Oh, Christ! Dickey! They shot Dickey!” the cop cried when he saw the body. The officer bent over his friend’s corpse, which now had a spreading, black stain surrounding it, leaking into the joints of the teak and running in straight lines down the deck.

  “Get outa there!” Mike shouted. “They’re down there.”

  Without a word, the other officer fired into the companionway while the first dragged the body back. The patrolman reloaded while the other checked on the body.

  “Oh, shit,” Mike groaned. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “Two kids,” the patrolman said. “Fuckin’…” He took up the shotgun he’d dropped when he moved the body, stepped to the companionway and started firing, letting loose three blasts before he stopped. “Body at the bottom o’ the stairs,” he said. “Saw it in the muzzle flash.”

  “There were two,” Mike said. “Certain of it. You see anything else?”

  “Nah.”

  Mike tried calling into the companionway. “Give it up! The rest’re dead. Give up now an’ we won’t shoot.” He didn’t get a reply. “Any way a man could get outa here, through the ship?”

  “Not sure,” one of the patrolmen said. “Probably. These ships are all different. Coulda … got in the hold, engine room maybe. Big ship.”

  “We need light; some lanterns. I’m not going down there without one,” Mike said. “None of us are.” The shock was beginning to set in. This was only the second time he had used his pistol in the line of duty and his first experience with carnage like this. He had thought he’d be ready when it came. He did his best to keep his voice from trembling. “I’ll find a lamp,” he said.

  “There’s lamps in the boat,” one reminded him. Mike didn’t want to take the time to climb back down to the boat, but at the same time he knew that someone should check on the sergeant and the wounded patrolman. The thought of searching the ship alone wasn’t very appealing either. He just grunted a reply and walked back down the deck. He found the seaman he’d stumbled over minutes before. The man was sitting up, propped against the rail, his head in his hands.