Suspension Page 32

  “That about sums it up, sir. And that dance hall girl, the one who was supposedly Watkins’s alibi. She just plain disappeared. I telegraphed all the precincts to keep a watch for her, but she hasn’t been seen.” Tom was having the increasing feeling she wouldn’t be seen by anyone … ever. “As for Emmons and Lebeau, I was just writing to the War Department to try to retrieve their service records. Don’t know what I’ll find but … worth a try. Lots of men served the Confederacy. I’m not sure that means anything.”

  “Good, get a warrant, search their places. I want those two to feel the pressure. Might turn something up.”

  “Already done. It occurs to me too, sir—” Tom paused, then went on with his idea. “Well … that it might pay to investigate records, look for contractors who may be dissatisfied, workers who’ve been laid off under unusual circumstances, that sort of thing. I’ll need some help though.” He was doing his best to lead Byrnes to water.

  “Of course, Thomas. I’ll assign Dolan and Heidelberg to you. Assist you in any way you see fit. Probably nothing more than your garden-variety fraud case”—Byrnes puffed—“but those two will be a big help in digging through records. They’ve done that sort of investigating before, had some success, so they’ll come in handy.”

  Tom couldn’t suppress a smile. “Very good, sir.” He was amazed it had gone so easily. Dolan and Heidelberg were old-timers and one of the best detective teams in the city.

  Byrnes turned to look out the window again, puffing and thoughtful. He said to the glass, “You suppose the four who attacked you at Gotham Court were killed because they failed?”

  “Can’t ignore the possibility,” Tom said. “The attack could have been random. Down there it’s always a risk, but if it was planned, and that’s the way I’m leaning, then could be you’re right.”

  “That makes six men dead because of this and maybe a woman as well. Someone’s awful anxious to keep their activities quiet,” Byrnes said almost to himself, obviously deep in thought.

  “Yes, sir, quiet as the grave.”

  They wrapped up, and Tom promised to report developments to Byrnes at least every other day. He was about to leave when Byrnes said, “I expect you to get backup, if needed, from the precinct whose boundaries you’re within, Thomas. Can you tell me why that didn’t happen yesterday?”

  Tom hesitated. Byrnes, who was watching him closely, broke in, saying “No. Don’t tell me. You’ve not resolved your differences with Coogan, right? You didn’t trust him to back you, so you rounded up someone you could count on.”

  Byrnes nodded thoughtfully. “Better to keep still, I suppose. Wise man, Tom. I told you to get your misunderstandings behind you. You see now how these things ripple through the system?”

  Braddock gave an almost audible sigh. “Yes, sir, I suppose I do.”

  “Mmm. This appears to be a dangerous investigation you’re into, Thomas. If you could have a man, a roundsman, say, to watch your back, who would it be?”

  Tom knew plenty of good stout men who he’d be glad to have in a tight spot, and it looked like Byrnes was letting him have his pick. But almost before he realized what he was doing, he said, “Jaffey, sir.” Tom winced once he’d said the name, mentally kicking himself for speaking too quickly.

  “Really?” Byrnes turned to stare at Tom, the surprise clear on his face. “Don’t know him. A rookie, right? Why?”

  Tom wished he had a real good answer to that, but he’d opened his mouth and he wasn’t going back on it, not in front of Byrnes. “Call it a feeling, sir. Jaffey’s new but he shows promise. Unlike some of the more experienced men, he’ll listen and take orders. He also behaved very well in our fracas at Gotham Court. Saved my skin, is more like it. So—”

  “I don’t know, Tom. I’ve never met your man Jaffey, but I would hesitate to have a new man behind me on a case like this. He’s only been on the force a short time I take it?”

  Tom shrugged. “Six months, give or take.”

  Byrnes took a last pull at the stub of his cigar, then crushed it in the ashtray on his desk. “Well, that’s a decision I can’t make for you. I suppose you know best who you’d like to watch your back. Sometimes it’s best to go with your instincts, even if it doesn’t seem quite right at the time.” Byrnes hesitated an instant before saying somewhat reluctantly “I’ll request Jaffey’s detachment to you for the duration of the case.”

  Tom went back to his desk, hoping he’d made the right decision. He got back to his unfinished letter and read it through once more to get his train of thought back. He decided to add that he was interested in the records of all the men in the regiment, especially their company, date of enlistment, deaths, date of discharge, and parole. He figured he’d get Byrnes to sign it too. It might get a little quicker response coming from him.

  “May as well cast a wide net,” Tom muttered. “You never know what you might catch.”

  Mary let herself in. Her key was pretty new, and it caught in the lock. For a moment she thought it wouldn’t turn, but a jiggle and a twist did the trick. Grant and Lee waited like library lions at the end of the hall, eyes bright and ears pricked forward.

  “Well, hello, you two,” she said sweetly. “You going to sit there, or do I get a proper greeting?” They slowly got up and meandered toward her, dignified and aloof. “That’s a fine welcome. I don’t suppose I ought to give you the chicken scraps I have in this bag.” She held it up as if they’d know what she was talking about. “I’m not at all sure you deserve them.” Grant rubbed her leg, arching his back and rubbing his ear on her calf. “That’s more like it, soldier. You always were a ladies man, just like your master. You may just earn a treat, after all.” Mary fed the cats her scraps. They jostled each other to get their heads into the bowl, and Lee bit at Grant when he got too rough. “You show him who’s boss, Lee. Got to keep your man in line. They need to be shown their place every so often, and it’s up to us ladies to show it to them.” A smile stole across Mary’s face.

  She went into the bedroom and started to unpack a few things from the small bag she carried. As she did, she began to imagine herself unpacking all her things some day. It hadn’t been that long ago when thoughts like that were beyond her imagination. She was a whore and a madame. Marriage had no part in either of those occupations. Over the years she had built her walls high, the better to protect her heart … and her dreams. It had taken discipline to deny herself what she wanted most. She had denied herself but not her dreams. Those dreams were modest, really. She didn’t want the fancy Fifth Avenue mansion, like Madame Restell. She did not crave fame or harbor ambitions for the stage. She liked money and the things it would buy, but she didn’t dream of having more of it than would keep her comfortably. Her ambitions were much more commonplace and ordinary than most would have imagined. The love of a good, honest man was at the core of it. He wouldn’t care what she did for money. He’d be able to see beyond that, and he would love her for herself. They would reveal themselves to each other in the quiet hours and share life’s joys and sorrows. There would be children and the miracle of birth would be her miracle. They would build a family.

  Ordinary dreams. But they called for an extraordinary man. Thinking back, she supposed she knew that the first day when she saw him on her doorstep, ready to arrest her. He hadn’t lusted like the other men, though the lust was there. He hadn’t ogled her body, though it was there for the ogling. He had looked her in the eye, as if trying to see the person behind the madame. Though they hadn’t said much to each other, there were volumes sent and received.

  She was loosing the reins on her dreams now. It was dangerous, she knew. She risked everything when she risked her heart. She had suffered many a cut to that vital organ over the years, and there wasn’t much left unscarred. What there was she was willing to give to Tom. He knew what she gave. And he knew in his awkward way what a delicate gift it was. Mary smiled to herself as she started a bath. She had another gift in mind when Tom got home.

  Matt
and Earl had split up when they left police headquarters. For the next half hour, they watched their backs for detectives, doubling back, stopping to watch the street in store windows, and popping into shops to check for anyone following. Neither was followed. They met up again at Paddy’s. It was still an hour before their regular meeting, so they took a table in the corner, where they could watch the street without being surprised or overheard.

  “Who the hell done it, ya think?” Earl wondered once they had settled with their beers.

  “Shit, I don’t know. Nobody knows what we’re up to but us seven … well, six now,” Matt corrected himself.

  “Only thing I can figure is that fuckin’ Braddock done it, or had it done.”

  “Nah! I don’t think he did it. It don’t make sense,” Matt said, shaking his head. “Watkins would be worth a lot more to him alive than dead. You see how anxious he was to get something out of us?” Earl nodded agreement. “He needs information, not dead men. He’s in a hog wallow, looking for clover,” Earl said into his beer.

  Matt looked back with a puzzled expression but there was the start of something else. “So, who done it?”

  Paddy’s was filling with the evening crowd. Bob held court in his corner table by the window, telling two others how Hooker lost his nerve to Bobby Lee at Chancellorsville.

  “Only good thing come o’ that was Jackson gettin’ shot by his own men. Some say that was worth losing the battle for. Cost the rebs more than most anything else that fool Hooker could have done.”

  “Damned if I wouldn’t like to put a ball in that man’s head, talkin’ about Stonewall like that,” Earl said under his breath.

  Matt shrugged. “Hell, he’s right, Earl. We woulda been better off losing the battle than Jackson. Besides, he’s a cripple already. Putting a ball in his head might be doing him a favor.”

  Bob was warming to his subject. The beer was talking, and it was loud enough to be heard anywhere in Paddy’s.

  “Damn Jackson flanked the whole fuckin’ army. First thing we knew was when the skirmishers drove the deer out of the woods into our lines. Hell, deer, rabbits, coons; they led the fuckin’ assault. Jackson just brought up the rear.” Everyone at Bob’s table laughed.

  “I swear one more word, and I’m gonna take off his other damned leg.”

  Matt put a hand on Earl’s arm. “No good doin’ that, Earl. Let’s go. We can get a beer somewhere else.”

  Earl grumbled, but he got up and walked through the sawdust and out the door, all the while glaring at Bob.

  Matt looked at his watch. “Don’t really have time for another beer anyway. May’s well go over to the office.” They walked down the stone sidewalks of Peck Slip and headed for the offices of Sangree & Co.

  Tom was stamping his letter to the War Department, when he thought of another he should send. It wouldn’t be proper to just show up at the Roeblings’ door like some traveling salesman. Such things had to conform to the social graces. Social grace was an area not fully developed in Tom. It was a matter of thought, not instinct. Still, he did his best at writing a note to the chief engineer, asking if he could call in two days’ time. He checked it over after he had finished. Aside from one careless blob of ink and some doubtful phrasing, it would do. He sent it off with the other.

  His purpose was not to interrogate Roebling. Rather, he hoped that the man could shed some light on some things. It was clear that somebody was very concerned about keeping their activities quiet. Tom had to treat every possibility seriously. Thinking of the possibilities, the list he came up with was short. The most likely cause was fraud. As J. Lloyd Haigh had proven when he supplied defective wire for the main cables, there was a lot of money to be made from promising one thing and delivering another. Haigh had been able to commit fraud, supply substandard wire, and still keep his contract after being caught. It wasn’t such a stretch to assume some other group was trying something similar. When the layers were peeled back, murder was usually about money. Where a project like the great East River Bridge was concerned, the money came in buckets. All sorts get drawn to the trough. Even small leaks in a few of those buckets could mean big profits to anyone willing to drill the holes. Tom walked out of police headquarters trying to imagine how he’d go about defrauding the bridge project. The possibilities seemed endless.

  He kept turning what he knew over and over in his mind while the El chugged uptown toward home. He liked taking the El after dark. Lighted windows flashed by, like moving photographs. It reminded him of a moving picture book he had seen once. He had flipped the pages and watched, fascinated, as a horse and rider seemed to gallop across the pages. He stared out the windows, a mobile urban voyeur, peeping into living rooms on the fly. Pieces of people’s lives flitted by. Tom thought of the million and more inmates of New York. What were they doing now, at this instant? Eating, drinking, rolling a sucker on the Bowery, making love, driving a hack, patrolling the streets; a million things in a million different ways went on at any instant in time. But out of all the human hustle and bustle, all the infinite variety of activity, there were some whose minds were focused on the bridge. He knew they were out there somewhere. They had left their calling cards. They knew who he was and what he was about. Though they might include Matt Emmons and Earl Lebeau, he couldn’t prove it, at least not yet. There might be some on this train with him now. Let them come, Braddock thought, looking over his shoulder. He’d welcome an end to the mystery.

  Tom was still thinking of conspirators as he walked up the stairs of his place. He opened the door tentatively, almost expecting black hands to reach for him from his darkened hall. He closed the door with a soft click of the latch behind him. Something registered in his mind, raising the beginnings of alarm. He sniffed like a hound testing the air. With careful steps, he prowled the hall. As he neared the bedroom door, he recognized the scent of candles and the faint hint of honeysuckle. A dim warm glow crept from under his door. The beginnings of a smile teased the corner of his mouth. With a slow hand, Tom pushed in the door. It swung lazily, revealing a different room from the one he’d left that morning. Candles bathed the walls in fluid yellow light. It seemed as if he’d stepped into a chapel, each candle a prayer and a devotion. He hardly recognized the place. Mary lay on his bed. The light rippled on her golden skin, as if she swam in a veil of fire. Her smile was slow and teasing. Tom stood rooted in the doorway.

  “Oh, Mary,” he said like a whispered prayer.

  “Welcome home, Tommy. I’ve been waiting for you.” Her hands stole to her breasts in a soft insistent caress, her taut belly rolling in supple waves. Tom drew a long ragged breath. She purred to him softly. “You were so long in coming, I started without you. You don’t mind, do you, Tom?”

  He just smiled and started to unbutton his shirt.

  “Mmm, yes,” she whispered. “I want to see you.”

  “Oooh, you wicked, wicked girl.” He groaned. Tom’s clothes came off without his eyes leaving hers. Mary watched, her hands moving over her body as Tom bared himself to her. It was Mary’s turn to draw a ragged breath. She watched, fascinated. This was a game they hadn’t played before.

  “I want you so much, Tommy,” Mary said in a whisper.

  A mischievous grin split Tom’s face. “Show me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Continuing to work has been with me a

  matter of pride and honor!

  —WASHINGTON ROEBLING

  When the meeting had convened without Watkins, there was a buzz of speculation around the table. Matt and Earl started to tell how Braddock had taken them in for questioning when the captain stood, serious and erect, as if on parade. With an officer’s dignity he called for silence in a tone that stilled the room instantly.

  “Watkins is dead,” the captain said clearly. “I killed him.” The words fell like sword strokes. Thaddeus let the silence reign for what seemed minutes. “As captain, I have the dual responsibility of the welfare of my men and the success of the mission. As you k
now, I have tried to balance the two … but we know too it’s the mission that has to come first.” The men listened. Thaddeus couldn’t tell if they were with him or not. They gave no sign of what they felt. “We knew that in ’61 … and nothing has changed with the years. It is the one constant in military life.” He gave a small internal shudder the men didn’t see. “The burden I swore to bear. Our mission … was in jeopardy, put at risk by one of our own. Faced with that situation, a sacrifice had to be made.”

  He had wanted to end it there but almost before he realized it, he went on to tell them his heart. “I swear to you, I would just have readily sacrificed my own life if it could accomplish the same end.” He tried hard to maintain his air of command, his military demeanor. The men deserved that. It was hard, though, when he spoke of Watkins. “I pray you all understand how very seriously I approached this. It was something I was loath to do, and I prayed that the Almighty might assist me and show me the true and righteous path.” He paused for a moment, needing a second to collect himself.

  “You must know—I mean, I want you all to understand that—this—was an agony for me. I did not make it lightly, and though I know in my heart it was the right thing to do, it will forever be a burden of … of regret to me, that I had—was forced to do it.” He had no intention of telling the others of his suspicion of Watkins. Some things were best left unsaid. He looked at the men one by one, seeing each truly. “I know I will have to answer to my maker some day, just as I answer to you all now.” By the time he finished his head hung to his chest. He hadn’t wanted to let his emotions show, but it couldn’t be helped. Maybe that was the thing that made it easier for the rest to accept. They could see the beast he’d wrestled. He was the captain, but he was just a man.

  It was done and it could not be undone. None of them liked it but they all seemed to accept it. Even Sullivan, who could be more sensitive to the human issues of their little group, took it well. The fact that Watkins was the least valued member of the team was an advantage. There was a feeling too that Watkins had brought this on himself. His wagging tongue had killed him, as sure as any bullet. Jacobs, in his clerk’s voice, said it first.