If he didn’t already know.
“Lieutenant McKenna?” she asked, “Have you heard from my roommate, Cabby Ward?”
“That sneaky little newshound? Miss Ward is your roommate?” McKenna rubbed his forehead, amazed as always at what a small world New York could be. This pretty Southern girl, landed with a Bronx big-mouth like Ward, and both of them involved with his case. Whadaya know? He went on, “I haven’t talked to Miss Ward since she skewed the stuff I gave her about the Shelton murder into a story more fit for the tabloids than the Times.”
Louise repressed a smile. McKenna had Cabby’s number all right, but that wasn’t important now. She said, “Then I guess I should let you know what she found out last night.” As Abe listened intently, she once again recounted Cabby’s tale about her America First assignment and Fairchild’s missed speaking date.
McKenna let Nurse Hunter’s words sink in. So the girl reporter was still working the Shelton story like a dog with a bone, was she? And damn it! Miss Ward might even be on to something. In the short interview Nigel Fairchild had granted McKenna, he’d been very definite about his speech at the Metropolis Club on the evening Shelton was killed. A bold-faced lie apparently.
The more McKenna thought, the better he liked it. When witnesses had confirmed Mrs. Oakley’s taxi ride to the gallery, he’d thought the case was over. He had his perpetrator, and the Cap would climb off his back. But, no. His gut had never been happy with it. No. no, no. No way could the tiny, frail woman have ever been strong enough to whack a tall, healthy, young American man over the head.
He was still interested in why Masako Oakley had left her husband home in bed in the throes of pneumonia, but at least he had an additional strong lead to follow. Fairchild. Ha! Now he would make a satisfying collar.
McKenna found himself grinning at the pretty nurse in the red scarf as the police launch bumped the dock.
***
Even from the doorway of the large visitation hall, Louise could tell that Masako had somehow shrunken into herself. Maybe it was the mustard-colored dress far too large for her. Or the armed guard, shoulders squared, rifle at the ready. It was almost as if, overwhelmed by this massive facility and the power behind it, Masako Oakley had decided to be…not quite there.
The nurse shoved past Abe and McKenna.
Masako raised her pale face on the other side of the partition. “Robert? Is he still alive?” Her question was as insubstantial as a wisp of smoke.
Louise was dimly aware of Abe following close behind, getting her a chair while he and McKenna remained standing. “Yes, yes, Dr. Wright is attending him closely. The professor sends his love and absolutely forbids you to worry on his account.” Louise wanted to continue her assurances, comfort the Japanese woman any way she could. But the forces of law were literally breathing down her neck. “It’s time to focus now. To answer these men’s questions as fully as you possibly can.”
Abe waded right in without waiting for a response. “Mrs. Oakley,” he said, with a sideways jerk of his thumb, “you saw this man day before yesterday. He’s Lieutenant McKenna of the New York City homicide squad, here about the murder of Arthur Shelton. You don’t have to answer his questions if you don’t want to. In any case, I’m here to advise you.”
Masako Oakley turned her gaze slowly, slowly, toward the police lieutenant. Yes, she remembered. The carrion crow. Another one to pick her bones. Not enough to be questioned for hour after hour by Agent Bagwell. Blistered by accusations of treason and murder, threatened with repatriation to Japan, pressed into mute submission by his unrelenting demands.
And finally, when Agent Bagwell let her be, she was crammed into a room just large enough for two, but with ten women sharing crowded bunks. Women jabbering all day in Italian, German, and what she thought must be Romanian.
Now the police! She swallowed painfully. Her throat was no longer a tube for speaking, just a pouch to store aching, unshed tears. Maybe if she didn’t look at the wrinkled policeman he would go away. She shut her eyes, but his questions drilled into her ears. What was he asking about? Arthur’s death. Her painting of the hungry lion, the one that had grown out of memories of her father. Arthur? The gallery. Her paintings. Her studio.
Something clicked, and Masako’s eyes flew open to seek Nurse Louise. “Did you get my paintings?”
“What paintings?” That was the policeman, tone puzzled. The lawyer looked as if he might speak but didn’t.
Louise put a subtle forefinger to her lips. Later, she mouthed. Since Lieutenant McKenna stood behind her chair, he wouldn’t see her response to Mrs. Oakley’s question. He seemed like a…decent man, but who knew what bureaucratic hell the Bleecker Street studio would get caught up in if the authorities learned about it.
Masako understood. Nurse Louise was trying to protect her. She must co-operate. The artist shook her head, as if in a daze. “What paintings?” She turned a vacant face toward McKenna. “My paintings are all gone. I don’t understand.”
As he stared for a long, contemplative moment, she resisted the compulsion to let her eyelids sink closed. Finally he asked, “Mrs. Oakley, why were you at the Shelton Art Gallery at 7:15 the night of Arthur Shelton’s murder?”
Oh, no! Was that when Arthur had been killed? How could this world be so cruel? “I…I…”
Her three listeners leaned forward, lips parted, each intent on the words that must be crowding the delicate woman’s mouth.
But Masako fell silent and bowed her head. The world—and time—turned to lead, barely moving. Maybe if she didn’t listen to the policeman, didn’t speak, took her soul into a hiding place, she could become invisible. Just like with Agent Bagwell. She summoned the pane of frosted glass, thicker, more opaque. And disappeared.
Chapter Fifty-four
Cabby hoped Halper had been too busy jawing with the guys to notice her sneak into the news room a good twenty minutes late. But no. Here he was now, slack jowls still pink from a vigorous morning shave, hairy knuckles curled on her desktop.
“Glad you decided to grace us with your presence, Ward.”
Cabby raised her gaze from her typewriter, but kept her fingers on the keys. “Sorry, Boss. Had to see a man about a dog.” She resorted to the male euphemism to keep his questions at bay until she had a chance to lay out the whole story she’d begun looking into.
“Yeah? Well, Ward. I got something right up your alley.” Halper’s grin was unreadable.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Get out that fancy hat of yours.”
Cabby rolled her eyes. She had a formerly chic peacock-blue hat with a tipsy high crown, a narrow brim and a feather. She’d bought it for fifty cents at a lah-di-dah Fifth Avenue church rummage sale, and the only time it ever graced her unruly curls, tilted at a jaunty angle, was at the society-ladies luncheons Halper sent her to cover. But why did her editor have to come up with one of his lightweight assignment today?
“You’re going to the Waldorf,” he continued. “Buncha downtown business women are celebrating the first anniversary of their charity organization.”
She sighed.
“What’s your problem?” The editor straightened, crossed his arms.
“I’ve covered a hundred of these dos—Park Avenue matrons picking at shrimp cocktail while some snooty dame with a lorgnette sanctifies them for their good works. Why don’t you send Bud for a change—or any of these guys?” Cabby swung an arm in a half-circle that took in the entire news room. “I’ve got an important story on the burner.”
Halper slapped a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed hard. “That’s your trouble, Ward, you’re always flapping your mouth. Listen a god-damned minute, will ya?” The harsh overhead light gleamed dully on his green eyeshade. “A good reporter has to learn to listen.”
“All right.” Cabby abandoned her trusty Underwood and clenched
her hands on her lap. “I’m all ears,” she replied with a forced smile, but she wasn’t about to drop her line of inquiry. She’d struck a nerve with Nigel Fairchild last night. A guilty nerve? Maybe. And she’d already started following it up.
“This Waldorf deal isn’t for society types, Ward. It’s for working women—like you. Editors, doctors, entrepreneurs—top-level gals.” The editor shot her a glare. “They give up their lunch hours and evenings to help out on the blocks where they work. They’ve been providing warm clothing, meals and recreation for kids who roam the streets while their parents clean office buildings at night. Now they plan to take Mrs. Roosevelt’s advice and turn their attention to war work. Is that important enough for you?”
“Yes, sir. It is.” Cabby twisted uncomfortably in her seat. Just yesterday, the First Lady had praised the woman of England who’d rushed to fill jobs vacated by their fighting men. Mrs. Roosevelt’s message had been crystal clear: except in work that required brute strength, a woman could perform as well as a man. Oh, yes—Cabby could get on board with that!
“Good.” The editor consulted a slip of paper jotted with the particulars. “The chairwoman, a Mrs. Howard McClellan, expects you at a quarter to twelve. Ask her about the classes they’re setting up.”
“Classes?”
“Map reading, telegraphy, martial arts, fingerprinting, anything that might become useful as the war heats up.”
“Fingerprinting? Like the cops do?”
“Civil Defense wants as many civilians’ prints on file as possible.”
“Why on earth?”
He twisted his blubbery lips. “It might end up being the only way to identify bombing victims.”
“Oh.” Swallowing past a lump in her throat, Cabby took the paper from Halper. “Okay, I’ll get the story and have it written up by four.” The editor continued to hover by her desk, so she added, “Sorry…about the attitude, I mean.”
Halper nodded, but still didn’t move. Finally he asked, “So—what’s this hot story you were blathering on about?”
Oh, good. “Well…you know how you assigned me to cover the America First meeting last night?”
“The group is dissolving, right? Hard to call for staying out of war when war lands right on your doorstep.”
“Yeah. I’m writing a piece about Fairchild’s announcement now, but listen to this—that ranting old fart could be smack in the middle of the Arthur Shelton murder.”
Halper pressed his lips together. “Didn’t I tell you to leave that alone?”
Cabby sprang from her seat and tipped her chin back. At five-foot-two, she’d never be able to look Halper in the eye, but she could try. “I did leave it alone—until it got thrown back in my face. Just listen”—she held up her palm—“Fairchild and Tiffy De Forest, this society gal who’s been decorating his arm, made a huge scene at the opening of the Masako Fumi Oakley show. Tiffy actually tossed a drink at the featured painting. Accused Shelton of being a traitor to his country.”
“Your nurse buddy tell you this?”
“No, I got it from James LaSalle. Yeah.” Cabby nodded triumphantly. “The Times’ very own art critic—I looked him up this morning to ask if he remembered Fairchild from the opening. LaSalle witnessed the whole drink incident—it was his wine she tossed. And I got a good look at Tiffy De Forest at the meeting last night. She was in the front row, hanging on Fairchild’s every word.”
Halper shrugged. “Okay, so Fairchild and his honey had political differences with Shelton. That doesn’t automatically translate into murder.”
“Keep listening. On Friday evening, when Shelton was killed, Fairchild was slated to be the dinner speaker at the Metropolis Club. He failed to show—no reason given.”
“Still…” Halper raised his shoulders skeptically, but Cabby could read the gleam in his eye. He was interested, by damn, the old crustacean. She went on quickly, “And, last night, you should have heard Fairchild. He urged his supporters to rid the city of all things Japanese. Shops, restaurants—art galleries! He actually said ‘art galleries!’”
Halper thought a moment, then rapped out, “The cops consider Fairchild a suspect?”
“I don’t know,” Cabby admitted.
“Has he been questioned?”
She could only shrug.
With a sigh, he sank into the battered wooden chair beside her desk, pulled the pencil from above his ear, and tapped her hand with it. “Look, Ward, so far you only have half a story. You gotta work the cop angle. Get onto the lead detective. You know him, right?”
“Yeah, I know him. Lieutenant Michael McKenna.” Who treats me like a case of influenza.
“So go to your police source and lay out all the Fairchild info. Get the investigator’s confirmation or denial on the record. Then—and only then—you’ll have something we can publish.” Halper stuck his forefinger out like the muzzle of a gun. “But the Waldorf ladies first, right?” He pointed in her direction and clicked his tongue before rising—with an even more-prolonged sigh—and moving on to Bud Smallwood’s desk. “And don’t forget the hat,” he shot back over his shoulder.
Cabby sat down and propped her chin on her hand. She felt like the fairy-tale princess who’d been ordered to spin straw into gold. First it was Louise who assumed she had the lieutenant’s ear, then her boss. Damn that McKenna! She’d tried another call that morning—and his secretary wouldn’t even take a message!
She started tapping the typewriter keys, slowly at first, and then picking up speed. A plan was forming. By the time she’d yelled “copy,” and handed her America First piece to a freckled copy boy, Cabby’s plan was nearly complete and she was smiling broadly. She snatched the blue hat from where it was smushed into her bottom drawer, licked her thumb and forefinger to straighten the feather, and grabbed her coat. She’d make just one little stop on her way to the Waldorf-Astoria. Right here in the Times building.
Chapter Fifty-five
Retired Times reporter Mervyn Uhl had made a career of parking his skinny frame at precinct houses and milking desk sergeants and detectives for information. Whether it was his perpetual grin or liberal sharing of the half pint of Four Roses in his pocket, Merv was a legend on the police beat. Although his gold watch had been bestowed in ’38, the tomatoes he then tried to raise in his Queens backyard withered on the vine, stamp collecting was boring as hell, and what was it with these old guys who ran model trains around their attics, anyway? Second childhood or something? So every day, Merv climbed into the same dirty suit he’d worn for decades, caught the Flushing Line to Times Square, and made his rounds, dispensing Lucky Strikes instead of cheap booze.
Today the schmoozer had parked his elbow on the marble and brass-trimmed shoe shine stand on the ground floor. Cabby found him jawing at Jimmy, the shoeshine boy, whose actual boyhood went back before the turn of the century. Jimmy was applying himself to his work, and the owner of a pair of scuffed brown wing tips, bored senseless by Merv’s spiel, had buried his face in that morning’s edition.
“Merv Uhl,” Cabby said, as she skidded to a halt. “Just the man I want to see.”
Uhl swiveled his head, blew a smoke ring, and grinned. “Hey, girlie, what’cha still doing in the newspaper life? Thought a cutie-pie like you would have a ring on your finger by now.” He finished with a look that landed somewhere between a wink and a leer.
Trying not to flinch, Cabby shook her head. Merv meant well. No sense in getting worked up over an old man’s failure to sniff the winds of change. Girls like Ruthie Boyle might think the sun rose and set in dragging some guy to the altar. But not Cabby Ward. No screaming brats and shitty diapers for her.
She lowered her voice and leaned in close. “Know any of the guys on the Homicide Squad down at Headquarters?” Whew, the old guy could use a shave, a shower, and a bottle of Listerine.
Merv worked h
is lips in and out before replying, “I know all of ‘em—at least the ones who been around for a while. Who ya want the dope on?” He dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out under the sole of his shoe.
“McKenna. Michael. Lieutenant.”
Merv nodded. “McKenna’s a good cop, started off in the Tenth Precinct. He’s honest—and a lot sharper than all his joking around would make you think.”
It took Cabby a moment to respond. “Joking? We talking about the same McKenna?”
“Yeah. There’s only one. Quick with a comeback. Keeps the boys in stitches.”
Cabby thought back to the detective she’d met at the Shelton Gallery, the guy with the look of a graveyard-bound elephant. Baggy, slow-moving, his cop brusqueness barely covering a heavy load of sorrow. “Are you sure? My McKenna cracks a smile about as often as the Dodgers win the pennant.”
Merv stared at the floor, forehead creased. To give him time, Cabby stifled the questions crowding her tongue. The thwap-thwap of Jimmy’s buffing rag filled the silence and the tannic smell of the polish tickled her nose. People passed in dribs and drabs, heading for the Forty-third Street exit, but a dark-suited man smoking a pipe was the only one to give the odd group a curious glance.
The old newspaperman finally spoke. “I guess the thing with his wife hit McKenna pretty hard.”
“His wife died?” That would explain the wrinkled clothing, the other signs of a man on his own.
“Worse.”
Cabby raised her eyebrows.
“McKenna had to put her away—in a rest home. She has…something. You know, it starts with forgetting your wallet—pretty soon you’d forget your head if it wasn’t stuck onto the top of your neck.”
“Senile dementia.” A mellow baritone chimed in. Cabby and Merv both turned toward Jimmy the Shine. He’d collected his dime and settled on a wire stool to have a smoke. His thick mahogany hands shook a coffin nail from a pack of Camels. “My Aunt Cleo had that. Senile dementia caused by hardenin’ of the arteries. She forgot how to eat. Just wasted away to nuthin’.” He shook his head. “That’s one bad business.” A long satisfied draw on his cigarette followed.
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