Never before in her life had she considered it necessary to worry about fingerprints.
Chapter Sixty-seven
So, McKenna thought, that’s what an antique Japanese brush pot looks like. Kind of like a vase, but instead of flowers, it held a scholar’s writing brushes. He licked his finger and turned another page of the slick auction catalogue Desmond Cox had sent over. Here was another pot, this one carved out of a thick segment of bamboo, and another made of jade. He pulled the chain of his desk lamp and bent to study the last photo, more to gauge mass and heft than to admire the scowling samurai warrior incised on the front.
Over a foot tall with a rim as thick as his little finger—that pot could have busted Shelton’s head for sure, and kept on holding brushes for another five-hundred years. Too bad his boys hadn’t been able to run down anything even remotely like it.
Shaking his head, McKenna closed the catalogue and creaked his desk chair back. Funny what people would pay big bucks for. Personally, he wouldn’t give a dime for a curio that just sat around on a shelf, and this one wasn’t even pretty. Now, that new Penn reel he’d had his eye on—that sweet little spinner—he’d be willing to drop some coin on that. Sighing, he laced his fingers over his midsection. How long before he’d be able to get out to Long Island again? Spend a day with the fish? Forget this crazy, suicidal world for a few hours?
For exactly one blessed minute, McKenna was transported to that shining expanse of water on Shinnecock Bay. Then the intercom crackled to life and he reached to press a button. “Yeah?”
“Lute, I know you told me not to bother you…but Bernice just called up…and ah…”
Doris was too cool a customer to dither, but she was coming close.
“Just spit it out, hon.” McKenna’s tone was weary. He was already ahead of the squad secretary.
“Captain Dwyer wants you down in his office—pronto.”
Chapter Sixty-eight
“Proud of yourself, McKenna?” The speaker was Captain Joseph Dwyer, his subject the arrest of Helen “Tiffy” De Forest, his attitude…Well, the less said about his attitude, the better.
“Whadda you want me to do, Cap? There were blue birds, reds—even schmeck—right under my nose. You want me to ignore that crap? In public?”
McKenna would be damned if he’d hang his head over a perfectly good collar. He ground his back teeth together. He’d handed the narcotics boys a sure thing. If they followed the trail through Nigel Fairchild and a couple of dirty doctors, they’d end up bagging half the morphine and barbiturate tablets that kept café society so damn mellow. If rumors were correct, the importers worked out of a Mexican freighter somewhere in the harbor. Of course, it was always possible the narcotics squad was going to cool their heels on this one and let the war take its natural toll on the drug trade.
Too bad that wouldn’t work with homicide.
Dwyer ran a hand over his close-cropped silver hair. “What I want is for you to leave vice to Vice. Now get busy preparing your case against Fumi for the DA. What’s your holdup?” His lips twisted into a condescending smile. “And don’t blame the Feds—I got you access to the goddamn detention center three days ago.”
McKenna was beginning to steam. “The holdup is that Mrs. Oakley is still a ninety-pound china doll that couldn’t have moved Shelton’s corpse two feet, much less dragged him clear across that gallery.”
Dwyer rolled his eyes. “Maybe she had some help. The way I hear it, she was definitely on the scene.”
“So you heard that, did you?” Shit. Then somebody must’ve had their mouth to your ear, McKenna thought, because I haven’t finished writing up that report yet. He took a slow breath. “Yeah, we have an eye witness for her getting out of a cab and entering the gallery, but I’m thinking Shelton was still alive when she left.”
“Why?”
“Masako Fumi Oakley isn’t the one who heaved a brick through Shelton’s window. And she sure as hell didn’t hire a lowlife goon to picket her own show.” He bit his lip to reign in his temper. “If I’ve learned one thing about this gal, it’s that her paintings mean more to her than anything in the world—after her husband, that is. She fought to go to art school, fought to be a painter. Christ, she broke with her family over it. Even renounced her native country. Look, Cap,” McKenna said slowly and clearly, “somebody has it in for this lady. I don’t know why, but I’d bet ten dollars to a doughnut Shelton’s murder is tied right into it.”
Dwyer leaned back in his desk chair and tented his fingers. “And, at first, you thought that somebody might be Nigel Fairchild.”
“Yeah.”
“And you were wrong about that.”
“Yeah. But Fairchild’s not the only possibility.”
Captain Dwyer eased forward. His blue eyes were piercing, but his voice took on the quality of maple syrup—sweet, thin, and smooth. “Let me lay it out for you, Lieutenant, the DA isn’t the only one breathing down my neck. There’s Washington, too. Turns out certain influential people think Mrs. Oakley could be very valuable right about now.”
McKenna was momentarily thrown. “Valuable? What the hell does that mean?”
“Look, Pearl Harbor caught us all by surprise. A lot of Americans were trapped behind enemy lines.”
“What, like businessmen, diplomats, ordinary travelers?”
“And some not so ordinary.” Dwyer nodded slowly. “Some are carrying information that could prove to be of great importance to the war effort. You’ve heard of prisoner exchanges? To have a successful civilian exchange…The daughter of a high-ranking Japanese functionary…” He circled one hand in a pathetic little flourish. “Quid pro quo—that’s the name of the game.”
Who in hell had been bending Dwyer’s ear? Bending his arm more likely. “Last time I looked, this was the headquarters of the New York Police Department, not the War Office in Washington, DC.”
“Well, look again, McKenna. With national defense at stake, New York can’t afford an independent streak. Dammit, LaGuardia’s even taking a beating over air raid procedures—the Feds are determined to organize them their way, not New York’s way. We’re all going to have to knuckle under for as long as this lasts.”
Shit, McKenna thought again, detecting a flash of desperation in his captain’s eyes, they’ve really gotten to Joe. Have they promised him big things after the war? Or is his job on the line?
McKenna felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. The New York City he was used to called its own shots, operating almost as a country within a country; the Feds’ incursion into local authority was moving a lot faster than he was comfortable with. How long before New York coppers all turned into a bunch of mindless bureaucrats, filling out forms in triplicate before they could shake down a mug? He shifted on the wooden chair—nice time for the hip to start acting up—and asked carefully, “What is it you want me to do, Cap?”
“Wrap the case up. You’ve got enough evidence that the Jap lady is involved one way or another. Send what you have to the DA and wash your hands of it. Once Dragon Lady’s charged with murder, she’ll be worth twice what an ordinary civilian would be in an exchange.”
McKenna replied very slowly. “And if Mrs. Oakley isn’t Shelton’s killer?”
Dwyer shrugged. “So she ends up in Japan. So what?”
“Are you aware she hasn’t set foot in that country since she was a small child? A country on fire with hatred for anything associated with America?”
Another shrug. “Why should we care?”
McKenna swallowed, hard. “Let’s look at it another way. If someone else killed Shelton, then we have a murderer running loose in the city.”
“Hardly the only one—as you and I both know.”
Yeah, McKenna thought, guys who kill each other over a craps game or a sleazy dame. But this was different. Shelton’s murderer was upto
wn, smart, daring—a killer who knew how to manipulate an opportunity to the hilt—a dangerous person who needed to be put away. McKenna sighed. He knew he was outgunned, but he asked anyway, “What if I keep working the case?”
Dwyer didn’t miss a beat. “Then we’ll have to reconsider that retirement.”
A vision of Shinnecock Bay, sparkling in the sunlight, again sprang to McKenna’s mind. He was surprised how easy it was to push it aside. “Give me two more days, Cap.”
Dwyer hesitated. Then, “Monday morning—nine o’clock sharp—your report on the DA’s desk.” He checked his neatly trimmed fingernails, then looked back up. “And not a minute later.”
Chapter Sixty-nine
Miss Gardner’s classroom had six tall windows set into the concrete-block wall. The low afternoon sun illuminated battered student desks in rows so straight they might have been aligned with a yardstick. Cabby stood in the doorway, her wrist still aching in its cumbersome sling, watching the teacher erase diagrammed sentences from the long blackboard. The smell of chalk dust pervaded the air, taking Cabby back to Hunter College High School. Once she’d gotten a taste of the larger life that school’s vibrant teachers had offered, she couldn’t wait to leave her family’s cramped apartment, and even more cramped minds, behind. Was Howie feeling like she had? Is that why he’d run away?
Over burned toast and clotted oatmeal that morning, Helda’s boarders had agreed to do whatever they could to help find Howie. “That little squirt,” as Ruthie called him. “Otherwise,” she said, “we’re gonna have to move out of here before we starve to death.”
“I’ll go over to the school, talk to his teachers,” Cabby volunteered. “That’s what my cop friend suggested, and there’s no way Helda would have the know-how to finesse the system.”
“Finesse the system?” Mousie asked, frowning. She’d looked worried ever since she’d come downstairs this morning.
“Yeah. The New York City school system. Those teachers are tough dames, even tougher than the kids. They won’t give student information to just anyone, but I had thirteen years of them—I know the drill.”
“The drill?” Mousie looked even more worried.
“Yeah. Leave it to me.” Then she grinned. “I should be able to wriggle a couple of hours off work this afternoon—once my editor gets a gander of the Stork Club story I’m gonna hand him.” Cabby picked up her coffee cup and sipped at the bitter brew. Soon, she was reveling in envious questions about her nightclub escapade.
As she left the breakfast table, she snapped back to reality. Thank god, Lieutenant McKenna had offered to check juvenile hall and the hospitals, even the morgue. He’d have more pull at those places than she would. She shuddered at the thought of Howie laid out on a slab. Surely—surely—if there was any justice in the world, Helda would never have to face that.
Now, watching Miss Gardner’s eraser sweep the board in precise arcs, Cabby felt oddly paralyzed, as if she were once again the frightened tot her mother had coaxed into Mrs. Costigan’s kindergarten. After all that braggadocio at breakfast, she kind of wished one of her housemates had joined her on this errand. Alicia or Louise. Louise hadn’t even been at breakfast. She’d blown out of their room first thing, as if Cary Grant was waiting downstairs with a diamond ring.
“And just who are you?” Miss Gardner’s abrupt tone jerked Cabby to life. Howie Schroeder’s homeroom teacher was tall and thin with salt-and-pepper hair, bushy eyebrows, and a long face just like the llamas Cabby had visited in the Bronx Zoo. She looked impatient. With her students gone for the day, Miss Gardner clearly wanted to straighten up the classroom and get home for the weekend.
Home to her cats, Cabby thought unkindly.
But when Cabby explained about Howie, the teacher sat down at a student desk and gestured for Cabby to do the same.
“This is bad news, indeed.” Miss Gardner folded her hands and nodded primly. “Howard, you must understand, is an extremely promising young man. His Intelligence Quotient is in the top percentile nationwide. I have great hopes for him—some field of science or mathematics, perhaps.”
Cabby opened her mouth to say something about the boy’s attempt to enlist in the armed forces, but Miss Gardner kept going.
“Now I do understand that his mother is alone, struggling merely to support herself and the boy. But, nonetheless, with a New York public education Howard Schroeder can go anywhere he wants in life. The City College system is outstanding—and free.”
“I know,” Cabby inserted, wanting to tell Miss Gardner that she, herself, had gone to a public college, but the teacher blabbed on.
“So, when I saw the state he was in on Monday, I was alarmed. But then, of course, all the students were dismayed—overnight we’d been plunged into war, and the attack was all they could think and talk about. Howard’s distress, however, was excessive. The first half of the week he seemed lost somewhere in his own head. Then yesterday and today he didn’t show up at all. I was just about to report him truant.”
“Miss Gardner.” Cabby put considerable emphasis into articulating the teacher’s name. Once she had her attention, she rushed on, prevaricating only a little, “Howie’s mother was wondering if I could take a look in his desk. She’s gone through his room at home and found nothing to indicate where he went. If he didn’t take his notebooks home, they’d be in his desk. Right?”
Miss Gardner was pensive for a moment. Then, pointing a manicured fingernail at an ink-inscribed oak desk halfway back in the room, she said, “Howard sits right there. I suppose, under the circumstances…”
Cabby didn’t wait for her to finish. She whipped back to Howie’s desk and raised the lid. It was stuffed. Working one-handed, she pulled out discarded homework papers, a crumpled-up sports magazine, a publicity photo of Lana Turner, a couple of maps, and three worn notebooks. When she saw a copy of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Cabby gave a little shriek and snatched it up. “This is the most important book I ever read.”
“Really?” Miss Gardner raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
Cabby gave her a wicked grin, but she was dead serious. “Huck taught me that it was okay to break the rules. I wanted to be just like him.”
“Hmm. Is that so?” Miss Gardner assessed her with a veiled smile. “But, remember, it’s also a story about running away.”
“Oh, yes.” Cabby nodded vigorously. “And I bet Howie loved it.”
“He did.” Miss Gardner reached for a notebook. “Are you looking for anything specific here?”
Cabby shook her head. “Just anything that might tell us what’s been on Howie’s mind.”
They worked in silence for a while, Cabby sorting loose papers and Miss Gardner turning pages.
The teacher broke the silence abruptly. “Maybe this is something.” She turned the notebook toward Cabby. “These are simple arithmetic problems. Howard started Algebra this year—why would he be doing these exercises?”
Cabby studied the page. A short column of additions and subtractions ended with the following problem, boldly circled.
1941
-18
1923
“Eighteen!” she said. “That’s how old he’d have to be to join the armed services!”
“Surely he’s not thinking about that.” Miss Gardner put a worried hand to her cheek.
“He’s already tried once, but the recruiting officer sent him straight home. What if he decided to try that stunt farther afield?” Cabby eyed the maps she’d removed from Howie’s desk. She picked up the one that showed the most wear. “Does he study geography?”
“No, not until tenth grade.”
Awkwardly, Cabby unfolded the map. Howie had drawn a heavy ink line next to a row of what looked like chicken tracks. They petered out somewhere around Huntington, West Virginia. She turned the tattered sheet over and checked the legend. Railr
oads.
She studied the map. Ran a forefinger over the train line. Damn! Had that crazy kid taken to the rails? And why West Virginia, of all places? With lightning clarity a memory surfaced. A couple of days ago at breakfast. Marion’s words taunting Louise. A newspaper article.
Cabby checked the map again. Yes, West Virginia bordered Kentucky. She grabbed the map and her bag. Scooted out of the desk. Sprinted for the door.
“Where are you going?” Miss Gardner cried.
“Home.” Cabby yelled. “If I can get to the trash before the garbage truck comes, I’ll know where Howie Schroeder’s gone.”
And I’ll be able to set Lieutenant McKenna looking in the right direction.
Chapter Seventy
“Oh, no,” Cabby groaned, as she turned into Helda’s street. The dented garbage cans at the curb in front of the boarding house lay on their sides, empty, lids tossed haphazardly on the sidewalk, one leaning against the brownstone stoop. Her heart sank. It was the coldest day of winter so far, and she stood there in the darkening afternoon, shivering in her boots. She looked down the street in the direction she knew the truck would have gone. So much for Marion’s discarded newspaper. So much for the article to which Howie had paid such avid attention at breakfast the day he disappeared. Now, if only Marion, or maybe Louise, could remember the name of the town in Kentucky that was reportedly enlisting underage boys.
Chapter Seventy-one
Dodging suicidal taxicabs and heedless redcaps with baggage-laden carts, McKenna loped painfully across the Pennsylvania Station carriageway and entered that sprawling temple of transportation through the grand archway of the main door. The place was jumping. Every resident of New York seemed to be on the move—determined, tense, cocky, confused—all scurrying along as if the newly declared war could only be won by sheer hustle. He elbowed his way through the crowd, determined to reach Concourse 62 before the 3:30 to Muncie left the station.
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