Last Stop in Brooklyn

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “There’s no connection.”

  “You already found that out?”

  “I said so, didn’t I? Do you not have enough work here, Handley? I can give you more. Speak with your captain, have you walking a beat again.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Captain Williams. I have no more interest in the Meg Parker case.”

  Williams leaned toward Sean, his hand on the top of his club. “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Smart boy, Handley.” He patted Sean on the back and opened the door. “Learn how to play team ball and next time I see you, maybe you’ll have a real office instead of a rat hole.”

  “I don’t have an office. I’m using Bailey’s while he’s on vacation.”

  “Not good enough for a rat hole.” Williams shook his head, and his loud, bellowing laugh echoed through the halls as he left.

  It took time and patience for Mary to extract information from Ameer, but it did result in a possible lead or two. He maintained that he was with a Spanish woman named Maryann Lopez that infamous night and the person with Carrie Brown was a blond-haired man with a mustache. He was adamant that Maryann had lied on the witness stand when she had testified that she wasn’t with him and he had no idea why. He also didn’t know how Carrie Brown’s blood and the contents of her stomach got on his shirt or in his room. He had come home drunk, passed out, and the next thing he knew he was being arrested.

  Ameer might have been lying, but his bewilderment and frustration seemed sincere. Mary decided to verify his story. At least she now had something to verify.

  “Ameer, how did you get from Sing Sing to here?”

  He looked her in the eye and innocently replied, “The train.”

  “No, no, no,” said Mary, holding in her urge to laugh. “I meant why did they move you?”

  “Ah, why.” Ameer scratched his beard as he thought. “I’m different. Different not good in America. Worse in prison. Get beaten every day. If I stay, I die.”

  “So you faked being insane?”

  Ameer nodded. “It better here. Not good but better.” He paused as Mary watched a deep sadness come over him.

  “You’ve run into some bad luck. We’re not all like that, Ameer.”

  “I want to go home.” His eyes welled up and he began to cry before burying his head in his arms on the table, every once in a while mumbling, “Allah yusaeiduni,” which meant “God help me” in Arabic.

  Though Ameer’s tears were real, it didn’t necessarily mean he was innocent. He could have been a good actor, or profoundly sorry for the murder he committed, or merely upset over the consequences he was suffering. Regardless, his pain was compelling, and Mary was moved. She promised him she would do everything she could to get at the truth. He was very grateful; blessing her through his tears as the muscular male nurse led him away.

  Mary slowly rose and looked at her watch. Because they were made for women, they were called wristlets. Pocket watches were thought to be more masculine, so few men wore watches on their wrists. Mary didn’t care about image. It would be inconvenient to dig into her pocketbook whenever she wanted to know the time, so the wristlet worked for her. Having checked the train schedule, she knew that there was a train due into Fishkill Landing bound for Manhattan in about an hour. Her work was done, and she decided she might as well make her way to the station. On the way out, she heard a familiar voice.

  “Mary, it’s so good to see you.”

  Mary turned and was astonished at what she saw. The heavyset woman whom she had seen from behind earlier, the one who was knitting, had risen from her chair and was facing her. Though she had put on twenty-five or thirty pounds, she recognized the woman immediately. Mary had known her as Kate Stoddard, though she had eventually discovered her real name was Lizzie King. They used to be very good friends. Six years earlier, they had worked in the same hat factory and had lived in the same building. During Mary’s first detective case, she’d discovered that Lizzie was a killer, and she was sentenced without a trial to the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane at Auburn. Mary had heard they had recently transferred many of the patients at Auburn to Matteawan. She was convinced that, unlike Ameer, Lizzie’s insanity was very real.

  “Hello, Lizzie. You’re looking well.”

  “You’re looking well, too.”

  “Thank you.” There was a moment of silence where Mary wasn’t sure what to say. Finally she spoke, “I expect you’re getting some good help.”

  “Oh, I am, lots of it.”

  Mary had always known that deep down, underneath whatever sickness had taken over Lizzie’s mind, there still existed that sweet country girl from Haddonfield, New Jersey, who was innocent, optimistic, and her good friend. She hoped that Lizzie was on her way back to becoming that girl.

  “I’m so happy to hear that. I’m sure that one day they’ll declare you cured and you’ll be set free.”

  “It’ll be a lot sooner than we both think.”

  “That’s wonderful, Lizzie. Have your parents been able to visit?”

  “Her mother is very supportive,” a broad-shouldered female attendant named Wendy interjected as she was passing by. “She’s visited three times in the three months Lizzie has been here. Hasn’t she, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie nodded, smiling.

  “And now she has you visiting her. Pretty soon they’re going to be lining up, Lizzie.” Wendy looked at Mary as if to say, See how well she’s doing? and continued on her way.

  “It was so good to see you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sorry but I have to catch a train.” Mary extended her hand and they shook.

  Just as Mary turned to go, Lizzie stopped her. “Mary, remember that conversation we had when we last saw each other?” As Mary raced through her mind to remember, Lizzie continued in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “I am going to kill you.”

  11

  Mary had definitively found out that Colleen was not having an affair, and it was time to let her husband know. She met Brian on Tuesday morning, the day after she returned from Matteawan, at a coffee shop in downtown Brooklyn.

  “Are you sure?” Brian asked.

  “Positive. I followed her everywhere and nothing led to an affair,” Mary replied.

  “Then why is she acting so strange?”

  Mary knew why but couldn’t tell him. “Brian, I don’t have a crystal ball into your relationship. Have you tried sitting Colleen down and having an honest heart-to-heart talk?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not in the least. Talk to her, Brian. Ask her what’s going on. No accusations: just tell her that you love her and that you’re afraid you’re losing her.”

  “Mary, I can’t—”

  “It’s the truth. Tell her.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence as Brian tried to digest Mary’s advice. Then he said, “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. You’re friends of the family.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Just promise me you’ll speak with Colleen.”

  “I’ll try, Mary. Maybe not exactly what you said but I’ll try.”

  At this point, Harper Lloyd arrived at their table with his tongue firmly implanted in his cheek. “Well, if it isn’t the extraordinarily famous detective Mary Handley, sitting at a coffee shop with us common folk.”

  “I’d never think of you as common, Harper Lloyd. Possibly trashy, but never common.”

  Harper looked at Brian. “She’s too good. I can never compete with her.”

  Brian started to rise. “Well, I have to be going.”

  “Mary, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  As Mary hesitated, Brian stuck out his hand. “Brian Murphy, nice to meet you.”

  They shook. “Harper Lloyd, nice to meet you, Mr. Murphy.” Then he turned toward Mary with an impish glint in his eye. “Very nice.”

  Brian thanked Mary for her help and left as Harper sat down in his ch
air.

  “Okay, now you know who my client was. Gloat away to your heart’s content.”

  “Is it any consolation that I had already figured it out, and because I thoroughly investigate my stories, I knew who he was before we were introduced?”

  “Absolutely none. I hate being transparent.”

  “So do I. Let’s just call it a draw: one for you and one for me.”

  “This is my business, Harper Lloyd, not some baseball game.”

  “Good, because baseball games rarely end in a draw, and I’m not looking to declare a winner.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “In spite of your tendency to discharge the contents of your stomach on innocent bystanders—”

  “Not so innocent.”

  “I probably deserve that. Anyhow, you mentioned a fascination with Jacob Riis. I’m meeting him tomorrow night for dinner. Would you like to join us? Provided, that is, that you refrain from disgorging yourself on him.”

  “You’ve used that joke once too often.”

  “Sorry. I’m told I have a tendency to do that.”

  “And I have a tendency to point it out.”

  “So, what is your reply?”

  “First things first. Is this your roundabout way of asking me for a date?”

  “I don’t see it as roundabout at all. It’s quite straightforward. Do you or don’t you?”

  Mary elongated his question. “…Want to go out on a date with you?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s most definitely a date.”

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “I once had a tooth pulled. That was easier.”

  Mary couldn’t help laughing. In spite of how they’d started out, Harper Lloyd seemed smart and witty and it didn’t hurt that she found him attractive.

  “Okay, Harper Lloyd, it’s a date.”

  “Great. One favor though: please call me by my first name.”

  “Which one, Harper or Lloyd?”

  “I see there’s no statute of limitations on your jests.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of it.”

  Harper smiled. “Would it be all right if I pick you up at seven o’clock?”

  Mary responded that it was, and always having a pencil and paper in her pocketbook, she wrote down her address and gave it to him. He stood.

  “Before you go,” Mary said, “I have one last question for you. I know you didn’t accidentally bump into us here. How did that come about?”

  “Don’t worry. Your detective instincts are intact. I didn’t follow you…. I followed him.”

  “Ah, thank you.”

  “Now, answer me one last question. Do you put all men who ask you out on a date through the same rigorous torture which you just made me suffer?”

  Mary looked up at him until their eyes met. “Only the ones I like.”

  Her spirit intrigued him.

  Thomas Byrnes was not a fan of classical music or opera, and thus rarely had any desire to go to Carnegie Hall. But on this day, he had been summoned by Andrew Carnegie, and when Carnegie requested his presence, he knew it wasn’t merely a request.

  The philharmonic orchestra was rehearsing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony as Byrnes entered. All the seats in the hall were empty except for the one occupied by Carnegie in the middle of the last row, where he was humming and waving his right hand as if he were conducting, slowly and more in reverence than in enthusiasm. Byrnes made his way to him and sat, leaving a seat between him and Carnegie to avoid an errant slap in the face in case the steel magnate’s conducting suddenly became more frenetic.

  Byrnes was about to speak when Carnegie signaled him to remain silent. Carnegie held music in high esteem and refused to spoil it with talk. They remained there a full five minutes without uttering a word until finally the orchestra took a break.

  “Beautiful piece, simply magnificent,” said Carnegie.

  “Yes, quite lovely. Now—”

  “Gustav Mahler is currently working on it. Making improvements, he says. I ask you, how do you improve on perfection?”

  “Seems…futile.”

  “Good point, Tom. Destructive, too. People with massive egos can do a lot of damage in this world. They must be stopped.”

  Coming from Carnegie, it was at the very least ironic, but Byrnes only smiled inwardly.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” Carnegie asked.

  “Ya asked me to come.”

  “That doesn’t answer why.”

  “I figure yer’ll tell me. Yer not one to waste time.”

  “That I’m not. No, that I am not.” He reached down under his seat, came up with a thick stack of letters, and handed them to Byrnes. “Death threats, dozens of them. Can you imagine? People want me dead.” As Byrnes glanced at the letters, Carnegie continued, “Where have you been? I left two messages for you. Did you not get them?”

  “I did. I was busy, and they didn’t sound urgent.”

  “Are you not satisfied with our arrangement?”

  “I’m very satisfied, sir.”

  The expression on Carnegie’s face was enough. Byrnes didn’t need Carnegie to clarify his threat with words. “I’ll get on it right away. I’m pretty sure ya have nothin’ to worry about. Probably a bunch of crackpots.”

  “Like the anarchist crackpot who attacked Henry?” Henry Clay Frick was Carnegie’s partner at Carnegie Steel. Two years before, a confirmed anarchist named Alexander Berkman had barged into Frick’s offices, shot him three times, and stabbed him several more. Miraculously, Frick survived and Berkman was now in jail.

  “If you like, I know some very good men, and I can get you protection.”

  “No. I refuse to live like Jay Gould. For a year after the Russell Sage bombing, he hid in that fortress of his, wearing a disguise whenever he dared to venture out. He lasted only a year, and mark my words. The fear had as much to do with his death as the tuberculosis.”

  “I’ll find out who’s behind these.” He held up the letters, hoping that was his exit line. It wasn’t.

  “Don’t these people know I’m giving all of my money to charity? I’m their friend, not their enemy.”

  Carnegie had written “The Gospel of Wealth” five years earlier, in which he proposed the theory that people who spend their lives accumulating great wealth should spend their latter years donating it to charitable causes. Even though he was still working, he was already putting that plan into action, backing up his words.

  Byrnes knew that Carnegie’s rationalization involved skewed logic. He had destroyed scores of people with his ruthless business practices over the years. The families of workers who were killed when he sent in armed Pinkertons to crush a strike didn’t care if he made token contributions. But Byrnes would never mention these thoughts. He liked their arrangement.

  “Dontcha worry. Yer no Jay Gould. I’ll get the fellas behind this.”

  “Thank you, Tom.”

  They shook hands and Byrnes stood up. “Can’t have anything happen to America’s greatest benefactor, can we?”

  The orchestra was returning from its break, and Byrnes left with the letters in his hands. They were most probably from many different people, which presented him with a problem. How the hell was he ever going to satisfy Andrew Carnegie?

  12

  Maryann Lopez was a dead end. Finding her was easy enough. All Mary had to do was to go to the lower Manhattan area where the East River Hotel was located and ask around. Many of the locals knew Maryann, and one of them was able to point Mary to the flophouse where she frequently stayed. Mary had found her outside that flophouse sharing a bottle of cheap whiskey with her friend Solly. To Maryann, a friend was defined as anyone who could raise enough money to share the cost of a bottle. A close friend was someone who had his own bottle and invited her to share. Solly was somewhere in between. Drunk as they were at ten in the morning, they boldly announced that Maryann had traded sex for booze. Both seemed happy about it.

  The life had tak
en its toll on Maryann. Besides having a hacking cough that conjured up a bloody mucus symptomatic of several serious illnesses, she had trouble remembering the day before, much less three years earlier. Ameer’s name didn’t ring a bell and neither did Carrie Brown’s. It didn’t matter whether she might eventually remember their names or what might happen if Mary could catch her in a sober moment. No court would ever grant an appeal based on the word of a drunk. Mary had responsibly suggested that Maryann see a doctor, and had gotten the response she had expected. She could still hear their bellowing laughter when Mary was a block away and on her way to the East River Hotel.

  Mary’s expectations were not high. Her hope was that the scene of the Carrie Brown murder might reveal something. She had no idea what that might be, but it had to be better than what she currently had, which was nothing.

  The hotel catered to people who were spiraling downward or had already hit bottom. Because it had a bar on the ground floor that turned into a lively honky-tonk at night, some people called it a resort, which was an extremely kind description. Most of the people who slinked upstairs to the rooms during the night were either prostitutes with their johns, those who were too drunk to go home, or those who were down on their luck and could only afford the seedy, run-down rattrap that was the East River Hotel.

  As luck would have it, and this was the first bit of it Mary had encountered, Eddie Harrington, the same clerk who was there in 1891 when the murder took place, had kept his job. Daytime was always slow, and he was more than happy to escape the dreariness of his job in order to show Mary around. She had told him she was a private detective, and that had made it even more exciting for him. The Carrie Brown murder was the hotel’s one brush with fame. It had become their own personal tourist site, and his behavior was not unlike that of a guide at the Statue of Liberty. When he got to room 31, he went into his speech about Carrie Brown with a theatrical flair.

  “This is the room where Carrie Brown was slaughtered that terrible night back in 1891. Old Shakespeare didn’t deserve such a fate. In case you didn’t know, that’s what they called her: Old Shakespeare, because she loved to recite the bard.”