Riis was forty-five, had graying hair with a mustache and wore glasses. After Mary and Riis were introduced, they mollified their stomachs by ordering, then settled in.
“I am a great admirer of your work, Mr. Riis,” Mary said.
“Please call me Jacob.”
“Thank you. Jacob, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve always wanted to ask you a question and now that I’ve met you, I can’t let that opportunity pass.”
“Go right ahead.”
“You portray the plight of the poor immigrants in our city with such hopelessness and despair. Other groups who have come even earlier seem to have assimilated well. Why do you think this group will be different?”
“Good question, Mary.”
“I don’t bring you dumb ones,” Harper quipped.
“Ones? I’m a generic one?”
“I meant you were smart, a thinker. But now that you point it out it does sound—”
“Condescending?” He grimaced and she mercifully let him off the hook. “I’m just toying with you, Harper.”
“And you do it so well.”
Riis smiled. “This isn’t different, Mary, but it is infinitely more difficult. Our industries are growing at an astounding rate, yet most of the money is going to a handful of people. It’s cheaper for them to bribe police and politicians than to pay their workers a decent wage.”
Mary nodded. “And then they send in armed Pinkertons to break up peaceful strikes and blame the workers when violence erupts.”
Riis shrugged. “It’s what everyone believes. Read any newspaper.”
“And who owns the newspapers?” Harper asked. “It’s nonsense. My father’s union is full of men who don’t want to bomb anyone. They just need a little more to survive.”
“If a lie is repeated often enough,” Riis said, “people begin to think it’s true.”
Mary looked at Harper, who reacted defensively. “What? I haven’t lied to you.”
“I was just looking at you. You must have a guilty mind.”
Riis laughed. “I like her, Harper. You’ve finally found a woman who’s capable of dueling with you.”
“I get the feeling that if it ever did come to a duel, I’d be Alexander Hamilton to her Aaron Burr.”
“I’d never kill you, Harper. Just maim you a bit to keep you in line.”
Harper shrugged toward Riis, as if to say, See? All three had a good laugh, then Harper said, “Actually, Jacob, this is our first date.”
“Really? You behave as if you have been doing this for a while. As the Buddhists say, you must have met in another lifetime.”
The dinner arrived, steaks for everyone. After they oohed and aahed over the generous portions and how delicious it was, Harper surprised Mary by saying, “Jacob, Mary is working on a case she’d like to discuss with you.”
“I told you I didn’t want to bother Jacob with—”
“It’s Ameer Ben Ali.”
Riis nodded. “I know that case well. He was convicted on flimsy evidence.”
“It’s more than that,” Mary responded. Then it all flooded out of her mouth almost involuntarily. She told him about Eddie Harrington, the key, the bloody shirt, and her conversation with Byrnes.
Riis leaned in toward her. “There’s something you might be interested in, Mary. Teddy Roosevelt is a friend. He will be in town next week from his ranch in the Dakotas on his way back to Washington, D.C. A group of us are trying to convince him to return to New York and become president of the New York Police Commission. I can’t think of a better man to clean up our police department, and I believe your story will help our efforts.”
“If you’re asking me to join you, count me in.”
Both Harper and Mary felt infused with a positive energy on the ride home from dinner with Jacob Riis. When they got to her apartment, Harper walked her to the front door.
“I had a very nice time, and thank you so much for introducing me to Jacob.”
He almost said, I know you’re frustrated and I wanted you to see there are a lot of us who feel the same way you do. You’re not alone.
Instead he kissed her. It was the right move.
18
Byrnes had to placate Carnegie and Sage, the former about murder threats and the latter about the Laidlaw suit. Both were incredibly spoiled men who were used to getting their way and expected unreasonably quick service. He decided to focus on the most serious situation first, and though Sage might have viewed a financial threat as equivalent to one on his life, the stack of letters Carnegie had given him took precedence.
In spite of his questionable police tactics and massive ego, Byrnes had excellent detective skills that he had honed over the years. He looked at the stack of letters that Carnegie had given him and determined pretty quickly that, although there was an effort made to make the handwriting look different, they had probably been written by the same person. To be sure, he gave the letters to a handwriting expert who supported his suspicion. Even though they were postmarked mostly from two distinctly different neighborhoods in New York City, he decided to check with Pittsburgh first. It was the center of Carnegie’s steel empire and also the site where two years before he’d had his most infamous confrontation with workers. The Homestead Steel Strike was the result of Carnegie and his partner Henry Clay Frick deciding to lower already low wages. It escalated when they sent in Pinkertons, police, and eventually the militia to break the strike and to destroy the union. Needless to say, violence erupted. No one knew exactly who fired the first shot, but when the dust cleared, besides the wounded, several Pinkertons and workers were dead. The most obvious suspects would be among the workers. Byrnes found the Pittsburgh Police Department to be extremely cooperative. When asked if any of the wounded or families of the deceased had moved to New York City, they could only come up with Pauline Rutter, the wife of George Rutter, a worker who had been shot and killed by Pinkertons as they arrived on their barge and fought their way onto land.
It didn’t take long for Byrnes to find out that Pauline Rutter lived and worked close to the two places where most of the letters had been mailed. He had policemen pick her up, and in no time she was in an interrogation room experiencing Byrnes’s famous third degree. In Pauline Rutter’s case, there were no beatings necessary. After some intense questioning, she exploded with the truth as if it were a cathartic event she welcomed.
“Andrew Carnegie’s a stinkin’ murderer!!” she screamed.
Byrnes moved in closer. “So ya wrote those letters?”
“Arrest him! He killed my husband, George!”
“Ye’ve got it all wrong. Mr. Carnegie wasn’t in Homestead during the strike.”
“His armed thugs were. George didn’t have a weapon and they shot him like a dog!”
“So ya wrote the letters?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Byrnes got right in her face and demanded an answer. “Mrs. Rutter, did ya or did ya not write those letters?”
“I wrote ’em all right! That bastard deserves to die. He killed George!” She broke down and started crying.
Byrnes gave her a moment. As she calmed, he opened the door to the interrogation room. Two officers came in and handcuffed her. He had gotten his confession. He saw no reason to keep badgering her, so he softened his tone.
“Mr. Carnegie didn’t kill yer husband, Mrs. Rutter. He was trespassin’ on private property.”
She looked up, her face showing a combination of bewilderment and anger. “Trespassing? George worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week. How come he wasn’t trespassing then?”
Byrnes signaled the two officers and they escorted her out. He then called Carnegie who had instructed his secretary to ask if the news was good or bad. When Carnegie was told it was good, he made arrangements to meet Byrnes for lunch at the Old Homestead Steakhouse on Ninth Avenue between Fourteenth and Fifteenth Streets. Byrnes wondered where they would have met if he had said it was bad. But he hadn’t and tha
t was enough for him.
When Byrnes got to the Old Homestead Steakhouse, a message was waiting for him. The maître d’ delivered it.
“Mr. Carnegie apologizes for the inconvenience but some business has arisen. He’s not sure when he will be finished but certainly in enough time to have lunch. He asks you to meet him at Russell Sage’s office on Wall Street, after which the two of you will go to Delmonico’s.”
Delmonico’s was in the Wall Street area and closer to Russell Sage’s office. Byrnes was certain the only person’s convenience Carnegie had in mind was his own. Byrnes headed downtown, consoling himself with the fact that at least his restaurant had been upgraded.
In spite of having spent a very nice evening the night before with Harper and Jacob Riis, Mary hadn’t slept well. Getting a clear thumbprint from Dr. Lawrence for Ivan Nowak to examine would not be an easy task. Dr. Lawrence couldn’t know what she was doing, and she would somehow have to trick him. Mary had read enough about the science of fingerprinting to know that the thumbprint would have to be clear and very visible. It couldn’t be as simple as taking a glass Dr. Lawrence had held or a book he had touched. After agonizing over what to do, she decided to get a thumbprint that would be as close as possible to the type she already had.
That morning she went to the former Flanagan’s Butcher Shop, which was now one of the ever-growing line of Leo’s Meats stores. She had decided to purchase the bloodiest piece of meat they had and wrap it in white paper, hoping to get a clear thumbprint from Dr. Lawrence. And since she was going to buy meat, she thought she might as well give her father’s store the business.
“I’ve taught you better than that, Mary,” Jeffrey cautioned her. “Bloody isn’t necessarily the best meat. Let me get you a really good piece.”
“For me, really good is really bloody.”
“I don’t understand.”
Leo was there, as he was with all new stores for the first few weeks. He saw what was going on and jokingly added his two cents. “Don’t quarrel with the lady, Jeffrey. Give the customer what she wants.”
“We’re not quarreling,” said Mary. “This is a normal Handley discussion. You really don’t want to see us quarreling.”
Leo laughed. “I’ve got some really bloody chopped meat. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
“But remember what I told Basem the other day. It’s not really blood. It’s—”
“It may not be, but ‘blood’ gets right to the point.”
“Duly noted. How much would you like?”
Mary hadn’t even considered that. “About a pound will do.”
“I know where it is,” Jeffrey said, and started to go for it, but Leo stopped him.
“I’ll get it, Jeffrey. Spend the time with your daughter.” He disappeared into the back.
Mary moved closer to the counter and Jeffrey, then whispered, “How do you like Leo?”
“He seems like a very nice and fair man.”
Mary smiled. “I’m glad it worked out.”
“Did you know he was in the circus?”
“He told me. I didn’t need to know, but he told me.”
“Yeah, he does that….Now tell me what this bloody meat business is about.”
“It’s nothing. I have a friend who likes the reddest—”
“I’m your father. I know when you’re up to something, Mary.”
She relented. “It has to do with a case. I have to get someone’s thumbprint.”
“And the blood—”
“Exactly.”
Leo returned with the chopped meat wrapped in white butcher paper. It was oozing blood. “Here you go, Mary. Is this bloody enough for something that is not really blood?”
“Absolutely perfect.”
Leo put the wrapped meat into a bag as Jeffrey turned to Mary. “That will be twenty cents.”
As Mary opened her pocketbook, Leo said, “Your money’s no good here, Mary.”
“She can afford it,” said Jeffrey.
“I can, Leo.”
“I’m sure you can, but your father’s my newest employee, and I feel like being magnanimous.”
“That’s very generous,” said Mary. “Thank you.” She took the meat and left.
While sitting on the train on the way out to Coney Island, Mary tried to plan exactly how she was going to get Dr. Lawrence to handle the bloody meat and leave his thumbprint. She decided she would have to figure it out when an opportunity presented itself. First, she had to make sure he would even talk to her after the tongue-lashing she had given him and Austin Corbin. She was so lost in thought that she was unaware they had reached the last stop and everyone had exited the train. When others began to enter for the trip back, it finally dawned on her and she got out just in time.
The Oriental Hotel was just as busy as it had been during her last visit there. Mary walked around the hotel inside and out looking for Dr. Lawrence and didn’t spot him anywhere. After two hours of scouring every inch of the place, she was contemplating leaving when she saw Austin Corbin at the front desk finishing a conversation with the hotel manager. She headed toward him. Corbin served a dual purpose. If he didn’t know where Dr. Lawrence was, he could provide a good rehearsal for when she did meet up with him.
“Mr. Corbin.”
He reacted coldly. “Miss Handley.”
“Please hear me out. I behaved terribly the other day, and I feel awful about it.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“I can completely understand how you might feel that way, but the truth is I haven’t been able to sleep. My apologies to you, sir, and to Dr. Lawrence. My conduct was outrageous. I could blame it on the whiskey, but that’s too easy an excuse.”
“Well, that’s refreshing to hear. Kudos to you, Miss Handley, for not taking the easy way out. I’m sick and tired of people who blame their poor behavior on demon rum.”
“Of course, that doesn’t make my behavior less heinous.”
“No, but it does show a certain level of self-awareness that is rare today.”
“How kind of you to say so. As you most certainly know, I can be completely intransigent, so it is with considerable difficulty that I confess the following: I have reviewed our conversation many times over, and I have to admit you made some very interesting points.”
“Really, which points?”
Mary had known he would test her sincerity. Even so, it took a moment for her to gather herself before she could spew out a hate ideology she abhorred. Luckily, she got a reprieve.
“It really doesn’t matter. You know what they say about the three stages of truth. First, it’s ridiculed, then it’s violently opposed, and then it’s accepted.”
“I didn’t know you read Schopenhauer, Mr. Corbin.”
“As a businessman, I’m aware of anything that supports my way of life. So your particular stage doesn’t concern me. If you’re a rational being and listen to reason, you will eventually have to accept the truth or deny nature.”
“Well put, sir.”
“Along those lines, I am on my way to a luncheon, and I invite you to come with me. Dr. Lawrence and I have joined with a group that has some very exciting ideas on how to strengthen America and bring it back to its original purpose.”
“I’m always open to new ideas. Will Dr. Lawrence also be there?”
“He’s speaking, and I implore you to keep an open mind.”
“Oh, I most definitely will,” said Mary, suppressing her excitement.
Byrnes viewed anxiety as a weakness. That explained his grumpy disposition as he sat in Russell Sage’s outer office. Peter Ramsey, Sage’s loyal secretary, who had suffered through the bombing three years earlier and still returned to work, would occasionally look up from the mound of paperwork on his desk and smile reassuringly at Byrnes. In return, Byrnes would nod back at him while thinking, Stop smiling, ya baboon. Ya have no idea what I’m thinkin’, so stop pretendin’ ya do.
After a ten-minute wait that seemed in
finitely longer, Andrew Carnegie emerged from Sage’s office. Sage had remained inside, which meant Byrnes wouldn’t have to face him without having solved his problem yet. His reprieve prompted an inner sigh of relief.
“Tom, so glad you could make it,” said Carnegie, loudly and expansively.
Byrnes spoke in a lower voice, hoping that Carnegie would follow. “Lunch with ya at Delmonico’s is an invitation I could never refuse.”
“So, it’s all done?” Carnegie hadn’t taken his cue.
“The culprit’s locked up and the key thrown away.”
Carnegie grinned, a rare event to be sure, but any pleasure Byrnes derived from having pleased Carnegie soon evaporated when Carnegie turned back toward Sage’s office. “Russell, come out and say hello to Inspector Byrnes. He just did a magnificent job for me.”
Sage stepped out of his office and Byrnes greeted him. “Hello, Russell.”
“Hello, Tom.” Sage was not shy when it came to getting to the point. “Any progress with the matter we discussed?”
“I’m workin’ on it and expect to have a solution soon.”
“I suppose you’ll have more time for it now that you’ve solved Andy’s problem. Nice to see you, Tom.” Sage went back inside his office and closed the door.
Byrnes had made no attempt to respond. Nothing would appease Sage outside of handing him Laidlaw’s witness, which he now had to do sooner than he had expected if he was to keep his relationship with Sage intact. An outburst of Spoiled rich fuckers ran through his mind.
“Well, Tom,” said Carnegie. “I don’t know how you like your steaks, but I’m partial to well done.”
As Byrnes exited the Sage offices with Carnegie and got into the elevator, he didn’t want his anger to show, so he decided to start a conversation, the more mundane the better.
“How did yer meeting go?”
“As expected. Russell wants me to join forces with him in competing with J. P. Morgan and Jim Hill for the Northern Pacific Railway. Management overextended themselves during the stock market panic last year and it’s available.”
Last Stop in Brooklyn Page 13