In the Shadow of Gotham

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  It was too bad for all concerned. I knew the police had shut down a Chinese restaurant near Union Square earlier this year in response to neighborhood complaints. After a two-week investigation, they learned that the restaurant had served food, nothing else. But the two weeks of lost income had bankrupted its owner.

  “What did you learn this afternoon, Simon?” Isabella asked, as she poured each of us a cup of the hot Lin Som tea that had arrived.

  I filled them in, and, as expected, Alistair’s primary concern was that Otto Schmidt had been threatened and assaulted.

  “This killer overreacts every time we make progress—no matter how minor,” Alistair said, grim faced. “It suggests he remains nervous and far too invested in our investigation. I don’t like it.”

  “Nor do I,” I said. I drank my cup of tea before asking, “How did the two of you make out today?”

  Alistair was animated as he began to recount their interview with the suffragists. “First,” Alistair said, “I found Jenny Weller at home. She and Sarah were not close friends at Barnard, but both were involved in the suffragist movement there.” Alistair shuddered. “She was a dreadful woman, by the way. She had too much nervous energy and no sense of humor whatsoever. I was on edge our entire conversation. But I learned a few things of interest from her. She confirmed Sarah was active in the suffrage movement, a great worker. She also recalled an incident two or three weeks ago when she saw Sarah arguing with a young man near the 116th Street subway stop.”

  He used chopsticks to help himself to the plate of water nuts that had arrived. Isabella also handled her chopsticks expertly. I, on the other hand, seemed to be all thumbs.

  “Simon, a lesson in chopsticks before the lobster and chicken arrive,” Isabella said, laughing. “It’s very simple when you know what to do. Place your thumb like so and your forefinger here.” She proceeded to demonstrate the technique until I had picked it up—and if I was not as expert as they were, soon I at least exhibited basic competence.

  Alistair continued his story. “I then spoke with three other former classmates of Sarah who board upstairs from Jenny Weller—Caroline Brown, Tillie Maddox, and Ruth Cabot. Caroline does the thinking for all three of them; the other two rarely open their mouth unless she asks them to. So I have to give extra significance to something Ruth Cabot told me. They last saw Sarah at a ladies’ committee meeting at a Mrs. Llewellyn’s home. It was on”—Alistair pulled a black notebook from his jacket pocket and found his notes—“Wednesday, October 18. It was a meeting to discuss the reform platform for the mayoral election; I gather they planned to pass their concerns along to Hearst.” He finished the last water nut and moved on to the egg drop soup, which Isabella and I had already begun. “Ruth noticed that Sarah was upset, not participating in the discussion as she usually did. And she looked terrible that night, her eyes pinched up as if she had a headache. When Ruth asked about her, Sarah responded that she intended to quit her position at the dean’s office as soon as the term ended.” He paused to take another spoonful of soup.

  “Go on,” I said, impatient.

  “Sarah claimed she was wrapping up one last project—something no one else could finish as easily—before she quit. And then she told Ruth not to worry.”

  “So just like Mary Bonham and Angus MacDonald, Ruth believed something happened in the days leading up to Sarah’s murder that deeply troubled her,” I said, thinking aloud. “Perhaps Isabella is right and there is some connection to Sarah’s work with Dean Arnold. Did Lonny Moore make any additional complaints through the dean’s office?”

  “Not that we’re aware of,” Alistair said. “But let me go ahead and tell you about my conversation with Lonny. He’s well connected, Ziele. If he becomes your prime suspect, you’ll do well to remember that. His father is a high-level banker with J. P. Morgan and has influential friends throughout the city. I know some of them.”

  What Alistair meant was that Lonny’s family counted themselves among the working rich, and they maintained connections with the truly rich and powerful through service professions like law and finance.

  He continued to explain Lonny’s background. “He lives alone in a single dormitory room in Wallach Hall overlooking the quad. His friends—Isabella and Horace spoke with them earlier, you recall—live on the same floor and have provided him with an alibi during the time of Sarah’s murder. They say he was in Sam Baker’s room with the rest of them, playing cards. But alibis provided by close friends sometimes crumble.” Alistair leaned back in his chair, flexing his fingers. “And Lonny did have an acrimonious relationship with Sarah—both before and after his complaint about her organic chemistry performance. Since you’ll want to speak with him and judge for yourself, I told him to be available tomorrow around eleven o’clock, following our appointment with Stella.”

  I was silent a moment, thinking. Then I asked Alistair, “Do you think he is the man we’re looking for?”

  “I can’t judge as of yet,” Alistair said. “He is smart enough and angry enough to be. And he is apparently in perpetual need of money—which may prove important, as Isabella will explain in a moment. You’ll have to keep your own counsel tomorrow morning. One more important thing, however. Lonny may not prove a murderer, but he has already proven to be a thief. Sarah’s advisor, Caleb Muller, was with Lonny when I arrived. The young man apparently submitted an article Sarah had drafted to a leading mathematical journal. He was hoping to pass the work off as his own.”

  “That’s certainly interesting,” I said. I would make my own judgment in the morning. I turned to Isabella. “You learned something from Dean Arnold, I hear.”

  Isabella’s excitement was apparent, but she poured more tea before she began talking. “Dean Arnold was in his office this afternoon, taking advantage of the weekend to catch up on paperwork with the help of his secretary, a young man named Samuel Cohen,” she said. “I learned that Sarah began working for them last January, and came in on Wednesday and Friday afternoons from one o’clock until five.”

  “Did he say what sort of projects she worked on?” I asked. With my chopsticks, I picked up one of the boneless stuffed chicken wings and had to admit Alistair was right—they were extraordinary. The flavor was a unique blend of spices that were new to my unadventurous palate.

  “She helped with the dean’s meetings and appointments; she checked completed dissertations for proper formatting; and she worked with budgets and grants. The dean’s office manages the budget requests for individual departments as well as grant requests from the dean’s discretionary fund.” Her eyes lit up. “The dean himself noticed nothing, but Sam—he remembered Sarah was bothered by something two or three weeks ago. In other words, within the same time frame everyone else has mentioned.”

  “Did he know what?” I asked, growing eager because Isabella’s excitement was palpable.

  “He did not,” she said, “but he recalled she was working on recent budgets that included Alistair’s research center. So he loaned me the papers she was working on to review, which I did once I was back at Alistair’s office.”

  “And?”

  “The short version: Someone has been stealing Alistair blind,” she said. “The long version, as I’ll explain, is somewhat more complicated.” She pulled some notes out of her bag for me to see. “First, you need to understand how the budget for the Center for Criminological Research works. Alistair essentially funds his own work—but through the university, not his own bank account.”

  “Why not through personal funds?” I asked. “It would be simpler, no?”

  “It would be simpler,” Alistair said. “But not as good for the university. My affiliation with Columbia provides me with many benefits, so it is something I can do to help them. Essentially I funnel money to my research center through the dean’s discretionary fund so it may count as a donation. Their annual fund-raising figures are improved, which then helps them attract even more donors, since people like to donate to successful causes.”

/>   We were interrupted by the proprietor, a Chinese man who had taken “Jimmy” as his English name. He wanted to make sure we had enjoyed our meal—as well as to push his after-dinner tobacco offerings.

  “We have fine new cigars. You try?” he asked. He passed out a menu with FINEST QUALITY OF CIGARS & CIGARETTES written on top in all caps.

  “No, thanks, Jimmy—not tonight. We’re a bit pressed for time, you understand,” Alistair said.

  “Then I bring you dessert.” Apparently we had no choice in the matter.

  He motioned to a waiter, and in an instant, dessert was on the table. “Star fruit, lichee nuts, and moon cakes,” he said, adding, “Be sure to look for the secret fortune inside. It’s Chinese tradition from Ming dynasty.”

  Alistair broke his moon cake in half, exposing the small slip of paper inside. “Your past success will be overshadowed by your future success. Let’s hope so. Ziele?”

  I read it aloud. “The first step to better times is to imagine them.” I tasted a bite of the moon cake. The texture was odd; I preferred the fruit.

  Isabella laughed and added hers. “Grand adventures await those willing to turn the corner. If only it were so easy.”

  I moved our conversation back on point. “I follow what you are saying about why Alistair’s financing of the research center is done through donations. Now what?”

  Alistair shrugged. “The money stays there, earmarked for the research center, until I put in a formal request.”

  “That’s something Mrs. Leab has traditionally done,” Isabella added, “with Alistair dictating the request and signing off on it. The problem is that huge sums have gone missing over the past year from Dean Arnold’s earmarked account. Checks were disbursed from the account made out to the research center, but they never made it to Mrs. Leab. Someone else managed to cash them by forging Alistair’s name.”

  “You never noticed missing funds?” I asked Alistair.

  Alistair looked embarrassed. “Apparently not. We are talking about funds I never requested. Whatever I asked for, I received. There seemed no reason to inquire about what was held in reserve for later.”

  “How much money, exactly, do you donate every year?” I asked. It seemed inconceivable that someone would not keep tabs on what was obviously a large amount of money. But Alistair’s relationship with his money was different from that of most people. Because he had more than was ample for his requirements, he had no reason to keep close track of his funds. His answer made that clear.

  “I’d have to ask my accountant,” Alistair said. “For the university as a whole, I donate my annual salary back, several times over. But we are talking about a portion of that earmarked for my research.”

  Isabella cradled her cup of tea as she leafed through the dean’s papers, which included a series of budget memoranda from various academic departments. “Sarah caught the problem because anyone who receives money from the dean’s discretionary fund is required to document exactly how it is spent, supported by receipts or canceled checks. This is done on a quarterly basis,” she explained. “What Sarah discovered was that large sums of money sent to the research center—totaling nearly fifteen thousand dollars—were never documented.”

  She pushed her plate aside to make room for the papers, prompting a waiter to appear from nowhere to clear the table.

  “My first question has to be whether someone from the research center could have put in for the checks, then intercepted and taken them?”

  “I thought of that, too,” Isabella said. “But look”—she pushed a paper in front of us—“I compared this requisition request for $2,000 against all of our handwriting—Tom’s, Fred’s, Horace’s, even Mrs. Leab’s. It’s not a match for anyone.”

  “Someone might have disguised their writing,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Alistair responded, “but most of us academics aren’t in the profession for the money. We’re motivated by a passion for our field. So it’s hard to see greed leading any of my associates to concoct this sort of scheme.”

  What Alistair said was no doubt true. But I could not help but reflect that Alistair’s associates were not independently wealthy, either. Their perspective might be different.

  “You mentioned Lonny was perpetually in need of money, so there’s an avenue to explore,” I said thoughtfully. “Our best bet will be to contact the bank on Monday morning. The check was cashed, so the money went somewhere. By tracing the canceled check, perhaps we can generate additional leads.”

  Alistair pushed his dessert plate aside. “The important issue for now is what the discovery of this scheme may have meant for Sarah Wingate. She may well have identified the person who stole these funds. But everyone described her as upset. Theft . . . money . . . budget discrepancies . . . these strike me as annoyances, not something that would have upset her to the degree Angus MacDonald and Ruth Cabot suggested.”

  “Especially since no one stole the money from her,” Isabella added.

  “Also, let’s not forget that the person who stole from my fund may have no connection to Sarah’s murderer,” Alistair said. “The theft and the murder may be wholly separate crimes.”

  “Remember the money you found at the crime scene under Sarah’s mattress?” I asked Alistair. “It was roughly the same amount that was requested here.” I indicated one of the missing sums Isabella had referenced. “It’s an odd coincidence that she possessed in cash the same amount that she recently questioned in that accounting. Maybe she was killed for money. But not her own money—Alistair’s money.”

  None of us knew the answer. Abigail Wingate, after all, had been convinced the money belonged to her aunt. But I was relieved that we were finally doing solid detective work, following up each lead to make sure we understood every aspect of Sarah’s life as thoroughly as possible. I felt we were inching closer to building a case as we reviewed each detail of her life.

  One question nagged at me: Where was the Fromley connection in all this? For I did not forget—no, not for a moment—that the perpetrator we sought was linked both to Sarah Wingate and Fromley.

  “And now,” Alistair said, beginning to gather his things, “I do apologize, friends, but I must be off. I have tickets to see Wonderland, the new musical at the Majestic.” He put down money on the table that more than sufficiently covered our dinner. “Ziele, would you mind accompanying Isabella home? I’ll see you in the morning at Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.”

  “We’re near Ferrara’s, one of my favorite coffeehouses. Would you like to stop by before I take you home?” I asked her.

  “That sounds lovely, Simon,” she said.

  “It’s just four blocks up on Grand Street between Mott and Mulberry. They have the best coffee in the city.”

  As we walked up Mott, the lanterns and jostling crowds of Chinatown yielded to Little Italy with its multitude of restaurants and music. We passed one restaurant where the strains of a violin playing “O mio babbino caro” swelled into the street. We reached Ferrara’s Bakery and Café before I knew it, and after surveying glass shelves filled with cookies, pastries, and other delectable confections, we took a table by the front window where we could watch pedestrians go by. I ordered an espresso, Isabella preferred tea, and we decided to share a large cannoli. Her brown eyes drifted behind the counter over to the espresso machine that puffed, gurgled, and then shot steam straight up in the air.

  Noting her interest, I said, “No one makes espresso like they do here. I think Ferrara’s was first in the city to acquire an espresso maker. There’s an art to making a good cup; the ground beans and steam must be managed perfectly.”

  “You must be careful, or you’ll become a gourmand like Alistair,” she said, laughing.

  “For food, never. But coffee—well, good coffee is my weakness.”

  The waiter brought our order, and Isabella gazed into the concentrated shot of dark coffee.

  “You’ll be up all night,” she warned.

  “I’m up most nights du
ring an investigation, anyway,” I said lightly. Sleep came, when it came at all, in intermittent spells. However much my body might crave rest, my mind refused to unwind.

  “Do you have family here?” she asked.

  “Not anymore,” I said, tasting the cannoli. “I’m all that’s left.” I explained how my mother had died last winter, and my sister had long since married and moved away. I did not bother mentioning my long-absent father; he could be dead, too, for all I knew.

  “And no sweetheart or Mrs. Ziele with whom to spend your Saturday night?” she asked. Her voice was light, teasing. “I’m assuming there’s not, or you would not be spending the evening with Alistair and me.”

  “There was.” I drained my espresso shot. “She’s dead.” The words came out more harshly than I intended.

  She grew somber. “I’m sorry.” Then she paused. “What was she like?”

  So I told her about Hannah. I told her about Hannah’s quick wit and infectious sense of humor. How on warm summer nights, we had sat and talked for hours on her building’s narrow stoop—and how she’d seemed to understand everything about me. And how I had planned to marry her and take her away from the Lower East Side, as soon as I’d graduated Columbia and become a lawyer. But none of that had happened. First, my father had deserted our family after a night of uncontrolled gambling, dashing my own dreams of finishing college. And then, shortly after I had been promoted to detective and begun to save enough to think of marriage, Hannah had been taken from me during the horror of the Slocum disaster.

  “People say, of course, that the grief becomes easier with time. It has.” I looked at her soberly. “What I have trouble letting go of is the blame.”

  “But who do you blame, Simon?” she asked curiously. “Of course I read the newspapers, and I know they say the General Slocum crew mishandled things awfully.”