In the Shadow of Gotham

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  “Not the crew, though they were useless in helping to save anyone. I blame those who had the power to avert this disaster, but were blinded by profit and under-the-table payments. They murdered her,” I said with bitterness, “though any one of them might have saved her. Lundberg, who inspected the ship, could have cited them for having defective life preservers or unusable lifeboats. Barnaby, the owner, could have invested in the latest safety equipment. And the captain, Van Schaick, had countless chances to run a safer ship. But I doubt the district attorney will be able to make even one of them pay for what they did. Lundberg’s third trial this past May ended in another mistrial. And I’ve given up hope Van Schaick will ever face a jury.”

  “And would it make you feel better if any one of these men went to jail?” she asked. “It wouldn’t bring Hannah back.”

  “No,” I replied honestly. “But when others have lost so much, those responsible should lose something, too.”

  We sat together in silence for some moments, then I said, “It was another passenger who killed her in the end. She must have jumped. Maybe she was close enough to swim for it. Or maybe the flames were too close, their heat too much to bear. But someone jumped right after her, too close behind. It was the force of his weight that knocked her unconscious, ensuring she drowned.”

  She barely whispered it. “You can’t know that, Simon. You weren’t there.”

  But of course I had been there. I’d been one of several policemen who had raced toward the burning ship. As we had approached, falling timber from the Slocum’s decks rained into the East River. The water was filled with people: some screaming for help, others frantically trying to swim to shore. They jumped off the boat in groups—sometimes two or three persons together, other times ten or twelve.

  Hannah had worn red that day—a new dress that warmed her skin and lit up her auburn hair. I had barely been able to breathe through thick, smoke-laden air as our boat came closer and closer, pulling up more survivors on the way. I helped them all, barely noticing, for I was vainly searching the waters for Hannah. Closer, closer, I had urged the helmsman, directing him toward the front bow of the ship where a young woman in red stood pressed against the ship’s rail. I couldn’t make out her face . . . couldn’t tell whether or not it was indeed her . . . and as we came close, all went black in a wall of fire.

  I later learned that burning lumber from the Slocum’s collapsing upper deck had broadsided our boat, and we had been lucky to be rescued ourselves. I spent two days in the hospital before I got out and retrieved her body from the large, makeshift morgue. Well-meaning neighbors had told me about Hannah’s final moments, in properly vague terms, and assured me that there had never been a chance for her. But I knew better. I would forever be tormented by my mind’s image of the girl in the red dress—the girl who may or may not have been Hannah—the girl I had tried, and failed, to reach.

  “I was there, only too late.” My voice was grim as I admitted it to Isabella, explaining everything.

  She reached toward me and opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “Don’t say it.” I pressed her hand quickly. “I understand.” I disengaged my hand just as rapidly.

  I couldn’t bear to hear the words she almost said—not yet, not from her.

  “Your husband died, as well.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Two years ago,” she said, nodding. “He was an archeologist. He was part of a team working in Greece who made an important but controversial discovery involving artifacts of great value. But then Teddy and his partner were murdered because of it.”

  Her face closed down and I decided to change the topic. Tom had said there were unusual circumstances surrounding Teddy’s death—and I didn’t need to know them now.

  “What I can’t figure out,” I said, “is why you are so interested in Alistair’s work. For the past two years, your work has centered on a man as depraved as I could imagine.”

  Her eyes met mine. “I think evil is less threatening if one understands it. I have never shared Alistair’s optimism that it is possible to rehabilitate a man like Fromley. But when I understand more about him and why he behaves and thinks as he does, then I don’t fear him. Or those like him,” she added, “including the men who killed Teddy.”

  In her own way, she was like Alistair then: Her desire to understand the criminal mind had been a method of dealing with her grief following Theodore Sinclair’s violent death.

  “But what about you?” she asked. “Your life’s work is spent identifying and arresting criminals.”

  “I don’t do it because I want to understand criminal behavior,” I replied thoughtfully. “What I understand are the victims. Once they are gone, no one is left to look out for them—”

  “No one except for people like you,” she said softly, finishing my sentence. “You are a good man, Simon.”

  We continued to talk about lighter topics, and I managed to enjoy the evening and forget some of my frustration with the case. But after I saw Isabella safely home to her own building, and settled onto the train bound for Dobson, a dark gloom settled over me once again. I began to face up to the possibility that, despite our best efforts in this murder case, we might still fail. This case could prove unsolvable. And while that would certainly amount to a personal failure, what made the idea unbearable was the image of Sarah Wingate—whose life, like Hannah’s, had ended too soon.

  Others might say it was the effect of the coffee, but I knew better: The two of them, and the circumstances of their untimely deaths, haunted my thoughts throughout the night, refusing me peace.

  CHAPTER 25

  I read the Times as the train whisked me back into the city Sunday morning to meet with Stella Gibson in Central Park. The day’s headlines continued to focus upon Tuesday’s mayoral election debacle, informing me that Hearst’s challenge to Mayor McClellan’s victory was headed to New York’s Supreme Court, though the Times editorial believed his chances were slim. Other news was also dismal: Stock markets in New York and London were in turmoil due to alarm over the violence in St. Petersburg and Odessa; and Emil Greder, a baritone with the Metropolitan Opera, had attempted suicide because of money he owed to loan sharks.

  The last story returned my thoughts to Isabella’s discovery from yesterday. Someone had known enough about Alistair’s money habits to realize his donations were so large he would not miss the withdrawn amounts. And the thief had known enough about the dean’s disbursement fund that he was able to request—and intercept—the money he wanted without raising suspicion. But his error had been to think funds drawn from the dean were essentially blank checks that would never need to be justified. None of our present suspects seemed to fit that profile—unless Stella offered us new information.

  I walked from Grand Central Terminal to the park, energized by the crisp chill in the air, and found myself at Bethesda Fountain before anyone else. Though the park was far from where I used to live, I’d taken many walks there, especially in the early days after Hannah died. This place in particular, with the statue of the Angel of the Waters presiding over the fountain, had always struck me with its serene grandeur.

  Alistair arrived shortly after me, the dark bags under his eyes suggesting he also had slept little.

  “How was the theater?” I asked.

  “Forgettable. I should have seen Peter Pan instead, judging by recent reviews. But Kitty—well, never mind. I was just trying to please the others in my party.”

  “Isabella isn’t coming this morning?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “She went to the research center instead. She wants to review more of our financial records. Fred and Tom plan to come in this afternoon to assist.”

  We stopped talking as two women appeared on the upper terrace and made their way down the stairs toward us. The shorter woman of the two was Cora; Stella towered over her in a way that surprised me. Both the Wingates and Cora had emphasized Stella’s emotional frailty in describing her to me, so I had pictured he
r as diminutive. But she was tall, with a face marked by strong features, including a sharp, aquiline nose, and unusual pale coloring—blond hair that was almost silver, and eyes of robin’s-egg blue. Her movements were those of a skittish colt, startled by each nearby sound and movement, and I immediately remembered something Cora had mentioned earlier: How after she was attacked in January, Stella had not wished to venture outside. She seemed uncomfortable, even now, in this open public space.

  She came over to us with a wan smile and spoke shyly. I recalled she was from near Boston the moment I heard her speak; most of her words were missing their r’s. Cora acknowledged us with merely a nod, as she hovered protectively beside Stella.

  “It’s good to see that you’re safe,” I said. “The Wingates have been very worried about you.”

  A flash of guilt crossed her face. “Please let them know I’m fine. I didn’t mean to make them worry.”

  “We were worried, too,” I added, “especially after we found a bloodstained ladies’ bag with your unmailed letter to Cora at Grand Central.”

  She was confused for a moment. Then she said, “That must have been Miss Sarah’s bag. She offered to mail the letter for me when she was in town early last week. I wonder why she didn’t? It’s not like her to forget a promise.”

  But no doubt Sarah had something weighing on her mind that distracted her.

  “I’m sure you know why we wanted to meet with you,” I said gently. “We need to know what you saw the day of Sarah’s murder.”

  She nodded. Her tale unfolded gradually, and with each detail, we came to realize the true horror of what had happened at the Wingate home that Tuesday afternoon.

  “I was in the garden helping Mrs. Wingate when I heard a sound that made my blood curdle. It almost sounded like a cat-fight, to my ears—except it came from within the house and we don’t have cats.” She took a deep breath, and shoved her hands in her pockets. “So I told Mrs. Wingate I’d got to check on something, and I went into the kitchen to make sure nothing was wrong. I knew Miss Abigail was walking the dogs, but Miss Sarah was inside working.”

  She stopped, looking at the ground and kicking a stone with the toe of her black button boots.

  “Go on,” I said to encourage her.

  She swallowed hard. “I don’t know why I didn’t call up to her, but I didn’t. I was at the foot of the kitchen stairs when I heard an odd gurgling sound. I got worried Sarah was sick, so I started up the kitchen stairs to the second floor.” She grabbed at her blue scarf and wrapped it tight around her. “I suppose I knew something was wrong halfway up the stairs. I heard more strange noises, awful gasping sounds.” She shuddered involuntarily. “I knew better, but I couldn’t stop moving up the stairs. I needed to see what was going on.” Her voice grew quieter until it was no more than a whisper. “I’d reached the second floor when I heard a man’s grunts. They were regular—every couple seconds or so—and there was a thudding sound, too, like when Maud and I beat Mrs. Wingate’s carpets outside.”

  She paused. “I was quiet as I moved down the hall. I kept to the side, and I was ready to hide in the nearest room the second I heard the grunts stop. I made it to the guest room doorway and looked in. And that’s when I realized what a terrible mistake I’d made.”

  Several moments of silence followed.

  Finally, she drew a deep breath and described the scene that represented her worst nightmare come true. “There was blood everywhere—on the wall, on the bed, all over the floor. I’ve never seen so much blood in my life. And still he wouldn’t stop. He kept striking her, over and over and over with some kind of metal pipe.”

  For the first time she looked at us directly. “I only saw his back. But I knew it was him. I recognized his broad shoulders and thick neck. He was doing to her exactly what he’d threatened to do to me. That day he took me, he told me he would take every ounce of blood from my body and paint the room with it. He said I had been a pretty girl but no one would recognize me when he was done. And that he would not grant me death—those were his very words, grant me death—until I had suffered enough.”

  She trembled, biting her lip. “But Sarah was dead already, I saw that. And I was so scared. I had to force myself to move, just inside the linen closet across the hall. It’s a shallow closet and I didn’t quite fit—I couldn’t close the door all the way—but it was the best I could do. I just couldn’t move, you see.” Stella’s breathing came fast now. “It seemed an eternity before he was done. I heard sounds that made me think he was stuffing something in a bag, and his footsteps came close as he left the room. If he’d turned left, he would have seen me. And I thought he was going to for a moment. He stood outside the guest room door for a long time, listening—and I got scared I was breathing too loud, so I held my breath until I thought I’d pass out. Then he finally turned, and I heard him go down the stairs. When he was gone, I went to my room on the third floor, grabbed my coat and some money, and ran all the way to town and the next train.”

  She fought back tears. “I should have warned Mrs. Wingate, I know. All I could think about later was that maybe he’d hurt them, too. But I was so scared, I just had to get away.”

  “But you never saw Sarah’s killer’s face?” I asked her to confirm.

  She had not.

  “I recognized him, though,” she said, adding, “he was the same man who attacked me last January. I could never forget him. His name was Michael Fromley.” Her voice was soft but unwavering, leaving no room for doubt.

  But it couldn’t be; it was impossible.

  The pit in my stomach grew larger as I felt my control over this case begin to slip. The dead ghost of Fromley had once again resurfaced to confuse us, making us doubt everything we had learned.

  When we explained that Fromley’s involvement was out of the question—that Fromley himself had been dead by the time of Sarah’s murder—she was initially disbelieving.

  “Impossible,” Stella insisted. “Sarah’s murderer did to her exactly what he intended to do to me. And I know it,” she said, “because that monster described exactly what he wanted to do the day he assaulted me. He liked seeing how much his words scared me.”

  I could only imagine.

  It was only after we explained the autopsy results, and how definitive they had been, that she finally accepted the truth.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she swore softly, finally understanding. “But how could anyone else have—”

  “Have possibly known?” I finished her question for her. “That is our question, too. As well as this one: How do we explain what you saw?”

  It was Alistair who supplied the most logical explanation why Stella believed she had seen Michael Fromley on Tuesday. She had seen only the man’s back. The crime scene had embodied his previous threats. Then her imagination—fueled by terror and fear—had supplied the rest.

  “Do either of you,” I asked, turning to Cora, who had been hanging back during our conversation, “have any idea as to who else might know the details of Stella’s assault last January?”

  The two women looked at each other. “Perhaps one of the girls at Mamie’s place knew,” Stella said. “I think most of them were aware of what happened, though only a couple knew me well enough to hear the details.”

  “Actually,” Alistair said, “we would be more interested to know whether any patrons knew? Perhaps one of the girls spoke too freely about it?”

  I divided our well-thumbed stack of suspect photographs in half, passing some to Cora and the remainder to Stella.

  Cora stopped abruptly when she passed over one particular photograph. “Why do you have a picture of Lonny in here?”

  We had clipped it from a recent Columbia yearbook.

  “You know him?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she replied cautiously. “He used to stop in regularly; at least, he’d go through periods when he did. Then he’d disappear for months at a time.”

  I was almost relieved to hear of a connection wit
h Lonny, whose animosity toward Sarah was well known. He certainly had the strongest known motive for wishing to harm Sarah.

  “Would he have been there around the time you were assaulted?” Alistair asked.

  “I don’t know,” Stella finally answered. “I don’t remember many details from that time.”

  “Would there be any record at Mamie’s?” I asked.

  Cora’s response was immediate. “Oh, no, Mamie never would keep records. It would be the end of her business.”

  Alistair offered another idea. “But is it possible he was there and one of the girls told him about it?”

  “Possible, but doubtful,” I said. “To so perfectly replicate Fromley’s crime fantasy, I would think he would need to see—or hear—a greater level of detail than a secondhand account could provide.”

  “You know, perhaps Michael and Lonny were acquainted,” Cora said. “They both came to Mamie in recent years. And they were cut from the same cloth, I’d say—too much money and neither one right in the head.”

  It was one possible explanation.

  “What about Mamie herself?” I asked. “Obviously she knew the details. Could she have shared them with the wrong person?”

  Cora laughed. “Not Mamie. You don’t know Mamie if you think that. She has no close friends. No confidants. She keeps her own counsel, makes her own decisions.”

  “It sounds like a lonely sort of life,” I said.

  “Maybe,” said Cora. “But it protects her. She trusts no one. And honestly, no one trusts her, either.”

  Given Mamie’s dealings with us, I could understand why.

  “Are we done here?” Stella asked. She appeared exhausted and no doubt wanted to return home.

  “Miss Gibson,” I asked, “may we help you in any way? Until this case is solved, we can offer you a measure of protection. We can even help you leave the city if you like.”

  She thanked us, but declared herself perfectly comfortable with her current arrangement. “I’ve got a room on East Seventy-third Street that suits me fine.”