In the Shadow of Gotham

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  “I see why he had little trouble depositing them,” I said. “Although they’re made out to Alistair Sinclair/Center for Criminological Research, look how he signed and deposited them: ‘Make payable to Theodore Sinclair.’ The alias made it easier for him to manage your money. As though you had given it to your son.”

  Alistair seemed to ignore me, but there was a greenish cast to his complexion that concerned me.

  “You all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, brushing off my concern.

  In the same shoe box, we also found copies of IOUs he had signed for amounts in the hundreds of dollars. There was no formal name to show to whom he was indebted, but each paper had an odd symbol on its back. The Bottler’s mark, I supposed.

  “We now have plenty of evidence of wrongdoing,” I said, placing the papers back in the shoe box. “But we’ve still no idea where he’s taken Isabella.”

  I sat on the sofa in Horace’s front living room. Resting my chin on my hands, I gazed at Alistair. “You know the criminal mind better than anyone, Alistair. And you know Horace Wood. Help me. Where would he have taken her?”

  “He’s comfortable in this neighborhood, where he lives and works,” Alistair said, thinking aloud. He sat in a drab floral armchair next to the sofa.

  I caught his train of thought. “Yes. So he’s taken her someplace nearby. Someplace private—where it will be quiet and deserted on a Sunday.”

  Alistair got up to pace the length of the room. “Yes, and someplace he can feel in control. He will not want to be interrupted.”

  “What about the administrative building?” I asked. “No classrooms in it—only offices. And closed all weekend.”

  Alistair shook his head no. “Not likely. The administrative building is quite secure; they even have their own key system, designed to protect the academic and financial records kept there.”

  “What about a classroom building, like the science or humanities buildings? Many students choose empty classrooms to study in the evenings.”

  “Good idea, but it doesn’t offer certain privacy. Where else?”

  “The chapel,” I said. “It’s always open for anyone who needs it.”

  “That sounds more promising. It fits what I know—what I think I know—of Horace,” Alistair said. “Is there any other place?”

  We thought a moment. The setting sun cast a brilliant beam through the window, illuminating something shiny on the armchair. I leaned over, reached down, and picked up a woman’s earring. Isabella’s. My voice rising with excitement, I said, “She was here, Alistair—look. This is her earring, isn’t it?”

  “I think so.” There was doubt in his voice, but it didn’t matter—because I was certain. I could recall her clearly as she had been at dinner last night, wearing this exact earring: a small ruby set within a gold petal’s embrace. I shuddered to think what may have become of her now, but I forced my mind once again to focus. I would be of no use to Isabella if I could not think straight.

  “So if he had her here earlier today,” Alistair said, “he will not have gone far.”

  I offered another suggestion. “We’re near Morningside Park.”

  He shook his head. “Too open and public.”

  I looked out the window. Horace had a perfect view of St. John’s Cathedral’s rising stone arches—though admittedly it was still more a construction site than a functioning place of worship. It was now near dusk, and in the glowing pink sunset, St. John’s was beginning to cast a shadow over—

  That was when I realized it. Of course—St. John’s. It was just across the street and would be deserted this Sunday evening.

  It made perfect sense, and Alistair agreed.

  “Hurry,” I said as we raced down the stairs. “We should pray we are not mistaken—and not too late.”

  CHAPTER 30

  There was no sign of light within the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. We moved quickly but watched our step, for even the surrounding sidewalks were littered with rough stones and the odd mason’s tool—tangible evidence of how J. P. Morgan’s recent donation had enabled work to resume on our country’s grandest cathedral, designed to rival the best in Europe. It was hard to imagine such a future for the pile of stone and dirt and wood that had yet to transform itself into anything resembling a building, much less a cathedral.

  We were on Amsterdam Avenue approaching the main entrance when a hunched, dark figure rapidly approached us, taking us by surprise. I recognized him with a start, but it was Alistair who spoke first.

  “Fred, thank God it’s only you.” Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. “You gave us a scare, coming from behind like that. I take it you’ve not seen Isabella. We have an idea she may be here.”

  Fred gave us a skeptical look, but he agreed to join us. With him in tow, leaning heavily on his wooden cane, we entered the building. At first, the clop clop of Fred’s cane was all that we heard. On the stone floor, it sounded even louder than usual.

  “We’ve made a mistake; no one’s here,” Alistair said.

  We passed under the massive arches of the cathedral’s crossing, following handwritten directions meant to assist worshippers in locating the single finished room where services were held.

  “I think this may help us,” I said, grabbing a lantern from where it sat against a wall. “Do you have a match?” Alistair did—but once lit, the lantern illuminated a three-foot radius around us, little more.

  We followed the signs directing us toward a small chapel.

  Clop clop. Fred’s cane and our own footsteps together made a loud drumbeat that echoed throughout the cavernous stone halls.

  “Shh . . .” I signaled for Alistair and Fred to be quiet.

  It took a moment for us to ascertain that the sound we heard was actually a human voice, for our ears had to adapt to the strange echo that bounced from walls to floor and back again. I felt the tightness in my chest ease slightly as I registered the voice to be that of a woman crying for help.

  Isabella.

  She had heard us. And her own voice was a welcome sign that she was still alive, that we were not yet too late.

  “This way.” I motioned for them to follow me into a tight narrow stairwell leading down into the netherworld of the crypt, just under the crossing. It was the only portion of the cathedral completed to date. I forced all superstitious thoughts out of my mind, reminding myself that the space we would enter was as yet a crypt in name only. It was too soon for anyone to be buried there. But not too soon for anyone to die there, was the thought that immediately followed, unbidden and discomforting.

  We reached the bottom of the stairs. The space in front of us was a jumble of the same stone, wood, and dirt that had marked the exterior areas above us. It also seemed to be a workman’s storage area of mortar, stone, and even two elaborate stained-glass windows, yet to be installed.

  I did not see Isabella right away. My eyes were first drawn to the straight rows of wooden chairs that filled the room. Now empty, they normally accommodated a handful of worshipping congregants.

  She whimpered, and then I saw: She sat on a wooden chair at the front of the room, her hands and feet bound together with rope. A small table was beside her, where six small candles glowed. I opened my mouth to speak to her, but before the words had left my mouth, a whoosh of air swept the room, she let forth a chilling cry—and what light there had been was suddenly extinguished.

  Which meant he was nearby.

  He would be agitated. Nothing happening now was proceeding according to his plan. He would not have expected to be caught at all—especially not now.

  With greater confidence than I actually felt, I spoke up in the darkness. “Horace, it is finished. I am placing you under arrest for the murders of Michael Fromley, Sarah Wingate, and Stella Gibson.” I paused. “Release Isabella now, and you will avoid making your situation worse than it already is.”

  Silence followed.

  I heard no sound that would indicate where he was.
My fingers circled my Colt revolver in preparation.

  At my side, I was aware of Alistair as he fumbled for a match. He finally managed to relight the lantern that had been extinguished just moments before.

  In its light, we saw Isabella again, though now the dark figure of Horace Wood loomed over her, pointing a gun at her head.

  I issued a stern order. “Drop the gun now, Horace.”

  He stared at us, unmoved.

  I stepped forward and showed my own weapon. “I’m a far better shot than you, Horace. Be sensible and drop the gun.”

  “Not so fast.” That voice came from behind us.

  I turned to see the barrel of a Smith & Wesson revolver held by Fred.

  Horace laughed—a wild, terrible cackle.

  I will always remember the terrible sadness in Alistair’s face as he, too, turned to face Fred and said, “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s not to understand, old boy?” Fred cocked his head and made a crooked half smile. “That you’ve been bamboozled? Or that I have aligned myself with—well, let’s call it a better-paying job opportunity, shall we?”

  Alistair stifled his shock enough to whisper a single word. “Why?”

  Fred shrugged. “No need to be so surprised, Professor. You think you’re the only one who craves the good life? Who wants the luxuries that money—and I mean a good heap of money—can buy? Of course you’re not. Horace has his own reasons, but mine, I tell you, are quite simple.”

  “You did it because of vile greed.” Alistair’s voice seethed with condemnation.

  “Let’s just say Horace and I agreed that the resources of your trust fund were not being put to their best use,” Fred responded lightly. “Why spend all that money on a depraved sociopath when we could envision far better purposes?”

  Alistair’s face reflected a steely resolve now that he had begun to understand the gravity of our situation. He drew himself up and issued a command. “Horace. Fred. You must both put your guns down now.”

  I winced, for though I admired his fortitude, it was the wrong approach. The knowledge and training Alistair might normally bring to this situation were compromised by his emotions. He had been cruelly betrayed by two of his closest associates. And it was not an anonymous hostage they held; it was Isabella.

  “Still trying to give me orders, Professor?” Horace replied with a belligerent sneer. “Look around. I don’t think you’re in charge right now.”

  Horace was agitated, sweating profusely despite the frigid chill of the stone vault where we stood.

  I had little experience with hostage situations, but everything I had learned suggested we needed to keep both men talking and feeling in control. Once that was accomplished, we might turn them against each other, which would improve our chances of defending ourselves.

  I interceded calmly, as if there were no danger at all. “You’re right, Horace. Alistair is most certainly not in charge here. You are.” I put my gun away and began to walk toward him, slowly, with my hands in my pockets so I would appear relaxed and at ease. “It’s a painful symptom, the restlessness, isn’t it? It keeps you from sleeping at night. And the sweats that come and go must be rather embarrassing.” I lowered my voice and took a few more steps toward Horace. “But the worst part of all must be how badly you want it.”

  Another step forward and my voice took on a sharper edge. “What has you hooked, Horace? Is it the drug?” I paused. “Or is it the game?”

  Horace glared and jabbed Isabella with the gun. “Move another inch and she dies now.”

  I turned to Fred. “Did you know he needed to feed a terrible habit when you joined him in this scheme?”

  Fred smiled wickedly. “My dear boy, if it hadn’t been for Horace’s unfortunate addiction to cards, he would never have contrived such a plot. It was his inspiration, truly.”

  “And you?” I asked.

  “Merely an innocent bystander who happened to notice both Horace’s problem and his unique method of solving it.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “It seemed unfair for Horace to share the spoils of Alistair’s riches by himself—especially when they were ample enough for two. So I suggested a partnership.”

  “You mean,” Horace interrupted, “that you began blackmailing me for half the proceeds.”

  There it was: a rift in their partnership that I could exploit. Interests in this kind of pairing were never perfectly aligned.

  I made a calculated decision. “I’ll bet,” I said to Horace, “that he didn’t even help you last week when goons from the Golden Dragon showed up to demand payment—and took it out of your skin.”

  Horace merely grunted in reply, but he appeared less agitated than before, so I continued. I was developing this theory as I talked, but as I listened to myself, I knew my reasoning was sound.

  “No doubt it started innocently enough. Playing for money made the game more fun. And then the next step, playing in a gambling parlor, made the game even more exciting.”

  Fred interrupted. “Horace got hooked on faro, the current favorite of all the gambling houses. When it got too expensive, he discovered its cheaper, Lower East Side version: penny stuss.”

  “But playing for pennies must have been unsatisfying. Only larger bets gave you what you craved,” I said. “So that’s when you discovered some Lower East Side houses actually extended loans—on terms favorable to them, of course. You borrowed money from a ruthless loan shark and fell behind in your payments. You must have been desperate for money to pay off your moneylenders and get back in the game. With no legitimate way of doing that, you began to explore other means. Clearly, you already knew that Alistair funneled significant sums from his vast wealth into university funding for his research center. So you hatched a scheme to take advantage of that.”

  “But I gave you money, time and again,” Alistair said to Horace. “I’d have helped you.”

  “Your help would have come with conditions, though,” I said quickly before Horace could respond. “You’d have wanted him to stop playing.”

  Fred added his own interpretation. “It was an interesting psychological study to observe. Horace was destroying his own life. He more or less abandoned his thesis, drove his fiancée to break off with him, and fell thousands of dollars into debt. And still, he thought of nothing but gambling. To sit at the table and place a bet gave him a rush of power. It was so intoxicating that theft led to more theft. And then one day, it led to murder.”

  I was familiar with the storyline. I’d seen variations of it destroy many lives, including that of my own father. Always desperate for money to stay in the game, he usually found help in the form of a woman. But those without my father’s charm and good looks turned increasingly to crime, like Horace.

  “So it was Horace who killed Sarah?” I asked, my voice quiet.

  Neither answered.

  “Why don’t you both walk over there to the wall?” Fred waved his weapon in Isabella’s direction.

  We needed to stay apart until I had a better plan. I caught Alistair’s eye and he followed my lead: a few baby steps to suggest cooperation, but no real movement.

  Alistair cleared his throat. “Horace may have killed Sarah, but Fred must have planned it. Horace simply isn’t bright enough.”

  Horace grumbled, though his words were unintelligible.

  I picked up where Alistair left off. “Yes, parts of the plan were quite brilliant. For example, your coercing Michael Fromley to write that letter confessing to Sarah’s murder was excellent planning. You must have forced Fromley to write the letter just before you shot him. When you mailed it in the box with real crime-scene evidence, it was utterly convincing. Then you dumped his body in the Hudson River, and assumed you had successfully created the perfect scapegoat for the next crime you intended to commit: the murder of Sarah Wingate. Framing Fromley was easy; you knew so much about him. Taken together with the signed letter of confession, Fromley’s guilt would appear certain. Yes, you were remarkably smart in your planning
. But I assume Fred takes all credit for that.”

  “He certainly does not.” Horace contested the idea hotly.

  “No?” I continued talking, moving ever so slightly closer to Horace. “Then tell me, which of you missed the obvious flaw in your planning? One of you didn’t foresee the risk that Mother Nature would wash Fromley’s corpse ashore so quickly. You probably counted upon him staying underwater the entire winter. By springtime, the body would be so thoroughly decomposed that even an expert autopsy would not be able to pinpoint his time of death.”

  “Come now,” said Fred in protest. “The plan was a stroke of genius, undone only by the whim of nature and your own foolish persistence. Most detectives”—he emphasized the word—“would be pleased to wrap up a case so satisfactorily. After all, Fromley was scum of the earth. The world is a better place being rid of him.”

  “Maybe so,” I said, agreeing, “but it wasn’t your call to make. And what about Sarah Wingate? And Stella Gibson? They certainly did not deserve to be killed.”

  “Yes,” Fred said, “that was unfortunate. But the Wingate girl had become a problem, hadn’t she, Horace?”

  I took a deep breath and moved yet another few steps closer. “Why, Horace? Why did you have to kill Sarah? Because I know you did. Fred doesn’t have the physical strength. And while Fred was happy to partake in the money, I’m not sure he was as motivated to kill for it. He doesn’t share your need—or your sheer desperation.”

  Horace was seething with anger as he looked at me. His voice choked as he said, “She didn’t know it was me taking the money—not at first. Her coming to me was a gift, a stroke of good luck. She’d noticed the budget discrepancies. How signatures didn’t match. How funds requests were unsupported.” He circled the back of Isabella’s chair, drawing closer to me.

  “Imagine,” he said, his face twisting at the irony, “she asked for my help. I agreed, said I would take care of it, talk it over with Alistair for her. I promised to see that the proper forms were submitted. But stubborn girl, she wouldn’t take my word for it. She kept checking into things. And to this day I don’t know how, but she managed to figure out that I was the one embezzling the money.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “That’s when I realized I would only be safe—and free to continue as before—if I could make her go away. So I decided that, for once in his life, Michael Fromley might serve a useful purpose.”