“Yes, Sir.”
McParland jabbed his pipe toward the chalkboard. “This is how you might become a detective—leading this campaign to get Adams. Aye, others have far more seniority than you. And they’ll be hot at me when you go.” After a considered puff, he continued, “But mark me, Jack, there’ll always be men with more seniority or less seniority. Better at this, worse at that. Taller, shorter, dumber, smarter. You name it.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow, shoved the pipe into one side of his mouth and spoke from the other. “Quod optima sui oportet quod.” He removed his pipe. “Be the best self you have to be. Require that of yourself. It’s all I require of you.”
“I’ll try, Sir,” Jack said, then saw McParland’s eyes narrow slightly. “I will, Sir.”
“I know you will.” McParland turned his back. “Stay safe, son.”
“Aye, Chief.”
<><><>
– 30 –
SATURDAY
March 2, 1907
The next day, as the train carrying the San Francisco-bound Pinkertons bore from the Boise station—steam swelling, wheels screeching, engine snorting—Carla observed from under the hood of her cape, two-deep on the platform. Twenty minutes later, she was in the Western Union office on Main Street, watching a clerk key her message:
To: W. Minor, Gassell Saloon, Denver, Colorado
From: CC, Boise, Idaho
MY LOVE LEFT FOR SF TODAY TO SEE A.
PRAY HE TRAVELS SAFE.
MOST IMPORTANT TO US.
What she didn’t know was that Senator Borah had persuaded the Western Union Telegraph Company to install a stand-alone wire from the roof of that telegraph office, across Tenth Street, and into the Idanha Hotel where a receiving machine typed out Carla’s message. A Pinkerton clerk then took the intercepted telegraph up to the mezzanine and delivered it to the frumpily dressed Detective McParland sitting at his usual table. McParland read it and handed it to his lunch guest, the flawlessly dressed Senator Borah. “Should I send it on?” the clerk asked, unsure to which man he should address the question.
Once Borah looked up from reading it, McParland asked, “So, what do you think, William?”
Borah waggled his head and gave a slight whistle, then looked at the clerk. “Thank you, Douglas, we’ll let you know.” After the man departed, Borah set the telegram down and cut another bite from his steak. “‘A’ is Adams I guess. Her ‘love’ is your agent?”
“Aye. Jack Garrett.”
Borah continued, “‘Pray he travels safe.’ ‘He’ is Jack or Adams?”
“Jack,” replied McParland.
“‘Safe.’ She hopes he’s protected by the Federation. From whom? From the Federation themselves?”
“Uh-huh,” McParland mused as Borah chewed. “She’s worried about him. They’ve tumbled into Cupid’s bear pit.”
“When did Cupid dig a bear pit?”
McParland grinned. “Now, Senator, I imagine you’ve installed a special ladder, just for you to get out.”
Borah chuckled. “That’s true.”
McParland resumed examining the telegram. “I’d hoped she was obliged to report to Haywood, on our hunt for Adams.”
Borah frowned. “Why would Haywood protect a Pinkerton?”
McParland nodded, swallowing his bite. “Two reasons, I hope. One—and it’s uncertain—is maybe Haywood likes her, wants to please her, if she pleads on Jack’s behalf. And two—and this is what I’m most counting on—she’s signaling that Jack’s one of them now. That he’s their new inside man, after Farrington.”
Borah’s eyes widened. “Are you saying—”
“He’s not really, but I told him to make em think it. She took the bait and here she’s telling Haywood.” McParland picked up the message. “‘Most important to us.’ I wish she’d been more clear.”
Borah cocked his chin. “You knew you’d be sending him after Adams, and they might try to kill him. So you put him with Carla?” He laughed. “So you’re Cupid. The damn bear pit is yours.”
McParland smiled. “Nah, she found him. I just saw an opportunity and took it. I added the double-agent bit as a backup to help protect him—to increase the odds he gets Adams. And maybe we’ll get some useful intelligence from it. The young man is cloaked by love and a lie, but doesn’t know it.”
“The puppet-master.” Borah grinned. “I agree, her message could’ve been more direct. I doubt Haywood will see more than the Adams part. He might still have his thugs go after your boys.”
“I doubt it. He sent Swain to get Adams,” said McParland. “And Swain knows the hell I’d rain down on him if he hurt a Pinkerton. He’d have to run to China. They’ve got more to worry about from Adams than from Swain.”
“Captain Swain?” asked Borah. “Thiel Agency out of Spokane?” He saw McParland nod. “I know him. He’s a piece of work.” Borah glanced down to the floor level of the restaurant, then motioned McParland to do the same. Carla was below them, having just begun her waitressing shift. “My God, she’s a beauty,” Borah murmured. “A Federation spy?”
“A reluctant one, according to Jack.”
“Why didn’t she telephone her Haywood contact, W Minor?”
“W—Winnifred—Minor is Winnie, Haywood’s sister-in-law.”
Borah nodded. “All right, but why—”
“And Haywood’s mistress.”
“His wife’s sister?” The senator stared at the detective. “Wait a damn minute. What? Does his wife know?”
“Oh aye, she does. You see, Mrs. William Haywood—Nevada Jane Haywood—Neva—is polio stricken, and her sister Winnie takes care of her. So, better her husband beds Winnie than some street whore. Or worse, someone he might leave Neva for.”
Incredulous, Borah looked again at Carla below. “So, who is she to the sister-mistress-Winnie?”
“Carlotta Capone and Winnie are best friends, as I understand it,” said McParland. “Or they were, in Spokane or Walla Walla, a few years ago. But this new relationship has been forged in the worker’s struggle!” McParland held his fist high in mockery. “Winnie got involved in the Federation because of her sister. But now Winnie has become a zealot socialist. As for our pretty dago down there, Miss Capone, her father and brother were killed in the Stratton collapse. So she helps the union, however she can.”
Just then, Borah caught Carla’s eye, and she flashed a grin up at the box-jawed senator. He bowed his head, giving her his best devil-may-care smile. Turning back, he asked McParland, “So, why do you let her work here, around your operation?”
“To keep an eye on her,” replied McParland. “And from what I can tell, she’s not a radical. She’s just a grieving, angry daughter.”
Borah held the telegram. “So, what should we do with this?”
“If it doesn’t arrive, it might expose our wire diversion.”
“No, no,” said Borah. “I can’t have it known I arranged that.” He chuckled. “I was just sworn into office, for godsakes.”
“Tell you what,” McParland said. “Let’s send it, but with a couple of edits.” He motioned the nearest guard. “Get Douglas back. Tell him to bring a pen.” The man hurried down the mezzanine stairs. McParland looked at Borah. “We’ll just push the dates and make it a bit more clear about Jack.”
Borah wiped his mouth, then placed the napkin on his empty plate. “You didn’t say—why didn’t Miss Capone telephone her friend, the mistress, Winnie?”
“Well, it seems that Mr. Haywood thinks we are listening to all telephone conversations, in or out of his Denver homes and offices, even his attorney’s office.” McParland gave a fast wink.
Borah dipped his nose, silently asking, Are they?
“Bell is a Pinkerton client,” McParland replied.
“But he doesn’t suspect telegrams?”
“I guess not. Though, of course
Western Union is a client too.”
When the telegraph clerk returned to the table, he set down a Conklin dip pen and opened a small ink jar. McParland took up the pen. “Douglas, my good man,” he began, “have this resent, but with these changes.” In the first line, MY LOVE LEFT FOR SF TODAY TO VISIT A, McParland marked through LEFT and wrote leaves, and he changed TODAY to next week. Then he marked through the last line, MOST IMPORTANT TO US, and wrote Most Important. One of Us. He showed it to Borah, getting the senator’s nod, then handed it to the clerk.
“Yes, Sir,” said the clerk, leaving with the paper, pen, and ink.
With lunch finished, the men stood. McParland asked, “Monday? We’re meeting with Judge Wood?”
“Yes. Ten o’clock,” replied Borah, watching the detective attempt to smooth his chaotic mustache. “Are you ever gonna finish eating that squirrel?”
McParland chuckled. “Never.”
They shook hands. “I must get going,” said Borah. “Oh, I meant to ask: Your wife, Mary—is she coming here?”
“Nah, her cluck of Red Rook ladies are in Denver. They play and gab most afternoons. So we write and talk on the telephone.”
“Well, the next time you talk to her, give her my regards.”
“God no. If she thought the dashing new senator from Idaho knew her name, she’d faint right there in her kitchen.”
<><><>
– 31 –
SUNDAY
March 3, 1907
Jack was asleep under his hat in the second-class sleeping car when the Southern Pacific train belled and squeaked to a night stop in San Francisco. As expected, the other two Pinkerton agents met the disembarking four. They divided up, carrying the bags and shotguns to various coaches waiting in the dark. Jack carried the scoped M1903 Springfield rifle slung over his shoulder. An hour later, the six were sitting around a table at the back of the Old Ship Saloon on Pacific Street while a peeved barkeep brought them root beers and Coca Cola. Their Pinkerton togs were gone, replaced with average coats and trousers.
On the train, Jack had become familiar with the three en route with him, each about his age: the two Polk brothers (Pete and Stan), and Iain Lennox, the giant Scot who talked about flying as if it was equivalent to bedding the most beautiful woman in the world. After Jack shared a non-Pinkerton flask that Iain had brought, squinting as Iain described something called aerodynamics, Jack decided they were friends. Now Iain sat to Jack’s right, smoking a pipe and curling his Rs as the Pinkerton strategy was bunted about. “You’ve got that all turned wrong there,” said Iain in his thick Scottish accent.
“Not John Branson, James Branson,” added Pete Polk. “James.”
“I heard you. I know,” said one of the two agents who had already been in San Francisco for weeks, having lost Adams in the burned-out streets. “But I would’ve seen a James Branson in the register, seeing how he’d be listed below John.”
“Above John,” groused Stan, the other Polk brother.
“We’ll go check. Iain and I will,” Jack said. He focused on the brothers. “What do you Polks want to do?”
Stan glanced at Pete. “We’ll cover the saloons, whorehouses, boarding houses, hotels, whorehouses, and gambling establishments. For starters.”
“You said whorehouses twice,” said Iain.
“That’s right,” quipped Stan. “There’s two of us.”
“All that ‘for starters’?” Jack asked, smiling. “I suggest you start at the edge of the burned part and work—”
“A grid?” said Pete with a snap of sarcasm.
“Right,” said Jack. “A grid.” He turned his attention to the original Pinkertons. “You two stand watch at the station. Starting tonight. One always awake. Always.”
“Damnation,” said one of them.
“There’s no place to lie down,” said the other.
“Why the hell you telling us what we gotta do?” asked the first. “You let them two choose.” He pointed at the Polks.
“I know your thinkin, Jack,” Iain mocked. “If the Polk brothers see the killer Adams, they won’t piss their britches, or be fool-stupid enough t’ lose him, like these two Nancys did.”
Jack nodded at the first two Pinkertons. “Like he said.”
<><><>
That night, Carla was in the dark, on her back, in her Idanha Hotel bed, wearing only her camisole, her hair tied back loosely. She thought of Jack. Where was he that very minute? What might it be like to sleep with him? To feel his arms around her—his chest over her. To smell him. What did he enjoy? Was he circumcised? She shook her head. She should sleep. She rolled on her side, snuggling the covers closer to her neck. She had the breakfast shift at 6:30 the next morning. Her mind drifted. Why was she staying in Boise? Her original assignment was done. Orchard was arrested. Both of her spy recruits were gone, and the Pinkertons would never let her convert another. In fact, she didn’t want to do it again. Should she go back to Denver? No. For what? For lecherous Big Bill Haywood? Disgusting. No. She was done with spying. She was done with all of it. When Jack returned, she would admit that she had been instructed to recruit him. But she didn’t want it that way between them. Not now. Yes, he had agreed to help her—but he should only do it if he wished to, not because he felt coerced by her. Would he be angry? Could she take that chance? What they had would weather that—right? They had something, didn’t they? Of course they did. She could feel it. Just as she could feel she was finished with the Federation. She had planted evidence in a man’s room, had given her body to a man she didn’t like, and— She tried to keep herself from finishing the thought, but couldn’t: she had killed that man. The image of Wade erupted in her mind. She bit her lip, sealing her eyes tighter. She heard the gunshot, saw the blood. She threw the blankets back and sat up. She needed Jack. She would stay in Boise and wait for him to return. He would come back. He had to come back.
<><><>
– 32 –
MONDAY
March 4, 1907
The next morning, Jack and Iain left their boarding house wearing shoulder-holstered pistols under their coats. Outside, they were immediately struck by the sights of widespread destruction that daylight revealed. After breakfast, they stood in line, riffled through the city record books for Branson’s address, and by 10:30 were turning the corner from Holloway onto Faxon. There they saw a San Francisco policeman wearing a midnight-blue long coat and black hat standing at the gate to the Branson home, gesturing to a small crowd who had come to whisper and point.
“Move along, gentlemen,” said the bear-faced policeman as they approached.
“I’m Pinkerton Agent Garrett. This is Agent Lennox. May I—”
“Doesn’t matter who you are,” said the policeman.
“Right. But may we inquire about the occupants of this house?”
The man considered the two and blew a sigh. “The Bransons?”
“Aye, Sir,” said Iain, adjusting his big bowler.
“Dead. All of them,” he murmured, gesturing toward the black crepe draping the picket fence.
For a moment Jack was stunned. “In the fire?”
“What?” asked the policeman.
“They died in the earthquake and fire?” repeated Jack, still not comprehending.
“That was last year, Sherlock.”
“Of course.”
“They were murdered,” the officer continued. “The man, his wife, his two children. Someone poisoned their milk last week. Discovered a couple of days ago. Crying shame.”
Iain began walking away. When Jack caught up, Iain softly mumbled, “Adams got him. And not just him, his whole family. Damnit, Jack. Damnit.”
“Yeah,” was all Jack could say for the next twenty paces. Then he stopped. “He might not be gone. He might’ve stayed.”
“We should tell those policemen,” said Iain, heel
ing around.
Jack trailed after him, back toward the house. “I know. I know, Iain, we need to—but we can’t.”
Iain recoiled. “Why the bloody hell not?”
“If the whole city plus us six—and Captain Swain too, probably—are all looking for Adams, then one of two things is going to happen: either Adams will turn up dead, because either Swain or the coppers will kill him. Or Adams runs, disappears into the mountains or jumps on a ship. Meaning we’d never find him. That’s what I’d do, jump on a ship.”
Calmer now, Iain said, “Aye. You’re right. I wish you weren’t.”
Jack nodded. “We’d best keep our eyes open. Might get lucky.”
Iain looked toward the house where another policeman had joined the first. “They’ve got to be told soon, though.”
“They do. And they will. As soon as we have the dog in chains, back in Boise. Then I imagine Chief will send a wire.”
<><><>
Senator Borah and Detective McParland climbed the granite steps to the Ada County Courthouse in Boise, entered through the towering, weather-worn double doors, and proceeded through the corridor to a polished oak door bearing a sign reading: Judge Freemont Wood – Idaho 3rd Judicial District. They entered, and Borah spoke to a secretary there. “Judge Wood, please.”
She rose, blushing at the striking man. “Yes, Senator, this way.” She led them into the judicial chambers. Dimly lit through dingy windows, it was a den of books and furniture smelling of cigars and consequences. The judge was in his shirt sleeves, shuffling papers.
“Your Honor,” began Borah.
Wood looked up, revealing warm green eyes and a disciplined mustache, his bald head swept by gray hairs. “William Borah! No, Senator Borah—you’re sworn in now.”
“Yes, Your Honor, I am.”
“Good. I was gratified by your election. A good Republican—just what these outlaw parts need.” The judge then looked at McParland. “Jim, how’s your hip today?” It was a simple question, ostensibly pleasant and sincere, but it was packed with subtext. It was the first maneuver in an ancient, choreographed dance among men who seek to control an impending conversation. By calling him “Jim,” rather than “Chief Detective McParland” (or even “James”), and by inquiring about McParland’s physical weakness—and doing so on the heels of flattering Senator Borah—Judge Wood was claiming an elevated station, placing himself on par with a US Senator. In that one phrase, Wood said the important men in the commencing conversation were going to be the senator and himself, not the Pinkerton.
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