“I did.” Iain bobbed his head.
“Tell me.”
“I’ll trade you,” said Iain. “Information for information.”
Jack cut his eyes toward Iain. “What do you want to know?”
“Your meeting with Darrow, that night by the river?”
“I guess I can say now,” said Jack. “I was operating like a double, but, in truth, I was a plant. Carla was there.” He turned to get her confirmation.
“I set it up,” she said, beaming smugly. She scooted back, putting her feet up on the dash.
“She didn’t know I wasn’t really a double,” said Jack.
“I suspected,” she said.
“It worked out.”
“How’s that?” asked Iain.
“He got a bad juror on,” said Carla.
Iain frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Someone who’d vote guilty,” Jack said. When he glanced back at Carla, he saw her skirt flutter up in the breeze, exposing her knees. He gave her a knowing smile, then looked again at Iain. “Mr. Sebern. You remember him—the sheep rancher we went to see.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“But, it didn’t make a difference in the end,” Jack continued.
“That’s too bad,” said Iain.
“Maybe. I don’t know. Alright, I told you, so it’s your turn. Where’d Darrow go?”
“You’re not gonna believe it,” said Iain.
“After what we’ve seen, what couldn’t I believe?”
“You remember how Adams was figured to be living with his uncle at that castle-looking place in Nevada?” asked Iain. “We didn’t see his uncle there, but it turns out he was there—on the third floor, three sheets to the wind. When I went in for Adams’s clothes, I missed him. But after we left, Captain Swain spoke with the man. Later, after Darrow learned of it, he sent Swain to get ol’ Uncle Lillard.”
“He went all the way back down there?” asked Jack. “Damn.”
“Aye. Brought Lillard here to give Adams a message.”
“Which was what?” asked Jack.
“First,” said Iain. “you remember that sheriff from north Idaho? Name of Sutherland. He came around inquiring on Adams? Said Adams had murdered his son.”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Chief turned him down.”
“That was a mistake,” said Carla.
Both men turned and looked at her.
“That’s right, Lassy” said Iain, clearly impressed.
Jack squinted at her. “You’re following this?”
“Of course, darling.” She grinned. “I’m always a step ahead.”
Jack smiled back. “So, dear, why was it a mistake?”
Carla sat up in the car seat, accepting the challenge. “All right. Iain, tell me if I’m right. Detective McParland didn’t help Sheriff Sutherland, but Mr. Darrow did. He agreed to help. Yes, I think he made a deal with Sheriff Sutherland.” She thought for a second. “Jack, didn’t that sheriff take Adams, right after Adams testified?” She saw Jack nod. “So that was worked out by Mr. Darrow ahead of time. Ok, well … so why did Adams change his testimony against Mr. Haywood?”
“Are you giving up?” asked Jack.
“No, no,” Iain said. “Keep going. You’re heading the right way.”
Carla scrunched her lips, then continued. “Ok, so … Adams was in the penitentiary, but Mr. Darrow needed him to change his story. So, Mr. Darrow had the uncle brought here … to take a message to Adams. But what was the message? Something was offered to Adams.” She paused, mulled and continued. “Maybe Mr. Darrow told Adams—through the uncle—that Adams was going to be tried for the murder of boy. Hmmm. I might be stuck.”
“You’re doing good,” said Iain, trying to help her. “So if Adams was going to be tried for the boy’s murder, then Adams would likely be hanged. Not a good outcome for him.”
“Right—” she began.
Jack joined in. “But … but if Adams changed his testimony in the Haywood trial, then Mr. Darrow would be sure that Adams—”
“Darrow promised to represent Adams in that other trial!” Carla shouted, trying to beat Jack to the conclusion.
Iain applauded as Carla stood in the Runabout and bowed.
“So, that’s where Darrow went, right in the middle of Haywood’s trial?” Jack said, dumbfounded.
“Precisely,” said Iain.
Jack looked at Carla still up in the car. “How’d you see all that?”
She hopped to the street. “I worked for Mr. Darrow, remember? Everything is a chess to him.”
“Bad thing is,” said Iain, now somber, “Mr. Darrow did his law magic, and the animal who killed that boy, and Pete, and that family in San Francisco, and a hundred others, I’m sure—he’s free again.”
They held silent for a moment. Having been carried away in the fun of solving the puzzle, they were shocked by the image it formed. Jack shook his head. “I’m sure Sutherland had no idea he was being played, that Darrow had agreed to come to Adams’s defense. That’s pretty shitty, you ask me.”
“His first job was to win for Mr. Haywood, right?” asked Carla.
“I guess,” said Jack. “But still, doesn’t sit right.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Carla, now standing in front of him, leaning her back against his chest. His arms were draped around her waist from behind, their fingers intertwined.
Suddenly Jack shook his head in realization of another detail. “Good Lord. So Darrow pretended to be ill so he could go represent the low-life. Even got his wife to help.”
“Aye,” said Iain. “He lied to Judge Wood.”
For a moment, the three watched two young girls playing hopscotch across the street. The only sounds: the small shoes tapping the chalked walk and the girls’ laughter as they leapt their markers. Eventually Jack asked Iain, “What’s next for you? Did you get a new assignment?”
“Nah, I’m leaving the Pinkertons,” said Iain.
“Is that right?” asked Jack, clearly disappointed.
“Mn-huh. I’m going to Seattle.”
“Your father lives there?”
Iain nodded. “A friend of his is starting an aeroplane company. A man named Boeing. He offered me a job.”
“What kind of company?” asked Carla.
“Aeroplane,” said Jack. “Flying machines.”
“Oh my, Iain,” she said. “That’s exciting.”
“Don’t ask him how they work,” Jack said with a smirk. “He doesn’t know.”
“I know. The propeller turns,” began Carla, “and that blows air over the wings which lift it up, right?”
Iain laughed. “Sort of.”
She flashed a winsome smile at Jack. “See? Always a step ahead.”
Jack chuckled, then looked at Iain. “I think it’s terrific, you and your aeroplanes. So long as you get me a ride in one.”
Carla spun. “Never, Jack. You’ll never get in one.”
“Why?” asked Jack. “You know how they work, so—”
“That doesn’t matter one hoot. They’re too dangerous. You’re not flying.” As she turned back, she caught Iain’s nod to Jack. “No,” she said, waggling her finger at them, as if to mischievous pups.
“So, Miss Capone,” Iain began. “Old Jack’s going to Chicago. You too?”
“Eventually.” Carla glanced up at Jack. “My cousin Al is moving there from Brooklyn. I don’t have other family, so”—she squeezed Jack’s arm—“we think we’ll go, someday.”
Jack nodded. “But Denver first.”
“Back to Denver, then Chicago?” asked Iain.
Carla beamed. “Mr. Pinkerton asked Jack to run the Denver office. Made him a detective.”
Iain pulled away, staring at Jack. “Ya don’t say!”
Jack nodded wi
th a self-congratulatory grin. “We’ll see.”
“You devil,” Iain continued.
Carla squeezed Jack’s arm. “I’m very proud of him.”
Iain pulled a breath. “Good luck to you both, then.” He then focused squarely on Jack. “And you, my friend, be safe.”
Jack gave a small snort of understanding. “I will. Thank you.”
<><><>
– 72 –
THURSDAY
August 8, 1907
As the Denver streetcar squeaked along tracks embedded in Fifteenth Street’s red-brick paving, its connectors to the overhead wires crackled with wisps of sparks—the popping consequences of little electric bursts vaporizing as they appeared. From his seat near the back of the streetcar, Jack held a new, brown homburg hat in his lap and gazed indifferently at the passing city. Noting his reflection in the glass, he touched the shield-knot of his black tie, and then looked down at the watch chain connecting his suit’s vest pockets. He tugged at the chain, creating a golden smile in its drape. When the trolley stopped at the Mining Exchange Building, a number of people exited while others boarded—those who’d been waiting in the shadow of the building’s clock tower with its sentinel—a twelve-foot copper prospector. As the streetcar resumed, sparks sputtered and Jack stood, releasing his seat to a woman in mourning crepe. At Curtis and Sixteenth, he stepped to the street, donned his hat, and walked half a block, arcing around a paint crew before entering the shuttered Tabor Opera House. Inside, he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. The hallway was empty. Even the chairs once occupied by guards were gone. He entered the unmarked Pinkerton office.
“Good morning, Detective,” said a woman.
“Good morning, Margaret,” he replied, stopping in front of her desk. He gave an anticipatory nod toward the closed inner door.
“They’ve been here for about fifteen minutes.”
He riffled mail on her desk. “Anything from Mr. Friedman?”
She handed him an opened letter. “Yes. He declined to rejoin us. Says he prefers to write his books.”
“Fair enough.” Jack nodded. “At least we offered.” Glancing again at the closed interior door, he blew a sigh. Then he removed his homburg and brushed a bit of dust from it before hanging it on the stand next to his black hat with the silver stars. A look of surprise came to him as he studied the outer office. “The boxes … They came for them?”
“Yes, Sir. At half past eight. I told them to take everything you marked yesterday for Detective McParland. And anything else you marked for the Chicago office.”
“Good,” Jack said softly. He looked again at the closed door to his office. “This will be interesting,” he muttered to himself. He turned the handle and entered. Inside, he was greeted by Darrow and George who were standing, apparently having heard him through the door. “Gentlemen,” said Jack, shaking their hands.
“Jack, this is George Pennington,” began Darrow. “He’s been appointed the interim president of the Federation.”
“Yes, of course,” said Jack, addressing George. “We saw each other at the trial. And the chief and I discussed the arrangement—” He stopped himself and gave a flat smile. “Of course the Pinkertons are aware of you, Mr. Pennington.”
“As we’re aware of you, Detective Garrett,” George replied.
“Gentlemen,” Darrow began as he lit a cigarette. “So, that’s established—we all know each other. We also know the purpose of this meeting is for the greater good. There’s work to be done, an agreement to be reached—one that will serve the interests of the Pinkerton clients, as well as the Federation.”
Jack nodded, motioning them to chairs. Once they were seated, he looked at the two older men. They were waiting for him to speak. He was surprised not to feel more nervous. But why should he be nervous? These men came to him, in his new position. They were here, in his office, once the office of the great Chief Detective James McParland—now the office of freshly minted Detective Jack Garrett—a room barren of accoutrements and décor as all of McParland’s personal effects and furnishings had been removed, leaving the desktop, tables, and walls bare, save the wooden box telephone by the door. Even the large, green wool rug had belonged to McParland. At least the array of wingback chairs belonged to the Pinkertons, and thus were available for the three men to use that morning, while they negotiated the fate of William Haywood.
<><><>
Though Billy Bryan peered curiously at Neva’s invalid chair, the summer heat kept him recumbent in the shade of an ancient oak looming from just beyond his cage. He was Denver Zoo’s only permanent resident, a black bear named in honor of his donor, William Jennings Bryan. There were other furry residents of the zoo, but their permanence was in question—as they consisted of several hundred, fast-multiplying red squirrels that had appended the entirety of City Park as their home, even the adjacent Park Hill Heights neighborhood, including the trees surrounding the Haywoods’ house.
Vernie, the eldest Haywood daughter, now thirteen, pivoted her mother’s chair to face the bear. Neva smiled. They were quickly joined by Henrietta, ten, who stared wide-eyed at the snoozing Billy Bryan.
“He’s so big,” said Vernie.
“He’d be even bigger if they let him out,” said Henrietta.
“That’s not true,” Vernie snapped.
“It is so,” persisted Henrietta. “In the wild, bears grow bigger and meaner!” She growled at Vernie.
Neva smiled at her youngest. “How do you know that, smarty?”
“The zoo man said it.” Henrietta pointed at an attendant addressing a group of visitors.
As Neva noted the zoo attendant, she saw Carla approaching from that same direction.
“Hello,” said Carla, offering a pensive smile. “Mrs. Haywood?”
Neva looked at the young beauty. “Miss Capone,” she said, making it more of a statement than a greeting.
“Yes, Ma’am. Is this still a good time to talk? Here?”
“Yes, it’s fine.” Neva looked at her girls. “These are my daughters, Vernie and Henrietta. Girls, this is Miss Carla Capone. She works … she worked for the union.” Neva smiled at Carla. “I’m sure you’re employed elsewhere now.”
“In truth,” Carla replied, “I don’t work for anyone.”
Neva considered her. “It’s a commendable sentiment, dear. But everyone works for someone—even if only for ourselves. And all are answerable to God.”
“Yes,” replied Carla, glancing aside, hoping the young girls might be dismissed.
Neva saw the unspoken request and sent her girls for ice cream from a vendor alongside the park’s lake. She then rolled herself to a bench and indicated Carla should join her.”
Carla sat and smoothed her skirt. “Mrs. Haywood—”
“I’m Neva. Just call me Neva.”
Carla smiled. “All right.”
“Listen,” began Neva. “George—Mr. Pennington—asked that I meet you. So, here we are. But you need to understand something: I want nothing further to do with Mr. Haywood—and that includes matters of the Federation. And of course I have no desire to be of benefit to the Pinkertons. So it’s best, I believe, for you to save your breath. Let’s presume you asked of me whatever you came to ask, and I said, ‘no thank you,’ and that was that.”
Carla lowered her nose slightly. “I know you bear me no fondness, for having betrayed the Federation and Mr. Darrow, but—”
“I have no mind on that account—one way or the other. I don’t know the particulars, and don’t wish to. Both the Federation and the Pinkertons are corrupt institutions, or they have been. God has opened my eyes to the cruelty and savagery of the man whom I once called husband. I don’t care about him or whatever fate befalls him. I care to seek the will of God. And that George be held blameless—that he can conduct the new business of the Federation in peace. The Federation, when s
erving its members, is a wonder. It can serve labor honorably if it’s led by honorable men.”
“I agree. My father was a member and—” Carla stopped upon seeing Neva look away. There would be no shared camaraderie here. It was best she get to her point. “The man whom I love, Jack Garrett, now Detective Garrett, runs the Pinkerton office here. He’s been tasked by his boss, Mr. Pinkerton, to resolve some outstanding concerns against your husband, but he needs—”
“I heard Detective McParland was fired for what he did.”
“Not fired, I don’t think. But he did move back to Chicago … or he is moving back there. I really don’t know.”
Neva caught herself. “It doesn’t matter what those men do.”
“No. I suppose not.”
“What can I do for your Detective Garrett?”
Carla took a breath, feeling as refreshed as she was intimidated by the direct question. “The union, the Federation, has expelled Mr. Haywood, as you know, but the Pinkertons have other clients, banks in particular, who want to open investigations into the Federation’s finances—what Mr. Haywood may have taken, what he may owe.”
“That will be a messy matter.”
“And all that stirring may get Mr. Pennington’s name—”
“No!” Neva pointed at Carla. “The Pinkertons and the government agreed to leave George out of any investigations. Any improprieties were entirely Bill’s.”
“I was told as much. Yes, Ma’am. But I was told it might not be possible—not entirely—to protect Mr. Pennington, as he was treasurer during the—”
“He had nothing to do with any of the stolen money.”
“I know,” Carla said. “They know that too. But forces may still pull George in. And the newspapers, well—”
Neva shook her head, agitated. “You didn’t come to tell me this. What is their proposal?”
Carla took a breath. “Russia.”
“Russia?”
“Mr. Haywood must go to Russia.”
Neva frowned, absorbing the idea, and then smiled. “Russia?”
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