Mulvaney pivoted to look me in the eye, and for a split second I thought he was going to erupt again. Instead, he gave me a resigned look. “Ziele, you would’ve made a helluva lawyer if you’d had the chance to finish college. I can’t argue with you.”
“So how can you justify protecting Frohman if there’s a chance he— or one of his underlings— is involved in the deaths of these two women,” I said roughly. “The only acceptable answer is that you can’t.”
“Right now,” he said, his face white, “the most I can offer you is this: do what you must. And if you can do it while making no waves— and without my being the wiser— then it should be all right.”
We parted on those terms at Grand Central. And as I made my way to a bench opposite track 19, where my train was due in ten minutes’ time, I decided I’d done the right thing by not telling Mulvaney about Timothy Poe. I resolved to feel no guilt in keeping Timothy’s scandalous private life from Mulvaney for now. Had he known, he almost certainly would have rushed to rearrest the actor— if not from his own conviction that Poe was guilty, then from the certain knowledge that Poe was a scapegoat to please even the toughest of higher-ups.
And that would have done no one involved any good, least of all the two women whose deaths I was charged with investigating.
Twenty-five past nine o’clock. Knowing my train should by now have arrived on the track, I gathered my hat, worn brown satchel, and evening newspaper. Today’s headlines focused on various St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in the city, including the usual parade up Fifth Avenue. I was looking forward to reading lighter fare— a welcome respite from this murder investigation and the dark thoughts it bred.
I shoved the paper deep into my bag. I didn’t notice the man who stood just a few feet in front of me.
So his voice took me entirely by surprise when I heard it— though some half-forgotten memory allowed me to identify its deep, husky baritone almost immediately, long before I looked up and my eyes confirmed it.
Two words were all it took.
Hello, son.
CHAPTER 15
Grand Central Station
It had been more than ten years since I’d last seen him. There had been no goodbye. In fact, there had not been so much as a note. He’d left it to Nick Scarpetta— the owner of the gambling joint where my father had played his last hand— to inform my mother of his departure. Nicky was a gruff but good-hearted man of few words, and I’d never figured out how he’d managed to tell my mother the devastating news: not only had my father gambled away the last of their savings, but he’d left town with another woman.
Like most con artists, my father was gifted with words. And while he typically used his talent to facilitate his latest con game or extricate himself from a tough spot, I’d always thought he owed it to us to say a final goodbye. Of course, what ever he said would have been a lie. Still, words might have helped my mother to better stomach the bitter truth.
He leaned against the edge of the bench, where a lamppost illuminated his unmistakable chiseled features. He looked good, as always, a reflection of his excellent taste in clothing. So, though his shoes were worn and in need of polish, his trousers were well tailored, and his coat— a fine, dark wool— had obviously been purchased on a day when he was feeling flush. And his face was one that women considered handsome: intelligent brown eyes, strong rugged features, and a ready, charming smile. He was taller than I, with a much broader frame. But now that I was older, I recognized his face as strikingly similar to my own— albeit without the charming smile and heavy lines of age.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
All I could manage to comprehend was how curious— how downright odd— it was to see him before me after so much time.
“Ah, Simon,” he said easily, flashing a wide smile. “Not even a hint of plea sure to see your old man? Don’t tell me you already knew I was back in town.” He coughed, drawing his handkerchief to his mouth in seeming embarrassment.
“I didn’t know,” I said coldly. But in a flash, I recalled all the times in recent days that I had felt someone was watching me, following me. I now assumed it had been he.
“Of course not.” He effortlessly slipped into the seat beside me and crossed his legs. Placing a finger against his chin, he seemed to be sizing me up.
“You look tired, Simon.” It was a pronouncement. “You work too hard. I’ve been watching you.”
I didn’t respond for a few moments.
“Why are you back?”
“Can’t a father want to see his son once in a while?” His tone was cajoling, his attention completely centered on me— and I was reminded of how, as a boy, he had always won my mother over after a night of heavy losses. Whenever he gave his complete attention to anyone, he managed to make that person feel prized, important. It could be intoxicating to the object of his attentions. But I knew it was a practiced form of flattery.
“Once in a while?” I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Try ten years.”
“Touché.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “My circumstances became untenable here, you understand. I owed a great deal to some rather unsavory people. I had a large price on my head.”
I leveled my gaze at him. “From my earliest memory, you were always indebted to loan sharks. You always had a price on your head. But you typically handled your problems by going to ground until you felt it was safe to come out of hiding. What was different, that last time? Was it the woman?”
Before he could answer, he was seized by a coughing fit that lasted a full minute. “Just a second, my boy. I could use some water,” he said apologetically.
I dutifully got up and procured him a glass from a vendor nearby, whose stand offered most sundry items the evening’s commuters might need, from mixed nuts to newspapers. By the time I returned with the water, a lady had joined our bench. She sat next to two oversized white hatboxes, studiously eating a sandwich.
After I managed to squeeze past her, by mutual agreement my father and I moved farther down the bench. He took a sip from the glass and seemed to recover himself, then he resumed our conversation exactly where we’d left off.
“No, I didn’t leave New York because of a woman, Simon,” he said with a strange look. “I know you won’t be able to understand, but I needed a fresh start.”
“And Mother . . .” My words were cold as ice.
“Your mother was a fine woman,” he said firmly. “And don’t think that I’m unaware that she deserved better than the likes of me.”
“Well, there at least, we agree. But it didn’t stop you from choosing another. Are you still with her?”
“Not her, no.” He coughed.
“But you’re not alone,” I said sharply. He never had been.
He paused for a split second, then continued. “I heard your mother died last year.” He was uncharacteristically sober. “I’m sorry.”
“She was never the same after you left.”
“And you lost the girl, too.” He drummed his fingers together. “Beautiful young lady. What was her name?”
“Hannah.” My voice was dry, stiff.
“Of course, of course.” He tapped a finger against his temple and flashed another smile, assuming I’d understand. “I’m not getting younger, Simon. My mind isn’t what it was.”
But he had never remembered anything that didn’t concern him.
He was continuing to talk. “Charming girl, she was. Would’ve made you a great wife.” He coughed. “So many died that day. Still inconceivable to me that one burning steamship could cost so many lives. I heard about the Angers and the Felzkes—”
I cut him off. “Too many . . . far too many were lost that day.” Over a thousand people had died when the General Slocum steamship burned and sank, many of them friends and neighbors. I’d boarded one of the police rescue boats, the moment I’d heard. We’d rescued a handful. But I’d watched as scores of desperate people leaped to their deaths— some doomed by the faulty life preservers
they wore, others by the fellow passengers who jumped too closely behind, knocking them unconscious in the water. Sometimes, when my mind played its worst tricks on me, I imagined I had seen Hannah herself take the final leap to her death. But most of the time, I succeeded in telling myself I was mistaken.
He coughed. “Simon, I can’t undo what’s been done. But I am here to make amends if I can.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “That’s why you came back. To make things all right with me?”
“Yes, if I can.” Another cough into his handkerchief. “Your mother’s gone, God rest her soul. I’m too late, in her case. But I know I did you wrong too, though you’re enough of a man not to berate me for it. I guess you’d have been some bigwig lawyer or banker by now if you’d been able to keep your scholarship at Columbia. As you would’ve done, if not for my leaving.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” I breathed in deeply. “So what— you’re here to apologize? Ten years later?”
“I suppose.” But he sounded uncertain and looked at me curiously.
“All right. Is there anything more?”
He stared at me with an unreadable expression. “I suppose . . .” He waited for several moments before concluding, “There’s not. That’s all.”
“Well, then, I should catch my train,” I said, glancing at my watch and realizing I’d missed it entirely. There wouldn’t be another for a half hour.
“All right. Good seeing you, son.” He stood awkwardly, dropping his handkerchief as he got up.
I stooped to pick it up, but stopped short before my fingers touched it. He’d hidden it well when it was in his palm, but there was no disguising the truth laid out on the tiled floor of Grand Central Station. The white handkerchief was heavily stained with blood.
I drew back in alarm, sinking onto the bench once again. Embarrassed, he bent over and picked up the piece of cloth, shoving it into his pocket. Then he sat, too.
I’d not seen it at first. I hadn’t been looking for it. But now I could see the telltale signs: the swelling around the neck, the unnatural brightness in his eyes, and the wasting away that first led people to label the disease “consumption.”
“I’m guessing this is the true reason you’re back.” It was all I could say.
“I’m dying, Simon.” He spread his hands. “I’ve tried all the more temperate climates the doctors recommended. Not one of them slows the progress of this disease.”
“You’ve tried Florida? You’ve been down South?”
“I have. And,” he added, “I’ve even sampled the clean air of Minnesota, which some people swear by.” But he shook his head. “It’s no use. Consumption’s got its grip on me. It’s no longer a question of if, but when. But that’s true for all of us, isn’t it?” He pulled a small packet of lozenges out of his pocket. “Don’t know what I’d do without these. Blaudett’s Cathedral Pastilles. Little brown gummies of benzoin. What ever they’re called, to me, they’re pure relief.” He popped one into his mouth.
“How much time do you have?” I asked awkwardly.
He shrugged. “Likely not much, though no doctor can tell me for sure. I recognize the signs, though. I cough almost continuously now. And I tire so much more easily than ever before. I’d say this is my last spring. I intend to enjoy it.” His eyes glimmered— but whether that was from the disease or his irrepressible spirit, I couldn’t say.
“But it needn’t be a death sentence,” I burst out roughly. “There are sanatoriums now, staffed with doctors to help you get better.”
He made a face of disgust. “What, so I can sit in a chair and learn to knit? Play chess and take the sulfa drugs they give you? No, thank you,” he said with vehemence.
“You always did like chess . . .” I said. In fact, he had loved any game where money could be won— and lost.
“Hmmph.”
“You’re also contagious,” I warned. “There are laws about compliance. . . .”
“I’m careful to manage my contagion,” he said proudly. “I always cough into my handkerchief.”
“And your doctor?”
“Thinks the compliance requirements are nothing but bunk and nonsense.”
Recent laws wanted the medical profession to report all cases of tuberculosis— yet, most private doctors strenuously objected and ignored the requirement, believing it to be an invasion of privacy. So I wasn’t surprised. But it wasn’t what I’d meant.
“What is your doctor’s opinion of your prognosis?” I rephrased my question gently.
He shrugged. “Never get a clear answer out of these medical types.”
That meant he’d not seen a doctor recently. He never had taken care of himself.
“You’ll let me know if you need anything,” I said, my words stiff and awkward.
He sidestepped the offer. “I’m fine. I stay with a friend here. A hotel there. I see what each day brings. You know me, Simon.”
And I did.
I reached into my pocket and handed him my card. “You found me easily enough, but I can always be reached here.”
He took it, smiled, and coughed before saying, “I’ll be in touch. You’ll see the last of me soon enough. But not yet.”
I watched him walk away, past tracks 21 and 20— then pausing for a moment at the flower stall to buy a single yellow rose, presumably for his companion of the moment.
I would have expected any number of emotions to overtake me— anger, most likely of all. Never mind the opportunities his leaving had cost me, I’d never forgive him for the way he had hurt my mother; I was convinced he’d hastened her path to an early grave.
I didn’t feel sorry for him— though I knew he had spoken the truth when he said he was dying.
This night I was conscious of one emotion only.
Emptiness.
PART
TWO
All deception in the course of life
is indeed nothing else
but a lie reduced to practice,
and falsehood passing from words into things.
—Robert South
Sunday
March 18, 1906
CHAPTER 16
Dobson, New York
“There’s been another murder.” Mulvaney’s clipped voice was loud over the crackle of the telephone line.
I had just finished grinding my coffee beans when the jangling of the telephone— at not yet eight o’clock— sent me racing for the receiver before my landlady was disturbed. She would not appreciate being roused at this hour on a Sunday morning.
“Can you get here as soon as possible?” Now Mulvaney’s voice receded to a hollow echo.
I pulled at the black cord, straining to hear. It was a new black and brass Strowger dial telephone, but the quality of its connection left much to be desired— even on its better days.
“Where?” I assumed the murder had happened at yet another theater. I leaned in close to the speaker. Chances were, he was having just as difficult a time hearing me. I switched the ear receiver to my right hand and grabbed the pencil and pad of paper that lay next to the telephone with my left.
“The Aerial Gardens.”
“What’s that?” I was certain I’d heard something wrong. It didn’t sound like a theater.
But I hadn’t. When his answer came again, it was clear. In fact, he practically shouted, assuming I had not heard his first response at all.
“The Aerial Gardens. It’s the rooftop theater of the New Amsterdam on the south side of Forty-second Street off Seventh Avenue. They have shows there during the summer months. The janitor found another actress dead there this morning.”
So the killer had struck again, taking only two days to target a new victim. And Alistair— who had been convinced this murderer would act again quickly— was now proven right.
“We ought to have posted a policeman at every theater until this case was solved— as we talked about. You had enough resources,” I said, my bitter frustration growing. “Now another woman is dead.”
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There was a long moment where I heard only the rhythmic crackle of the telephone.
“Frohman actually put into place a plainclothes security man— at his own expense— to protect his theaters,” Mulvaney finally said.
It was information he normally would not have kept from me. But even as I felt a flash of anger that he had not told me earlier, I was also keenly aware of my guilt in keeping secrets from him: I had not told him about Timothy Poe.
“Frohman’s solution didn’t work,” I said flatly.
Mulvaney made a noise of displeasure. “You’re still stuck on the idea that Charles Frohman is somehow involved in this, aren’t you? Well, the New Amsterdam isn’t even a Frohman theater.”
He paused, then grudgingly went on to admit, “Though my sources tell me it’s run by Klaw and Erlanger. And they’re part of Frohman’s syndicate.”
Part of Frohman’s syndicate . . . Mulvaney’s words seemed to echo long after I had rung off the telephone.
Eliza Downs . . . killed at the Empire.
Annie Germaine . . . killed at the Garrick.
Now a third victim, killed at the New Amsterdam. The coincidence was too striking. If their killer wasn’t Frohman himself, then he was somehow related to the syndicate. He could be someone from within the organization. Or perhaps he was a competitor from outside. But either way, the killer we sought knew Frohman’s business and knew it well.
The theaters.
The actresses.
And exactly where to strike.
After profusely apologizing to my landlady for the early-morning call, I had just enough time to gather my things and catch the 8:32 train into the city. It was almost empty this Sunday morning, so I took a seat by the window and settled in with my thoughts.
The Hudson branch of the New York Central and Hudson train line ran less frequently than other lines, but it was by far the most scenic. Normally I appreciated the sweeping views of the Hudson River and Palisades that marked the beginning of my half-hour journey to the city from the quiet town of Dobson. But today, everything out my window was dull and colorless— the spiky trees, murky water, even the gray skyscrapers of Manhattan, ghostlike in the distance. The landscape had been thoroughly ravaged by winter.
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