Paradise Park (The William Muldoon Mysteries Book 1)

by L Mad Hildebrandt

  His spine had cracked, though not obviously at first… way down low. His legs were useless to him now. The kid was angry, and refused to look at anyone, even Muldoon. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been locked away in the Tombs, without proper medical care… but he had been. And, now he lay in Muldoon’s back bedroom. He ate little, and talked less. The only one he would see was his mother. Muldoon felt a deep sense of guilt, though he knew he couldn’t have stopped him. The boy had wanted his break… and it broke him.

  Muldoon would care for him, and for Meg.

  As he gazed out the window, he thought about the case. One thing still bothered him. What did A.R. stand for? With Collins dead, he would never know. He sat in the window several hours, then limped back to bed.

  CHAPTER 45

  Five

  cards, all five of clubs. The cards were wrong, he knew that. How could he have a hand like this? He would be accused of cheating. But the man across from him smiled as he lay down his own cards. The gambler’s mustache twitched, he had an identical hand, all fives. Reaching forward, the man pulled the pile of coins from the center of the table. Muldoon burned as if on fire. He stood, loosened his collar, and stumbled over to the next table. Roulette. He tossed down his money, and the ball was set in play, rolling, rolling. The wheel spun about. He grew dizzy watching, sweat dripped down his face. The wheel slowed, and with a skip and jump, the ball clattered to a stop. Five!

  Turning away, Muldoon stared into the mirror above the bar. All about him, people laughed. He tried a third table, craps. Taking the dice in hand he shook them several times and sent them rolling. The far end of the table seemed out of balance, one leg taller than the others. The room spun about him as he watched the two cubes bounce across the table. Smacking into the end, they came to a halt. Fives. Laughter tinkled about the room as faces drew in and out of focus. The dice dropped into his hand, and again he flung them out. Fives.

  “Why five?” he yelled. Sitting suddenly, he jolted awake. Had he really yelled aloud? He struggled from under twisted blankets, harshly reminded of his injuries. But, he knew the case wasn’t over. Yes, Collins had performed the act, had probably been paid very well, but there was another, more sinister personality behind him. He pulled on his canvas pants and shirt, forcing the torn sleeve over his splinted arm, and left suspenders hanging loose. He drew on his shoes and a plain brown jacket. Pausing before the mirror, he splashed water over his flushed face, cupping his one good hand. The several days’ growth of beard would have to wait.

  As he turned to leave he thought about the pistol hidden in his top drawer. He pulled it open, took out the weapon, loaded it, and slid it into the waist of his pants.

  He limped across his sitting room, flung open the door, and stepped into the hall.

  “Sergeant Muldoon?” Mrs. Dunn called from her parlor.

  Damn. He scowled as he paused at the door. He didn’t have time for conversation. Somebody’s life could be at stake! He stopped short as he recognized the form sitting closest to the door, her back turned to him. Alva Smith. Self-consciously, he rubbed the thick growth on his chin.

  “Ah, there you are, Sergeant,” Mrs. Dunn said. “Are you feeling better, then?” She eyed the cloth sling about his neck, the splinted arm hanging limply before his waist.

  “I have to go out,” he muttered. “Something I have to do.”

  He stepped further into the room. Alva turned to face him, shock registered across her features. She hadn’t expected to see him so battered and bruised, even with stitches across his hairline where his scalp had been split by Collins’ initial blow. He had yanked off the bandage—it wouldn’t fit under his cap, and didn’t provide protection for his concussion, anyhow.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, Miss Smith,” he said, surprised at how pleased he really did feel.

  She rose to her feet. “Oh, Sergeant Muldoon,” she said. “You’re hurt, I mean… I knew, but… I didn’t know how badly,” she ended lamely.

  He smiled ruefully, and then suddenly remembered he had somewhere to go. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he said. “But I really must go. I don’t have time… ” He realized he was being exceedingly rude, and he didn’t want to be rude to Alva Smith.

  “Sergeant Muldoon,” Mrs. Dunn said sharply. “Miss Smith came particularly to see how you are doing.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but it’s my duty… ”

  “And,” the woman continued. “I realized that I’d forgotten a package she sent to you. It came the day of your… accident.” She rose from her seat, went to a small lady’s desk near the window, and returned with a paper bundle, carefully tied with string.

  He glanced curiously across at Alva, where she remained, seated primly at the edge of her chair. An odd expression clouded her features, somewhere between pride… and dread? He couldn’t tell. He accepted the package in his one good hand. Realizing his predicament, Alva rose.

  She untied the string. “It’s hers,” she whispered.

  As the paper fell open, he recognized the contents as a woman’s honey-blonde hair. Quickly, he tried to hold it shut again, before Mrs. Dunn could see inside. She would be horrified, he was certain. Catching his glance at the older woman, Alva retied the package, being certain to double-knot it securely.

  “This must be sent to Police Headquarters,” he said to the matron. “It’s evidence for one of my cases.”

  Mrs. Dunn took the package from him, a disappointed expression on her face. He came close to smiling. She’d probably thought the package contained some scandalous gift from Alva Smith. After all, she was a woman, and not above a bit of romance. He could see it in her eyes as they danced approvingly between him and Alva.

  As she took the package from his cradled arm, a separate sheet fluttered lightly to the ground at his feet. Carefully, he bent his knees, and squatted so he could reach it without bending at the waist. His broken ribs hampered him, and he reached out to balance himself against the chair. As he knelt, he appreciated the view of Alva’s shapely breasts, and her nipped-in waist. She blushed at the intimacy of his gaze.

  Groaning, he stood back up. Alva took his arm with concern. “Do you need to sit?” she asked.

  “No,” he grunted painfully. “I have to go to Colonel Hamm’s.”

  “Oh! I’m going there as well. Perhaps you would like to ride in my carriage?” She motioned toward the front of the house, where he was sure her carriage occupied a conspicuous position on the street.

  He smiled, thankfully. He couldn’t have walked far, and he’d be lucky to find a cab in this neighborhood. “Aye,” he said. “I would like that.”

  They left the house in a hurry. Muldoon grabbed her hand and almost dragged her down the steps and into the carriage. He settled painfully into the seat across from her.

  “Why are you going to the Hamm’s?”

  “Because,” she cleared her throat, and started again. “Because I’ve had this made up.” She held out a piece of jewelry, braided hair intricately woven into a lace circle, and attached carefully to a gold backing.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a broach!” she exclaimed, and offered it again, as though he could understand it better the second time he looked at it. But, it still made no sense to him. “Oh, for goodness sake, it’s Margaret’s hair. I’ve had it made into a broach for Mrs. Hamm. So she can remember her daughter.”

  He glanced at the object with distaste, and then glanced up at Alva, realizing the rudeness of his behavior. He might want a lock of hair from someone he loved who’d died, but he would hide it away somewhere, certainly not wear it. But, if this was something the upper classes did, then he ought to respect it. It was Alva’s way of honoring the memory of her friend.

  “It’s… nice,” he finally said.

  She replaced the item in her reticule, and turned her face to the window. He’d insulted her, and she was showing him that she’d been offended. He pretended not to notice. He wasn’t used to the conventions of her society. Instead, he
unfolded the piece of paper that had fallen from the package of hair. It was Alva’s note describing the man who’d sold the hair to the wigmaker’s.

  “You’re sure of this?” Muldoon asked quietly, a dangerous tone to his voice.

  Alva glanced back toward him, eyes flashing with irritation. But as she saw the note, she nodded, all anger forgotten. “Yes, it’s the man’s description. Is that who did this to you?” She laid her hand on his, where it hung limply from the end of the sling. Instantly she pulled her fingers away, as though burnt by the contact.

  “No.”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “Then he’s… ” her words trailed away, helplessly, as the awful realization entered her mind.

  “Then who did you kill?”

  He grimaced at her characterization of his fight. “Hugh Collins. He was a police officer, a sergeant, like me. I think he was paid to kill your friend, and to kill Mr. Schneider.”

  “How… how awful! Somehow, that seems worse than if he’d killed them for his own reasons.”

  Muldoon nodded. He felt the same way.

  “And he was a policeman, too. What a disgrace for the City.”

  He agreed. It certainly wouldn’t look good at the next review. Captain Hayle would be particularly mortified, after all Collins was his man. Muldoon allowed himself a grimace of a smile.

  “So, you’re going to the Hamm’s for… ” Alva asked.

  “To warn them.”

  CHAPTER 46

  A

  pretty maid opened the door, one he hadn’t seen when he’d last been here interviewing the servants. She glanced at Muldoon doubtfully, as if he didn’t belong at the front door. He half expected her to tell him to go around to the kitchen, except for Alva at his side. A flicker of recognition lit her eyes as she glanced at Alva, and then looked again at Muldoon. Her face again blankly schooled, she turned back to him, as if it weren’t unusual to see working-class men and aristocratic ladies arriving together on the doorstep.

  “If you please,” she said with a little curtsy. “The mistress is in the morning room.”

  They followed her across the wide entrance, and entered a room to the left. Elizabeth Hamm stood at a marble-topped table before the window, carefully arranging flowers in a crystal vase. She turned as they entered, her eyes fleetingly glanced over Muldoon, an echo of her maid’s earlier action. Dismissing him, she turned to Alva.

  “Miss Smith,” she said. “It is so good of you to come.” Muldoon didn’t believe her—he could see the distaste in her expression. He glanced at Alva, wondering if she sensed it, too. He hoped she didn’t.

  “You know Sergeant Muldoon, of course,” said Alva. “Um, Detective Muldoon. We ran into each other on the way here. It seems he has business with your husband.”

  “He will have to wait,” she said, and gestured vaguely back toward the hall. “Perhaps in the Colonel’s office. He’s busy just now.”

  He watched as she continued to trim excess leaves and thorns from a long stem and placed the rose in the vase. Then she reached for another. His gaze was drawn to the bundle of greenery lying carelessly on the table, a ribbon loosed from around it, and its pretty bow on the table by their side. As her hand dipped, she pulled another stem free, a little “oh” escaping her lips as a thorn pierced her. A tiny drop of blood fell from her fingertip to where the bow lay and landed on a piece of wood around which the bow had been formed.

  Muldoon leaped forward, snatched the bow off the table, and pulled out the piece of wood. It was roughly whittled, chunky, only part of a whole. As he turned it over, the initials A.R. blazed into view. If he fitted the pieces together he knew they would make a walking stick, this, the balled top, just right for a hand to hold.

  “Where did you get these?” he demanded, waving at the flowers.

  “Why… from my husband’s… from the Colonel’s friend,” Mrs. Hamm answered, confused. She pulled back from him, eyes large in her pretty, oval face.

  “Ring for the butler,” Muldoon growled, low and urgent.

  “I… I can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “The servants have been given the day off. It is a Sunday. They won’t be back for several hours. All except Bess. I needed somebody to answer the door, and to get lunch.”

  “Then ring for her,” he said. “Where are your children?”

  “They went for a walk,” her voice rose wildly. “With the nanny. Why, what’s wrong?”

  Muldoon turned to Alva. She backed away, as if afraid of him. He reached out to her, and grabbed her arm with his one good hand. “Get her out. And the maid. Get out now!”

  Alva nodded dumbly, and ran to yank on the bell pull and summon the girl.

  “They’re upstairs?” Muldoon turned again to Elizabeth Hamm. Blood drained from her face, and she wavered on her feet as Alva took hold of her.

  “Yes,” she said. “In his treasure room… at the top of the stairs.”

  “Go,” said Alva, and she pushed him toward the door. “We’ll be fine.”

  He ran to the stairs. It was a grand staircase, two open flights up. On that top floor, he would find the killer… and Colonel Hamm, perhaps already dead. He gripped the banister tightly with his good left hand and pulled his aching body up the stairs.

  As he neared the top, he heard voices, one the raised, frightened one of the Colonel—the other, the calm, measured voice of Sean Kavanagh. Muldoon pulled the gun from his waistband, cocked it, and inched toward the door. Inside, he could see a collection of silver and jewels, weapons, and works of art.

  Kavanagh moved about the room, a can of lamp oil in his hand. The far end of the room already blazed, flame licked up the edge of a painting, some priceless European piece. Muldoon stood, transfixed by the flame. An image floated in the red-yellow flicker, women and children screaming in the fire. All of this contraband, he knew, had been gotten this way. He’d seen other men do the same thing, but he hadn’t ever condoned it. The guilt of not stopping it weighed heavily on him. And then, unbidden, soldiers appeared amidst the contraband. He tried to tear his gaze away from them, but their accusing, empty eyes held him.

  “… And then you left me,” Kavanagh said. Muldoon tried to listen, tried to tear himself away from his visions. “I couldn’t believe it! Whatever happened to Corporal Matthews? Did you leave him, too?”

  “He died,” the Colonel said. “At Plymouth.”

  “You saw him?” Kavanagh snorted derisively. He poured the final drops from the can. “Can I believe you? I suppose you thought I was dead, too?”

  “Yes, I did,” the Colonel said.

  “Well, I wasn’t, and neither was Johnson.”

  “We looked for you both. You must believe me! Sergeant Schneider and I looked among the wounded, but you weren’t there. Mathews was injured, but we got him out… only to die of yellow fever at New Bern that summer. I saw him buried.”

  “I know you didn’t look for me,” Kavanagh snarled. “I lay there, among the wounded and the dead. And you walked right past me, you and Schneider. I called to you, but you didn’t turn. You didn’t look at me. But Schneider… he did. He saw. And you didn’t turn around.”

  “How could I know? He never told me he’d seen you.”

  “You could have looked harder. You could have turned around, seen faces the other direction. Like he did.”

  “But we were retreating,” Hamm moaned. “The Albemarle had sailed in. She sank one union ship, and chased the rest off. Then she turned her guns on us. If we’d stayed we would’ve been killed, or surrendered with General Wessells.”

  “Like I was.” The statement came hard, brittle. Hatred dripping from those three words. “That’s why I had Schneider killed. I knew I couldn’t do it, so I hired the biggest guy I could find. And a copper, too!” he laughed.

  “But why kill my Margaret?”

  Their words penetrated Muldoon’s trance. He glanced about, trying to find the Colonel. Finally, he saw him—the Colonel knelt behind a Romanesque pilla
r. His right wrist was handcuffed to a heavy chain wrapped about the column. He rattled the manacles, trying desperately to pull away. His other arm was drawn backward and hogtied to his ankles.

  “I killed her to make you suffer. Like I did when I was in Andersonville Prison.” Kavanagh laughed, an evil, rasping sound.

  “But you didn’t lose a daughter.” Terror snaked through the words, intermingled with what seemed genuine loss.

  “You don’t know what I suffered!” Kavanagh’s face twisted with anger. “The place was awash with hatred… and ugly things. And then we had the Raiders. It was a little gang of us… of course, I was the brains. And Johnson was my man, along with six others. Until Johnson got too almighty big for himself. For months, we ran that camp. And then I let him hang. All of them. Because they’d tried to cut me out!

  “It was so funny. The guards didn’t even know they were helping me, they had a trial and everything. They even built the scaffold. And then the Raiders hung for their crimes… for my crimes. Ha ha!” He laughed a twisted choking sound.

  Kavanagh dug into his pocket and pulled out a match. He struck it and held it a moment before flicking it into the pooled oil. The light reflected off rose-tinted spectacles. Blue flame ran quickly across the floor, spread toward the growing fire at the back of the room. The air filled with smoke. It gathered near the ceiling, and poured toward Muldoon where he stood near the door.

  “I took some of the gallows and fashioned it into a cane. I carried that cane for years. It was like a beacon for my anger. Then, when my plan came to me, I broke it into pieces, and carved A.R. into the wood. A.R. for Andersonville Raiders. One piece for each of you. But then, I learned that my vengeance was cheated. Matthews was dead. So, I took your daughter in his place. You deserved to hurt more than anyone, for stealing all of this from me.” He waved at the contraband.