The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel

by Chris Holcombe

  “You talking about that little sauerkraut? Why the hell would I care about him?”

  “Because his brother blackmailed Zora’s moll. And I do believe we both know how Miss Mae would feel about that.”

  Dash took another step forward.

  Leslie tensed. “Get away from me.”

  Dash ignored the warning. He was getting closer to the truth, he knew it. “Did you call Zora to tell her Karl was in your club?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You’re friends, are you not? I heard since childhood.”

  Leslie licked his lips and cleared his throat. “So?”

  “So, here’s this little ofay dumped on you against your will and he just so happens to be connected to a hateful, immoral blackmailer, who just so happens to have blackmailed your childhood friend’s lover. The Müllers threatened Zora’s freedom and possibly her livelihood. I have a good sense of what lengths she’d go to protect herself.”

  “Oh really?” Leslie crossed his arms over his chest. “What lengths, ofay? Please enlighten me.”

  “Tonight, she told me to kill Walter Müller.”

  That stopped Leslie.

  Dash continued. “Did she tell you to kill Karl Müller?”

  No response.

  “Did she, Les?”

  Those sapphire eyes went cloudy as the club owner calculated his risk. His eyes cleared. “She did, but”—he held up a pointer finger—“and listen to me closely now, I am not a killer. You got me? I didn’t give two shits about him. I didn’t even want him in my club. I don’t like you ofays. You cause trouble. The only reason I allow them in my club is because of their sugar. And baby, I will take all their sugar. It’s the least y’all can do for all the pain and suffering you cause.”

  Dash stepped back. “If you didn’t kill him, did you see him leave?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know why he left?”

  “How much is it worth to ya?”

  “Les, goddammit, just tell me!”

  “Hey, boy, you on my property now, and you don’t have the right to speak to me in that way.”

  Dash held up an apologetic hand. “You’re right. I was out of line.”

  Leslie stared at him, his sapphire eyes shining bright in the dark. “He overheard me,” he murmured.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Leslie took a deep breath and said through clenched teeth. “He overheard me talking to Zora. I told her I had him and what would she like me to do with him. Then she told me.”

  “And Karl understood what was going on from just hearing your side of the conversation?”

  “He got the gist he wasn’t safe.”

  “And so he ran.”

  In Dash’s mind, he could see the kid panic, try to reach somebody on Leslie’s telephone after the club owner left, and then take off. But where would he have gone?

  “How come you called Zora the night after he left and said ‘it’s been taken care of’?”

  “How do you know that?” Leslie answered his own question. “Goddamn Horace.”

  “Leave him out of this. He’s only trying to help.”

  “Get me in the jailhouse, that’s how helpful he is.”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  An exasperated sigh. “Because you told me someone strangled that little fuck! Jesus Christ, you honestly thought I’d dirty my hands by wrapping them around his neck? And then drag his body to the Park? Please. You must be on dope.”

  Dash felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Why’d you call Zora a second time?”

  “’Cause it gets me off the hook! She asks you to do something, it’s not a request, ofay, it’s a demand. And she wants results.”

  “Why were you at her Heaven and Hell party tonight?”

  Suspicion glared at Dash. “How’d you know I was there?”

  “Because I was, too. Karl invited me before he died.”

  “I see,” Leslie said. “Not that it’s any of your business, but she wanted El to play her party, and I was there to make sure El played her party. You know, you and her got a lot in common. You both disrespect men on a regular basis.”

  His lips widened into a shrewd smile.

  “At her party, she asked you to kill Walter, didn’t she?”

  Dash remained silent, but it was still an admission.

  Leslie smirked. “Ha! Now you gotta do what she asks, and baby, I don’t think you’re going to get as lucky as me.” A low chuckled rumbled in his chest. “No, sir. You are fucked, Mr. Parker. You’re about to get your lily-white upper-class hands dirty like the rest of us.”

  He pulled open the back door.

  “By the way, keep your ass outta my club.”

  He went inside, slamming the door behind him.

  27

  The following morning, Monday, August 23, a full week since the nightmare started, Finn burst into the bedroom with tears streaking down his face.

  “My Valentino!” he wailed. “He’s gone!”

  Dash sat straight up in bed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Gone where?” he said mid-yawn.

  Joe replied softly from the sheets next to him, “He died, lassie.”

  That snapped Dash into focus. He took in the tear-stained face of his friend. “I’m so sorry, Finn. What happened?”

  Finn recounted how the actor succumbed to his infection. All the modern medicine in New York couldn’t save him. There would be a public viewing tomorrow.

  Dash’s friend was inconsolable. He kept repeating over and over again, “My Valentino!”

  Joe looked over at Dash. “What do we do?”

  “We stay here, and we comfort our friend.”

  “Lassie. It’s Monday.”

  Damn it to hell. It was NYPD Donation Day. The last person Dash wanted to deal with right now was Cullen McElroy.

  He groaned and slid out of bed, leaving behind a crying Finn and a consoling Joe.

  Shaved and dressed in his Banff blue pinstripe suit, he returned to Hartford & Sons, where McElroy was already waiting.

  He snapped his watch shut. “On time this week, Mr. Parker. Very good.”

  Dash counted out the bribe and handed it more brusquely than he should have to McElroy. “Here you go, sir.”

  McElroy’s eyes flashed. “No need to have that attitude. After all, I’m doing you a service.”

  Some service. It hadn’t protected him from mobsters or blackmailers.

  Dash swallowed down the anger and bitterness. “Apologies. I’m having a rough morning.”

  McElroy grunted. “So’s everybody. They’re all crying over this actor guy Rudolph.” He scoffed. “I don’t get it. So he was in a couple of pictures. What does he have that I don’t got?”

  A waist.

  Dash kept his commentary to himself.

  “Something might interest you,” McElroy said. “Someone was offering me some sugar to tell on you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “A blond kraut. Wanted to know where you lived and such.”

  Walter.

  “And did you tell him?” Dash asked.

  McElroy’s eyes sparkled. “Not yet. I was wondering how much it was worth for me not to tell him.”

  “How did he find you?”

  “Must’ve asked around for the flatfoot working this neighborhood, so he knows where you work. I’d be careful with him, if I were you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  McElroy glanced off into the distance. “I checked him out. I figured with a name like his he was up in Germantown, so I spoke with a few coppers in that precinct, and whattaya know? He had a brother who was murdered last week.”

  Karl.

  “He did?”

  “Yessir. Strangled in the Park. Robbed, too. Nothing left on him except his identification card. Messy business. Found him Tuesday morning, but he’d been dead for a while. Looked as if someone was trying to hide him under the bushes and such. A walker found him and reported it.”
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  “I see.”

  McElroy turned his head back towards Dash. “Ya didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, did you?”

  Dash gave an awkward laugh. “Me? Why would I be involved in anything like that?”

  McElroy shrugged. “Seems odd the brother of a murder victim is asking about you, that’s all.”

  Another rotten smile.

  “Should I tell him to bugger off? Or give him your address?”

  Goddamn men like you. The leeches of New York.

  Dash reached into his pockets once again and handed over a few more dollars. “You’re a credit to the uniform, McElroy.”

  Desperate and sleep deprived, Dash returned to the law firm Meyers, Powers & Napier. When he had spoken with her twice before, he didn’t know all the facts. Now he knew the story, or nearly all of it, and it was time to get confirmation. Confirmation and help.

  It was time to stop being polite.

  The secretary—this time wearing blue and gold, like the dress Paula wore in his club the night this fiasco began—smiled upon his entrance. That smile quickly frowned when he walked straight past her, saying over his shoulder, “Is Prudence Meyers in?”

  “Sir,” called out the secretary. “Wait one moment, sir!”

  Dash found the last door on the left, turned the knob, and pushed it open. Pru looked up, surprise framing her lavender eyes. She wore a tan suit with faint pinstripes, her white shirt faintly ruffled at the collar. The sleeve had been pulled up from her wrist to avoid the ink stains as she made notes on a stack of papers.

  A gray-haired man in the client’s chair, dressed all in navy, swiveled his head around to face the interruption.

  “Excuse me, sir, we’re in a meeting,” he said, his voice full of gravel and authority.

  “Mr. Parker,” Pru said, “this is most inappropriate.”

  “It’s Dash, and we need to talk now.”

  The secretary caught up with him. “I’m so sorry, Pru, he just barged in here—”

  “This is most outrageous,” the gray-haired man said. He swiveled his creaky head back towards Pru. “What kind of business are you running here?”

  She held up a placating hand. “I apologize for this outburst, Mr. Williams. Frannie, can you show Mr. Parker out, please?”

  Dash crossed his arms across his chest to prevent Frannie from attempting to grab his arm and pull him out. “I’m not leaving, Pru, until we talk.”

  Her lavender eyes burned with anger. “I am speaking with a client, Mr. Parker.”

  “Either we can speak in private or we can speak in front of him. He’s a client; it’s privileged, correct?” Dash then sat in the other client chair next to Mr. Williams. He held out a hand. “I’m Dash Parker. Nice to meet you, Mr. Williams.”

  The man stiffened, his disapproval sounding like a cough caught in the base of his throat. “This is most absurd. Perhaps I should find another lawyer.”

  Somehow Pru managed to calm him down. Even more testament to her negotiating skills, she got him to wait until after this conversation was completed. When she closed the door, shutting out the sight of Frannie patting Mr. Williams’s hand, she let out a hissed sigh.

  “Alright, Mr. Parker, you have exactly one minute to state why you’re here before I call the police.”

  She turned and resumed her place behind her desk.

  Dash sat forward in the chair. “I know it all. Paula getting Walter fired. The Müller’s ensuing blackmail scheme. The clubs they raided and some of the people they targeted, one of whom is Zora Mae. Or rather, her moll. I know Tyler Smith was to get some evidence for you. I know that Walter Müller will do anything to get it back. What I don’t know, Pru, is whether Tyler gave that to you or if it’s still missing.”

  They both sat silent.

  The room seemed to tick, though Dash saw no evidence of a clock.

  Finally, she said, “What is it that you want?”

  “I’m not here to blackmail you! I’m here because I need your help. Walter is a very dangerous man, and he is threatening me. If you’re really trying to help people like us—people like me—then stop letting it be an esoteric legal argument and make it real.”

  They locked eyes.

  Another length of silence stretched to its breaking point.

  Her nod was slightly imperceptible. “I will do what I can, though I fail to see how this information will help you.”

  She paused, her hands coming up, her fingers forming a point against her chin while she gathered her words.

  “A case like this, a blackmail case, depends upon evidence and the scope of the extortion. Because the letters were sent in the mail, it’s considered a federal offense. But even then, the FBI wouldn’t take much of an interest unless either the blackmailer was a person they despised anyway or the blackmail victims were high enough in society that their money and status would force the authorities into action.”

  “While their money and status would keep their names out of the courts and the papers.”

  “Correct. Karl had mentioned such people to us when he was detailing what he and his brother were doing. We needed that confirmation to know if we even have a shot of ending Walter’s extortion.”

  Dash sat back in his chair. “What kinds of people?”

  “Nephews of Astors. Cousins of Vanderbilts. Sons and daughters of those in Tammany Hall.”

  Dash whistled.

  “Exactly. When the FBI sees those names, they’ll have no choice but to act.”

  “Especially when some enterprising young Fed sees a chance to make a name for himself.”

  “That too.”

  “Do you think it was intentional on Walter’s part?”

  Pru shook her head. “I think it was a happy accident. Most of his victims couldn’t very well pay the blackmail, but these gentlemen and ladies could. They could afford to pay indefinitely.”

  “It’s why he could survive being asked to leave the Committee of Fourteen.” Dash looked at her. “What kind of evidence would Tyler be stealing?”

  The moment he asked the question, he had the answer.

  “A ledger.”

  Surprise lit Pru’s face. “How did you know?”

  “Karl told me Walter worked in their finance department and kept meticulous records. I guessed a habit like that is a hard one to break.”

  He leaned forward again. Now for the important question.

  “Do you have it, Pru?”

  Her guard came back up. “That’s really none of your concern.”

  “Let me tell you why I want to know. It’s not to tell Walter Müller.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Somebody killed Tyler Smith and Karl Müller, Pru. And the answer hinges on if the ledger was found and by whom.”

  “Not necessarily. Walter could have done it.”

  “Then he’d have the ledger.”

  “Not unless he’d hidden it.”

  Dash shook his head. “Tyler would’ve never let Walter into his room.”

  “He could’ve forced his way in.”

  “There’s a tightly run lobby downstairs, plus an elevator man. Even if Walter got past those two, Tyler still wouldn’t have opened the door. And the door was not broken open. I know because I saw it a day later. Whoever killed Tyler was someone he knew and trusted.”

  He watched her face carefully. Her eyes lost their sparkle. Her jaw went slack. The skin on her face paled to an ashen white.

  “You have it, don’t you?” Dash said, his voice soft.

  She nodded.

  “Who gave it to you?”

  She shook her head. “He couldn’t have. He was with me that night, hiding out in my apartment.”

  “The whole night?”

  She paused. Her voice dropped in volume, so soft it was almost a whisper. “Not before we met at the club, no. But we didn’t have it until days after Tyler was killed.”

  “Timelines are easy to fudge, Pru.”

  “No, I refuse to accept it.”
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  “Why is that?”

  “Because it makes no sense! What’s the motive?”

  An idea materialized, so clear and so simple, Dash couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.

  “Pru, when did Tyler break things off with Karl?”

  Whatever she was expecting Dash to say next, it wasn’t this. “Excuse me?”

  “The breakup. When did it happen?”

  An uncomfortable laugh. “That’s absurd. Tyler didn’t break things off with Karl. He wouldn’t have. They were going to Paris together at the end of the month. Where on earth did you hear such a preposterous idea?”

  “From two men. The first was Karl—”

  “What? That can’t be!”

  “—and the second was the man pretending to be Tyler.” Dash gazed hard at Pru once more. “I think we found our motive. Tell me, Pru, who gave you the ledger?”

  Tuesday at mid-morning, Dash and Joe first went to Paul Avery’s apartment. Not surprisingly, he wasn’t there. Dash managed to charm Marjorie Norton into giving him Paul’s employer.

  Scorsoni Construction was located uptown on 77th Street and Madison. After paying the cabbie, they walked towards the building’s entryway with purpose.

  Dash glanced at Joe, who was at his side. “Are you ready?”

  “Aye, lassie. You?”

  “Ready doesn’t begin to describe it.”

  The building housing the construction company was surprisingly nondescript, a boxy square rising four stories into the sky. It dwarfed the buildings next to it, allowing for scorsoni construction to be painted on its sides. Underneath was the epigraph: no job too big, no problem too small. driven by the american spirit.

  Inside, they spoke to the doorman, saying they had a 10:00 appointment with Paul Avery. The doorman called up. The secretary had no record of such an appointment. Dash pressed that there must be a mix-up and successfully implored the doorman to ask the secretary to patch him through to Paul. They must’ve reached him, for the doorman asked for their names. Dash was pretty sure their names would get the man to at least come down.

  Mr. Avery had serious stones. He invited them up.

  The office was on the third floor. The setup reminded Dash of newsrooms, where multiple desks were arranged in the open air, sitting two at a time. It was mostly women who sat there, typing on large typewriters or chatting on phones.