The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries Book 14)

by Rhys Bowen

  I boarded the train and was soon speeding northward. I looked with interest into the second-floor windows of the tenements that we passed, where I could see lives going on almost close enough to reach out and touch. In one window I glimpsed a small child, sitting on a potty, staring up at us as we passed. In another a woman was fixing her hair, her face a picture of concentration as she stuck hairpins into her bun. I had often wondered what it must be like to live with trains passing so close outside the window all the time. I supposed the occupants got used to it. One gets used to almost anything eventually if one has to. But would I ever have gotten used to that complete lack of privacy?

  I alighted at the Fifty-ninth Street station to the more genteel world of Uptown New York, and walked up to the apartment building where we’d been staying on West Sixty-first Street. From the outside it appeared quite grand—almost as swank as those new buildings along the edge of Central Park, with its Moorish-style decoration and exotic archway over the entrance. But inside it didn’t quite live up to its promise. It was designed as a city residence for bachelors—each apartment a pied-à-terre with a small dark sitting room, narrow bedroom, and minute kitchen space with a gas ring. It had been hard to minister to the needs of a baby there, and to keep him from disturbing all those bachelors, so I was overjoyed at the prospect of moving back into my own home.

  Mrs. Heffernan had an equally small caretaker’s apartment off the marble foyer. She greeted me with obvious relief.

  “Oh, you’re back so soon, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “I was just thinking about fixing the young one some food for his midday meal.”

  “Captain Sullivan was summoned back to work unexpectedly,” I said.

  “That poor man. He’ll work himself into the grave if you’re not careful,” she said, leading me through to a cramped and overdecorated parlor. It felt uncomfortably warm and stuffy, and looked as if it hadn’t been dusted too frequently, and I felt a jolt of guilt about leaving Liam there.

  Liam had heard my voice and was already standing and yelling “Mama!” as I came in. When he saw me he tried to run toward me, impeded by his petticoats. I swept him up into my arms.

  “I hope you’ve been a good boy,” I said, showering him with kisses.

  “No trouble at all, Mrs. Sullivan. Plenty of curiosity, I’ll say that for him, but not a malicious bone in him.”

  I wondered what his plenty of curiosity had been trying to get into, noting the stuffed bird under a glass dome and the large aspidistra plant, but thought it wise not to ask as I thanked Mrs. Heffernan and carried Liam to the elevator. “First lunch and a nap for you, young man,” I said. “Then we’ll go out and get Dada a treat for his supper. I think we’ll throw caution to the winds and buy him a steak. We have to make sure he keeps up his strength.”

  By five o’clock I had a nice sirloin steak waiting to be cooked in the pan, after I’d boiled the potatoes and beans. I had no oven, and no way of keeping things warm, but I’d just have to make do somehow. At seven o’clock I fed Liam some mashed vegetables and put him to bed. At eight I had some mashed potato myself and a fried egg. Nine o’clock came, then ten, and still Daniel didn’t come home. There was no way I could go to bed and no room for me to pace. At home on Patchin Place I’d have looked out of the window, but my window here looked onto a faceless wall of brick. I tried to read in the harsh electric light. But I couldn’t concentrate.

  A man who taunted the police with notes before he killed—he sounded like the epitome of evil. And he was sending those notes to my husband.

  I undressed and climbed into bed, hugging my knees to myself as if it was a cold rather than balmy September evening. I was just nodding off when I heard the click of the door latch. I jumped up right away as Daniel came in.

  “You should have gone to sleep, my dear,” he said. He looked worn-out, his hair was disheveled and he was hollow-eyed. “Not stayed awake for me.”

  “I was worried about you,” I said. “Have you eaten anything? I bought you a steak as a treat.”

  “A steak?” His eyes lit up briefly, then he shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m too tired to do justice to it tonight. I’ve just come from a long session with the commissioner in which I was lambasted for not doing my job.”

  He sank into the armchair. “We don’t have any whiskey, do we? That’s what I feel I need right now.”

  “I think there’s still a drop in that bottle you were hiding under the sink.” I smiled as I went to find it. I poured the remains into a glass and brought it back to him. He drained it in one gulp. “Thank you. That hit the spot.”

  “You have to eat,” I urged. “Are you sure you won’t try the steak?”

  “No, really, let’s save it for when I can enjoy it. Some bread and cheese will do. And did you pour the last of the whiskey?”

  “Yes, I did, but just this once—I’m not having you turning into an Irish drunk, Daniel Sullivan.”

  He gave me a tired smile. “Not much chance of that happening. But after today … well, anyone would have needed a shot of whiskey.”

  “Really bad, was it? Your murder investigation? It’s not going well?” I paused in the kitchen doorway.

  He was staring down at his empty whiskey glass. “To begin with it wasn’t at all clear that one person was committing these crimes, you see. Now we have to believe that we are dealing with one murderer who feels he can kill with impunity, when and where he likes.”

  I went through to the kitchen, cut some bread, buttered it, and added a big hunk of cheddar, then came back and placed them on the table in front of him. “You received a note today,” I said. “From your conversation it sounded as if you’ve been getting these notes on a regular basis.”

  He nodded and sighed. “The first ones were only sent after he had killed someone. Now he’s so confident that he sends one before and after a murder, taunting us in our inadequacy.”

  “And you have no idea who it could be?”

  “None at all,” he said. “We haven’t the least little thing to go on. Nothing to tie the murders together.”

  “Were all of the victims killed in the same manner? In the same area?”

  “Nothing,” he said sharply. “Some of the deaths would have gone unnoticed as murders if we hadn’t received a note boasting about them. And none of them have been in the same part of the city, the same strata of society—there’s nothing to link them at all.”

  “Yes, there is,” I said as the thought occurred to me. “There is one thing. He is sending notes to you. You are the link.”

  Daniel looked up sharply.

  “The notes were all addressed to you, weren’t they?” I said.

  “Yes, they were. But I took that to mean that I’m a rather prominent member of the police force. My name and picture have appeared in the newspapers.”

  “So have the names of other police captains. And why not send messages to the commissioner himself, if he wants to go to the top?”

  Daniel sighed again. “I don’t know, and I’m too tired to think right now.”

  “Maybe I can help,” I said tentatively, as I came to perch on the arm of his chair. “Sometimes a woman’s point of view can be useful.”

  He shook his head firmly. “Molly, you know I can’t involve you in my cases. It wouldn’t be ethical and I wouldn’t want to put you in any sort of danger. Besides, there’s nothing you could do that hasn’t already been done. I have a team of highly trained officers working with me. They have been through the circumstances of every murder with a fine-tooth comb. After at least six deaths we are none the wiser. Not one step closer to a solution.” He put the cheese on the bread and took a big bite. Then after he had swallowed he looked up at me again. “For all we know they are all random killings, committed by someone who just likes feeling powerful.”

  “I don’t think any killings are completely random,” I said. “A person must have a reason for that first killing. Nobody suddenly decides one day to go out and just kill somebody, anybody. S
omeone has upset him, or thwarted him, or he’s decided he hates all women, or black people, or Italians … but there has to be some kind of rationale behind the first murder.”

  Daniel shook his head. “The first murder that we know about was a simpleminded old woman who lived in a small house in Brooklyn. Who would want her out of the way?”

  “The other possibility, of course,” I said tentatively, “is that only one of the murders is important. The real murder is hidden behind the smoke screen of random killings.”

  He frowned, considering this. “You think so? Yes, I suppose that is possible. All right. I’ll go through the list again, although I’ve been through it a hundred times already.”

  “So who were the rest of the victims? Were they also in Brooklyn? Also feebleminded?”

  Daniel smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Molly. I really don’t want to involve you in this. Besides, I’m too tired to talk.” He pushed his plate away. “I’m even too tired to eat. Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

  I helped him up from the chair and he held my hand as we walked through to the bedroom.

  * * *

  I slept fitfully that night, unable to shake the worrying thought that out of all the policemen in New York, a violent and disturbed person had selected my husband as the recipient of his notes. As I lay awake, listening to Daniel’s rhythmic breathing, I longed to help—not just because of my incurable curiosity, but because I hated to see my husband so tired and worried. We had come a long way, Daniel and I. At the beginning of our relationship he had dismissed my detective skills as sheer female luck, but over the years he had come to admit, grudgingly, that I was actually a good detective. But that had never extended to asking for my help on a case. Pride, I suspected. Daniel Sullivan was a proud man.

  But that didn’t stop me from toying with the information he had shared with me. Why send cryptic notes to a particular member of the police? I asked myself. Because our murderer wanted to feel clever. He enjoyed stumping the police and making them appear stupid. But why Daniel? Was it as simple as seeing Daniel’s picture in a newspaper, after he had solved a crime or arrested a criminal, and feeling animosity toward him? Or had this to do with some time he and Daniel had crossed paths—a criminal Daniel had put behind bars, maybe, now out of prison again and bearing a grudge?

  I decided to mention this to Daniel in the morning, but I was still sleeping when I sensed he had gotten out of bed, and I came to consciousness fully only to hear the front door slam behind him. Liam awoke and demanded to be fed. We breakfasted. I bathed him and we were ready to visit Sid and Gus just after eight o’clock. But they lived a civilized and childless existence. They were not used to receiving visitors at such an ungodly hour. Still, I didn’t want to linger in that cramped and airless little apartment. I’d take the elevated railway down to Greenwich Village and if we arrived too early, I could amuse Liam by letting him watch the people and pigeons in Washington Square, or even buy some fresh fruit in the Jefferson Market.

  It was an overcast morning, rather uncomfortably warm, with a heaviness to the air promising rain or even thunder later. Ninth Avenue was busy with early-morning activity—people hurrying on their way to work and shopkeepers winding out awnings, putting out trays of vegetables, bric-a-brac, flowers, books. Smart carriages and hansom cabs raced past. Delivery drays lumbered along and there was even an occasional automobile, dodging in and out of slower traffic and impatiently tooting its horn, which delighted Liam. I should have been enjoying the scene but I couldn’t shake off a feeling of uneasiness. I found I was glancing over my shoulder as if someone was watching me—which of course was absurd, since nobody knew I was in this part of the city.

  When we reached the Fifty-ninth Street station I realized my folly at coming out so early. The platform was jam-packed with business people, traveling down to the commercial center of the city at the southern tip of Manhattan. I was half-minded to go back down the stairs and hail one of those cabs. But that would have been an extravagance we couldn’t afford, especially with the added expense of furnishing our house looming. I still hadn’t had time to ask Daniel where the money was going to come from to buy those bed linens and kitchen supplies. That was one of the problems with being a policeman’s wife—there was never time just to sit and talk. And there was too much time to worry, alone.

  A train came rumbling down the track toward us, the bright disk on the front of the locomotive revealing it to be a Sixth Avenue local. Just what I wanted. But apparently so did everyone else. The crowd surged forward and I saw to my dismay that the carriages were already full. A portly man with muttonchop whiskers, wearing a derby hat, saw me carrying a baby and stepped aside for me to get on board, but just at that moment a man came hurtling past, nearly knocking me over as he ran down the platform. My protector in the derby hat leaped to my aid, muttering curses at the unchivalrous lout, and as he did so the doors slammed, the whistle blew, and the train pulled out.

  “No matter,” my portly protector said. “See, another train is right behind it. They come thick and fast at this time of the day, and I’ll wager this one is less crowded too.”

  As it rattled into the station and pulled up with a squeaking of breaks, I saw that it wasn’t a Sixth Avenue train this time. It was a Ninth Avenue train. I hesitated as the doors opened and others climbed aboard. I could take this train to Christopher Street, but it would mean a longer walk at the other end. Then it struck me that it would also mean that I would walk past Sid and Gus’s favorite French bakery. I could stop off there and bring them croissants for their breakfast. Thus encouraged with the idea of buying my friends a little treat, I was about to climb aboard the second car when I heard the sound of a hacking cough. No, thank you, I thought. I was forever mindful that summer diseases can linger into September in New York. Every year had its share of cholera and typhoid, and consumption was ever present. I wasn’t going to expose Liam to that risk. I backed away and pushed through the crowd to the third car instead. Passengers were packed like sardines behind the first two doors. I wrenched open the third door and heaved Liam and myself up the step. This part of the car was just as crowded. Two round middle-aged women, immigrants from somewhere, dressed in black dresses and black headscarves, were sitting on the seats nearest the door, leaning across to each other, deep in conversation and oblivious to me, continuing to talk around me as if I wasn’t there. A man across the aisle tried to offer me his seat, but I couldn’t get past a large lady with a round shopping basket on her arm, so I was forced to stand with Liam in my arms.

  This was not wise, I told myself. No wonder I couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease that had gripped me since I left the apartment that morning. I tried to hang on to the leather strap above my head but Liam was now too heavy to hold with one arm, and besides he was wriggling and complaining at being squashed like this.

  I’d get out at the next station and take the Broadway trolley instead, I decided. It took longer but at least there would be fresh air and Liam could see out as we rode. I was swung from side to side as the train picked up speed. Then I was pressed to the door of the carriage as the train started to round a curve. I remember thinking that we were traveling much too fast for such a curve. And surely there was no steep curve on the Ninth Avenue El? It was the Sixth Avenue train that went around that sharp bend. But even as these thoughts were flashing through my mind, suddenly there was a tremendous jolt. I was flung violently against the carriage door. The large woman and her basket slammed into me. Liam cried out. People were screaming. The screams were deadened by the sound of screeching metal, of splintering wood. The life was being squeezed out of me as more people piled into me. I tried to yell, “Liam!” as he was wrenched from my arms.

  And then we were falling. Plunging down toward the street below.

  Three

  I must have passed out because I opened my eyes to a scene of hell. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. As I came back to consciousness I realized I was lying, presse
d against a door that miraculously held fast, with a jumble of people across me. The air was full of acrid smoke and through it there came moans and screams. Someone very close to me was whimpering, “Help. Somebody help me.”

  For a moment I couldn’t remember where I was and how I had come to be in this predicament, then the full realization came back to me. The train going too fast around a steep curve. Squeal of metal. Awful jerk. Plunging. Falling. I tried to push away the weight that was pinning me down and saw it was the large woman with the basket. She seemed to be unconscious. And the second I tried to shift her weight from me I remembered I had been holding Liam. She must be lying on him. Suffocating him. I struggled desperately and got a hand free, then pushed with all my might.

  “Liam!” I yelled. “Where’s my baby? Somebody help me find my baby.”

  Other people stirred, shifted, moved. My other arm came free. And there was no Liam in it. No Liam pinned to the door or on the floor at my feet. In my panic I struggled to stand upright, but I teetered and couldn’t get my balance. Then I looked out of the window and saw why. I was in a train car that was dangling at a crazy angle, suspended from the elevated track above. I had no idea whether we were hanging in midair or the other end of the car was resting against something solid. Any minute now we could continue our plunge to destruction. And my child was nowhere to be found. I scrabbled around like a mad thing through the smoke-filled car—pushing aside God knows whose limbs to look under seats, under bodies, growing more and more frantic every second. It hurt me to breathe and I couldn’t tell whether it was because of the acrid smoke or whether I was injured. I saw there was blood on my hands and couldn’t tell if it was mine or someone else’s.