A Promise of Ruin

by Cuyler Overholt

  “Did you at least look at them before you burned them?”

  “I caught a few glimpses. But I didn’t want to invade Teresa’s privacy.”

  “You saw him though? You saw Velloca in the pictures?”

  “Not…not his face,” I answered, my cheeks flushing.

  He leaned back in his chair.

  “You don’t need the pictures so long as you can get Stimitz to tell you what he saw,” Simon interjected. “And he shouldn’t put up much of a fight if you threaten him with prison time.”

  Cassidi nodded. “Very well. I will pay Mr. Stimitz a visit as soon as we are done here.”

  I had just finished signing the prepared affidavits when the telephone rang.

  The detective lifted the receiver to his ear. “Cassidi.” He nodded. “I’ll be right over.” He hung up the phone. “Nucci’s here. They just brought him in.” His eyes met mine over the desktop. “If I may ask one more thing of you, Doctor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you walk with me over to headquarters to identify him?”

  An odd paralysis suddenly overcame me as an all-too-vivid memory of Nucci’s terrifying attack flooded my mind. I stared dumbly at the detective, my tongue refusing to respond.

  “I could bring Miss Ragusa down instead,” he said slowly, watching my face. “But since you’re already here…”

  I drew a shaky breath. “No, it’s all right, Detective,” I managed to say, forcing myself to my feet. “Please, lead the way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Simon asked as we climbed the steps to the imposing gray stone edifice that was police headquarters.

  Cassidi glanced over his shoulder at me as he reached for the door. “You don’t have to talk to him. If you want, I can get you one of the masks the detectives use when they look over the morning lineup.”

  “Oh yes, I’d like that,” I said as he ushered us through the door. I doubted a mask would do much to conceal my identity from Nucci, but at least it would keep him from seeing the fear he still invoked in me when I faced him again.

  After the bright light of outdoors, traversing the hallway that stretched between the Mulberry and Mott Street entrances of headquarters felt like walking through an underground tunnel. In the first room to my left, I caught a glimpse of Commissioner Bingham sitting before an open window, speaking into a telephone with such military precision and volume that I suspected his words could be directly transcribed by the newspapermen in the offices across the street. The detective bureau’s offices came next, followed by a rogues’ gallery and a room for officers on reserve. The last door was marked “Museum of Criminal Relics.” Glancing through it, I saw two large display cases, one containing nooses and hoods from the hanging days of the old Tombs prison, the other full of faro boxes and other gambling implements from the more recent past.

  Detective Cassidi stopped to speak to an officer who’d emerged from a stairwell at the end of the hall. “They’ve got Nucci in a holding cell downstairs,” he said, turning back to us. He pointed to a bench across from the reserves room. “Why don’t you two wait there while I go upstairs and get Dr. Summerford a mask.” He disappeared into the stairwell.

  I sat on the bench while Simon stood at my shoulder, surveying the comings and goings in the corridor. Although I tried to think of other things, memories of my encounters with Nucci kept intruding into my mind, forcing my body into a state of extreme agitation. My heart was beating too hard and too fast, and it was a struggle to draw a full breath. Perhaps the Italian girls had been right not to testify, I thought in dismay. It seemed that doing so was only going to make me keep reliving the terror I’d experienced, when all I wanted to do was forget.

  Two uniformed officers were sitting inside the door of the reserves room across the hall. One of them looked out and caught sight of us. “Hey, Simon!” he called. “What brings you to the block?”

  Simon strolled over to chat with him, leaning against the doorframe with his shoulders at ease and his hands in his pockets. I tried to feel as relaxed as he looked, smoothing my facial muscles and breathing the tension from my neck and shoulders. I wasn’t helpless anymore, I reminded myself. Nucci was the prisoner now.

  I was almost feeling calm again when I heard footsteps to my right and glanced in their direction. Nucci was walking toward me down the hall, his wrists in handcuffs and his elbow in the grip of a burly officer. He saw me a second after I saw him. His feet slowed as recognition swept across his face.

  I stared at him as a rabbit stares at a hawk diving in for the kill, unable either to move or to look away.

  His walk turned into a saunter as he continued toward me, his gaze moving deliberately down my body, bold as brass and revoltingly familiar. As he drew abreast, he slowed even more and, turning his face so that only I could see, wet his lips with his tongue.

  “Go on, get moving,” the officer growled, shoving him along. They continued farther up the hall and turned into one of the detective bureau’s rooms.

  I propped myself up on the bench with both hands, shaking uncontrollably and angry with myself for my reaction.

  Across the hall, Simon laughed and slapped the officer on the shoulder before ambling back to the bench. His smile evaporated on sight of my face. “Are you all right?”

  I could only nod in response.

  Detective Cassidi reemerged from the stairwell, holding a black cloth mask. “Got it,” he said, holding up the mask. “Let’s head on downstairs.” He gestured to us to come with him.

  “I believe Mr. Nucci is in there,” I said, pointing in the opposite direction, toward the office.

  The detective looked at the office door and back at me. “You saw him?”

  I nodded.

  “When?” Simon asked.

  “An officer took him past in handcuffs just a moment ago.”

  Cassidi muttered under his breath. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I told them I was bringing someone in for an ID. They must have thought I wanted to use the standup room.”

  “Well, I can tell you it was definitely him,” I said with an attempt at a smile.

  “That’s good enough for me,” he said. “There’s no need for you to go in there if you’ve already seen him.”

  “Actually, I think it might be best if I do,” I told him, for I was alarmed by the near paralysis the sight of my attacker had provoked. I needed to prove to myself that I wouldn’t fall apart when it came time to testify, or let fear make me appear uncertain of my story.

  The detective scratched his head. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” I said and got to my feet.

  He led us to the door of the standup room and pushed it open. Nucci was seated on the far side of the room with his knees splayed and his head cocked to one side. The officer stood behind him with his arms crossed.

  I walked a few feet into the room and stopped, flanked by Simon and the detective.

  “Get up,” the officer ordered Nucci.

  Nucci slowly gathered himself and rose from the chair.

  “Do you recognize this man?” Cassidi asked me.

  “I never seen her before,” Nucci said.

  “Shut up,” the officer said, slapping the back of his head.

  Nucci jerked his head away from the officer, then looked back at me, his mouth twisting into a lewd smirk—the same smirk he’d worn as he’d watched me undress and then helped himself to my body. For a sickening moment, I was back on the floor beneath him in the tack room. I willed myself to breathe.

  “Dr. Summerford?” Cassidi prompted.

  Nucci’s eyes bore into mine, full of malice. He raised his bound hands to his throat and drew his forefinger slowly across it.

  I heard a low growl beside me. “Son of a…” Simon sprang across the room and grabbed Nucci by the shirtfro
nt, pulling back his fist.

  “Hey!” Cassidi shouted, seizing Simon’s arm from behind before he could punch him.

  “You ever come near her again, you’re a dead man,” Simon told Nucci.

  “Are you going to restrain yourself, Mr. Shaw,” Cassidi demanded, still struggling to contain him, “or do I need to ask you to leave?”

  Simon let go of Nucci and threw up his hands. “Just making a few things clear, for the record.” He returned to my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

  “All right, Doctor, let’s try this again,” Cassidi said, smoothing his rumpled shirt. “Do you recognize the prisoner?”

  “Yes,” I said hoarsely, holding Nucci’s gaze. “That’s one of the men who kept us prisoner at the stable on 116th Street. They called him Nucci. He thinks he’s a big man, but he’s not. He’s just a little puppet who did whatever his bosses told him to.”

  Nucci stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “Stupida vacca,” he muttered, spitting on the floor.

  Cassidi threw up a hand to ward off Simon, who had started back across the floor. “Thank you, Doctor.” Glancing at the uniformed man, he jerked his head toward Nucci. “Get him out of here.”

  The officer grabbed Nucci’s arm and pulled him out of the room.

  “What happens now?” I asked in the silence that followed.

  “The courts are closed for the day,” the detective said, “but he’ll be arraigned first thing in the morning.”

  “When will he go before the grand jury?”

  “Within a week or so. You’ll receive a summons when the time comes.”

  I nodded. “The sooner the better. I won’t sleep soundly until he’s locked up.”

  “He probably won’t be locked up after his indictment,” the detective said, looking uncomfortable. “Most likely, he’ll be admitted to bail.”

  I stared at him. “You mean to tell me he’ll be out on the street until the trial?”

  “You saw him threaten her just now,” Simon said.

  Cassidi raised his palms in supplication. “The DA can ask to raise the amount of his bail, of course. But bail is almost never denied, except in homicide cases.”

  “So Velloca and Nucci—not to mention Gallo, wherever he may be—will all be at large and free to attempt to persuade me not to testify,” I summed up.

  “These thugs know you’re not some Italian peasant who can be easily intimidated,” the detective replied. “They’d be fools to resort to the usual tricks. But we’ll continue to post a man in front of your house, just in case, until Nucci’s trial.”

  So now I was to become a prisoner in my own home. I drew a deep breath. I supposed I could tolerate my own company for a couple of weeks, in the interest of seeing justice served. “And how long will it be, do you think, until the trial?”

  He met my gaze with difficulty. “Well, unfortunately, the courts are on summer schedule right now…”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that defendants released on bail won’t be tried until the normal court schedule resumes in October,” Simon said flatly.

  I stared at the detective in disbelief. “You mean to tell me I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the next three months?”

  “As I said, an officer will be guarding your house day and night,” he stiffly replied.

  “What about when I leave my house?”

  “I would suggest you do so only in the company of others.”

  Once again, I questioned the wisdom of my decision to testify. “Tell me, at least, that Nucci will go to prison for a long time once this is all over. Because I’ve been told that abductors and procurers often get only a six-month sentence under the vagrancy laws.”

  “In many cases that is true,” he conceded. “But only because a man can’t be convicted of abduction or compulsory prostitution on the testimony of his female victim alone. These crimes require corroborating evidence from another, which is often impossible to obtain. The prosecution must therefore resort to the lesser charges, if it hopes to win a conviction.”

  “Well, fortunately, we have corroborating evidence in my case,” I said sourly. “Simon saw me tied to the radiator in that stable.”

  “Exactly so. And if Mr. Nucci is convicted of abduction, he will face up to ten years in prison.”

  I rubbed a hand over my forehead as a wave of exhaustion overtook me. “Very well, Detective. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home now. It’s been a very, very long day.”

  • • •

  Although Simon had remained silent during much of my exchange with the detective, I could sense him brooding beside me as we walked toward the subway station.

  “Come with me to the boys’ club,” he said suddenly.

  “What, now?”

  “I have a present for you.”

  “A present! What is it?”

  “You need to come with me to find out.”

  I was sufficiently intrigued—and sufficiently eager for something else to think about besides having my throat slit—that I ignored the ache that had been building behind my eyes for the last several hours and promptly agreed.

  Thirty minutes later, we were climbing the stairs toward the clubhouse. Simon accompanied me inside and lit the lamps, then invited me to sit down. “Here,” he said, handing me a copy of Popular Mechanics magazine.

  “That’s my present?” I asked, frowning down at the cover.

  “That’s to keep you busy while I go get it. I should be back in half an hour.”

  “Half an hour! I could have gone home and taken a nap if I’d known.”

  He reached down and tucked a loose lock of hair behind my ear. Though he was smiling, his eyes were warm with concern. “Why don’t you try to catch a few winks here? I’ll lock the door when I go so no one disturbs you.”

  A moment later, he was gone, his steps moving purposefully down the hallway. I opened the magazine and flipped through it, but the articles proved beyond my current capacity for concentration, and I soon put it down. Deciding to take Simon’s suggestion, I went into the dark back room and lay down on the cot. Although I didn’t really expect my restless mind to allow it, I must have fallen asleep, because it seemed only minutes after I closed my eyes that I heard the sound of knocking and Simon’s voice, calling my name. I rose from the cot and went to open the hallway door.

  “Where’s my present?” I asked with a yawn, seeing his empty hands.

  “Come on, I’ll show you.” He took me by the elbow and led me down the hall to the stairwell, where he surprised me by turning left instead of right.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” He guided me up two more flights and through a door at the top, onto the roof. I stepped out beside him and looked around. The roof was empty except for a laundry line on the left and an old wooden target on a stand on the right. “Which one’s my present?” I asked with a frown.

  “Neither.” Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he pulled a revolver from beneath his waistband and held it out to me, grip first. “This is your present.”

  I stared at it, now fully awake. “Where did you get it?”

  “From a friend. Go ahead, see how it feels.”

  I removed my gloves and took it gingerly in my hand. It was lighter than it looked and fit snugly into my palm.

  “It’s a single-action revolver,” he told me, “which means you’ll have to cock the hammer before each shot, but I figured it would be easier for you to get the hang of the trigger pull on this one than on a double-action model.”

  “Is it loaded?” I asked, pointing it nervously toward the ground.

  “Not yet.” Removing a box of ammunition from his pocket, he showed me how to load the cartridges through a gate in the side, instructing me to leave the top chamber under the hammer empty so the gun wouldn’t go off accident
ally if I dropped it. “Of course, that only leaves you with five shots before you have to reload,” he added, “so you’ll want to make each one count.”

  “The last time I relied on a gun to keep me safe,” I fretted, “I dropped it into the gutter.”

  “Then we’d better be sure you’re so familiar with it that that can’t happen.”

  I must have been looking queasy, because he added, “Look, chances are you’ll never need to use it. But if you do have to shoot, I want you to shoot straight.”

  Leading me to a point several yards from the target, he showed me how to stand with my knees bent and my weight slightly forward to resist the recoil when I fired. “Now raise your arms with your elbows locked, and support your right hand with your left.”

  I did as he instructed, wrapping my left hand over the fingers on the grip.

  “You don’t want to crowd your gun hand,” he cautioned. “Your left hand is only there to hold the gun steady and cock the hammer. Here, let me show you.” Moving around to stand behind me, he raised his arms alongside mine and adjusted my fingers. “Now, when you shoot,” he said, his words rustling against my cheek, “the barrel is going to want to jerk up, so you’ll need to keep a firm grip on it.”

  I closed my eyes, soaking in the touch of his hands and the feel of his chest against my back.

  “Not too firm though,” he added. “About the same as if you were shaking someone’s hand.”

  I obligingly slackened my grip. It was much easier to imagine shooting someone, I found, while cocooned within Simon’s sheltering body.

  “Now relax your shoulders,” he murmured, “and lift your chin.”

  I softened my shoulders and tilted back my head, acutely aware of his lips just inches from my ear. Of its own accord, my cheek turned toward them, craving more than the warmth of his breath.

  I felt, as much as heard, his ragged exhale.

  “Is that right?” I asked thickly when he’d said nothing more for several moments.

  He let go of my hands and stepped back. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said gruffly. “Now go ahead and give it a try.”