It Had to Be You

by Delynn Royer

  “Beatrix,” he said finally, leaning across his desk. “I’m all for playing a rousing good game of semantics if it’s in the pursuit of a good story. Is that what we’re talking about?”

  Something had sparked to life in the editor’s eyes, a mischievous youthful gleam that made her suspect she wasn’t in trouble at all.

  “I don’t know,” she said, testing the water. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I have this feeling.”

  “Did you get that same feeling when you started writing about that no-account grocery store robbery in Brooklyn?”

  Bingo. He was alluding to her one big story with the Eagle. If she had anyone to thank for landing her this job at the Examiner, it was a former Brooklyn housewife named Cynthia Koons. Maybe she couldn’t afford to be above playing every advantage she had, even if her ace happened to be one lucky fluke.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  “It’s definitely the same feeling.” Trixie scooted forward in her chair. “Before you called me in, I was talking with another cop named Costigan.”

  “Sean Costigan?”

  “I didn’t get his first name. Big guy, rough around the edges, no finesse, bad dresser, rude, no sense of—”

  Merryweather held up a hand. “That’s Sean.”

  “You know him?”

  “Yeah, some. His uncle was a cop, a friend of mine. They called him Honest Brian Costigan.”

  Trixie caught a tone of respect that piqued her interest. Like every reporter on staff, she knew Merryweather hadn’t been born an editor. He’d first made his name as a young reporter with an appetite for exposing political corruption. Over the years, that kind of fearless determination had put him at odds with his more traditional, politically entrenched publishers. That was one reason the McLintock family had landed him. They were a brash lot of Scots, old money that had never made Mrs. Astor’s List of 400. They’d offered more than a fat salary. They offered the freedom to cross lines.

  “Are you the one who gave Honest Brian his nickname?” she asked.

  This brought a chuckle, then a slow, thoughtful draw off of his dwindling cigar. “No, little sister, I did not. His reputation was made before I ever met him. Outcries for police reform come and go. The worst elements know if they lay low and wait, it’ll pass and they can get back to their rotten business. Brian knew that better than anyone. That didn’t stop him from taking on the job of cleaning up his own department.”

  “Did Sean work with him?” Trixie couldn’t help picturing the brooding detective with the deep blue eyes who seemed able to turn up her temperature with nothing but a long look.

  “He was one of Brian’s foot soldiers, but not for long. Public attention shifted, as it always does. The administration changed and the war came.”

  “What happened?”

  Merryweather sighed. “By Armistice Day, Brian was demoted. They broke up his squad and eventually forced him out of the department. He died not too long after that.”

  Trixie found this to be more than just an interesting story. She was now certain her hunch that Sean Costigan would make a solid source was right on the money.

  “So,” Merryweather said, switching the subject and narrowing his eyes at her. “You lied to Detective Carter. Did you lie to Sean too?”

  “No,” she said and proceeded to outline the bare bones of her interview with Costigan as well as her encounter with the boy named Danny.

  “I thought the boy would make a great story,” she finished. “I mean, how many kids are running the streets getting into trouble? Isn’t there something we should be doing for them?”

  Merryweather grinned. He reminded Trixie of a hungry bear when he grinned like that. “Sure, little sister. There’s always something that needs fixing. If we’re lucky, we can light a fire under some politician’s ass and sell a whole lot of papers at the same time.” He smacked the top of his desk. “B’gosh, I love this business!”

  Trixie didn’t speak. She didn’t want to spoil the moment.

  Merryweather stamped out his cigar with vigor. “All right, Beatrix. You want to cut your teeth on crime reporting?”

  She had to swallow hard to find her voice. “Sure. You know I do.”

  “Then this is your chance. Here’s what we’re going to do...”

  Chapter Four

  From where Danny sat at the soda fountain inside a drug store, he could perfectly observe the front of the building across the street where the pretty newspaper dame worked. Earlier, he’d watched, fascinated, as she’d streaked up the sidewalk like her backside was on fire and disappeared through those fancy revolving glass doors. Should he follow her?

  Danny couldn’t make up his mind.

  For now, he was content to hash out his dilemma right here, basking in the warm, safe, comforting aroma of freshly made coffee and sucking down what remained of his breakfast, a double chocolate ice cream soda. His straw made a satisfying gurgling sound as he vacuumed the bottom of his glass.

  Dilemma number one.

  If Danny followed Miss Frank, would she be glad to see him, or would she have already forgotten him? Danny wasn’t sure why the second possibility distressed him, but it did. For some reason, he’d felt strongly compelled to comb his hair that morning. He’d even slicked down his cowlick special with some water. When he’d examined his results later in the window of a shoe repair shop, he’d thought he looked pretty swell. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. He wished he was taller.

  Dilemma number two.

  She’d claimed she just wanted to talk to him and that she would pay him for it. True? Or lie? Danny was smart enough to know that if something seemed too good to be true, then it was a lie. Wonderful home? Loving parents? Warm bed? Lie. Lie. Lie.

  So, what did Miss Frank really want?

  To put Danny to work? Maybe...

  Yeah. Kids worked cheap. Everybody knew that. Danny sometimes swept floors at the theater house where the dames walked around wearing flowery bath robes and smoking cigarettes. That wasn’t so bad. All the dames liked him there. They pinched his cheeks and called him “hon” and gave him nickels and coffee.

  Maybe Miss Frank had a job for him as a paper boy. She’d mentioned it, hadn’t she? Now, that was an idea Danny could sink his teeth into. That morning as he’d strolled up Broadway, he’d listened to the paper boys with new respect as they’d called out the headlines of the day. They were calling out a name Danny didn’t recognize, but he’d recognized the face that smirked out at him from the front pages.

  It was the dead man in the park.

  Danny pushed his empty soda glass away. He hadn’t slept much the night before. His dreams had been filled with bloody hands and dark men in long coats. He had awakened just before dawn with his heart pounding and his stomach heaving. After that, he hadn’t wanted to sleep anymore.

  “Ya done wit’ dat, kid?”

  The surly cashier behind the counter held a wet rag in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other. Earlier, he’d tried to chase Danny from the store, but Danny had produced a crisp new ten dollar bill—one of many from the dead man’s wallet—and the cashier had grudgingly allowed him to order.

  Money talked.

  “Yeah,” Danny said. Just thinking about last night caused a new tightness to form in his belly. He was afraid he might upchuck. “I’m done.”

  “All right, ’den. Beat it.”

  Accustomed to rude dismissals, Danny slid off the stool. He’d pay a visit to Miss Frank, all right. When he thought about her—about how pretty she was, about how she’d lied to save him from that cop, and about how nice she smelled—it made the fist in his gut start to unclench.

  A bell jangled when Danny pushed open the door and stepped out onto the busy sidewalk. He waited on the curb as a stream of motorcars passed. In between the vehicles, his atten
tion caught on a big man standing near the entrance to the newspaper building.

  Danny squinted to better focus on the man as the last of the cars rumbled by. The street was now clear, though it wouldn’t be for long. Danny stepped one foot off the curb but then stopped.

  Was it possible for nightmares to come to life?

  Run!

  Danny stepped back up onto the curb as the traffic began to move again. No, that idea was for babies. Yet, Danny recognized him. It was one of the men in the park. At least, it sure did look like him. Danny was just far enough away to doubt himself, but he didn’t much care if he was right or not. His stomach roiled and he felt swimmy in the head.

  Run!

  “Hey! Watch out.”

  Without realizing it, Danny had backtracked to the middle of the sidewalk. He flinched as a woman nearly collided with him. She continued on her way, complaining under her breath.

  Danny looked back toward the newspaper building. The man was eating a sandwich. He wasn’t looking Danny’s way, but Danny was certain that at any moment he would. That was enough for him.

  He ran.

  * * *

  Sean spotted Detective Lou Grottano immediately upon exiting the McClintock Building. Last Sean knew, the burly detective and his slick partner, Owen Carter, were working the Homicide Squad out of Centre Street.

  Grottano and Carter made an unlikely but effective team.

  Carter had started his career in the Boston police department before coming to Manhattan. He was young, urbane and hungry to get ahead.

  By contrast, Grottano was native to the city and had been with the department for eighteen years. He had a heavy-handed reputation and, in his early years, was known to conduct more interrogations than not with his night baton. Later, as newspaper-driven campaigns for police reform swept through the department, Grottano had lightened up. At least in public.

  Sean approached Grottano where he leaned casually against the face of the building, casting his oblique, unimpressed gaze over the busy street. He was munching on his breakfast—what looked like a pastrami sandwich.

  “Grottano,” Sean said.

  “Costigan.” Unlike his partner, Grottano didn’t smile much. It wasn’t in his repertoire.

  “Where’s your partner?” Sean asked. It was no more than a conversation opener. Sean knew where Carter was and Grottano knew Sean knew.

  Grottano took a bite of his sandwich. “Upstairs. Ya didn’t see him?”

  “Must’ve just missed him. Murphy case?”

  “Caught it this morning.”

  “You see my report?”

  At this, Grottano almost smiled but not quite. He showed his teeth. “Nah, but we’re headed up to your precinct. Maybe see you there.”

  Sean had hoped to visit his apartment and grab some shut eye before reporting back. That wasn’t an option now. If he had any prayer of staying on this case, it would behoove him to get back uptown pronto. Still, it might not do any good.

  He shouldn’t take it personally if he got booted from the case—but he would. He knew Murphy’s rackets, he knew Nell, and he’d already done the leg work. It would grate him to just hand it all over, especially to Carter.

  “Yeah, see you there.”

  Sean took his leave. He was careful to appear unhurried as he returned to his patrol car, but when he pulled out into traffic, he gassed it, headed north.

  * * *

  “Jeepers Merry Christmas, we’re late!” Trixie searched frantically for a parking space near the Central Park Precinct.

  She and Finn were on their way to a press briefing on the John Murphy case scheduled for 2:00 p.m. sharp. Merryweather had assigned Trixie, not his star crime reporter, Miles Rochester, to represent the Examiner, and he had even gone so far as to give her and Finn use of his shiny new Model T Coupe to be sure they wouldn’t be late.

  She could not screw this up.

  Finn grumbled. “Maybe if we hadn’t stalled out at every intersection, we could’ve gotten here faster. You sure you know how to drive?”

  Since Finn had never operated an automobile, Trixie had gotten no argument from him when she’d settled in eagerly behind the wheel. Now, after having jumped out four times to crank them back to life, Finn didn’t look so complacent.

  Trixie smacked the steering wheel. “Can I help it if this stupid flivver doesn’t work right?” She brightened upon spotting a Chrysler Touring Car pulling away from the curb up ahead. “Hold on to your hat, bucko.”

  Finn did just that as she sped up to claim the open spot. A chorus of horns bleated when she braked. The flivver stalled yet again when she angled to pull alongside the curb, but neither of them cared.

  It was ten past two.

  Trixie snagged her purse, Finn slung his plate-case over his shoulder, and they dashed for the station house.

  Trixie flashed her press card at the desk officer, who directed them to a room packed with reporters and cameramen. Trixie stood five foot four and, from the back, could barely make out the chief’s uniform dress hat through a sea of pressmen’s fedoras. The chief spoke from a podium in an unhurried monotone as cameras clinked and flashed in front.

  “...a team of our top detectives assigned to the case.”

  “This is just swell,” Finn whispered. “We’re late and Mr. Merryweather will skin me alive. How am I supposed to get a shot from way back here?”

  He had a point. Finn was much taller than Trixie but he still didn’t have a clear shot. Not in this crowd. Trixie could take notes just fine—she could hear the chief perfectly but, buried as she was back here like a pea under a mattress, she had little chance of being called on if they took questions.

  “...made a commitment to the citizens of New York...”

  If only they had something to stand on. Trixie scanned the room for tables, benches or chairs. Nothing. Standing room only. She pointed at Finn’s camera. “How heavy is that thing?”

  * * *

  Sean had finally gotten a chance to wash up and change his shirt. He spent the next hour in his captain’s office. First, in the company of Carter, Grottano and Chief of Detectives James Keegan, and then alone with Captain Sheehan.

  Sean got along with Sheehan better than most of the commanding officers he’d worked with, and that was saying something. This was the fourth precinct Sean had been transferred to in less than a year.

  “At least you’re still on the case,” Sheehan said when the chief and his two star detectives were gone. “That’s better than I expected when I got Carter’s call from headquarters.”

  Sean paced the small office. “Yeah, but something doesn’t smell right. I never did Carter any favors. Why the hell am I still on this case?”

  Sheehan’s face, loose-jowled and amiable, belied a sharp, no-nonsense ability to cut to the quick. “Owen Carter’s the commissioner’s boy, we all know that, and Keegan’s got to play their tune, but make no mistake about it. He’s got to close this case fast and you’re his ace in the hole. You don’t owe anybody, you know all the players and you’re a better detective on your worst day than Carter and Grottano are on their best.”

  Sean shook his head. “Maybe so, but—”

  Sheehan wasn’t finished. “And Jim Keegan was there the night your da was killed. I don’t care who’s in the commissioner’s office, you don’t ever forget a thing like that.”

  What Sheehan said was true as far as it went, but Sean wasn’t convinced. Neither sentimentality nor skill ever trumped politics. His father’s old partner, Jim Keegan, was no exception.

  “Look at it this way,” Sheehan continued. “If this case wraps up, it’ll be hard for the commissioner to defend knocking you down a pay grade. A first grade pension is better than a second if you ever decide to give up the good fight and go out quietly.”

 
; Sean stopped pacing. He’d been demoted only two weeks before, and it was still a sore point with Sheehan, who’d had to deliver the unsavory news. Along with the transfers to undesirable precincts, this was just another tactic used by his uncle’s old nemesis to try to force Sean out. What the brass didn’t know was, Sean wasn’t as used up as his uncle had been. In time, Sean would work his way back up to first grade. Aside from that, he didn’t care about rank. He didn’t want a command—he liked the street.

  “If I go out,” Sean said, “it’ll be anything but quiet. It’ll be feet first, and before then, I’m sure as hell going to find Nell Murphy and figure out who popped her husband.”

  Sheehan nodded slowly. “This one’s personal, ain’t it? Keegan’s got your history, you know. He told me you and Johnny lived in the same building when you were kids.”

  Sean didn’t care for this turn in the conversation. “Yeah, that’s no secret. We played stickball sometimes. What of it?”

  “So you were pals?”

  Pals? Maybe back when they were in knee pants. Even then, Sean and Johnny might have been better described as friendly rivals. They’d vied for everything from the loyalty of the other kids to who was better at marbles to which could hold his breath longer under water. When they’d gotten older, it had been enough that they’d managed to stay out of each other’s way. Except when it came to Nell.

  “Are you asking if I need a hanky?” Sean asked flatly.

  Sheehan refused to be sidetracked. “Yeah, well, do ya?”

  “No, Johnny’s not the first guy from the neighborhood to end up at the morgue.”

  “Uh huh. So what about his wife? You ain’t still carrying a torch for that dame, are you?”

  Sean’s jaw tightened. He liked Sheehan, but he didn’t like getting blindsided by questions about his past with Nell. The man was skating on thin ice. “I haven’t talked to her in years.”

  “Keegan said you almost married her.”

  Sean folded his arms. “There was no ‘almost’ about it. We were kids. She married Johnny. End of story.”