It Had to Be You

by Delynn Royer

  But Sheehan was a purebred bulldog. And he didn’t take hints. “The chief thinks your connection with Nell Murphy could help his investigation. That might be, but I’m not so sure it’s good for you. Don’t chase after that skirt for too long.” Sheehan paused, perhaps waiting for Sean to acknowledge his sage advice. If so, he’d be waiting until Broadway ran dry.

  After a prickly silence, Sheehan finally leaned back in his chair and blew out a sigh. “It sounds like Carter’s convinced Murphy was croaked by that bird who wanted to even the score for his brother. What do you think?”

  Sean relaxed—glad for the change of subject. He’d listened skeptically to Carter’s theory that a vicious loan shark known as Big Nose Benny had ordered Murphy’s killing. It was common knowledge that Benny had nursed a grudge against Murphy for nearly a year over the alleged murder of his brother.

  “I’m not sold on Benny,” Sean said. “The last guy Benny iced got kidnapped off the street in broad daylight. He turned up a couple days later in a crate on the waterfront with choice parts of his anatomy removed. It was quite a show, and that job wasn’t personal. Leaving Johnny for dead in the park with a couple of knife wounds just doesn’t have the same feel.”

  Sheehan nodded. “Good point.”

  “Nah, Carter’s looking for an easy out. This wasn’t a revenge killing. It was someone Johnny trusted.” Sean corrected himself. “Or at least someone he wasn’t afraid of.”

  Sheehan grunted. “Either way, my advice to you is to forget the dame. One way or the other, this case is gonna get sewed up. Whichever way it goes, it ain’t no skin off your nose. Just follow the leads Carter gives you.”

  Sean didn’t take offense to Sheehan’s admonitions. The man was no flunky for the brass. He had Sean’s back. “Sure, I’ll follow them,” Sean said as he moved for the door. “Right after I find Nell.”

  “Stubborn like your uncle. Watch your step or you’ll be out on your ass like him too.”

  “Not this Costigan,” Sean said and left.

  While he was glad to still be on the case, he wasn’t exactly happy that he’d be reporting to Carter, who was now the lead detective under Chief Keegan out of Centre Street. Sheehan wouldn’t be around to offer any more sage advice.

  Not that it would help.

  Sean had never been one to take advice, especially if he cared about a case, and he cared about this one. Not only because of Nell, but because he had a feeling things were about to take a wrong turn. This case was becoming important to all the wrong people—the brass, the sheets, the politicos. When a case got too big, it became more important to close it fast and pretty rather than right. That was one reason he’d failed to mention to the chief and Carter the details of his conversation with Trixie Frank.

  Sean glanced at a wall clock. He was late for Keegan’s meeting with the press. When he stepped in from a side door near the front, the chief was reading from a prepared statement.

  “...made a commitment to the citizens of New York to protect our homes and businesses from the growing threat of organized crime and its murderous consequences.”

  A flash from a camera came from the back of the room. The source caught Sean’s attention when the magnesium powder cleared. What the...? He stared, not sure he believed his own eyes.

  Was that Miss Frank?

  Perched on some guy’s shoulders?

  If she’d wanted to gain a bird’s eye view, she’d accomplished it. With her skirt bunched up and her legs exposed to above the knees, she’d also managed to snag the attention of every red-blooded officer standing in front.

  “And that concludes our—” The chief cut off as he looked up from his podium and got an eyeful. He cleared his throat. “Er, uh, that is to say, this concludes our statement. I can...take questions.”

  Trixie handed the unwieldy camera back down to her companion, exchanged it for a notepad and pencil, and shot up her hand. Impossible to ignore.

  Even Keegan, the silver-haired embodiment of official departmental authority, couldn’t help himself. The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Yes, miss?”

  Trixie appeared unruffled by the stares and chortles from the group. She acknowledged one wolf whistle with a curt nod before posing the first question.

  “Trixie Frank, New York Morning Examiner. Is there any truth to the rumor that Mr. Murphy is leaving an estate worth millions? According to our sources, he owned quite a bit of real estate as well as several legitimate businesses. And is there any word yet on if there was a will?”

  “Mr. Murphy’s business interests are being investigated. Mr. Murphy had a will but the contents are not to be released at this time,” the chief responded.

  Trixie started to ask another question but the novelty of her stunt had worn off. She was drowned out by her peers.

  Was it true that Mr. Murphy had welshed on a sixty thousand-dollar poker bet only two weeks earlier?

  Was it possible that Mr. Murphy’s murder had been ordered by a competing gang of bootleggers?

  Was it true that Mr. Murphy’s lady friend, the Ziegfeld girl, was missing?

  The floodgates had opened. As the chief fielded the deluge, Trixie scribbled furiously in her notepad. When she looked up, her gaze swept past the chief to take inventory of the officers who flanked him. She spotted Sean and winked.

  Sean gave no sign that he’d seen it, though he had to set his jaw to suppress his amusement. She didn’t need the encouragement, and he didn’t want Carter or Grottano picking up on their connection.

  So, okay. Maybe this dame, this perky, audacious rich girl, was more than just a pretty bit of fluff. He would give her that. Whether she could help him find his lost child witness, though... That remained to be seen.

  * * *

  After the chief and his detectives left by a rear door, the room emptied quickly as reporters scrambled to make their deadlines. Trixie asked Finn to wait for her outside and stopped at the desk to ask for Costigan.

  He emerged minutes later looking a fraction less intimidating but no less devastating than he had earlier that morning. His shirt was crisp, he was clean-shaven, and Trixie’s gaze lingered longer than it should have on the square line of his jaw and the startlingly clear deep blue of his eyes.

  “Any news?” he asked, cutting into her thoughts. He led her away to stand out of earshot of the desk officer.

  “Danny hasn’t shown up yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “Then what do you want?”

  Trixie was hoping to convince him that they could work together. Nothing about his skeptical expression said this would be easy. “I wanted to tell you that I didn’t say anything to that other detective about Danny, but he wants a list of people that I’ve given business cards to,” she said.

  “That should be interesting.” His tone was amused, but Trixie wasn’t fooled. She still felt certain that, for reasons of his own, he wanted to keep knowledge of the boy to himself. That was just fine with her. In fact, she was counting on it.

  “Look, I still think Danny will show up eventually, but maybe we shouldn’t wait until he comes to us. Maybe we can find him first. There’s something else I remembered about him.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, how he spoke.”

  “And how was that?”

  “He sounded like you.”

  Something in that heart-stopping blue gaze came alight. “Yeah?”

  Encouraged, Trixie plunged ahead. “It’s always fascinated me how we carry our origins with us in our speech. The rhythms, the speed, how we emphasize certain sounds, pronounce certain words. Me, for example. I was raised in Philadelphia until we moved to the island. My mother was British and my father’s family came from Germany. If anyone cares to listen, all of that is evident the minute I open my mouth
.” Trixie paused, hoping she’d snagged his interest.

  “Go on,” he said.

  Bingo. She smiled. “Which brings us to you.”

  He smiled back. “What about me?”

  “I’d peg you as second generation Irish. Someone taught you to speak the king’s proper English, nuns if I had to guess, but the way you pronounce words like ‘this,’ ‘that’ and ‘them’ tell me you grew up here in the city, probably on the West Side near the docks. Am I right?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Danny speaks a lot like you when you let your guard down. He’s from your neighborhood. I’d bet the farm on it. Doesn’t that give us a place to start?”

  “Us?” If the glimmer in Sean’s eyes meant anything, he found this laughable.

  That only made her more determined to prove her case. “Certainly. Who else knows what he looks like?”

  “I got two other witnesses, Miss Frank.”

  Trixie refused to be bluffed. “Sure you do, but I bet they’re lousy ones. Don’t forget that I lied for him yesterday. He knows that, and he’ll trust me because of it. If he talks to anyone, he’ll talk to me.”

  Costigan folded his arms. “Okay, what do you want?”

  Trixie smelled victory. “I think we should look for him together.”

  “Fat chance.”

  Nuts! She wanted to stomp her foot. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a reporter. How can I trust you not to rush to print with something that could compromise this investigation?”

  Trixie fought a surge of indignation. He was judging her by the articles she’d written for the Eagle, but every word had been the truth. The Brooklyn police had been led around by their noses by two amateur gun-toting newlyweds.

  “All right,” she allowed. “Maybe you have your reasons to be concerned, but consider this. Why would I bite the hand that feeds me? I’ll keep everything I learn off the record until you’re ready to let the news break. In exchange, all I want is a chance to get to print first.”

  Costigan studied her for a long moment, then unfolded his arms. “You got any good sketch artists at that paper of yours?”

  Trixie’s mouth fell open before she could stop it. Was he saying yes? “Sure!” She hoped she didn’t sound as giddy as she felt.

  “Get me a sketch of the kid.” He turned to leave.

  “But— Wait.”

  He turned back.

  “When?” Trixie asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up.”

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter Five

  Dusk had fallen by the time Trixie climbed the front steps of her three-story rooming house on Madison Street. In one hand she carried her dinner, a paper bag from a chop suey place on the corner, and in the other, her purse where she’d tucked an envelope with a mimeographed sketch of Danny.

  After stepping into the vestibule, she pulled some envelopes from her mailbox and checked the bulletin board by the door to her landlady’s apartment. From behind that door, Mrs. Liebowitz’s terrier Twinkles yapped like a canine Tommy gun.

  Trixie winced upon spotting the only phone message left on the board. She pulled it free. BEETRIKS. FATER TELFOND AT 2. CAL BAK. IMPORTET! MRS L.

  Nuts. She hadn’t yet broken the news to her father that she’d left the Eagle to go to work for a tabloid. If he’d tried to reach her during the day, he would have phoned there first. The jig was up.

  “Twink! Pipe down.” The door to her widowed landlady’s apartment opened.

  The diminutive but formidable Mrs. L stood barely five feet tall. She wore a typical fall ensemble, a flower-print housedress, a forest green cardigan sweater, and clashing red, white and blue bedroom slippers. Mrs. L owned more bedroom slippers than Trixie’s father had five and dimes. Weather permitting, she wore them everywhere, including the laundromat and the A&P.

  “Your father called,” Mrs. L said, artfully blocking her frenzied terrier’s attempts to rush the hallway with one fuzzy-muled foot. It was an oft-practiced move. Twinkles didn’t stand a chance.

  Trixie had to raise her voice over the barking. “Yes, I saw your note. Thank you.”

  “He said it was important.”

  “Yes, I’ll be sure to—”

  “Charming man, your father. So polite. What’s that?” The older woman inclined her head toward the bag Trixie carried.

  “Dinner. Chinese.”

  “Chinese schmineeze. No good meal ever came in a bag. You want I should heat up some matzo ball soup?”

  The chicken and vegetable aroma wafting from Mrs. L’s apartment was tempting. “It smells wonderful but all I want to do now is take a bath and get into my pajamas.”

  Mrs. L waggled a finger. “Okay for you, but don’t forget to call your father. He worries.”

  “I know. I won’t.”

  “Twink!” Mrs. L shouted as she retreated into her apartment. “Zip it.”

  Trixie climbed the stairs to the second floor. As usual, she was the last tenant to arrive home. An aroma of fried onions filled the air and sounds of life filtered from behind walls and doors as she took the hall to her own apartment. Running water through rattling pipes, radios and footsteps overhead. All of Mrs. L’s tenants were single women, office girls, waitresses and store clerks.

  Trixie inserted her door key only to notice that she felt no familiar click when she turned it. She paused. That was funny. Had she left her door unlocked? She could have sworn she’d locked it that morning. She locked it every morning.

  Every morning.

  Something prickled at the back of her neck.

  She withdrew her key and stared at the keyhole. It was one of the first things Mrs. L had impressed upon her when she’d learned Trixie would be living on her own for the first time. Mischievous kids, sticky-fingered thieves—they were creatures of opportunity. Unlocked doors and open windows were invitations. Trixie had taken Mrs. L’s warnings to heart. She locked up religiously whenever she left her apartment.

  Still, she tried to think back to that morning. She’d overslept. She’d been in an awful rush. Was it possible...?

  Trixie turned the knob slowly—careful not to rattle it—then shoved the door wide open and peered inside. It was dark and quiet. “Anybody there?”

  No answer.

  Of course not. But her stomach had turned cold. Something wasn’t right.

  Floorboards creaked overhead and the muffled warbling of her neighbor’s radio reached her ears. She was not alone. She could call for help. Still, before stepping inside, she reached around the corner to push the light switch. Once drenched in innocent light, everything appeared as she’d left it in the open kitchen and living area of her three-room flat.

  She left the door gaping as she entered. She took off her coat and set her dinner bag, purse and mail on the kitchen table, all the while listening for anything out of place. Nothing.

  Feeling emboldened, she moved to her bedroom and switched on a reading lamp. Her closet door stood ajar. Clothing lay strewn across the unmade bed, all just as she’d left it.

  She checked the bathroom. All quiet except for the soft hiss of a hot radiator and a steady drip from her tub faucet. Next, she checked her closet. No felons there. Then she let up the bedroom window shade, unlocked the window, and pushed the sash up. She poked her head out to satisfy herself that no second-story men lurked on the fire escape.

  Trixie closed the window, locked it, started back toward the door and froze. The window shade had been up when she’d left that morning.

  That last thought had come to her gently, floating across her mind as innocently as an almost forgotten postscript, but it packed a wicked punch. She whipped around to stare at the window and then down at her feet, at her mismatched shoes.

  She d
istinctly remembered snapping up the shade as she’d been brushing her teeth and searching through her closet for her shoes. But the day had started out overcast and there still hadn’t been enough sunlight for her to avoid grabbing a mismatched pair.

  Jewelry!

  This thought broke her paralysis and shot Trixie over to her bureau where she flipped open her jewelry case to see that, among other items, the solitaire diamond pendant necklace her father had given her for college graduation still winked up at her as did the diamond earrings from Nick Welles. She’d returned Nick’s engagement ring—thrown it in his face, in fact—but she hadn’t yet been able to bring herself to dispose of the earrings.

  She yanked open her lingerie drawer and grabbed for the wad of bills she kept inside. Twenty-six dollars. All there.

  Why would someone break in and not take anything? Could this be her imagination? Could she have forgotten pulling the shade down before leaving that morning?

  No.

  Grabbing her purse, Trixie left, slamming the door behind her. She flew down the stairs to the foyer to use the phone. She snatched up the earpiece, tapped the hook, and waited anxiously for an operator’s prompt. “Number please?”

  “I need the Central Park Precinct in Manhattan.”

  When she was connected, Trixie asked for Costigan only to be told that he was working out of Centre Street headquarters. Nuts! Trixie rang off, got the operator again and asked for police headquarters in Manhattan.

  Once connected, she was put through to two departments before she was told that Detective Costigan was off duty. Trixie depressed the hook. She rummaged through her purse, found Detective Carter’s card and passed it by impatiently in favor of the slip of paper Costigan had given her. She didn’t like calling him at home, but it was either that or return to her apartment alone and stew until morning. She shuddered at the thought.

  “Number, please?”

  “Columbus 3498.”

  A gravelly voice picked up. “Alhambra Hotel.”

  “I’m trying to reach Detective Costigan. Do I have the right number?”

  “Costigan? Hold on.” There was a clank on the other end of the line. Somewhere in the background a radio orchestra was playing “It Had to Be You.”