by Delynn Royer
“That’s one possibility,” Sean said enigmatically. “Anything else mentioned in that paper about it? Hailing port? Is it registered?”
Trixie scanned the sheet. “Hailing port is London.”
Sean looked at her. “England?”
“Tally ho.”
Sean returned his attention to the road, but Trixie could tell by the urgent tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel that he was onto something as they sailed smoothly through another intersection. “What about the other boat? The speedboat. What was it called?”
“Purity,” Trixie said. “Ironic name for a boat owned by a gangster. Hailing port is East Hampton. Closer to home.”
“They could be pleasure boats,” Sean said, “but I doubt it.”
“What else would they be?”
“Use your noodle, kid. Where do you think all the gin mills in Manhattan get their hooch?”
All at once, Sean’s meaning came clear, and Trixie felt like a novice for being so slow on the uptake. The coastline off Long Island and New Jersey was so glutted with schooners and freighters hawking illegal alcohol from outside the United States, it was fast becoming known as Rum Row. In fact, her paper’s star crime reporter, Miles Rochester, had recently written a series of articles about the inability of the Coast Guard to put a dent in the booming illegal commerce that thrived just outside territorial waters.
“Okay,” she said, “so what you’re saying is that John Murphy wasn’t just buying and distributing the stuff, maybe he was supplying it too.”
“Why not?” Sean slowed as they approached another intersection, then smoothly accelerated again as a traffic cop waved them through. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Buy it from the Brits, transport it across the Atlantic, then take whatever’s needed for his own operations here in Manhattan. On top of that, he gets to keep whatever profits are earned from selling the surplus inventory to other buyers.”
Trixie settled back in her seat, trying not to analyze why watching Sean handle the steering wheel and controls of the coupe with such ease managed to both annoy and fascinate her at the same time. Instead, she chewed over what he’d said and how it changed her notions about who might have killed John Murphy.
As if on cue, they cruised through the intersection of Hudson and Grove Street. Trixie knew from her research that Nell Murphy lived just a block or two up on the edge of an artsy Greenwich Village neighborhood, and she couldn’t ignore the obvious any longer.
Much as she hated to admit it, there was a part of her that was disappointed to learn of these new revelations. It was the part that had been rooting for Nell to somehow emerge as the prime suspect.
Was that because of the facts? Or just wishful thinking? After all, as Trixie had watched Sean deftly handle the controls of the car, she wasn’t annoyed because he’d managed to show up her driving skills. She was annoyed because she couldn’t help wondering if he’d been just as deftly handling the sensual curves of his former lover the other night.
If that wasn’t jealousy, what was?
“Nuts to that,” Trixie mumbled and turned away to stare out the passenger window. So maybe she was a little jealous. So what? Better that she name the petty emotion and get past it.
If John Murphy’s last words concerned a rum-running boat called True Love, then maybe his murder had more to do with his business than his estranged wife.
Then again, maybe not.
After all, the word Fíorghra wasn’t all John Murphy had uttered with his last breath. He’d also said his wife’s name, Nell, and so far no rum-running boat had turned up with that moniker.
Sorry, Nell, old girl, she thought as she watched the streets of mid-town pass by, I’m not counting you out yet.
* * *
By the time they reached the McClintock building, John Murphy’s last words had played over in Sean’s mind a dozen times. Key. Egan. Nell. Fíorghra. One had to assume that, if a man was not in the throes of delirium, the words he chose to utter in his last moments were important indeed. What did the key open? Something on the boat? Egan was a seaman, wasn’t he? And how did Nell figure into this?
Trixie was quiet, apparently lost in thoughts of her own as they stepped on the empty elevator in the lobby. The elevator boy brightened. “Hello, Miss Frank.”
“Hello, Karl. Twelve please.”
“Sure thing.” Karl pulled the doors closed. “Just got a hot market tip. Want to hear it?” He pushed the control lever, and, with a rattle and a chink, they began their ascent. “Four words gonna make you a bundle. Pay Toilet Lock Company.”
Trixie looked confused. “Excuse me?”
“That comes straight from Dr. Birnstein on six. Don’t spread it around.”
“Isn’t Dr. Birnstein a dentist?”
“Yeah. Just yanked the tooth of a guy works down at the stock exchange.”
“Oh,” Trixie said politely. “I’ll give that some thought.”
Sean only partially heard their chitchat. He had by now rejected the idea that Johnny was declaring his love for Nell with his last words. Instead, he might have been expressing concern for her safety or some connection she had with the boat or the key. Or both.
Yet Nell had stonewalled Sean when he’d mentioned the Fíorghra. He believed Nell knew that her husband owned a rum-running schooner by that name, and he also suspected that there was more to her frequent trips to Britain and the Bahamas than just sightseeing.
If Nell was mixed up in Johnny’s business, she had good reason to be concerned for her safety.
Trixie bade Karl a good day as they stepped off the elevator and headed for the frosted glass doors of the Morning Examiner city room. “And so where are we off to from here?” Trixie asked, breaking into Sean’s musings.
“We aren’t off to anywhere,” Sean said, holding the door for her. “I need to make a phone call. Then I’m taking Danny.”
“Are you taking him to stay with your cousin?”
“Do you really expect me to answer that?”
“Hope springs eternal,” she said as she stepped ahead of him into the bustling city room. She’d already shed her humble “tail between the legs” demeanor.
Too bad. It was nice while it had lasted.
Typewriters chattered, phones jingled and Sean couldn’t help but notice that Trixie’s step seemed to lighten as she cut a swath through the jabbering maelstrom toward Merryweather’s office. She raised some eyebrows among her coworkers as she swept past—no doubt a result of the extravagant fur she wore. She stopped before the desk of her editor’s primly dressed, bespectacled secretary. The gleaming brass nameplate perched on the corner of her desk read Miss Polokowsky.
Miss Polokowsky continued to type briskly on her Remington without glancing up for almost a full minute before stopping. She eyed Trixie sternly from over the rims of her glasses. “You’re blocking my light.”
“Is Julius in his office? I’m here to pick up Danny.”
“Mr. Merryweather had a lunch meeting with Mr. McClintock, not that it’s any business of yours. He left that devil boy with me until I couldn’t stand it any longer. He was shooting spitballs at anyone who passed within ten feet. Don’t you teach him any manners? I sent him over to see Mr. Dooley in sports.”
“Dooley? Dooley’s a pig.”
“Yes. They’re all animals over there. I’m sure your nephew is fitting in quite nicely.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake.” Trixie headed in the direction of her own desk.
Sean followed her. “Need some help?”
“Not with Dooley I don’t.” Trixie took off her massive coat and hung it on a coat rack near her desk. She tossed her hat down on her desk along with her purse. “Sports is across the hall. You might as well make your call while I go get Danny.”
“Beatrix Frank!”
&n
bsp; The speaker—a diminutive, balding fellow dressed in white shirtsleeves, a vivid red plaid vest, and a matching red bow tie—headed toward them, brandishing a folded newspaper in one hand.
“Miles Rochester,” Trixie said under her breath. Sean recognized the name, although he’d never met the man. Known for his flamboyant style, Rochester had been on the Gotham crime beat for over a dozen years, first with the Herald and then later with the Tribune before being lured away by the Examiner.
“I say, old girl. Catfight indeed. Jolly good time. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
The man stopped before Trixie’s desk and offered her his copy of that morning’s Examiner. Sean couldn’t help seeing, with a twinge of residual annoyance, his front-page photograph with Nell at the funeral church. “Congratulations, my dear. You’ll have to join us down at the club. Tell us all about it.”
“Thanks, Miles. Just a lucky break.” Trixie sounded less than ecstatic over his praise.
“Nothing like being in the right place at the right time,” Miles said with a canny smile, “the trick being, of course, knowing which place and which time.”
“Yes,” Trixie agreed. “Miles, this is Detective Sean Costigan. Detective Costigan, Miles Rochester.”
Miles eyed Sean with interest. “Ah yes, your photograph hardly does you justice. Costigan, is it? Wouldn’t be any relation to the late Brian Costigan, would you?”
“He was my uncle.”
“Ah ha.” Miles nodded shrewdly. “Fine reputation, your uncle, although it’s suffered somewhat with the advent of the latest administration. I trust that will be only temporary. The pendulum always swings back. Won’t be long until the reformers raise their voices once again and it comes time to clean out all those dirty closets. Then they’ll be asking, ‘Where is Honest Brian Costigan when we need him?’”
“Maybe so,” Sean said. The man was a blowhard.
“Well, I’ll let you two to your business. Just wanted to offer my congratulations, Beatrix. Hats off and all that. Keep up the good work.”
As Miles sauntered away, Trixie looked at Sean dubiously. “Why do I feel like someone’s going to sneak up behind me and plant a wicked sharp butcher knife right between my shoulder blades?”
“Welcome to the big time, kid.”
“That British accent of his is fake. He was born in England, all right, but he only lived there about two minutes. He was raised in Albany.” She changed the subject, inclining her head toward the newspaper Miles had left with them. “I’m guessing you’ve already seen that?”
“You guess right.”
“Umm.” A trace of that “tail between the legs” look flitted across her face again. “It wasn’t my idea to put your picture on the front page. Just remember that.”
“Uh huh.”
She smiled coyly and Sean was reminded of their kiss, of the taste of her lips as well as the eagerness of her response. It was enough to stir parts of him that had no business being stirred in the middle of a work day. “So, this isn’t the first time I’ve heard about your famous Uncle Brian. I’d like to hear more sometime,” she said.
He gave her a grudging smile. “Maybe over coffee one of these days.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” She gestured toward the chair by her desk. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get Danny.”
Sean took off his coat and draped it over the back of an empty chair as he watched Trixie leave. Hard to believe that he’d been so furious with her only a few hours before and now he found himself appreciating the pleasant sway of her hips from behind. He couldn’t stay sore at a dame like that.
Sean picked up the telephone on her desk and tapped the hook. An operator connected. “Number please?”
Sean gave the number of the radio room at headquarters. When a dispatcher picked up, he asked for Carter.
The connection was soon made. “Carter here.”
“It’s Costigan. I’m at the—”
“What the hell took you so long?” Carter’s voice was tight.
It took a second for Sean to regroup. “Nothing, I—”
“Do you have the kid?”
Sean didn’t like the anxiety in Carter’s voice. This was more than just his usual bad temper. Something was off. “He’s here,” Sean said. “I’m at the Examiner office.”
“Okay, listen. Something’s happened.”
“What?”
“I might’ve found our leak.”
Sean’s grip on the telephone receiver tightened. Already? Yesterday, he hadn’t gotten the impression Carter had been at all convinced there was a leak. “Who is it?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but—” Carter stopped.
“Owen,” Sean prodded, trying to unwind the conversation, “tell me what the hell’s going on.”
It was as if Carter hadn’t heard him. “Is the kid with you now?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing. Just don’t leave him out of your sight.”
Sean hadn’t gotten the impression that Carter had been concerned for Danny’s safety yesterday, either. He damn well got it now. He shifted his gaze to see Trixie appear in the city room doorway with Danny in tow and let out a breath of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been gathering. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“Let’s just say that maybe it was a good thing that your girl reporter decided to take him to work today. Did you tell anyone where we’re taking the boy?”
“No.” Not technically a lie, although Trixie had a good idea where they were going.
“Okay,” Carter said. “We’ll move him to your cousin’s for now, but we need to get him out of town fast. Tonight if we can.”
Trixie and Danny now stood before him. Danny grinned and Sean winked, keeping his expression free of the dread he felt at Carter’s ominous tone.
“I can take him now,” Sean said.
Trixie guided the boy around to sit at her desk. “Wait here and I’ll see if I can find your crayons.” She gestured to Sean that she would be back shortly.
“Good,” Carter was saying. “We’ll meet and take him in my car.”
As Trixie departed, Danny started exploring her desk, pulling open drawers.
“Where?” Sean watched absently as Danny pushed the newspaper aside to set a notepad on the desk. The boy’s expression brightened upon recognizing Sean’s photograph on the front page. He pointed to the image. Sean nodded, forced a weak smile and turned away.
“How about your place? It’s near here, right? Where is it?” Carter asked.
Sean gave the address of the Alhambra.
“Good. I’ve already sent a detective over to your cousin’s place. He’ll meet us there.”
Sean hesitated. Carter was right to put a man on the place, but he hated to think about widening the circle of people who knew of Danny’s existence. “You trust him?”
“He owes me.”
Sean glanced back at Danny to see that the boy’s expression, clearly delighted only a few seconds before, had changed. All color had drained from his face as he stared at the front page of the Examiner. Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Sean’s, urgency in his eyes.
Sean raised an eyebrow in a silent question, and Danny pointed not at the photograph of Sean and Nell but instead at the second photograph on that morning’s front page. It was the oneof Grottano, Carter and Chief Keegan as they’d arrived at the funeral church. The boy’s finger rested squarely on Grottano’s glowering visage, and something in the pit of Sean’s stomach went cold.
Chapter Seventeen
“Costigan. You still there?”
Sean had gone silent long enough to raise Carter’s concern on the other end of the line. “I’m here.” His mouth was so dry, the words tasted like sand.
Sean didn
’t have to ask why Danny had pointed at Lou Grottano’s photograph. It was written all over the boy’s ashen face. Grottano was one of the men he’d seen murder John Murphy. Was the second killer on the other end of the phone line?
“I’ll meet you and the boy in twenty in front of your place,” Carter said. “I’ll be in my red Nash. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Sean said.
There was a click on the other end of the line. Sean slowly hung up the receiver and set the phone on the desk. He had to make some sense out of this, and he had a bad feeling he’d better do it fast.
“That’s him?” he asked Danny, although he already knew the answer. “The same one you saw out front of this building?”
Danny nodded and Sean remembered the day he’d first come here to question Trixie and found Grottano waiting for his partner outside.
That was Friday.
“What about the other one?” Sean pointed at Carter’s image. It was a poor picture. Only part of Carter’s profile had been caught by MacDougle’s lens as he’d turned away to enter the funeral church.
Danny shook his head. “Don’t know.”
“It’s okay.” Sean couldn’t believe his instincts had been so off base about Owen Carter, but that was his ego talking.
Carter and Grottano had been partners for a couple years. It was likely that whatever one was mixed up in, the other was mixed up in as well. Sean had no idea why Grottano or Carter would want John Murphy dead. It could be anything, including the possibility that they were on someone’s payroll.
But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that Carter was expecting Sean to bring Danny to him, and Danny was the only eyewitness who could identify Carter’s partner as one of the killers.
“Here we are.” Trixie laid the box of crayons on her desk. “Found them in Mr. Merryweather’s office.”
While her attention was on the boy, Sean raised a finger to his lips. Danny’s eyes widened but he appeared to understand.
“What’s the matter?” Trixie asked Danny. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Nope.” Danny’s face was still too pale, but he was a trooper. No tears, no sign that anything was wrong. That was good. Sean wanted to get out of here without attracting attention.