It Had to Be You

by Delynn Royer

  Before she could cock the hammer, a fourth gunshot rent the air. This one was so close, it could have been fired from the cold weapon in Trixie’s hands. But it had not.

  No more than ten feet away, Nell stood outlined vaguely in the roiling mist, a dim silhouette with a smoking gun poised and trembling—but aimed in a deadly enough fashion toward both Sean and Grottano.

  Nell’s warning shot had gotten both men’s attention. They were no longer locked together in combat, and Grottano’s gun was nowhere to be seen. They each now presented a clean, unarmed target as they identified the source of Nell’s shot and faced her.

  “What are you waiting for?” Grottano shouted. “You wanna rot in prison? Shoot!”

  “No!” Trixie cried, but it was too late.

  Nell pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “What could be taking so long?” Finn’s camera, as always, was at the ready as they waited outside the closed door of the District Attorney’s office in the Criminal Courts Building. “I thought they called us here because they’d made a decision.”

  Trixie didn’t look up as she paced the long hallway.

  Four days had passed since that harrowing night in Montauk. She’d recounted her story so many times to the police, the D.A. and her own editors that the events of that night felt more like a bad dream than reality. Perhaps her detachment now was because she didn’t care to keep reliving that awful moment when Nell had pulled the trigger and—

  “I mean, do you think it’s a good sign that they’re taking so long? Or a bad sign?” Finn continued to complain.

  Trixie looked at her wrist watch. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s no sign at all,” Miles Rochester said from where he waited on a bench near Finn. “And neither should we care. As journalists, our job is to remain objective and report on the facts. We must not invest ourselves in the outcome.”

  With his straw boater hat perched at a jaunty angle, Miles appeared infuriatingly smug. While Trixie had firsthand knowledge of this story, she had made the mistake of becoming a participant, and so Julius had sent Miles along today to offer perspective. Neither Trixie, who now shared her byline with Miles, nor Miles, who resented not having been assigned to the Murphy case from the start, was happy with their new partnership.

  It was all Trixie could do to keep from snapping at her new partner. He was a convenient target for the frustration that had been building inside her from the moment they’d received the call from the District Attorney’s office to report immediately to the Criminal Courts Building.

  Julius had struck a bargain with the D.A. The Examiner would get its scoop on the Murphy case in return for delaying publication of Trixie’s testimony regarding Sean’s innocence in the death of Owen Carter. It was not a bargain Trixie was happy with. It infuriated her that she’d been gagged while every other paper in town continued to associate Sean’s name with Carter’s murder. The only reason she’d kept her peace this long was because Julius had promised her one special concession in addition to full disclosure when they went to print.

  Trixie shifted her attention to the nervous young woman who sat next to Miles. She was brunette, petite, about thirty with soft blue eyes and a pale, ivory complexion. Trixie had met her only a few hours before, but her manner was gentle and her family resemblance to Danny unmistakable. Trixie had a good feeling about her.

  “Nervous?” Trixie asked.

  “Some.” Miranda Halloran Smith forced a hopeful smile. “Foolish of me, though. He’s just a little boy, right?”

  “An amazing little boy.”

  “I doubt he’ll remember me.” Miranda pulled a folded edition of yesterday’s Examiner from her purse and gazed at the picture of Danny beneath a headline that read, SEARCH FOR ORPHAN BOY’S FAMILY. “But that’s him. I know it is.”

  The article was Julius’s concession to Trixie in return for keeping mum. Trixie had written the article under her own byline and made no mention that Danny was a witness in the Murphy murder, only that the Examiner had launched a search for his relatives.

  This morning, Miranda had shown up at the Examiner office, clutching a wrinkled photograph of a familiar, tow-headed toddler boy and a baby girl.

  “He was just three the last time I saw him.” Miranda’s voice quavered.

  “It doesn’t matter whether he remembers,” Trixie said. “You do.”

  Ironically, Miranda had returned to New York with her husband almost a year before and had been living less than a mile from where her nephew had been roaming the streets. She had first been separated from her sister, Maggie, when she’d married a soldier from San Francisco and left to go live with his family. The sisters had written, but lost touch when Maggie became ill. By the time Miranda returned east to find her sister, Maggie had died and the children had been placed out. Miranda had tracked her nephew and niece only as far as the Children’s Aid Home where she’d learned they’d been sent west.

  “Do you think we’ll ever learn who adopted Leah?” Miranda asked.

  Miranda had told Trixie that her attempts to gain access to adoption records had been unsuccessful. Whether that was because the records were sealed or lost wasn’t clear. “We’re sure going to try,” Trixie assured her.

  The door to the D.A.’s office opened.

  Finn straightened, Miles perked up, and Trixie turned to see Danny emerge. He was escorted by a kind-faced young patrolwoman named Alison MacIntyre.

  The pair approached Trixie. In the last few days, Trixie had become acquainted with the patrolwoman who was assigned to Danny’s case. “Let’s hope that’s the end of it,” Miss MacIntyre said. “If this poor child has to answer one more question about those awful men in the park—”

  Trixie couldn’t contain herself. “Did they say—?”

  “No, they gave no sign one way or the other about—” She stopped, no doubt seeing the disappointment on Trixie’s face. “I’m sorry, I’d tell you if I knew more.”

  “It’s okay.” Trixie smiled at Danny. His face was fresh-scrubbed, his hair newly cut, and he wore a brand new set of clothes, compliments of Frank’s Five and Dime. He looked just like the little angel that he wasn’t. Only three days previously, she’d wondered if she would ever see him again.

  “You tell them what for, kid?” Trixie asked.

  He nodded somberly, and Trixie’s heart went out to him. Being in the protective custody of the D.A.’s office was a world better than living a hand-to-mouth existence on the streets, but try telling that to a scrappy little boy who harbored bad memories from the past. Nevertheless, he lifted his chin. “You bet I told ’em.”

  Trixie winked at him. “I knew you would. There’s someone I want you to meet.” She looked back to Patrolwoman MacIntyre before taking Danny’s hand. “May I? She’s just over here.”

  The patrolwoman nodded, and Trixie brought Danny over to stand before Miranda Smith. “Danny, this is your Aunt Miranda. She’s been looking for you for a long time. Do you remember her?”

  Danny cocked his head when his aunt stood.

  “Hello, Danny.” She clutched her purse tightly in both hands, waiting for his reaction.

  Danny said nothing.

  “I understand if you don’t remember me. You were only three when—”

  “You look like my ma.” Danny rushed into her arms, and Miranda’s eyes welled with tears.

  At this, Trixie too had to turn away to keep tears from stinging her own eyes. When she did, though, she found herself facing a straight-faced, dry-eyed Miles.

  “Hanky?” he asked.

  Trixie sucked it up. She refused to give him one sniffle. “No, thank—”

  “Yes, please!” Finn gulped back a stifled sob.

  Miles rolled his eyes, reached into his suit pocket, and flapped a monogrammed h
andkerchief toward the camera man.

  Finn snatched it. “Ah, geez, this stuff kills me every time.”

  The door to the D.A.’s office opened again and they turned to see Nell and her attorney—a man named Flannery—step out. Trixie had braced herself to deal with whatever decision the D.A. presented, but now her heart lurched. She barely saw Nell, barely registered Mr. Flannery. It was the empty doorway behind them that riveted her attention.

  Next to Trixie, Finn’s flash gun popped, clouding the air, and she fanned with her hand, unable to see—

  “Detective Costigan.” Miles jumped to his feet. “Have you been returned to duty, or will the D.A. indict?”

  * * *

  When the air cleared, Nell had moved away and Sean stood before them, steady and expressionless, his hard-edged Black Irish good looks unmarred by the healing cut over one eye and a fading bruise along his jaw.

  Trixie hadn’t seen him for days, not since he’d been escorted by two officers from the hospital where he’d been treated for a gunshot wound in his shoulder. Just the sight of him caused something to catch in her throat, and her gaze dropped to confirm that no handcuffs bound his wrists.

  “Returned to duty,” Sean said.

  To heck with Miles Rochester and his theories on journalistic neutrality. Trixie wanted to burst. “Yowza!” She launched herself into Sean’s arms. She tried to be mindful of his injuries, but it wasn’t easy.

  Sean held her close and looked deep into her eyes while Miles turned his questions on Nell and Mr. Flannery. “With no small thanks to you, Miss Frank.”

  “But I didn’t do anything, Detective.”

  “You found Danny. Without him, it could’ve gone either way.”

  “You found Danny. I just picked him up.”

  It was later, that night in Montauk, when Trixie and Sean and Nell made their way back to The Shinnecock Inn, that Trixie had placed a call to the hotel in Philadelphia to check on Danny. There was no record that Mr. Kennedy had ever signed in. Two panicked calls later, she’d tracked down Mr. Pinkerton himself to learn with dismay that Danny had somehow managed to slip away from his professional bodyguard.

  Sean had already known then that—Johnny’s records notwithstanding—their stories implicating James Keegan and Lou Grottano in Murphy’s murder would be met with skepticism. Keegan and Grottano were dead, but the false evidence they’d concocted against Sean was still damning.

  With Sean already a suspect in the killings of both Owen Carter and John Murphy, and Nell positioned as both Johnny’s heir and Sean’s suspected paramour, Trixie’s account of what happened that night might not have been enough to exonerate them.

  Danny’s testimony was more crucial than ever, and Trixie was determined to see to it that his days living on the streets were over for good.

  “When we report this, they’ll take me into custody,” Sean had warned Trixie that night as Mary Patterson had worked to staunch the bleeding in his shoulder and clean his wound. “It’s up to you to find him.”

  Trixie thought about this. “He doesn’t know Long Island, but he does know trains.”

  “That he does.” Sean winced as Mary applied some stinging antiseptic. “He managed to find his way home from the Midwest, so—”

  “He’ll find his way again,” Trixie finished. “He’ll head back to the docks, but, Sean, it could still take days to find him, maybe weeks. We could publish his sketch, see if—”

  “No,” Sean had said, “I have an idea...”

  And his idea had been a good one.

  Trixie had jotted Maggie O’Roarke’s old address in 38th Street in her notepad the day she and Sean had canvassed Hell’s Kitchen. After Sean and Nell were taken into custody, Trixie had enlisted Finn to accompany her, and together, they’d staked out the apartment building for two days before Danny showed. This was where the boy had been staying since he’d returned to New York—in a makeshift billet in the cold basement of the building where he’d last lived with his mother and sister.

  “His old apartment building,” Trixie said now.

  “Lucky guess,” Sean said.

  “Lucky guess my patootie.”

  When Danny had first spotted Trixie, he’d tried to run, but Finn caught him easily. Trixie was relieved that the boy had been willing to listen when she’d apologized for sending him away. She’d explained that Sean needed his help and could see in the boy’s eyes that he wanted to trust her again. This time, she was determined to prove to him that his trust wasn’t misplaced.

  Before Sean could say more, Patrolwoman MacIntyre spoke as she and Danny and Miranda Smith approached. “All’s well that ends well. Congratulations, Detective.”

  Sean let go of Trixie, and she stepped back, reluctant to let their private moment pass.

  “Thanks,” Sean said to the patrolwoman, then he winked at Danny and bent down to look at him straight on. “Hey, pal. You saved my hide in there, you know that?”

  Danny’s eyes widened. “All I did was tell the truth.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s fellas twice your size don’t have the guts to do that. I owe you.”

  “You do?”

  “You bet. Is it okay if I check in on you every once in a while?”

  Danny grinned and nodded, then leaned forward to whisper something in Sean’s ear.

  Sean let out a bark of laughter and stood. “You got it, kid.”

  Miss MacIntyre addressed Trixie. “It’s time for us to get going. Mrs. Smith and Danny have a lot of catching up to do, and I know one tired boy who could use a nap.”

  “Sounds like just the thing,” Trixie agreed. She nodded at Miranda Smith, who was still dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  As the trio left, Sean said, “Don’t tell me. The dame looks just like him. Is that who I think it is?”

  “Danny’s aunt. I’ll tell you all about her if you tell me what he whispered in your ear.”

  Sean smiled. “Tinkertoys.”

  “What?”

  “He said that if I owe him, I can pay him with Tinkertoys.”

  Trixie laughed. “Sounds like you’re getting off cheap.”

  Miles chose that time to step away from Nell, brandishing his notepad. “And so, Detective, according to Mrs. Murphy, it’s you who saved both her life and that of Miss Frank when you tackled Detective Grottano on the—”

  Sean cut in. “I suggest if you want the real story, you talk to Miss Frank.” Trixie noticed with a pang that Sean’s smile had vanished. His attention had shifted to Nell as she prepared to leave with her attorney.

  “But just one quote, Detective. Isn’t it true that—?”

  “You want a quote? Any quote from me is going to tell you what you can do with that pencil, and you won’t be able to print it. Not even in the Examiner.” Sean touched Trixie’s arm, squeezed it gently, but it was a distracted gesture. “Sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Where are you going?” Trixie asked, but he was already brushing by Miles. She knew where he was going.

  After Nell.

  * * *

  The late morning air outside was cold and brittle. The first fragile snowflakes of the year had just begun to fall, drifting and swirling lazily down over the city only to melt the instant they touched the pavement.

  Nell and her high-priced lawyer had just reached the bottom of the front steps and were turning to walk toward the corner of Franklin Street when Sean called out. “So that’s it? No goodbye?”

  Nell stopped and turned to look back at him. Neither she nor Sean moved. Then Nell said something to Mr. Flannery. The man tipped his hat and continued on his way down the busy sidewalk as Sean descended the steps to meet her.

  Nell gave him a wry smile. “It looked like such a touching moment with your Girl Friday, I didn’t hav
e the heart to interrupt.”

  Three days in the Tombs and Nell still looked stunning. Mr. Flannery—already well-known and despised in law enforcement circles for gaining acquittals of two of the underworld’s most notorious figures—had brought a fresh change of clothing for both Sean and Nell before their appointment with the D.A.

  In Nell’s case, anyway, he’d proven himself worth the exorbitant fees he charged, not overlooking the smallest details. Lipstick, cheek powder, even the scarlet polish that now gleamed on Nell’s manicured nails. The plush fur coat she wore looked like the same one she’d worn the day she’d walked into Bickford’s.

  “It was sweet,” she added, “really.”

  “You gonna stick around New York?”

  “The publicity would be fun, but I already bought a ticket for London.” She paused. “We could make that a cabin for two, Sean. After all, what’s here for you? The District Attorney hates you, the Commissioner spits on your uncle’s grave—”

  “Just another day at the office.”

  “Hmm.” She nodded, then turned to leave. “Thanks for everything. If you ever change your mind, look me up.”

  Sean hadn’t come this far to make it easy for her to walk away. “You know, you told that reporter wrong when you said it was me who saved us out on that beach. It was really you. You killed Keegan and then you killed Grottano too. I guess it’s me who should be thanking you, and I would if you weren’t the one behind Johnny’s murder in the first place.”

  Nell was three steps gone, but she heard him.

  The truth, Sean had learned during his years on the job, had a way of doing that. It could cut through the noise until it seemed like the only sound in the room. Or the street, as the case might be. The truth could stop everything.

  It stopped Nell.

  She paused and turned calmly back to face him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Lies. People lied all the time. Sean operated on the assumption that everyone lied. When had that started? Had it been that night fourteen years ago when he’d heard from his pal, Joey, that Nell had been seeing John Murphy behind his back?