Murder in the City of Liberty

by Rachel McMillan

  “Political?”

  “They invited me to this meeting one night.” He languorously looked over Reggie, from pinned curls to Spanish heels. “And I loved the idea. Reg, we are in one of the most all-American cities in our country. These men want to keep the American experiment strong. And I don’t mind helping these men who have similar convictions to my own. The North End needs more housing. You know that.”

  “But what kind of housing? Dirk, you and I have had the same privileges our entire life. Some people haven’t been so lucky. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

  “These people. Our philosophy is that some people were meant for greatness and others better rise to the challenge. Our country has no need for people who are too lazy to grab at its chance.”

  She imagined a very long pin with which to pop the balloon of his pompous sentences. “If you’re working on this project, there is a very good chance you are also working with a dangerous man with connections to a darker cause. And I know you don’t want your precious family name slandered in the papers. So work with me. Let me know what’s going on. I can investigate.”

  “Regina.” Her name sat in his voice like a parent scolding a toddler on the playground. “I know you like to play at investigation. But leave all of this to the big boys. I’m sure there’s some dame whose boyfriend is sending another girl a love letter or a lost puppy that is better suited to your time.”

  The million and one retorts flooding to the tip of her tongue weighed it down until all that came out was a frustrated squeak. Didn’t matter. She would peel through to the end of her Journal of Independence and underline a new section entitled “Things I Would Like to Say to Dirk Foster’s Face but I Am Too Much of a Lady to Do So” by Reggie Van Buren. She rose.

  “Have you been to the Top Hat yet, Reg?”

  “My head is spinning with how fast you are changing the subject. Are you asking me out?”

  “I’m taking a friend there tomorrow night.”

  “Vaughan’s rowing night.” She lifted an eyebrow.

  “Whatever you and Vaughan are to each other these days, it seems you would still be willing to take an innocent turn around the dance floor.”

  “Why do you want me to meet your friend? I assume it is not you who is desirous of my company?”

  “Your tone isn’t very ladylike, Regina. If this is about your earlier question, no. I haven’t met anyone untoward.” He looked pointedly at a rolled-up map in the corner of his office. “I am merely working on firm business. Whatever is happening there with the current owner is none of my business. So. Will you come?” Sometimes Reggie envied Hamish’s ability to tell when someone was being dishonest. She couldn’t read anything in Dirk other than his usual smug self-satisfaction. “Vaughan hasn’t stopped talking about you, and my friend is interested. I’m trying to make a good impression. I know we’re not as chummy, but you’re all class, Reg. You doll up like a movie star and take a few spins around the floor. Just laughs, nothing more.”

  The last thing Reggie wanted to do was go to the Top Hat with Dirk and whatever inevitably snobby friend he was dragging with him. But maybe with a few drinks in him, he might talk. About plans. About developments. About Pete Kelly.

  “A few laughs, huh?”

  “Wear green, Reg. It does something nice to your eyes.”

  “Girls’ knees start knocking when you roll out the charm, Dirk.” She swept her hand across her chest Scarlett O’Hara–style before letting herself out.

  * * *

  Hamish kept Luca’s number tucked in his pocket just under fingers that fidgeted over it. It didn’t matter if the ink wore off; he had long since memorized it. Stared at it long into the night. It was imprinted in his brain the next morning as he was learning everything he could about the Christian Patriots.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Kelly’s office.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to keep us on retainer,” he said after Kelly barked, “What do you want?” through the receiver. Retainer, he knew, wasn’t the right word. No money had changed hands. Neither had any verbal agreement.

  “You aren’t on retainer.”

  “Look, Mr. Kelly. You lured us down there under the guise of hiring us, and my friend almost caught her death of a cold. You just left us there. I saw someone there and I wondered if his showing up made you change your mind about pursuing—”

  “I haven’t changed my mind,” Kelly snapped.

  “Then . . . where do we stand? Were you threatened? Was it an unwanted guest?”

  Or, Hamish thought, someone who wanted to go into crooked business with you?

  “I’ve decided that you aren’t the best person to be looking into my property at all.”

  “Listen, I am not interested in working for you anyway. But I am not sure what about our time there changed your opinion about hiring us.”

  “No us. You.”

  “Me? Did I say something or—”

  “I know who you are.”

  Hamish chortled inwardly. An anxious lawyer from Toronto? “Oh. And who is that?”

  “You know. And I know how powerful connections can be.”

  Hamish felt a quickening in his heartbeat. But he was sure it wasn’t a harbinger of an episode, rather just a strange feeling that Kelly was corroborating his theory that it was Kent they saw at the wharf.

  He cleared his throat. “Th-then may I ask, Mr. Kelly, why you chose us in the first place? If you don’t have such a high opinion of me?”

  “I didn’t know about you at the time. I had only heard your names around. You helped a friend of my cousin’s once. She’s often with that lady who runs the bakery.”

  “Mrs. Leoni.”

  But Kelly didn’t confirm and Hamish heard the receiver click.

  Hamish turned the Christian Patriots pamphlet over in his hand. They might not be working for Kelly, but he wasn’t about to stop investigating. He put the pamphlet back under his blotter with one hand and called Rob Reid with the other.

  “How are you, Hamish?”

  The familiar voice allowed Hamish to paint a mental picture of a sunny disposition, an open countenance, and a few freckles to match the officer’s bright red hair.

  “I was on a case and discovered a pamphlet from a really radical group.”

  “It’s not a crime to have views,” Reid said after Hamish read a few choice paragraphs to him. “As far as I know, these men have been restrained. Their talk is full of hate, but they haven’t acted on anything. At least from what I have seen. Mostly high-end, well-to-do gentlemen, perhaps with a little too much time on their hands. Perhaps even an excuse to meet away from their wives.”

  “So there are no women in the group?”

  “A few, perhaps, but not as prominent at meetings. I oversaw one once while I was on duty. Seemed straightforward. Hate listening to them—but what do you do?”

  Perhaps it was just a coincidence that some of the supporters were involved with Kelly. “Do you know a man named Arthur Kent?” Hamish asked on a whim.

  “No.”

  Maybe he used a pseudonym? Hamish squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember if Kent had been in any press during the barrage of names and pictures after the Flamingo Club murder two summers before.

  “No Kent. But I have kept an eye on someone who seems to be a blue-collar representative of the movement,” Reid said. “Hands out pamphlets over in Charlestown. So far peaceful though.”

  “Thanks.” Hamish signed off and leaned back in his chair a moment, his finger moving over the cotton just above his scar. He’d been told his left shoulder blade might ache at the promise of rain as he got older, but other than that, he was fine and dandy. Hamish was happy to have recovered, but the scar reminded him not only of Mark Suave but of the last time he had seen his cousin.

  When noon arrived, he waited for Reggie’s appearance from Mrs. Rue’s on the floor below.

  He waited a half hour, then checked the stairs and through the window of Mrs. Rue’s offic
e. He wondered if she was sick. It was unlike her to be late. He was about to worry when someone pushed the slightly ajar door open.

  “Are you Mr. DeLuca?”

  Hamish rose quickly, almost toppling back his chair. It was Errol Parker, shortstop for the Boston Patriots. Even at close proximity and in civilian clothes, Hamish recognized the figure who so often ensured team victories. He was even taller than Hamish had imagined from seeing him on the field and in photos in the sports section of the newspaper.

  “Yes. Please, sit.” His voice tripped slightly, not from anxiety but from encountering a man who satiated Nate’s desire to find the next Lefty Grove.

  Errol lowered into a chair that barely contained him. Strong shoulders stretched a well-worn but pressed collared shirt and a tie slightly shorter than fashionable length. He kept his smartly collared trench coat on.

  Parker folded his hat in his lap after shaking Hamish’s hand in a strong grip.

  “My name is Errol Parker, and I am—”

  “You’re Robin Hood! I know who you are. You steal bases for the Patriots.”

  Errol’s grin widened. “You’re a fan.”

  Hamish blinked, nodding. “You’re the best base stealer I have ever seen.”

  “Why, thank you.” Errol didn’t possess any false modesty. He bowed his head politely.

  “The Red Sox could use you!”

  Errol turned his hat in his hands. “They could use me, Mr. DeLuca, couldn’t they? But they won’t.” He looked at Hamish pointedly and Hamish put the pieces of the puzzle together.

  “Their loss,” Hamish said, knowing it was the color of the man’s skin and not his prodigious talent that kept him from Fenway even before Errol had to explain. “So many limitations to our city of liberty.”

  Errol inclined his head. “Exactly. But you say our, and forgive me, but you don’t sound a thing like a Massachusetts native. No Harvard Yard in your voice, Mr. DeLuca.”

  Hamish smiled. “Please, my name is Hamish. And I am not from Boston. Toronto, actually. Boston is my appropriated home.”

  “Toronto! Canada! Great baseball there. The Maple Leafs. Babe Ruth’s first professional home run on—”

  “Hanlan’s Point!” Hamish finished enthusiastically, hoping Errol Parker’s reason for calling on him wasn’t so drastic it would cut through their growing rapport.

  “Exactly. Well, Mr. De . . . Hamish. I am so glad I found you. I thought I had come to the right place.”

  Hamish cocked his head. Despite Errol’s amiable tone, there was something under the surface. Hamish’s chest twitched. He hated inauthenticity, wanting to find the quickest way to unearth the problem underneath. “I hope you have.”

  “Trouble is, I have been everywhere and no one will help me. Not the police. Not any of the private investigators I called on. Don’t think it is because you were my last choice. I just didn’t know you were a choice. But I frequent Mrs. Leoni’s when I am on this side of the river—don’t tell my trainer, he’d have a thing or two to say about cannoli during spring training—and she sensed something was wrong.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I can pay you,” Errol said.

  “I am not concerned about that. I am more concerned that you haven’t been able to find help. My associate—Miss Van Buren—will be along here, but I promise you we will work together and do whatever you need.”

  “You’re a good soul, Hamish. I can tell. I can always tell. And you know your baseball. I know men like me never make the major leagues. But there was a player named Moses Walker who everyone forgets about. It was years ago. I am foolish enough to think I still have a chance. The next Walker. A pipe dream, I suppose, but a chance. You’ve seen me on the field. I am not trying to brag. I just want you to know I know my skills. I know that I can steal a base and I am the fastest man on the team. My coach is a good man and he has arranged for a few scouts from the Sox to see me. No one has wanted to take the chance. Not yet. No matter how badly they think it could work. Shame, isn’t it? Haven’t won the pennant in twenty years. I can slug along with the best of them. But I just want to play, Hamish. That’s all. And I am not too prideful to harbor any resentment when the news is bad. But lately I get the feeling that someone really doesn’t want me to play.” He fingered the brim of the hat in his lap. “I am used to the jeers and names and the occasional scrawl on my locker. I grew up in Boston. My father was a doctor. A respectable family name. And baseball was always my passion. I can keep a steady pitch when playing an away game with the crowd yelling who knows what in my ear. I am not easily waylaid. I am focused. I have to be if I want to be the next Moses Walker. But lately . . .” Errol took a deep breath. “The pranks have gotten worse. It’s no longer names and paint and a spitball.”

  Hamish was following the story so intently, Reggie’s appearance startled his glasses down his nose.

  “Oh!” she said as Errol instinctively rose. “We have company.” Reggie smiled broadly and extended her hand.

  “My name is Errol Parker. Miss Van Buren, I understand.”

  Reggie shook his hand firmly. “The true Regina Van Buren is turning over in the family plot in New Haven, a relic of the Revolution, so please . . . no misses or Reginas. Call me Reggie.”

  Errol grinned and the tension of his story dissolved a moment. “Yes, Reggie. A pleasure.”

  Reggie perched on the end of her desk and crossed her distracting legs distractingly. Hamish blinked and nudged his glasses up his nose and turned his attention back to their client.

  “Mr. Parker . . . Errol,” Hamish corrected in response to his client’s look, “was just starting to tell me about some unfortunate pranks.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “Reggie isn’t as familiar with baseball, Errol. Reg, Errol Parker is known as Robin Hood, the fastest base stealer in the minor leagues and the toast of the Boston Patriots who play in Southie.”

  “You exaggerate,” Errol complained, but his eyes sparkled nonetheless.

  “A baseball player! How exciting.”

  “I keep trying to teach her,” Hamish said.

  “I know baseball!” Reggie flashed Hamish a look. “There’s bats on a field and a wicket and a bowler and—”

  “That’s cricket, Reg.”

  “Well. It all sounds the same to me.” She winked at Errol, who returned an easy smile.

  “And I was just telling Hamish here that the police didn’t listen and no private investigator would take my case. You see, I am used to a certain level of taunting and teasing and pranks and bullying. It’s part of the game. Even players from opposing teams who do not possess my color are victim to childishness and initiation, especially in the minor leagues. It’s a rite of passage. But lately . . .” Errol swallowed. “Someone put a heart in my locker.”

  “A-a what?” Reggie gulped.

  “A heart. I smelled it, and then the sticky . . .” Errol shook his head. “A true heart. Not a human heart, I learned. A pig heart. Scared the daylights out of me and my mate Jeb Brownling.” He looked to Hamish. “First base.”

  “You reported it to the club?” Hamish asked.

  “And they could do nothing. But it wasn’t just the . . .” Errol turned his hat over. “Threats are seen as empty. Even stupid horrible pranks. My nephew Toby came to a game and I waited and waited and . . . Toby is just sixteen. Just sixteen. Loves baseball. Works hard too. For someone at the docks. Irish fellow by the name of Kelly. Not the friendliest, but the kid is paid regularly.”

  Hamish looked from Errol, who had paused, to Reggie to Errol again.

  “I couldn’t find him for hours. He said he’d wait and we’d grab a bite to eat. But, Hamish, when I found him . . .” Errol shook his head. “ I never want to see anything like that again. They had hurt him. His lip and nose were bleeding. He was shivering. Terrified.”

  Reggie gasped. Hamish felt bile rising in his throat.

  “He said they?”

  “There was more than one. He cou
ldn’t make them all out.”

  “You went to the police?” Reggie was incredulous. “And they did nothing?”

  “Yes, and to several private investigators. Jimmy Orlando even. He works in the North End.”

  Both Reggie and Hamish were familiar with Orlando; he had once occupied office space in their building.

  “And no one wants to take it. They think it is just some team rivalry. And that my nephew may have aggravated them or might have been at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “But to harm a child!” Reggie exclaimed, Hamish watching her whiten.

  “Team rivalry indeed,” Hamish said.

  A New Haven Van Buren did not swear—but if one did it most likely would have been Reggie at this moment. Hamish could see the spark in her eyes.

  “My locker is always home to graffiti and I can’t keep any valuables there. But I never thought it would get violent. That someone would hurt my kid nephew.”

  Hamish realized he had absently begun tapping a pencil fervently on the side of his desk, faster and faster until it flew up and crashed to the floor. “It could just be jealousy.” He watched it roll into a corner by the radiator. “You are by far the most talented player on the team. Don’t believe me? Go next door and ask our friend Nate. He has been following your career since the beginning.” Hamish stretched out his arms. “Do you have any enemies?”

  Errol laughed bitterly; his tone didn’t suit his wide smile and kind eyes. “Several. Several reporters who think the ump’s calls are made in my favor, people who want to see me run off the field, a few angry Irish townies who are miffed at us being here in the first place, lazy businessmen who would never wish violence but wish men like me were swept into a discreet corner. That’s beyond any rivalry from the game itself.” Errol straightened his shoulders.

  “This seems far more drastic than baseball rivalry.” Reggie recrossed her legs.

  “Yes.” Errol nodded. “But not more drastic than crimes men of my color have been persecuted with for years. The baseball field has always been a place for as much equality as we can hope for.”