by Blake Pierce
She could tell from the look on his face that Jack was irritated. She’d seen that look many times as he’d spoken to difficult musicians and rowdy patrons. She also knew that Jack was not the sort of man to crack. The look on his face did make her wonder what, exactly, the detective was asking. Ever the opportunist, Ava walked toward the table. She hesitated, sensing the importance of the moment, but pushed herself on regardless. She faintly heard Frances hissing her name behind her.
As Ava approached the table, she started to hear some of what Jack was saying. And yes, he was irritated. She knew that Jack and his co-owner ran a basement speakeasy out of the Key Factory so even if he wanted to be cooperative (which was unlikely), he would keep his trap shut.
“…and you coppers are always just looking for reasons to snoop around our clubs,” Jack was saying. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Sorry, mac, but unless you have a warrant or an actual reason to be in here snooping around, I need you to leave.”
The detective—a handsome forty-something gentleman with salt and pepper hair and a thick jaw—grimaced. He looked like a cool, refined sort…but also the sort of man who would lose that very same cool over something small and insignificant. Ava could see it in the way he furrowed his brow, as if he were resting all of his burdens there, waiting at any moment for it to all slide off and crack open his frustrations. The irritation in his expression was obvious. Ava could see that he was about to get up from the table.
“Now, Jack,” Ava said, putting far more cheer into her voice than she was accustomed to. “Is that any way to speak to a guest?”
Jack Dooley looked up at her, genuinely confused for a moment. But when the recognition landed, his face lit up and he sprang up out of his chair. “Hot damn! Ava Gold, where the hell have you been?”
He lumbered over and gave her an immense hug. The detective watched this all with mild annoyance; Ava caught a peek of his expression from over Jack’s shoulder. Jack broke the hug, looked at her with great interest for a moment, and then frowned.
“Ava, my lovely, I’d love to chin with you a bit, but as you can see, I’m having to entertain the fuzz today.”
“Now, Mr. Dooley,” the detective said, “you aren’t trying to get lippy with me, are you?” He then cut his eyes toward Ava and said, “And Ava Gold, don’t you think I don’t know who you are. You have no business here and I think I can handle this on my own.”
“Hey, now,” Jack said angrily. “Mrs. Gold is a dear friend of mine and I won’t—”
Ava cut him off with the wave of a hand. She glanced back and saw Frances watching the scene play out. She looked absolutely mortified.
“He’s right, Jack. It might upset you to know that I’m a copper now.” She gave him a playful smile and then, under her breath, said, “But they sure as hell don’t treat me like a cop.”
“You pulling my leg?”
“Not at all. I’m brand new, a member of the Women’s Bureau.” She showed him the whistle around her neck and said, “Why else would I carry around this ridiculous thing?”
“Well then, Officer Gold,” Jack said. “Why don’t you take some notes from this here Detective Wimbly on how to not go about asking people for information?”
“Hold it right there,” Wimbly said, getting to his feet. “How do you two know one another?”
“Once upon a time,” Jack said, “Ava Gold was one of the better jazz singers to grace the stage at the Key Factory. At a few other places in town I won’t name, too. If she really is working for your kind, I consider it a miserable waste of talent.”
“I appreciate that,” Ava said. “But listen, Jack: there was a woman killed out in that alley back behind your club yesterday. I’m pretty sure Detective Wimbly is just trying to get to the bottom of it.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that,” Jack said. “But he’s going about it as if he owns my club. And you know how it is in establishments like this. The cops are always looking for some excuse to push in on you, to bully in and get whatever they want. Come in just to check a so-called suspect and end up closing the damned place down.”
“Mr. Dooley, I’m not—” Wimbly started.
But Ava interrupted him. Wimbly looked as if someone had socked him right in the jaw. She heard Frances shifting uncomfortably behind her.
“Now, Jack, do you think I’d be vouching for someone who would do that to you?”
Jack sighed and looked back and forth between them—which was rather awkward, as Ava had never met Wimbly before. Right now, she was trying not only to reconnect with an old friend, but to prove a point to Wimbly and the rest of the male police force. For all she knew, Wimbly could be just as bad as the jabroni she’d decked in the locker room this morning. But in the moment, this felt right.
“What do you need to know, Ava?” Jack asked. He gave Wimbly what Clarence had always called a pie-eating grin when he asked her directly.
“You knew there had been a murder, right?” Ava asked.
“I did. A bad one, too.”
Wimbly spoke up, making sure not to be omitted. “Her name was Evelyn White. Did you know her?”
When Jack answered, he was still looking only at Ava. “Not well, but yes, I knew who she was. She came in here from time to time for some early sets. A looker, that’s for sure. But she was rarely here with the same man twice. That sort of lady, you know?”
“Did she ever cause trouble?” Ava asked. “Maybe flirt a little too much and get two fellas squawking over her?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Can you remember anything at all about her? Anything that sticks out?”
“She was really big into the women’s movement,” Jack said. “She was in here sometimes with a lot of other ladies making all kinds of fuss about politics and voting and all that. Nothing bad but, you know…she wanted to be noticed.”
“Can you think of any men she might have been with who were men of influence?” Ava asked.
Jack thought about it for a moment and shook his head. “Nope, Just a bunch of average Joes as far as I can tell.”
Ava looked over to Detective Wimbly and shrugged. “Anything you’d like to add, Detective?”
Wimbly looked dumbfounded at first but then nodded. “Shoot straight with me, Mr. Dooley. Are there normally any criminal activities conducted in that alley?”
The bit of clam Jack had managed to claim dissolved slowly. “You know, there are at least three other businesses on this street that share that alley! Have you questioned them as thoroughly? But to answer your question, the only crimes I know of that take place in that alley from time to time are sex crimes…but all consensual, if you get my drift.”
Ava watched Wimbly struggle to find a response or another question, but there was nothing.
“Now, can I get back to work?”
Wimbly seemed hesitant to answer, so Ava did it for him. “Yes, Jack. Thanks for your help. And it sure is good seeing you again.”
“You need to get yourself back up on my stage,” Jack said.
“Maybe one day.” Though deep down, she honestly didn’t know if it was true. She hadn’t given it any honest thought for several months. And now with Clarence gone, it seemed like a very distant dream.
As Jack made his way to the other side of the club, back behind the little food counter where drinks used to be served, Ava looked at Wimbly. She figured she deserved the verbal lashing she was about to get. She knew she’d stepped way out of line just to prove a point and now she was going to pay for it.
Instead, she got something a little different. Wimbly got to his feet and gave her a very faint smile. “I gotta tell you, Gold…you’ve gone and put me right behind the eight ball.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, your endless guts for one. I can’t deny that you’re either brave or really dumb. And I doubt Clarence Gold married himself a dumb broad. On top of that, you did a fine job of questioning him. Old acquaintance or not, it’s plain to see you have a shine for this.”
>
She had not been expecting the compliments—backhanded or not. She was taken aback for a second, but managed to keep some semblance of control.
“And that troubles you?” Ava asked. She was faintly aware that Frances had tiptoed forward to get an ear in.
“Me, personally? No. But I sort of get the sense you’re going to cause some trouble along the way. If you make it, of course.”
He gave her another smile and headed for the door. Frances approached her and gave her a stern look that was betrayed by the happiness in her eyes.
“One of these days, you’re going to cause me to have a stroke,” Frances said. “But honestly…if you can keep putting men in their place like that, it might very well be worth it.”
“Let’s not get too excited,” Ava said as they walked back to the door, several paces behind Wimbly. “I might have gotten Jack Dooley to talk, but we still don’t have any answers.”
“Your use of the word we scares me,” Frances said. “You know you can’t just go off looking into this case as if you were a male police officer, right?”
Ava chose to say nothing, still lightly floating on the compliments Wimbly had given her. Yet as they headed back out onto the street, she was reminded of her vow to speak directly with Captain Minard, requesting that she be put on the case. She was going to get it done, and there was no amount of violent, self-involved men attacking her in locker rooms in the world that was going to stop her.
She was going to ask to be put on the case. She was going to be firm and direct with Minard—and if she was laughed out of the building, so be it. At least she had tried. At least she had not settled for the WB basement when she knew she had so much more to offer.
CHAPTER TEN
As casually as he could, he moved away from under the sundry store canopy. He pretended to check a watch he wasn’t even wearing, and then started walking forward. He held his left arm close to him, securing the handle of the hatchet that was tucked into his pants. It made walking a bit difficult and every now and then the point along the end of the blade nicked him slightly. That was okay, though; he rather enjoyed it.
He studied her perfect curves and golden hair. As he did, the voice in his head was louder than ever. The shrill, phantomlike voice of his mother, teasing and taunting. Tonight, his latest object of interest had made a serious mistake; she had come out with friends. They were all pretty, though in a vain and almost glaring way. The way the men they passed all looked at them was clearly what they were going for. Just another way to lure…another way to control. They now had the right to vote, had a visible dream of equality, and some of them sure as hell had let it go to their head.
The night seemed to go his way near midnight when the three of them came out of the club. He was already a bit ahead of the direction he knew she would be walking—to her little apartment maybe. Or possibly her parents’ place. He still wasn’t sure if she was living alone or with her parents. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t be making it back there tonight—especially given that one of her friends had come out of the club clinging to a large man smoking a cigar. He watched as she drunkenly waved goodbye to her friends, her arm around the man’s waist, his hand on her ass.
He had been following her for a few days now, so he knew where she lived. He also knew that she believed she was untouchable—that none of life’s burdens and sadness would ever befall her. Perhaps that’s why she thought her friend was enough protection as she walked the half a mile from the club to her home.
But he also knew where this friend lived. They’d chatted on her stoop from time to time. And it was there that he planned to make his move. He could see it up ahead right now, a well-to-do little apartment building. A lone man sat on the stoop, writing in a book and smoking a cigarette.
He hurried his pace just a bit, his head lowered and looking at the street. When he passed the friend’s stoop, a flurry of excitement erupted in his heart. It took everything within him not to pull out the hatchet. He started nervously muttering to himself. He was aware of it, and he did his best to keep it quiet. He thought of his mother and the hatchet and it was all he could do to contain himself.
He heard her laughing softly somewhere behind him. When he came to the edge of the apartment building, he eyed the alley up ahead, between another apartment building and a tailor’s shop.
Look at you, his mother’s voice said. Hiding in the shadows like a damn coward…
He shut the voice down, willing a dark curtain to come down in his mind over it—over everything except the woman at the stoop.
Somewhere behind him, he heard the smoking man speak to them. “It’s late at night for two beauties like you to be walking home alone, isn’t it?”
He smiled; things just couldn’t get any better. If questions arose later, the friend would certainly remember the smoking man with his journal and his comment.
As the women made muttered responses, he slipped into the alleyway. It was grimy and dark. No one else inhabited it, though he did see a stray dog lying sleepily against the tailor’s shop a bit farther back.
He listened to them chatting, laughing. He feared his lady might go inside and enjoy herself a bit more, maybe a few more drinks if her friend had somehow managed to procure a bottle or two somewhere along the line. After all, prohibition in New York City was taken seriously, but it was quite easy to get your hands on some juice if you knew where to look.
But no…he heard them utter a few goodbyes. And then he heard her footsteps. The smoking man said nothing else, and he could imagine the bastard eyeing his lady from behind.
He pulled out the hatchet and waited. Time seemed to freeze and even his breath felt like it had stopped. He heard her coming and imagined he could even smell her—her perfume, her sweat, the liquor that was surely on her breath.
He took a deep breath and then there she was. He saw her hair fluttering in the breeze, almost golden, and then her shoulder. Reaching out with his free hand, he clutched her and pulled her into the alley.
She opened her mouth to scream, but he’d already brought the hatchet around. It landed just above her left eye and the impact of it caused the fingers gripping the hatchet to shudder. Her knees went out and she collapsed to the ground. He hunkered down, seeing that she was still breathing and trembling. He drew the hatchet back and buried it again.
In that moment, the sound it made was the only noise in the world.
It was even louder than his mother’s voice in his head and for that, he was grateful.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ava was walking Jeffrey to school and her mind was so obsessed with thoughts of the case that she barely heard the two men in front of her. They were speaking visually, as well-to-do men often did on their way to work.
“You hear about this?” the well-dressed man in the fedora said to the man walking beside him. He held a newspaper out to his friend. “Seems there’s madman loose.”
“Yeah,” the other man said, glancing at the newspaper. “It’s a damn shame.”
Ava, who had barely even looked at the newspaper, glanced ahead curiously to see what they were talking about. She wondered if it was another article about the murder of Evelyn White.
“I beg your pardon,” Ava said, hurrying forward a bit. “A madman?”
Both men turned around. They were well-dressed and very clean—likely bankers or lawyers. There were quite a few of them on the streets around the area of Jeffrey’s school in the mornings, on the way to work.
“So sorry,” the man with the paper said. “Wasn’t trying to spook the boy.”
“No, it’s not that. I just…I heard about that woman the other day.”
“Oh, well, looks like there’s been another. Last night, in fact.” He showed her the paper, keeping it high up as if to protect Jeffrey’s eyes from the headlines.
The story wasn’t the main headline (she imagined the story was far too recent to snatch that amount of weight) but was on the front page, near the bottom. The headline
read: Second victim of ‘hatchet-killer’ found moments after death!
“This happened last night?” she asked the men.
“It sure did. It’s just not a safe city any more. It’s getting too damned big.” He frowned, looked at Jeffrey, and then offered the paper to Ava. “Help yourself, ma’am. And do keep safe.”
Ava read the article, though there was not much. A woman named Annie Tate had been killed on her way home from a high-end club last night. She had been stabbed in the head with what appeared to be the same weapon that had killed Evelyn White. She was killed in an alley just a block away from her best friend’s apartment and less than four blocks from her own home. The article ended stating the police seem ill prepared to handle an ever-growing population where many people think they can get away with pretty much anything.
“You okay, Mom?” Jeffrey asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Just a very sad story. But you don’t need to hear about that.” She tucked the newspaper under her arm and took his hand.
“Is it about cop stuff?” he asked, undeterred.
“Yes, it is. But you don’t need to worry about cop stuff. You need to worry about school stuff.”
“Is it okay for me to tell everyone at school you’re with the police now?” he asked. He looked to the ground when he asked, as if he was slightly embarrassed.
“That’s your choice,” she said. “I know you were very proud to tell everyone your dad was a police officer. You just need to know that some people don’t think women really deserve a place with the police.”
“Well, that’s dumb.”
“I’m glad you think so,” she said as his school came into view. She knelt down and gave him a hug. “Take it easy on Grandpa this evening. I should be there to pick you up on time today.”
Jeffrey hugged her back in a way growing kids did—fierce, but brief. She watched him hurry across the street, pausing for a puttering black Studebaker. When she turned her eyes back to the newspaper, it was quite a contrast. But it also got her hurrying to work, now more eager than ever to speak with Captain Minard about being put on this case. She could not quite figure out why, but she felt close to these crimes now—perhaps because she, like the witness in the story, had seen this killer and had been unable to stop him.