by Blake Pierce
Minard slammed a hand on his desk. He was getting red in the face, clearly torn in several directions. He leered at both of them before finally, through clenched teeth, asked: “What’s the address, Gold?”
“One-eighty-six Neibolt.”
“Since you’re so damned hot to trot on it, Wimbly, you get out there and see it. As for you, Gold…you can use my office to collect yourself. Then wash up in the locker room and head home. If I see you back here or anywhere near this case, we’re not talking a transfer in the future; we’re talking about the loss of a job.”
“But I discovered the grave, sir. I should go with him.”
“Do you not think Detective Wimbly is smart enough to find a mound of dirt you went digging through this morning?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Go home, Gold. I’m not going to tell you again.”
With that, Minard stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Frank looked down at her with a grim expression. “I have to ask…are you sure about this one?”
“Yes. There were holes in the cellar floor where police looked for the body. But she’s in the back…where a flower garden used to be.”
“William Gault, right? I’ll pull his records. You think he’s the killer?”
“If he’s not it’s an enormous coincidence,” she said dryly. Already, though, her thoughts were turning back to Deidre Idelman, the guilt still sinking in like hooks. She looked to her dirty hands as Frank left the office and could only hope the speed she noted in his step meant that somehow, he was still willing to take her seriously.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
When she washed the grime and sweat away in the locker room, she felt as if she’d washed the day itself away, too. Somehow, it had become four in the afternoon. When she left the precinct under the scrutinizing eyes of just about everyone in the bullpen and lobby, she could not quite recall where the time had gone. How long had she been digging behind that house? How long had she wept in the shower while the dirt of a shallow grave washed down the drain?
When she came to her father’s gym, she was surprised to find the door locked. She peered through the windows and found the place totally empty. She could not recall her father ever closing up early, and he was usually there until six most nights—or even as late as seven or eight if he had a promising pupil in training.
Curious and slightly worried, she walked the six blocks to her apartment building. When she opened the door, she saw her father at the sink, washing dishes. She was pretty sure it was the first time she’d ever seen him wash a dish. He turned to her, surprised.
“You’re home early,” he said.
“Same to you,” she offered. “Where’s Jeffrey?”
“You know, I think I might have worn him out today. I let him have some fun with the punching bags. He was at it for hours. So he’s napping.”
“Jeffrey’s taking a nap?” she asked.
“He is. Wonders never cease.”
“Why’d you close early?” she asked, sitting down at the kitchen table. She felt drained, weary. More than that, a sharp and unforgiving guilt was starting to eat her from the inside. While Frank had done his best to assure her that Deidre’s death was not her fault, she could not be convinced otherwise. It was almost like she’d sent her directly to the killer—or at least that’s how she was starting to feel. Christ, she was lucky Minard hadn’t just fired her right away.
She looked over to her father and knew she needed to tell him everything, but it was going to be so hard. He’d worry, naturally, and she feared that same old conversation would arise—how she really had no business in this line of work.
“No one was coming and the only lesson I had this evening came by around lunch and cancelled on me. So after Jeffrey came in from after school and ran hell on the punching bags, we came home. We’ve only been here for about half an hour or so and—” He stopped here, sitting down to the table and looking across at his daughter. “Ava…what is it? What’s wrong?”
She was nearly in tears when she said: “Did you have the radio on at all today?”
“Nah. It’s too distracting at the gym. Why?”
“I was interviewed by Hank Armstrong, an old jazz friend of mine.”
“You were on the radio?” Roosevelt asked, shocked.
“I was. You know, I always wanted to be heard singing on the radio. But instead, I was interviewed about being a member of the Women’s Bureau.” She eyed him cautiously and added: “For being at the center of a high-profile case?”
“The same one you had to leave for the other night?”
She nodded, and the tears came freely. Through them she told him everything, starting with Frank Wimbly’s suggestion that she be put on the hatchet killer case for a form of publicity and distraction. She went through the arrest of Tony Two and that’s when her father started interrupting.
“Hold on,” he said. “You’re taking down monsters?”
“Yeah,” she said, realizing just how foolish it sounded.
“I don’t know if I should be terrified for your safety or impressed.”
She gave him a weak smile and said, “I suppose it can be both, right?”
With the story coming a bit easier now, she continued on, telling him about how she had chased down Lester Stubbs, as well as the aftermath of the Stubbs arrest. She ended with finding the shallow grave and then learning about Deidre’s death. By then, she felt as if a priest had come by and exorcised her. She watched her father’s face shift through about a million different emotions but at the end, when she was out of words and her face was soaked with tears, he reached out and took her hand.
“You know I was up for a title shot at one point, right?” he said.
The comment was so unexpected that Ava wondered if she’d heard him correctly. “What?”
“I got a title shot one time. One of the best moments of my life.”
As he sat back in his chair, Ava figured he had a point. For most of her life, she’d listened to him spout boxing analogies—most of which eventually helped significantly. So she sat there, emotionally exhausted, and listened.
“The problem is, I got it because I was getting victories left and right and people were starting to know my name. The champ at the time had beaten every lug in the circuit and wanted someone new. So when the promoter came calling with the opportunity and a hefty payday, I took it. But I was too young, too inexperienced, too cocky. I put up a good fight, but ultimately went down in the sixth round. I was never the same after that, of course. I stuck it out for another two years but, as you know, ended up calling it quits after smashing my hand. I still miss the thrill of stepping in that ring to trade blows with another joe. But I love the life I have now…you, Jeffrey, and the gym.” He smiled and nodded, finishing with: “Yeah, I’d say it all turned out pretty great.”
She did not ask for an explanation. She knew what he was trying to say. He was telling her that she had stepped into the pressure of it all far too soon—only a few days into the job, in fact. It was too much, and she had set herself up to fail.
She wasn’t angry with his approach. After all, he was right. Not only that, but she also knew that it came from a place of love and support.
“You okay?” he asked, still holding her hand.
She saw the deteriorated corpse in her mind, peeking up to her from the shallow grave. She saw Deidre’s face, her thin smile and strong jaw. No. No, she was not okay. But she couldn’t tell her father.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I think a nap with Jeffrey might be just the ticket.”
He smiled, as if he understood completely. Ava left the kitchen and made her way back to Jeffrey’s room. His back was turned to her and she watched his back move with his breathing. She nestled down beside him slowly, not wanting to wake him up. And as she rested her arm over him, it both broke her heart and angered her that all she could think about was the killer.
He’d made her job miserable and
now, somehow, he’d even invaded her thoughts at home. She saw the dark alleyways knitted together behind her closed lids and saw shadows moving through them. She saw—
“Mom?”
She opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry and when she moved her head, there was a light ache in her neck. Somehow, she’d fallen asleep. Jeffrey was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair messy from the nap.
“Hey, kiddo. Grandpa tells me you’re magic on those bags.”
“Yeah, it was fun,” he said, making a fist. “He says my jab is weak but my hook is lethal.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said. “Your grandpa has a pretty mean hook, too.”
“Why were you napping?” Jeffrey asked. “Was it a bad day at work?”
“It was a little rough, yeah,” she said. She was alarmed at just how eager she was to cry in that moment; she felt it behind the wall she’d built up, surging and pushing like a stubborn tidal force.
But even with Jeffrey there in front of her, she still saw the alleys in her mind, a network of secret places for the killer to roam and hunt. And having it creep in while she sat with Jeffrey in his room, she felt like her life was being invaded. She knew in that moment that she was never going to be able to get on with her life—with or without a position within the Women’s Bureau—if this case wasn’t solved. She did not want to pursue this job if she did not legitimately think she could efficiently do her part to make this world a safer place for her son. She would not let the same sort of world that had taken her husband constantly be a threat to Jeffrey.
She could not give up on this. But at the same time, she could also not disobey Minard.
A knock at Jeffrey’s door startled her. Her father poked his head in and shook his head. “Bunch of lazy bums, sleeping the day away. Come on, now, I’ve attempted to make dinner while you pansies were sleeping.”
Jeffrey was up and running after Roosevelt right away. Ava got up from the bed and followed after them and for a disorienting moment, she saw a dark alleyway ahead of her rather than her son’s bedroom doorway. She stood motionless for a moment, realizing that she had to go on. Somehow, she had to remain on this case and find the killer or it would haunt her forever.
***
Ava waited until her father was asleep before she headed out. Taking his snores as an indicator, Ava checked on Jeffrey, kissing him on the head. She then left the apartment and headed out to the streets. She was well aware of how dangerous it was—how absolutely risky it was—but she could not stay in her apartment while her mind was on the killer. Her hope was that the streets at night would spur something, would help her to make connections the safety and love of her apartment might hinder.
She did not have Clarence’s Model 10 because when she even considered the notion of bringing it, it felt like an invitation to danger. She did still have her whistle, which she’d instinctively worn out of the precinct after her shower. She felt it against her chest as she walked down the familiar streets. When she came to alleyways, she peered down them as if expecting the killer to be there, waiting for her.
She had no destination in mind, just relying on the streets and the night to speak to her. She recalled how Clarence would often take walks at night just to clear his head, to get a feel for the shape, size, and breadth of the growing city. She ran the current milestones of the hatchet killer case through her head, hoping to make sense of it all—hoping that at some point during the afternoon Frank had indeed headed out to Neibolt Street to properly inspect the shallow grave. She went through the chain of events that she would take if they knew without a doubt that William Gault was the killer. She wondered what steps would be taken after the grave was properly investigated after Gault’s records were passed around the precinct.
She halted her thoughts when she realized she had ended up nearing the construction site of the Chrysler Building. The progress being made was quite spectacular, even to the casual passerby. The ingenuity and progress present in the nearly twenty-five stories that had already been framed was incredible. It made her ache for Clarence, who had always been fascinated with construction sites. Once, when she asked him why construction appealed to him, he’d answered with a simple statement that had always stuck with her: Because human beings are simple creatures and the construction of large buildings is proof that despite our simplicity, we have grand ambitions.
She thought of that comment as she looked at what was to eventually become the Chrysler Building. She also wondered what Clarence might do if he was in the thick of her current situation. How would he evaluate the murderer? What strategies would he use to track the killer down?
Staring at the construction site, she thought about how he had sometimes come home with stories from work—most notably how he often came to a conclusion that helped to break a case. She thought of how Clarence might come up with a way to find the killer and then, in a moment of clarity that nearly dwarfed the construction in front of her, it slowly started coming to her.
She thought of the victims, one by one. Two women who were huge advocates for women’s rights. One woman who used her body to enhance her job, getting tips and being a constant object of lust and affection. And then, of course, there was Deidre Idelman—a female cop. They were all women who had a degree of power and influence.
But killing a cop…that was sheer insanity.
Unless he heard the interview, a voice in her head said, and by God it almost sounded like Clarence. What if he heard the interview yesterday and chose to come after you? But maybe he just couldn’t be patient enough…maybe he killed the first woman cop he saw.
If that was the case, he certainly knew by now that he’d killed the wrong cop. And if he was truly out to kill women in powerful positions…
Ava smiled, gazing up at the struts and girders of the building-in-progress.
A plan started to unfold in her head and when it did, it came quickly. When she turned and walked back toward her apartment building, she had a blueprint that might lure the killer out. And by the time she laid her head back on her pillow half an hour later, she had a full-fledged plan.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Frank stopped her as she entered the door. Behind him, the precinct was not yet truly alive with the morning buzz. She knew this meant Minard would not be in yet—which had been part of her plan. And now it looked like Frank was going to mess it up. She knew that if Minard came in the doors in the next few minutes and saw her, she’d be done for.
“I just need to get down to the Women’s Bureau for a second,” she said.
“What for?”
“Frank, please…I can’t just let this sit. And…I was sort of hoping you’d come with me.”
“With you?” he asked, clearly shocked. “Where?”
“Downstairs. But just for a few minutes. I have a plan. I’m pretty sure I can draw the killer out.”
“You know how crazy you sound, right?”
“I do,” she admitted. “But I can’t just ignore this. I can’t just stop it.”
Frank looked around the precinct. The bullpen was basically empty, but Ava knew that he was aware it would be a very different story in about half an hour. When he looked back to her, there was worry in his eyes.
“You’re obsessed, you know that?” he said.
“No. I just need to get this killer. I have to prove it to—”
“Ava, you have nothing to prove.”
“I have to prove it to myself. And if I screw it up, the worse that happens is that Minard fires me. Which it seems he might be ready to do anyway.”
“Fine,” he said. “Five minutes, Gold. Five minutes and then I’m coming right back up here. And this plan had better be good.”
She said nothing else and headed straight for the WB. From what she could tell, no one paid much attention to her as she crossed the building and headed downstairs. She opened the door and, as she expected, only found Frances and Lottie.
“Cor
rect me if I’m wrong,” Frances said. “But you’re not supposed to be here, are you?”
“That’s right,” Ava said.
“So is he here to arrest you?” Lottie asked, nodding to Frank with sarcasm.
“Frances…I have a plan,” Ava said. “And it’s going to be so much easier if the three of you can help.”
“What sort of plan?” Frances asked.
“To finally get this killer. I know I can do it…I know what he’s gunning for. I just need a bit of help.”
“And he’s helping?” Frances asked, pointing to Frank.
“I don’t know yet,” Frank said. “I’m still waiting to hear the plan.”
All three of them looked to Ava and she started to speak. Even to her own ears it sounded crazy at first but by the time she was done, she felt certain it would work. There was not a single doubt in the world. Not even when Frances made the first comment.
“You’re out of your pretty little mind,” she said.
It wasn’t the first time Ava had heard this statement, but it was the first time she’d heard it from a woman. Frances glared at her from across her desk. Ava had expected it, but she wasn’t going to be silenced so easily. It was 8:30 in the morning and she understood that her theory and her plan were a bit too much to buy into at such an early hour.
Ava was currently standing in the center of the WB office. Frances was stationed at her desk, and Lottie was standing to the right. They were the only two to come in today on the heels of Deidre’s death. Standing just inside the doorway, Frank Wimbly eyed Ava with something very close to distrust. He’d refused to come down here with her at first, citing Minard’s orders for her to stay away. She looked at him now, hoping his account might help sway Frances and Lottie.
“Detective Wimbly,” she said, “why did you decide to come down here with me? It was evident upstairs that you did not want to.”
He rolled his eyes at her, apparently aware of what she was trying to do. Ava knew that he was on to her—he knew she was putting him on the spot in front of these other two female cops. She was using him as validation. “First of all, because Captain Minard isn’t here to scream at both of us. Secondly, because I visited the house on Neibolt Street and saw the shallow grave. The body was exhumed, and it was clearly evident that the woman was killed with three sharp blows to the head with a hatchet.”