In the Shadow of Gotham (21 page)

“Please,” I said. Given what Mrs. Leab had said, Alistair was otherwise occupied tonight. I, on the other hand, would have plenty of time to review the materials on my train ride home.

After Isabella again declined my offer to escort her home, I left the building with Horace beside me. To ease the awkwardness, I felt compelled to make conversation.

“You’re heading home?” I asked.

“Not yet. I’m going to an important rally tonight held by the Municipal Owner’s League,” said Horace, his voice clipped and hurried.

“Who?” I asked.

“The independent party Hearst founded.” Horace was appalled I hadn’t remembered. “tonight’s rally is meant to show that reform-minded people won’t be intimidated by Tammany.”

“I haven’t had much time to follow the election news given
the investigation,” I said to placate him. “But I saw the headlines around town. Everyone seems to agree Tuesday’s contest was crooked.”

It was true. Even William Randolph Hearst’s archenemies supported him. Hearst, as owner of the
Journal
, was neither liked nor particularly respected among his competitors. But his main rival, the
World
, and even the conservative
Sun
conceded Hearst had grounds to contest the official vote tally.

“Blatant thievery is what it was!” Horace was indignant. “You saw what happened to me Tuesday.” He gestured to his purple bruise. “It was even worse for working-class voters downtown. I can’t believe there’s even a chance that cheat McClellan may stay in office.” He practically spat as he spoke.

Seeking more congenial ground, I ventured, “Is your fiancée also involved with tonight’s rally? I believe Isabella mentioned you were to be married next summer.”

But I had asked the wrong question. Angry and hurt, Horace explained his fiancée had recently broken off their engagement.

I cast about for a different topic, for Horace’s agitation was becoming stronger the more we talked along these lines.

“How long have you been helping Alistair with his research?” I asked.

“Almost seven years. I was here as an undergraduate, too, and my biology advisor briefly partnered with Professor Sinclair. He dropped his association a couple years ago, but I stayed on. The work satisfies my fellowship obligation without my having to teach.”

Recalling my own days in college, I could well imagine why Horace preferred to avoid the classroom. With his unkempt appearance and nasal voice, he would have been disrespected; the typical student would have made his classroom a misery.

“It has been an education working for Professor Sinclair. Sometimes I learn more than I want. You see, when the professor gets caught up in his own research, he can forget about what’s most important.”

I assumed he meant Alistair forgot important things like eating lunch. Good-naturedly I replied, “But he has Mrs. Leab on his staff to make sure none of you forget to eat.”

Then I looked and saw Horace was serious.

“No,” he said, “I’ve learned things that trouble my conscience and keep me from sleeping at night.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I can see why learning too much about criminals like Fromley would give you nightmares.”

“Well, the professor himself—” Horace stopped himself.

But he had piqued my interest more than I would have liked to admit.

I baited him, hoping he would say more. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Ridiculous to think Alistair could be responsible for giving anyone bad dreams.” I managed to sound amused, which had the effect I intended: He grew frustrated that I had misunderstood him.

“That’s not what I meant. The professor himself is responsible.” He withdrew again. “But I shouldn’t say too much. It’s not my place, and he’s been good to me. Generous with recommendations and assignments, and a couple times he’s helped me out of a real jam.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking steadfastly at the sidewalk below us.

I tried a firmer approach to encourage him. “Alistair is helping me with an important murder investigation. If there is anything you think I should know, I’d say it’s your duty to tell me.”

“Well—” He was reluctant, but after another moment, he began talking. Horace was concerned about Alistair’s methods
as they related to larger political goals. He was bothered, apparently, that Alistair would use his learning to “let criminals go free.” While that was not what I understood to be within Alistair’s concept of rehabilitation, Horace was adamant in his belief.

“He takes his research to court and testifies about the criminal as a
person.
He describes the defendant’s background, outlines why he behaves as he does, and interprets what that behavior means. He predicts the criminal’s entire career path, whether he will become a habitual offender or can be rehabilitated. And in the professor’s view, they
all
can be rehabilitated. He talks in circles until the judge and jury have entirely forgotten about whatever heinous act brought the defendant to trial in the first place. And if that doesn’t work,” he continued, sounding pained, “he resorts to other, less traditional methods. Believe me, there’s nothing the professor will not do to advance his own research.”

“Surely you exaggerate,” I said. But I was listening with no small measure of concern.

“Ask him about Moira Shea sometime—then you’ll see,” Horace said knowingly. “Mention her name just once and see what he says. It will surprise—no, it will shock you, the lengths he has gone to in the name of scientific progress. And you will understand why you should think twice before you trust him.” His tone was now hushed.

I looked him full in the eye, not knowing what to make of him. I accepted that Horace was opinionated and unmannerly, but now he was making a serious allegation against the man who employed him and supported his graduate research. To his credit, he seemed almost ashamed by it.

“I don’t have time for riddles now,” I said. “We are in the
middle of a difficult murder investigation. Either you have something to tell me—or you don’t.”

“You’re right.” He drew himself up. “You should know it, and you may as well hear it from me. Moira Shea is the first girl Michael Fromley murdered. He stabbed her fourteen times. It happened two months before the attempted-murder charges he faced in Catherine Smedley’s case. The police never connected him to the Shea murder. But Alistair Sinclair knew—and did nothing. He aided and abetted Fromley by covering it up, when justice should have sent Fromley to the electric chair.”

He paused a moment to let this information sink in. “Ask him why during the Smedley case, Hogart, the most experienced prosecutor at the DA’s office, was replaced with a rookie just before trial. It has even been rumored”—he bent toward me confidentially—“that the professor bribed Judge Hansen, a close family friend, to lean on the prosecution. The charges were dropped abruptly—and the case dismissed. I’d like to think what I’m telling you isn’t true. But the facts raise a lot of questions.”

I was silent. Horace gave me a final, embarrassed glance. “Better be careful, Detective.”

As soon as he said it, he was gone.

And I was left standing alone at the corner of Broadway and 114th Street, stomach churning, completely aghast that this allegation could have any truth to it.

I began to walk briskly, my feet keeping pace with my turbulent emotions. My anger seethed red-hot, and as I made my way over to Riverside Drive, the peaceful sight of the Hudson glistening in the moonlight did nothing to assuage the raw emotions that had taken hold of me. By instinct, I walked downtown. The shock of betrayal stung sharply: My anger toward Alistair intermingled with disgust at my own failure to recognize his duplicity. If Horace were right, then I had been lied to and taken advantage of in a manner that was completely self-serving. And worse, Alistair had been derelict in duties both ethical and professional. Why hadn’t I questioned him more? Had I been so blinded by his learning that I forgot every instinct I usually followed?

After some twenty blocks, my rage had calmed and cold logic prevailed. The allegations Horace had let slip were serious—and before I could evaluate them, I needed to look Alistair in the eye and hear his response. He was at the opera tonight, Mrs. Leab had said. And for Alistair, attending an opera was a social event as much as a musical one. He maintained a box there, which he had no doubt filled with society friends this evening. It was a tangible reminder that he had been born into a stratosphere of class and wealth I did not fully understand. That, I accepted. But had it created in Alistair a sense of entitlement, of being above the law? That, I could never abide.

I walked back to Broadway and grabbed a cab down to Thirty-ninth Street where the Metropolitan Opera House was located. Fortunately, I arrived just prior to the first intermission—for though the flash of my police credentials yielded information about Alistair’s regular box, it did not persuade the recalcitrant house manager to let me enter during the performance.

“If it’s not a matter of life or death, I can’t do it. Especially during Caruso’s solo—Mr. Conreid would have my job,” the man said stubbornly, referring to the general manager at the Met who was notorious for indulging his newest star. “You’ll have to wait.”

I could have forced the issue, I supposed, but it did not seem worth the fight. From the lobby, I listened to Enrico Caruso’s full-throated tenor as it reached the solo’s crescendo, and found myself hoping that Horace Wood had been mean-spirited or grievously mistaken. Anything but right.

The moment the curtain fell and the lights came up, I made my way to Alistair’s box, pushing against the crowd of well-dressed patrons making their way to the bar. Alistair, luckily, was still seated, casually sipping a glass of champagne as he chatted
with a woman wearing a green gown and glistening jewelry. He did not notice me until I interrupted him.

“Alistair. It’s urgent that I speak with you. Please come downstairs with me.” My voice sounded false and oddly formal, even to my own ears.

“Ziele! What on earth are you doing here?” he said in surprise as he rose halfway out of his seat. “Is something wrong?”

“I need to talk with you,” I said again. “Outside, where we can speak in private.”

“I’ll be downstairs in a moment, then—I’ll meet you outside the lobby. I need a minute here.”

Turning to leave, I overheard Alistair as he made his excuses.

“Valeria, can I get you anything while I’m up?” He addressed the woman beside him.

“Alistair,” she said, pouting, “must you leave right now? With that ill-bred man? Why, he came storming in here, not even dressed in appropriate evening clothes! But I suppose I’ll forgive you if you’ll be so good as to bring me another champagne when you return.” The peal of her flirtatious laugh was the last sound I heard as I left the box.

I had never liked society women. At least, what I had seen of them; after all, I had never known any of them personally. But the ones with whom I had crossed paths, however obliquely, seemed to be stiff and artificial. This lady was certainly no exception.

“Well, Simon,” Alistair said, sounding jovial as he joined me downstairs. “What is so important that you had to pull me away from good music and company in such dramatic fashion?” His cheeks were tinged red from the champagne, and I reflected he would have done well to refuse his last drink.

“Moira Shea,” I said, and the name was an accusation. “I want to hear what you have to say about Moira Shea.”

He flinched ever so slightly, but his tone when he replied remained smooth. “Where did you hear about her? She died over three years ago, and her death has no relevance to our present case.”

Our
case indeed. I resented him more for reminding me of how closely we had partnered together these last crucial days.

“It doesn’t matter where I heard about her. And on this subject, I alone decide what’s relevant to my case.” The words came out even more forcefully than I intended, and he looked at me in surprise.

“Come.” He gestured toward Fortieth Street where fewer people were congregated. “I believe we require more privacy for this conversation.”

Halfway down the block, we ducked into a small Irish pub by mutual agreement. We found a small table in the corner, far from the crowd at the bar. Alistair promptly ordered two pints of stout that neither of us wanted.

I stared at him, waiting for him to begin, and trying to ignore the sick gnawing sensation in my gut.

“I had hoped never to tell you this,” he said. “I have kept what I’m about to say secret from all but my closest associates at the research center. Which of them told you?” His expression was grim. “I assume it was Horace, who is notoriously loose-lipped. Besides, I cannot believe Fred would have betrayed my confidence.”

I did not even acknowledge his question. “I need to know about Moira Shea,” I said.

He moistened his lips and, with his napkin, wiped away some foam from the beer that had got onto his mustache. “When
I came to you this past Wednesday morning, I told you some background about my decision to work with Michael Fromley.”

“Yes, I believe you said you facilitated a plea bargain that released him to your custody because he had not yet ‘crossed the line,’ so to speak. Despite his violent tendencies, he had not yet committed murder. That was the single reason why I understood you to believe that your research, particularly your work with Fromley, was so important. But that wasn’t the truth, was it?” My eyes bored into him as I waited to hear his answer.