Brooklyn on Fire (21 page)

M
ARY WAS IMPRESSED.
Sean’s list of names and addresses was extremely detailed, and all in geographical order, so traveling from one suspect to the next would be most efficient. But the list would have to wait. She first had to meet with Gaynor at her office. Mary had to admit that, even though it was just one room in the back of Lazlo’s Books, calling it her office gave her a strong sense of pride.

When she arrived at Lazlo’s Books, Mary found Gaynor had beaten her there and was engaged in a conversation with Lazlo. She knew the two of them would get along famously, and apparently they had already hit it off. They were discussing politics and their mutual disdain for the prevalent corruption of their elected officials.

“Everyone complains about Boss Tweed and how corrupt he was, as if his downfall ended those shenanigans,” Gaynor postulated. “The fact is that right here in Brooklyn we have a political machine that is possibly more venal than anything Tweed could have imagined.”

“Politicians are like cockroaches,” Lazlo added. “As soon as you get rid of one, two more pop up who are even worse.”

“I like that, Lazlo. Can I use it?”

“Feel free. I find that to be an extreme compliment from someone who follows the directives of Ben Franklin as closely as you do.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“To Ben,” Lazlo announced as if they were toasting. Instead, they stood for a few seconds with their hands over their hearts in serene remembrance.

“Lazlo,” Mary interjected, “I hate to interrupt your meeting of the Benjamin Franklin Admiration Society, but I do have some business to discuss with Mr. Gaynor.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, Mary. Nice meeting you, Mr. Gaynor.”

“Call me William.”

“Be delighted.” They shook hands and Lazlo returned to store business.

Mary showed Gaynor to her office. She was anxious to find out what had happened, so before they had even sat down, she began asking.

“Did Judge Moore provide any help?”

“The short answer to that is no.”

“And the long answer?”

“It’s not very long. I have a meeting at ten this morning with Ridgeway. I want to find out why he’s being so hard on Sean. If he is getting pressure from above, maybe I’ll be able to discern its origin.”

“Ten? We should be on our way.”

“Mary, I don’t think Ridgeway will allow—”

“I’m going, Mr. Gaynor.”

Gaynor saw Mary’s resolute look and realized that any argument would be useless. “Well then, we might as well go together. My carriage is outside.”

In the carriage on the way to Ridgeway’s office, Gaynor waxed on about corrupt politicians and how it was his dream to overturn the political machines and put honest people in office. Mary listened halfheartedly. She was mostly thinking about Sean, not only about proving his innocence but also wondering whether he was avoiding danger at the Raymond Street Jail.

District Attorney James W. Ridgeway had neatly groomed dark brown hair and was dressed in a medium-gray three-piece suit. Everything about him screamed conservative—perfect for a district attorney. He spoke in precise tones, carefully enunciating every word—all words Mary didn’t want to hear.

“I’m sorry, Miss Handley, but my appointment is with Sean’s lawyer, and that is the only person with whom I’ll speak.”

“Surely you don’t mind—”

“But I do. Make yourself comfortable. I doubt whether Mr. Gaynor and I will be long.”

Mary could tell from his attitude that there was no point in arguing. Gaynor gave Mary an
I told you so
look as he disappeared with Ridgeway into his office.

Mary looked around the outer office. It was fairly large, especially since its only occupant was Ridgeway’s secretary, Mrs. Donovan. She was a pleasant-looking woman in her midthirties who would pause periodically between the avalanche of calls she was fielding for Ridgeway to give Mary a welcoming smile, then log the calls into a book of loose paper held together by a ring binder. Mary sat nearby on a wood-framed couch with comfortable cushions, wondering, of course, about the conversation in Ridgeway’s office.

After a short while, Ridgeway came out of his office and beckoned to his secretary. “Mrs. Donovan, could you please come and bring some paper? I need your shorthand skills.” She quickly obliged, and Mary was left alone.

They all emerged a few minutes later, Mrs. Donovan returning to her desk and Gaynor heading toward Mary. Ridgeway gave a cursory nod to Mary and went back inside.

“What happened?” Mary asked.

“I’ll tell you in the carriage.”

The news wasn’t good. Ridgeway wouldn’t budge on any level, not on sending Sean back to Second Street Station or even isolating him from the population at the Raymond Street Jail.

“He’s adamant about making an example of what he calls a ‘bad apple.’ ”

“So he’s decided to kill Sean before he even has a trial?”

“That’s not how Ridgeway views it. He says he wants to treat him like any other criminal. And before you say anything, Mary, I did inform him that because of his job, Sean can’t be treated like any other criminal and that I understood that kind of treatment
after
he was convicted, but certainly not before. He still didn’t budge. This type of appalling intransigence is maddening.”

Mary thought for a moment, then, despite the panic she felt within, she calmly responded, “It doesn’t make any sense. There must be other factors involved, political pressure or some other kind.”

“I agree.”

“Good, I’m glad you do, because…” Mary then proceeded to open her pocketbook and take out a bunch of papers.

“What’s that?” Gaynor asked.

“Mrs. Donovan’s call sheets. I saw her logging calls and I ripped out the pages starting from yesterday and dating back until the week before.”

Gaynor was shocked. “You stole from the district attorney?”

“I knew he wasn’t going to help us. I had no choice.”

“No matter. As Benjamin Franklin so aptly put it—”

“I’m sorry, but in this case, I’m taking my cues from Dudley Bradstreet in his book
The Life and Uncommon Adventures of Captain Dudley Bradstreet,
where Mr. Bradley clearly stated that turnabout is fair play.”

“That’s where that phrase came from, Dudley Bradstreet?” Gaynor’s brow crinkled, indicating his surprise. “George had told me you were bright, but I had mistakenly taken that lightly.”

“The question is, do I inspect these papers by myself or do you want to be included?”

“By all means, include me.”

The two of them went over the call sheets page by page and Mary very quickly noticed a pattern. They examined the calls on the day that Sean was arrested, the day that he was arraigned, and the day that he was transferred to the Raymond Street Jail, and there was only one name besides assistant district attorneys that called on all three of those days: Hugh McLaughlin.

S
HORTY WAS DRINKING
his lunchtime ale in his favorite neighborhood saloon. It wasn’t a coincidence that he was on one side of the bar alone and the twelve or so others were crowded on the other side. No one really wanted to risk an interaction with him. Shorty didn’t feel slighted. He enjoyed his reputation.

After taking a long sip of his ale, Shorty noticed every eye in the place had turned toward the door. He also turned and saw that a woman had entered. It was a rare sight in this place, extremely rare, especially since this was one of the many saloons where women were not allowed.

“Hello, I’m looking for Kieran Kilpatrick,” the woman said.

Not used to hearing Shorty’s given name, one of the men at the bar laughed, spitting out his beer. Shorty shot him a quick glance, and all humor instantly drained from the man’s being. The bartender was about to tell the woman to leave when Shorty raised his hand, signaling him to back off.

“What do you want with him?” Shorty asked her.

“Can I assume you’re Mr. Kilpatrick?”

“Yeah, sure, you can assume,” Shorty said, taking a mocking tone as he watched the woman step forward and extend her hand.

“Your landlady from across the street said you might be here. How do you do? I’m Mary Handley, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Shorty studied her, then slowly shook her hand. He had heard a lot about Sean Handley’s sister.
A real uppity bitch,
he thought.
I’d love to play with her. She won’t be so cocky when I’m through.

G
AYNOR, WHO WAS
obsessed with Brooklyn politics and its dirty machinations, had told Mary that both Judge Moore and District Attorney Ridgeway were part of the Brooklyn Ring and owed their jobs to Hugh McLaughlin. That made a meeting with McLaughlin essential, but when Mary tried to get one, he wasn’t in his office. The Ridgeway meeting had been at ten 
A.M.
and it was only noon, so instead of wasting time, she’d decided to visit the last four names on Sean’s list. If they didn’t pan out, she was determined to start back at the top of the list in case Sean had missed something.

Mary had already interviewed the first two of the four and found nothing unusual. One was a thin old man with a bad case of asthma who looked physically incapable of overpowering anyone. The other one was a man who had left the city to care for his ill mother. His wife confirmed he had been gone long enough that he couldn’t possibly be involved in any of the murders.

“He gave up his job and here I am stuck with the rent,” his wife lamented, then shook her head. “Take it from me. Never marry a mama’s boy.”

Kieran Kilpatrick was the third on the list, and Mary had noticed straight off that he possessed an innate snarl and brooding anger that made him seem like a sure candidate. However, there were a lot of angry, unhappy people in this world, her mother being one of them, and those qualities alone would never help narrow the list.

Shorty’s swagger was evident. “A pretty one like you, I’ll answer any question you have.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kilpatrick. Would you prefer to go someplace a bit more private?”

“Whoa, you work fast, lady. I haven’t even met your parents yet.” He glanced toward the others in the saloon, who, as if on cue, broke out into laughter.

“I was referring to our conversation, nothing else.”

“It’s okay. They can hear anything we have to say. Right, boys?” He glanced once again at the other men, who responded with murmurs of “Right,” “Sure,” and “Yeah.”

“As you wish. I’m curious about your coat.”

“You like it, huh?” Shorty was wearing an oilcloth duster with an oilskin hood hanging down the back. The coat came all the way down to his shoes. “Are you looking to hire me for one of those gentlemen’s fashion magazines?”

“Frankly—”

“I’ve been practicing. See?” Sporting a smug smirk, he opened the coat and gingerly turned around in model-like fashion while the men hooted their approval.

That was when his leg brace caught her attention. The brace had leather straps with buckles on them that held it securely in place. One of the straps was considerably less worn than the others and looked almost new. It immediately reminded her of the strap and buckle she had recovered from Abigail Corday’s dressing room. At this point, she had a very strong feeling he was Abigail’s killer and was probably involved in the two other murders, but she had to learn more.

“Though your style is superb, I was referring to a coat you bought at Johnson’s Clothing Store on Fulton Street. It was in the style of a navy peacoat, but it was brown.”

“Let me see, a brown navy peacoat?” Shorty mused aloud as if he were straining his brain to remember it. He was not a good actor, and Mary saw right through his ruse.

“The salesman remembered you buying it.”

“Oh yeah, right, Johnson’s. I hated that coat and got rid of it.”

“Really? He said you bought it three months ago. It was practically brand-new.”

Shorty saw that she was pinning him down, and he didn’t like it. And when Shorty didn’t like something, he got angry. “I said I hated it. I burned the damn thing!”

He didn’t realize it, but in mentioning fire, Shorty had convinced Mary he was the one. She hoped she could goad him into making more slips.

“I’m sorry if I offended you. I do the same thing. If I don’t like a piece of clothing, I get rid of it. And your new coat is so attractive.”

Thinking he’d averted disaster, Shorty beamed, admiring his coat. “Yes, it is.”

“Do you ride?”

“Huh?”

“Your coat is usually worn by people who ride horses.”

“Not me. I’m saving up to buy one of those horseless carriages when they start makin’ ’em for us common folk. This will protect my clothes from the dust and mud on Brooklyn streets.”

“You are quite the sartorial splendor.” Mary saw the blank look on Shorty’s face, and she decided to explain. “You dress well, Mr. Kilpatrick.”

“Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.”

“But isn’t that a little like putting the cart before the horse?”

“The what?”

“The cart before the horse. It’s a phrase from Lucian’s
Dialogues of the Dead
. It means—”

Shorty felt he had lost control, so of course, he got angry. “You don’t have to explain nothin’. I’m not stupid!”

Mary already knew that he was stupid. Now she knew that he was insecure about it, too. She decided that if there was a master plan behind the murders, he certainly didn’t have the wherewithal to devise it. He could have easily been hired to perform the deeds. He was clearly mean-spirited enough. That, coupled with his fragile sense of self, made him an excellent candidate as a killer. Of course, there was also the possibility he was one of those maniacs who committed multiple murders for fun. The fact that the three murders were all connected to either her or Sean made that unlikely, though none of it mattered. She didn’t have enough evidence to convict him of anything yet.

“I didn’t mean to imply any such thing. You are clearly a very astute individual, and it would be a travesty for anyone to suggest otherwise.”

“Yeah, that’s me all right: astute.” He turned toward his admirers with his chest puffed out, and they all hollered their approval.

“Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Kilpatrick.”

“Call me Shorty. Everyone does.”

“Why, that’s lovely of you, Shorty. I consider that a compliment.” She had started to leave when Shorty, now overconfident, called out to her.

“Aren’t you forgetting something? You wanted to ask me about my jacket.”

“Yes, well, there’s no point now, is there? You don’t have it anymore.” She was thinking,
You got rid of it because you killed that old lady, you son of a bitch
.

As Shorty watched her go, he started to get excited. He was imagining his hands around Mary’s neck.