Ten Days in August (22 page)

But the more he examined the window, the harder his heart sank.

No one was here.

He backed up and walked up to the front door. No signs of life. From what Hank could see the windows were all dark. Of course, it would make sense for Knight to conceal the fact he was home.

Then a voice off to Hank's left shouted, “You there!”

Hank turned and saw an old man poking his head out of the front door of the house next door. “Yes?”

“Are you skulking about Mr. Knight's house?”

“I am looking for Mr. Knight. He doesn't seem to be answering his door. Do you know if he's home?”

The man stepped out onto his stoop and crossed his arms over his chest. “My wife makes something of a habit of watching the comings and goings of Mr. Knight. A dreadful occupation, if you ask me. Mr. Knight leaves at all hours of the day and night on lord knows what sorts of missions. He's an architect, not a police officer.”

“Well, I am a police officer,” Hank said. He pulled his badge from his pocket and flashed it at the man.

The man seemed delighted. He clapped his hands once and leaned forward. “Has he finally gotten caught at something for which you will arrest him?”

“I'm afraid so,” said Hank.

“Well, I'm sorry to say he is not in. My wife told me right before we sat down to a late dinner that he had gone outside. The front door has a rusty hinge, you know, and it squeals like a cat caught under a carriage wheel when he comes and goes, so we always hear it. Even the door downstairs makes this dreadful clanging sound because the mailbox bangs against the iron gate.”

Hank peered over the side of the staircase to the downstairs entrance, which was built into the stairs. There was indeed a large metal mailbox hanging onto the outside gate there, and it looked like one of the screws was loose, such that the mailbox was hanging slightly ajar.

“I see,” said Hank.

“He has not been home, or we would have heard. That, and the missus is always curious about him.”

“Are there any other entrances to the house?”

“I daresay no. Well, you can get in from the back yard. But we can see it from the terrace out back on which we were having dinner. Too dreadfully hot to eat inside, you know.”

“In other words, Mr. Knight is not here.”

“We would know if he were, certainly.”

Hank felt defeated. He'd just about run out of places to look. “It is quite late for dinner,” Hank pointed out.

“Yes, well, it is also quite late not to be in bed, but Essie has trouble sleeping these days, you see. So we were sitting out on the terrace, hoping to cool off, just chatting, you know. I came to the front of the house to grab a cigar from the case I keep by the window when I saw you hovering near the door. Thought you might be Knight himself. I have a spare key, you see.”

A bit of hope fluttered in Hank's chest again. “May I borrow the key? I need to make sure Knight is not home.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Anything for the New York City Police Department. Just one moment, if you please.”

The man went back inside. He emerged a minute later with the key. Hank bounded down the stairs of Knight's house and up the stairs of his neighbor.

“I take it you do not like Knight much,” Hank said as he accepted the key.

“Dreadful man. How his family abides him, I've no idea.”

“And where are they?”

“Off on Long Island at their vacation home. Near Oyster Bay, I hear. Trying to get friendly with the Roosevelts to hear Mr. Knight tell of it. They left a week ago. Mr. Knight told me he had to stay behind on some sort of company business.”

“I see,” said Hank. “What of his butler?”

The man scoffed. “Bane is his name. I believe this is his night off.”

“So the house is truly empty.” Hank looked around, wondering what to do.

“He is a strange man,” the man whispered conspiratorially. “Out at all hours of the night, keeps dubious company when his wife is not home.”

Hank took a deep breath. “All right.”

“Why are you arresting him?”

Hank had to tamp down a reaction to the man's giddy enthusiasm. “He may be a suspect in a violent incident downtown.”

The man nodded gravely. “I knew I couldn't trust him. Well, I hope you find him. Just slip the key into the mail slot when you've finished.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

Hank shook hands with the man and then went back next door. He let himself into a house he was now quite convinced contained no living people. Nor would there be any evidence here. Even if there were a whole passel of servants willing to keep Knight's secrets, Mrs. Knight likely took some responsibility for the upkeep in the main rooms on the first and second floor, or at least periodically entertained company there. Knight wouldn't leave anything incriminating where she could find it.

Hank toured what was clearly Knight's study on the second floor but found nothing of interest there beyond some ledgers. Knight was in the red, so there was that. Hank wondered if his wife knew. More to the point, though, Hank was convinced, other than bringing the occasional boy home for a romp in bed, this was not the scene of his crimes.

So what was?

The hour was late and the heat was still unrelenting when Hank slipped back outside. He'd spent a good hour looking over the house from attic to basement and had found nothing.

Where the devil had Knight taken Nicky?

After dropping the key in the neighbors' mail slot as told, Hank walked back to the elevated train, at a loss for ideas. He figured he'd go back home again, wash up and take stock of the situation, and then head back out to see what he could find.

It took nearly an hour to get back home as the elevated train squealed and struggled on the track with some sort of mechanical difficulty. By the time Hank returned to his house, it was well into the wee hours of the morning.

And there was a note taped to his door.

Day 9

Thursday, August 13
Temperature: 90°F

T
he headlines that day boasted of Bryan's spectacular failure, but Andrew thought the real news was that it felt like the heat might finally be waning.

He sat at his desk, picking apart the
Journal
, which had a special section with the headline, “Heat More Deadly than a Great Disaster.” The article went on to argue this plague of heat had lasted longer and killed more people than any in the city's history. Apparently it had killed more people than the Great Chicago Fire. Andrew wondered if this could be true, not that it mattered. This whole week had been horrific. One death was too many.

Andrew tossed the special section aside—he didn't need a newspaper to tell him how hot it was—and turned instead to other news. The heat seemed to have expedited the end of the tailor's strike that had begun nearly two weeks ago. Violence had broken out in the Lower East Side tenements the day before.

And the body of a man presumed to be a working boy had been found on Eighth Street near Cooper Union.

Andrew cursed.

Roosevelt himself burst into Headquarters with a trail of reporters behind him. He stopped by Andrew's desk. “Ritchley. I've just come from the mayor's office. I've devised a plan that will offer some relief to the masses, but I need your help.”

“All right.” Andrew stood and followed Roosevelt into his office. Roosevelt left the door open, probably for the reporters to overhear whatever bit of brilliance he now intended to impart.

“We will be distributing ice to certain neighborhoods via the precinct houses. It will take some effort to coordinate this distribution, so I'll need you to get in touch with the captains. I will be overseeing the distribution myself.”

“Ice, sir?”

“Indeed, some of the very poorest citizens have had no relief from this heat. And, as you may be aware, Mr. Morse controls the ice interests in the city. I have finally got Mayor Strong to agree to some measures that would allow the police department to distribute ice for free. Ice is on its way downtown as we speak, so we need to get moving. I would be dee-lighted if you would help me with this matter, Mr. Ritchley.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Other measures are to be made as well. The public floating baths will be open all night instead of closing at dusk.”

Andrew nodded, although that struck him as an odd decision. The floating baths were merely areas of the rivers opened to the poorest New Yorkers for bathing. They were meant to be used primarily for hygiene, not recreation. So few of the tenement buildings had adequate running water, even after the law changed to require it. He supposed there was some wisdom to keeping the baths open around the clock so some of the tenement residents could find some relief.

“We will also,” Roosevelt went on, “be suspending the ordinance against sleeping in the parks. If people are going to sleep outside, it might as well be in the parks and not on the streets.”

Andrew pulled out his notepad and jotted it all down. He then spent the next hour alternately using the telephone to contact the captains of each precinct—particularly those below Fourteenth Street—and sending Charlie and the other runners out with clear written instructions. At one point late in the morning, Roosevelt stripped to his shirtsleeves and helped haul great blocks of ice off the trucks with his own arms. He set up a station on Mulberry Street and then dispatched a group of officers to bring ice to the homes of every family in a five-block radius. The written instructions Andrew dispatched commanded the captains of each precinct to do much the same.

Once Roosevelt was satisfied the ice distribution at Headquarters was going according to his wishes, he took one of the other secretaries and announced he was going to walk around to investigate whether everything was happening at the other precincts according to his plan. He put Andrew in charge in his absence.

That flurry of activity done, Andrew returned to his work. He'd left the story about the dead man on Eighth Street page-up on his desk, so that was the first thing to snare his attention. He was about to track down the arresting officer when Hank came barreling into the precinct office. He was out of breath and frantic.

“Nicky,” Hank said, panting. “He's been taken.”

“Taken?”

“Brigham Knight.”

Panic lanced through Andrew like a spike of ice to the heart. Could the dead man reported in the paper be Nicky?

“How do you know?” Andrew asked.

“He means to blackmail me. Sent a note to my house this morning telling me if I came after Nicky, he'd expose us both.”

Andrew couldn't tell if this was good or bad news. “Another body was discovered last night.”

Hank clamped a hand over his mouth. “Not Nicky. Knight wouldn't have power over me any longer if he killed Nicky.”

“Correct, it would be a foolish move. Presumably this man expired before Nicky was taken. But I would not underestimate him. He's killed before and likely plans to again.” Andrew scanned the paper. “The body was found around nine o'clock last night.”

“That was before Nicky and I parted ways.” Hank grunted. “Knight. Knight has Nicky. He took Nicky last night from right under my nose. I was out all night looking for him. Then this was at my house when I returned home.” Hank thrust a piece of paper at Andrew.

Andrew took it and read it.

“Christ,” Andrew whispered.

Charlie walked over with a stack of newspapers. “Here were those papers you asked for, Mr. Ritchley.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Charlie,” whispered Hank.

Charlie turned and saw Hank. His eyes went wide and he gasped. “You're the fellow from that night at Bulgaria. The one who wanted to meet Paulina.”

Hank nodded. “Yes, and I apologize for our meeting again under somewhat trying circumstances, though I am also curious as to what you are doing here.”

“I got him a job,” said Andrew. “Basically a department errand boy. We had to fudge his employment history a bit, but luckily he was charming enough no one questioned my desire to hire him.”

“Oh,” said Hank. “Well, I am glad, then, you've managed to get out of what must have been a difficult situation.”

“Er, yes.” Charlie looked at Andrew, a question in his eyes.

“Charlie, allow me to introduce Inspector Hank Brandt.”

It took a moment for Charlie to put the pieces together, but Andrew could see the moment he did. He relaxed, the tension leaving his body. “All right. Nice to see you again. Trying circumstances?”

“Something has happened to Nicky,” said Hank.

Charlie clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh, dear. What is it?”

Hank handed Charlie the note. He looked a bit choked up.

Charlie took a long time to read a note. Andrew had seen over the last few days his reading skills were not quite up to the task of doing more than some light filing, but he could read if given enough time to work out how all the letters fit together. When he finished, he pointed to a word on the page. “This? This is referring to Nicky?”

Hank said sotto voce, “Yes. He and I have been . . . spending time together.” He took a deep breath. “I don't know who to go to with this, but I fear it's out of my depth. I trust you, both of you. Nicky and I were at a saloon in Greenwich Village last night when we spotted Brigham Knight. I wanted Nicky to get out so he could get home to safety, but I was too late. I thought we'd left the saloon without Knight seeing us, but I must have been mistaken, because he snagged Nicky when I turned away.” Hank looked so worried and shaken up Andrew wondered how clearly he was thinking, but the danger to Nicky must have been significant.

“What have you—” Andrew started to ask.

“I've run all over the city. Didn't sleep last night. At first I was just looking for Nicky. Then I got the note. He's not at Knight's house uptown, by the way, so Knight must have another residence or something, or at least a place he can go. I thought maybe we could check the housing records or any media to see if he mentions another house.”

“I'm ahead of you there,” Andrew said. He reached over to the stack of papers Charlie had just left on the desk. “I had Jacobs down in the records office pull any newspapers that mention Brigham Knight. I really only wanted a picture to be used to verify some witness accounts.” He thumbed through the pile until he found what he was looking for. It was a front-page story about a real-estate development deal near Madison Square. Accompanying the article was an image of the lead architect: Brigham Knight.

When Andrew picked up the paper and held it up, Charlie immediately started shaking.

“This is the man, isn't it?” Andrew said.

Charlie nodded.

Hank frowned. He looked grim. He must have understood what Andrew's vague question meant. “We must find Nicky,” Hank said.

Hank paced in front of Andrew's desk. Andrew watched him for a moment before offering, “You could go to the clerk's office and check the property records. See if Knight owns property beyond his house uptown. Charlie can go with you to help.”

“Yes,” said Charlie. “I want to.”

Hank looked back and forth between Andrew and Charlie. He looked like he'd aged ten years since the last time Andrew had seen him; his brow was furrowed, his eyes were watery, his hair was disheveled, he frowned. “All right,” Hank said.

“Then we'll storm the gates. Don't go in there alone. Find an address, scope it out, yes, but come to me when you're ready to go in there. I'll assemble a team for you.”

Hank shook his head. “That will take too much time.”

“Storming in there on your own will get you killed.”

Hank groaned. “God, I need to get to him. Standing around talking about it is accomplishing nothing.”

Andrew reached over and put a hand on Hank's shoulder. “Take Charlie to the records office or talk to the clerk. Find Knight's other possible residences. Talk to his friends. Do whatever you have to do to make a list of possible locations. I will put a team together of friendly officers in the meantime.” Andrew met Hank's gaze, hoping to portray he knew which officers would not object to the cause. Because there was something of a fraternity among queer officers Hank had never quite been a party to—he seemed to prefer his outsider status—but Andrew knew who he might be able to get on board, provided they were on duty today. “We'll reconvene here in an hour. Please do not act rashly. We'll get him, Hank, but if you act in haste, you'll get yourself killed.”

Hank grimaced but said, “All right.” He signaled to Charlie and then left the room.

So Andrew went to his desk to assemble the team.

 

When Nicky came to, the walls were crying.

It took him a moment to realize he sat in a dimly-lit room underground and the tears were just condensation. The room was so hot and humid even the walls were sweating.

He had a doozy of a headache but otherwise seemed to be in one piece. His hands were tied behind his back with what felt like very rough rope, and it rubbed against and tore into his skin as he pulled at it. He was on the floor of this sweating room and there was an eerie echo as water dripped off the ceiling and onto the hard floor.

A wild, unfocused moment passed while Nicky tried to recall exactly what had happened and where he was. The last thing he remembered was saying good-bye to Hank in front of the Pit and then turning to walk home. Everything after that was just . . . gone.

So how had he ended up in a sweaty basement?

A creak above his head alerted him to the fact he was not alone in the house, or whatever sort of building he was in.

Nicky came all the way awake in a rush as he realized his last conscious thought was of concern for Hank as he left, and he panicked as he tried to recall how he ended up in this room but couldn't. His memory was just blank blackness.

Where was Hank?

Footsteps on a nearby staircase didn't do much to calm Nicky down. In fact, he struggled to take in a breath as he wondered who had put him in this room and tied his hands. And, with his hands tied, he couldn't figure out how to get enough balance to stand.

Brigham Knight turned a corner and stared at Nicky.

Nicky leaned away, his back colliding with the wet wall.

“So you're awake,” Knight said.

Nicky frantically tried pulling at the ropes binding his wrists, but that only served to scratch his skin.

Knight said, “I had my suspicions about Brandt the first time I met him. It was nice of you to confirm them last night. I saw you with him and I knew. Foolish of him to let you go.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“At first, I merely intended to make trouble for Brandt. Take something valuable away from him. Perhaps even get a taste for myself.” Knight leered at Nicky, which made Nicky feel ill. “Brandt surely knows who I am by now. He has identified me as the killer of those boys on the Bowery.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“I cannot be implicated in such a crime. Not that it was me, of course.” Knight walked closer to Nicky. “So I shall keep you for now. If Brandt comes looking for you, I will immediately alert his superiors that he has a male lover and frequents places like the Pit.”

Knight reached for something in his pocket and came back with a black object that Nicky didn't recognize at first. With a quick flick of his wrist, Knight revealed the object to be a folding knife. He ran a finger along the blunt edge.