The Letter Writer (10 page)

“And has it?” Cain asked.

“Third in my class.” She smiled, knowing he was the type who'd be impressed. “Best of all, I don't really miss any of that silly old crowd of mine in the least. And, of course, no one ever told dear old Dad about weekend trips to Charlottesville and Chapel Hill.”

“Still, it's not exactly Manhattan.” He tried to say it in a knowing way, so she would think he'd actually been there. “Don't you miss it?”

“Sometimes. The bustle, the crackle. I always woke up with my eyes wide open, ready to go, no matter how much I'd had to drink the night before. Here sometimes I even slumber. I luxuriate. But look around you. Is it really so terrible? Practically everyone is our age, and, well, I don't think it's a boast to say that my female competition is rather thin on the ground.”

They laughed, knowing the truth of it. Then she looked deeper into his eyes.

“Besides, at times like these I feel right at home.”

They wandered hand in hand to every shadowy corner of the leafy campus. Even then he could sense she was plotting to overstay her father's terms of exile. But there was more to it than rebellion.

“I think places like this are good for me,” she said. “Or good for what I need. Manhattan gets me far too revved up, like one of those racing cars that overheats.”

She genuinely
did
like it there, partly for the gentler pleasures of its warmer climate, its easy company, its green canopies that weren't just confined to parks.

“And how can I argue with all those camellias?” she said. “Or with your eyes.”

That was the moment when they first kissed.

They stayed out until three in the morning. Cain dropped her off at the front porch of her friend's home, where the classmate's scandalized father appeared at the door in his nightshirt, tut-tutting about those ill-mannered Tar Heel boys.

From that weekend forward he borrowed Rob's car, a noisy '26 Chevy, as often as he could, bouncing and grinding his way up the rutted highways every Friday to Sweet Briar, a trip of more than a hundred and thirty miles. During the holidays, when she spurned home and hearth to stay with her classmate in Chapel Hill, they were almost inseparable.

In retrospect he realized she was already displaying small warnings which he would refuse to heed, those of a young woman who would never be quite satisfied with the slow and early nights of a small town in the South, especially once her husband started spending more of his time on the job, or with his daughter; a restlessness that would inevitably seek stimulation elsewhere. But such niggling distractions on the periphery matter little once you've set your sights so squarely on what you want most.

By March they were engaged. Harris Euston spent the better part of the spring and summer trying to subvert the arrangement until Clovis sealed the deal, so to speak, by telling him in September that she was pregnant.

A month later, the stock market crashed. A month after that, she and Cain were married.

He spent his senior year wandering in the haze of two clouds—one of marital bliss, the other of growing dismay as he watched all the job opportunities he had once counted on dissolve in a widening pool of economic panic. Olivia was born in May, only weeks before his graduation. Under other circumstances he might have felt pressured. Instead, as a scholarship student, he mostly felt blessed. By then, a fair number of classmates had already been forced to withdraw after their daddies' fortunes had fallen into ruin.

The scent of camellias—that would be a nice sensory treat about now, on this shivery spring day in New York. Honeysuckle, better still. Those were Cain's thoughts as a gust of wind blew a cloud of white petals toward him from a nearby vacant lot along 30th. The temperature made them look more like snowflakes.

His reverie came to an abrupt end with a shout by Patrolman Maloney.

“Hey, Citizen Cain, wake the fuck up!” He abruptly looked up to see a leering Maloney only six feet ahead of him on the sidewalk, hands on hips, blocking his way. “What's the matter, daydreaming about that hot and bothered daughter of yours again?”

Cain lunged forward and then snapped to a halt like a snarling dog at the end of its chain. Huge hands had latched on to him from behind. A pair of muscular arms squeezed his chest until he was short of breath. Maloney, who hadn't budged, grinned and shook his head.

“You drunken mick!” Cain gasped, barely able to squeeze out the words.

Maloney's smile disappeared. He stepped forward and, working quickly, reached under Cain's jacket to unbuckle the shoulder holster and pull it free along with the Colt revolver. Then he aggressively patted him down—arms, chest, legs, ankles—growing more frustrated by the second.

“Where is it?” Maloney snapped. “Where's your throwaway?”

“My what?”

“Your extra gun, nimrod! Ain't you got one?”

“No.”

Maloney chuckled darkly and shook his head.

“Another goddamn college boy who don't know shit from Shinola. Your throwaway. The gun you use in a tight spot. Plug a skell and throw it away. Then when the lab checks your Colt, presto, clean as a whistle. No need to call in the Rat Squad while they figure out where the bullet came from. Guy with your reputation, I figured that would be the first thing you'd learn. Not that you'll be needing it today, of course.”

Maloney stepped to the curb and opened the rear door of a long black Lincoln Zephyr with four doors and white sidewalls. Whoever was holding Cain pressed down the top of his head and shoved him onto the back seat. Cain tried scrambling out, but the door slammed in his face. Then a second guy inside the car grabbed him from behind and cuffed his wrists.

Maloney climbed in up front on the passenger side.

“Shut the fuck up, unless you want a lump on your head.” Maloney showed his billy and thumped the seat back.

“What do you want? Maybe we should settle this on the street!”

“Believe me, Cain, I'd like nothing better. Pound those skinny lips of yours right down your throat, then stuff you in a mailbox straight back to Shit Creek. But we've got a ride to take, so shut your yap unless you want some splinters up your ass.” He thumped the billy harder.

The driver started the engine. Cain saw now that it was Steele, one of the officers from the 95 Room, so there was a second name for his shit list. Out on the sidewalk, a few passersby craned their necks to see what all the fuss was about. None seemed particularly concerned. To them it must have looked like New York's finest had just collared another lowlife. Cain tried the door handle with his elbow, but it was locked tight, which only made the cop beside him laugh. A four-man job then, counting whoever had grabbed him from behind on the street. Four bad apples, minimum.

“Don't even think about taking names, asshole.” This from Steele, who'd glanced in the mirror and must have noticed the calculating anger in Cain's eyes. “We're doing you a favor.”

“Man's been here two months,” Maloney said, “and can't even hold on to his sidearm.” He held up the Colt like a taunt. “Bad training, you ask me. But don't worry, Cain, where we're going you won't need it.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Pipe down, you'll see soon enough. Get this heap moving.”

Cain was still breathing deeply, although his fury was now sliding toward fear. It would be easy enough to dispose of him, and for all he knew Mulhearn was also in on it. The captain must have known that the Kannerman assignment would get Cain out of the building by lunchtime, and the latest victim's address had told him which direction Cain would head. All of them would be on Valentine's shit list soon enough, provided he was still in one piece to put them there.

“What's this about?” he asked, trying to steady himself.

“I said shut it.” Maloney whipped the billy across the seat back toward his forehead. Cain reeled out of the way just in time.

“It would be bad form if you was to arrive scuffed up, so keep it quiet.”

Did that mean they intended to keep him alive? If so, maybe somebody else was waiting to do all the dirty work. Cain had visions of a long, grim ride to the furthest reaches of the city, up through a tunnel beneath the Hudson, or maybe across a bridge to Queens, out to the remote wasteland near the new airport. Or over to the lonely sawgrass marshes of Jersey, where it was so quiet you could hear the wind blow. He might never get a chance to make a move, not with these cuffs on.

Steele surprised him by heading deeper into Midtown and turning north on Park Avenue, where the sidewalk was filled with serious looking men in suits, glamorous women out shopping. Bankers and secretaries, prosperous housewives walking pampered dogs on jeweled leashes. Grand Central Station loomed far ahead. Maloney rested an arm across the seat back and turned to face him.

“Heard you were seen coming out of headquarters the other day. What was the occasion?”

Had Linwood Archer ratted on him? Cain offered the first explanation that popped into his head.

“Paperwork.”

“What the hell's that mean?”

“Forms to sign. Payroll, you name it. They're running people through the Academy so fast that the pencil pushers can't keep up, and I'd kind of like to get paid.”

“Forty-day wonders.” Maloney said, shaking his head. “No wonder you can't do shit.”

Maybe he bought it. Maybe they didn't know a thing. Or maybe none of that mattered because they were about to kill him simply because he'd been snooping around the other day, or just on general principle. Cain was surprised at how little emotion he felt at the prospect. A pang of loss on Olivia's behalf, but not a whole lot more. Fear at some level, but less than he would've expected. Was this the toll of the last six months? Numb at the core? Or maybe not. His anger was stirring again. If it came to it, he'd go down fighting, graceless or not. Butting his head and running like a coward. He clenched his fists behind his back, the cuffs biting into his wrists while he stared out the window at all of the lives in progress, all of the people who still had a future.

No one said anything more until the car turned left onto 37th, where it pulled up in front of a red brick building with a marble foyer and a green awning. A doorman stood guard in a uniform worthy of a pasha.

“This is your stop,” Maloney said. “Take off the cuffs, Mabry.”

Mabry. Another name for the list.

“Now get out.”

Whatever had been squeezing Cain's heart eased its grip. He surveyed the landscape. A flag over the door identified the place as the Union League Club. Cain had never heard of it.

“Here?” He was beginning to think he might survive the afternoon.

“I said
get out!
Go straight upstairs, second floor. You'll see a guy with a big book. You're expected. Oh, and before you go.” He tossed a necktie across the seat. “Put this on, you fucking slob. That one you're wearing looks like you been washing cars with it.”

SUDDENLY IT FELT LIKE SPRING AGAIN.
A reprieve. Rebirth. Cain stood on the sidewalk, breathing deeply in the harmless cold breeze as the Zephyr pulled away. He knotted the new tie while whistling an ad jingle he'd heard that morning on the radio. The doorman smiled as if he approved, and nodded as Cain entered the foyer of the Union League Club, where he was greeted by varnished wooden columns supporting a grand marble double staircase that curved upward from both sides of a central landing.

With its classic design and wrought-iron banisters, it looked like a set from a Busby Berkeley musical. All that was missing was the lineup of high-stepping showgirls, doffing top hats as they tap-danced down the stairs toward him from either side. It made him feel like he'd arrived, which he supposed was the whole point.

For a fleeting moment he considered leaving—why should he do as Maloney asked, especially now that the car was gone? But curiosity got the better of him, and he climbed to the second floor, where a man in a dinner jacket was indeed posted with a big reservation book outside a dining room.

“Your name, sir?”

“Woodrow Cain.”

The man frowned and ran his finger down the page.

“Yes,” he said, as if he could hardly believe it. “You're expected. Mr. Euston is waiting.”

His father-in-law. Cain should've guessed.

A maître d' materialized and escorted Cain across the carpet to a corner table where Harris Euston sat, reading
The Wall Street Journal.
It was a venerable old room with dark paneling and a molded plaster ceiling. Gilt-framed portraits of dour old men stared from every wall. There were starched tablecloths, and each place had a full setting of silver, most of which would never be needed. A bit stuffy, in other words, which is probably why Euston looked right at home as he folded his paper and rose in greeting.

Up to now, Cain had only met his father-in-law while in the company of his wife, and even those occasions had been few and far between. A widower, Euston had always struck him as a bit of a prig, smoking thin cigars and wearing clothes from another era. Starched shirts with detachable collars. Black suits with an outdated cut. He sometimes wore a cravat instead of a tie. He was trim, except for the paunch of his belly, which poked out as if it were a strap-on fashion accessory, a symbol of prosperity ordered from some high-end haberdasher.

Cain's knowledge of Euston's habits as a New Yorker were sketchy at best. The man had a roomy apartment further up Park, where he lived alone. His wife had been dead for fifteen years, yet he still regularly attended the church she had chosen for them, St. Thomas Episcopal, on Fifth Avenue in Midtown, where he always sat in the same pew up front on the right. Over the years he'd contributed enough to merit a brass plate under a stained glass window. Cain had never warmed to his company, and, odder still, he had always sensed that Clovis hadn't, either. Yet, she had often turned quickly to her father whenever they were in need, and without fail Euston had responded promptly, and usually generously.

Euston had never showed much regard for Cain's profession. In his circles, being a cop was something that Irishmen and Italians did, and Cain's status as a university man only seemed to make his employment more ludicrous. He was also a bit of a snob about the South. On his one visit to Horton—arriving in a glossy green Packard with white sidewalls—Euston had always frowned and kept his mouth shut whenever they'd encountered some quaint regional custom or local personality.

He was a partner at Willett & Reed, whose clients were mostly bankers, investment houses, and large corporations. Cain had the impression it was the kind of outfit capable of accomplishing more with a few well-placed phone calls than most law firms could manage with a pile of legal motions. The firm's name stood for money and influence with a patrician gloss, but it now occurred to Cain that in at least one way it bore a striking resemblance to the one-man information shop of Max Danziger: It valued discretion above all, especially for clients who were quietly up to no good.

Euston checked a pocket watch and shook his hand in greeting, probably more out of deference to club decorum than to Cain.

“Woodrow. Right on time. Cocktail?” A waiter stood at the ready.

“I'm working.”

“Bring him a double Scotch. No, make it a bourbon. Neat. And bring me another of these.” He held up a beaded crystal glass, nothing left but ice. The waiter glided away. They sat.

“I've been wondering what a man has to do to get his phone calls returned by his cop son-in-law.”

“And you settled on kidnapping. I take it you're a friend of that blunt instrument, Maloney. Mulhearn, too.”

“I'm a friend of a lot of people in the third district, and the fourteenth precinct in particular. Friendships that don't always come cheaply, I have to say.” He smirked. “How do you think you got this job, from your test scores?”

Cain bit his tongue. He wished Valentine could be here. It would be enjoyable watching the two self-important blowhards clash in such polite surroundings, their egos as overinflated as those big balloons in the Macy's parade—Felix the Cat versus Mickey Mouse, bumping their way through the crystal and china while Cain sipped his bourbon. It was almost a relief to have the hostility out in the open. He wondered how long Euston had been holding it back. Probably since his daughter's wedding day. And it wasn't as if the man's daughter had been blameless in what had happened in Horton last fall. Far from it. A few months ago Euston had even appeared to be shamed by events, but obviously not anymore.

His drink arrived along with the menus. Cain thought about pushing it aside, then reconsidered and downed half the bourbon in one go, shuddering at the amber pleasure of it. He needed it. His nerves were still shaky from the car ride.

“I thought I might at least warrant a courtesy visit, but as I suspected you're not well schooled in courtesy.”

“You know how it is with Southern provincials. It's all we can do to keep our shoes tied and our napkins in our laps. What's the agenda here, sir? Other than showing me which cops are in your pocket.”

“Mostly I wanted an update on your situation. I do feel
some
sense of responsibility now that you're living in my town. Although I'll confess that my primary concern is for Olivia's welfare. She'll be arriving fairly soon, and I wanted to inquire as to what your plans are for extra help once she's present. Who will take care of her while you're at work?”

“I'll manage something.”

Euston shook his head.

“Just the sort of half-baked answer I expected, which is why I've taken the liberty of arranging for a housekeeper. Someone with hours as flexible as yours, and she'll be ready to go at a moment's notice. An Irishwoman. They're especially good at that sort of thing. You certainly wouldn't want a Negro, not in Chelsea. I'll pay her wages, of course, so don't bother to protest. You might even say thank you if the thought ever crosses your mind.”

“I'm still trying to figure out how to say thanks for that deluxe ride that brought me here. Top of the line, sir.”

“Her name's Eileen. A bit partial to popery, but I suppose that comes with her kind. She doesn't drink, so you needn't worry about locking away the whiskey. She's a firm hand, and I think Olivia will need that. She'll be, what, thirteen in a few months?”

Cain nodded, sobered by the thought.

“I've seen perfectly well-behaved children arrive here and run completely wild.”

Like your daughter?
Cain thought it, but didn't say it. Besides, he shared Euston's concerns, and knew he couldn't afford anything comparable.

“What do you hear from her?” Euston asked.

“She's doing about as well as expected. I'll let you know if she ever asks about you.”

“I do worry a bit about that location where I've put you, down there in the garment district. For her sake.”

“The building's fine.”

“Not the building. The neighbors.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “A trifle too Hebrew for my granddaughter, I should think.”

“Or maybe just for you.”

“Me?” He laughed dismissively. “I wouldn't last very long in my profession, or even in this club, if that was my attitude. Although there
are
parts of town where it's beyond belief. Go down to Hester Street one morning and we'll see how long it takes before your broad-minded superiority begins to crumble. The men with their side curls, the women covered head to toe, every sign a nightmare of Semitic squiggles. You do know, don't you, that pretty much every Leninist and Trotskyite in this town is a Jew? Just read the names on the handbills. Goldman, Steinberg, Cohen.”

“Greenberg.”

“Of course.”

“I meant Hank. Fifty-eight homers for the Tigers last year.”

“No one's saying they're
all
up to no good. It's a matter of proportion. In New York they've engineered a striking degree of control over the newspapers, the investment houses, you name it. Although soon that will matter less. The city's boom has peaked. There was a piece on it in
The New Republic.
Not my kind of magazine, but this time they got it right. New York's heyday is over. Were you aware that one fifth of this country's unemployed live right here in the city?”

“I wasn't. I doubt our reading habits have a lot in common.”

“We'll get a boost from the shipyards, of course. In wartime everyone booms, it's the only thing that makes them worth fighting. But all the new production is going to places like Bridgeport, Hartford, Detroit. Now there's your city of the future, Woodrow. Detroit.” He leaned closer and again lowered his voice. “So, while the reign of the Jews may continue here, the realm itself will inevitably fade in power and influence. And no one will ever again buy stocks the way they used to, not after what happened in '29.”

“Then maybe you should move to Detroit.”

“Maybe I will. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

The waiter returned. Euston ordered for them. Sweetbreads, roast duck, spring vegetables and red potatoes, thick slices from a juicy rib roast. All arrived promptly, and with an impressive clatter of china and silver plate. It was easily the best meal Cain had eaten since he'd come to New York, and it cooled the simmer of his anger. He decided to be civil for a while, if only for Olivia's sake. He imagined Clovis at the seat to his right, squeezing his hand beneath the table to keep him from picking a fight.

“How is the war affecting the legal business?” he asked. “Hard to imagine it would be much of a help.”

“You'd be surprised. Chase Bank is worried about the legal exposure of its interests abroad, so there's that.” Chase Bank. Quite a client. Cain was impressed, but that was probably why Euston had brought it up. “Then there's General Motors, a few of the other industrials. You can't imagine the litigation they're facing.”

“Even now?”

“Especially now, given who their enemies are. Do you think the unions have called a truce just because everybody's supposed to be pulling together? No more than the criminal element has, I'm guessing. Speaking of which, I seem to have read in the papers that you've already gotten involved in a murder investigation.”

“I've never thought of you as a
Daily News
man.”

“When your son-in-law turns up in the coverage, word tends to get around.”

“I didn't plan on that, believe me.”

“Interesting case, though.”

“Not really.”

“Sounds like you haven't made any headway.”

“I haven't closed it, if that's what you're asking.”

“But definitely some sort of German connection, I gather.”

“I probably shouldn't discuss it, in case it ever goes to trial. As a lawyer I'm sure you understand.”

“Certainly. Of course, there's also the concept—in both our professions—that by sharing information you can sometimes acquire some. Quid pro quo. My firm and, more to the point, our clients have contacts all over this city. They often know things that a brand-new detective, or even his more experienced colleagues, might not.”

“Even in a low-rent place like Yorkville?”

“There's more prosperity up there than you'd think. Plenty of Americans with Germanic backgrounds have done quite well for themselves, and those are the very people who tend to keep their ears to the ground.”

“Seemed like a bit of a Nazi enclave, far as I could tell.”

“See? Only an unsophisticated newcomer would paint it with such a broad brush.”

“Like with life down on Hester Street?”

“I've heard you finally came up with a name for the victim. Hansch, is it?”

“Mulhearn tell you that?”

“As I said, lots of friends in the one-four.”

“Well compensated, you said that, too. Which of your clients pays their tab? Chase? GM?”

“Same fellow who's paying yours. Think of me as a patron, Woodrow. Like one of those philanthropists who gets the best seats at the Philharmonic.”

“I doubt I'll forget your role in my life anytime soon. But as a long as you're offering contacts, maybe I'll bounce a name off you. Lutz Lorenz, sort of a jack-of-all-trades. Runs a little labor agency up that way. Ring any bells?”

Euston frowned, then shook his head. “Can't say that it does. How's he mixed up in all this?”

“Sorry. Like you said, quid pro quo. You want more, you'll have to help me first. Don't say I never asked.”

The waiter materialized to Euston's left.

“A telephone call for you, sir. He insists that it's urgent. Shall I bring the phone to table?”

“I'll take it in the reading room.” Euston frowned, put down his napkin, and rose from the table. Then, turning to Cain: “This should only be a minute.”