The Letter Writer (23 page)

“What union?” Cain asked.

Lorenz glared at him, and flicked ashes toward his knees. “The longshoremen. I don't know which local. I suggested that, to further insulate both of us, they use fake names on their union cards. The Italian liked that idea very much. He took it to his superiors, and when he came back they had even provided him with the names. Strange choices, but so be it.”

“Strange how?” Danziger said.

“German poets and writers. I had the idea that someone was trying to show how smart he was. How educated. Or maybe it was just for a laugh. Heinrich Heine for Werner Hansch. Friedrich Schiller for Klaus Schaller. Wolfgang Goethe for the third one, Dieter Göllner. Thomas Mann for the fourth, Gerhard Muntz.”

“Spell those last two,” Cain said. “The real names—I've got the writers.”

The question made Lorenz smile and turn toward Danziger.

“Nice to see you're working with a more educated class of people,” he said. “No wonder you decided to—”

“Enough!” Danziger said. “There is no need to cover old ground.”

Lorenz tilted his head and looked back and forth between Danziger and Cain. He smiled as the dynamics of the relationship dawned on him.

“You really have no idea about this man, do you?” he asked Cain.

“Some.”

Lorenz chuckled, smoke puffing from his nostrils.

“It might behoove the both of you to know that the Feds have posted undercover men among the population here. Rats and snitches. Their German is excellent. They're not so hard to spot for someone like me, so I play it cool when I have to. But for you two? You can bet that by the end of the day their bosses will know you've been here, and who you came to see. One of them is watching even as we speak.”

Cain decided not to rise to the bait by looking around; neither did Danziger. Even if true, there was nothing they could do about it now.

“You said they were going to find an official sponsor for these men,” Danziger said. “Another German with Bundist leanings. Did you help them with that choice?”

Lorenz shook his head. “They didn't ask, and I didn't volunteer. I wanted as little to do with them as possible. I never even heard his name.”

“Never heard it, or never knew it?” Cain asked.

Lorenz took another drag on his cigarette.

“And who was this Italian?” Danziger asked.

“I told you. He never offered his name.”

“Not the errand boy. His boss. Who was he working for?”

“Do you think an errand boy would have been fool enough to tell me?”

“Of course not. But you would not have been fool enough to proceed without finding out.”

Lorenz went a little pale. He shook his head and leaned down to stub out his cigarette on the floor. Danziger waited for more, but Lorenz again crossed his arms.

“Okay, then,” Cain said. “What were these four Germans supposed to do?”

“No one told me, and I didn't ask. Supposedly their sponsor was going to be in on it, but I'm not even sure of that. That was the last I heard of it.”

“Until Hansch and Schaller turned up dead.”

“Yes.”

“Why'd they round you up?”

“You don't know?” He looked truly puzzled. “Isn't that why you're here, with the same damn questions, the same damn accusations? As if I knew all along what they'd been hired for? It's like I said to that asshole Gurfein. All I knew about any of that business was what I read in the papers, like everybody else. Some dumb mick or whoever it was with a blowtorch. One spark and the whole damn ship goes up like a Roman candle.”

“Ship?” Cain looked at Danziger, who wrinkled his brow.

“The
Normandie,
you stupid fucks. At Pier 88.”

Cain felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him, and had to take a deep breath. He lowered his voice and leaned closer, elbows on his knees.

“You're saying these men of yours were hired for sabotage?”

“They were not
my
men!” Lorenz said, almost hissing the answer to keep his voice down. “And I told you, I was not aware of why they were hired! I was the middleman, nothing more. I made a few calls, took care of some paperwork, and stepped out of the picture. I kept my head down and my mouth shut. And if one of those four lugs really did do it, then it's not on me, you can be damn sure of that. It's like I told Gurfein. Ask the Italian, if you can find him. Although if you've got any brains, you'll never want to.”

“Luciano?” Danziger asked. “Is it Lucky?”

“He's in prison,” Lorenz said, shaking his head. “He's miles from all this.” Then, narrowing his eyes: “Unless you know something I don't.”

“So if not Lucky, then who?”

“I told you, I
don't know
! So stop asking!”

Cain saw the fear in his eyes. The man knew the name, all right, but he'd never tell them, and maybe not even Gurfein. Which made Cain wonder if that was why Lorenz was here, being held in exile until he talked, until he gave up the names. If so, then Lorenz had decided that silence and confinement were safer options, at least for now.

The stakes were bigger than ever. The murders of a couple of small-bore Germans, important to almost no one, now felt like part of something important enough to draw the attention of all kinds of people, including the unlikely gathering that Danziger had seen around the breakfast table at Longchamps.

No one said a word. It was as if the gravity of the matter had silenced them all, a silence that was then broken by the sound of footsteps approaching briskly from behind. Lorenz looked up in surprise.

“Sascha! Woodrow!” Beryl had rejoined them from her outpost, and she nodded over her shoulder toward two men in uniform who were headed their way. One wore an officer's stripes.

“All right, you two,” the officer said. “Time for you to leave the island. I'm not quite sure how you were able to take advantage of this young woman's trust, or exactly what you intended to accomplish here this afternoon, but I'm going to insist that both of you be thoroughly searched. You will then be escorted to the ferry dock for immediate departure.”

Danziger and Cain stood. Beryl, head down, stood behind the soldiers with her hands behind her back. Lorenz wore a guilty smile. He lit another Lucky. Cain saw now that he had the pack.

After a vigorous frisk—and, thank goodness, they let Cain keep his notebook after he showed his shield—the two soldiers marched them toward the exit, with Beryl sheepishly bringing up the rear. People all over the Great Hall stared. A few of the card-playing Germans looked quite amused.

Cain was embarrassed. Danziger, however, seemed curiously unmoved. In fact, his most evident emotion seemed to be relief, as if he couldn't wait to get away from it all.

They boarded the boat and were escorted to seats in the cabin. A soldier remained on guard at the gangplank until the crew cast off. The engines roared, and within seconds they were easing back into the harbor.

“This is bigger than we thought,” Cain said, staring straight ahead.

“Or as big as I feared,” Danziger answered.

“But where's the FBI in all this? If this was a sabotage investigation, they'd be in this up to their elbows. Instead it's the rackets guy from the DA's office—on his own, for all we know—plus some Navy guy operating way out of bounds at the Astor, and a few hoods representing the worst of the worst, or what's left of it.”

Danziger nodded. “It is wartime,” he said. “I have seen it before, in 1918. People in high places stop paying attention to many things that interested them so keenly during peacetime. This, in turn, creates opportunities for those with fertile imaginations.”

“Opportunities for mischief, you mean.”

“The sort of mischief in which men end up facedown in the Hudson.”

Cain looked out across the water, wondering who else might be bobbing just below the surface. The Manhattan skyline was straight ahead. Lady Liberty kept watch from their right. He glanced in her direction, wondering if he would ever again view her in quite the same way.

Then he looked at Danziger. The older man was gazing dead ahead, as if he didn't dare look back. His eyes shone. He hadn't put his hat on, and his white hair blew in all directions.

He looked terrified.

“YOU'RE AN HOUR LATE, CAIN.”

Captain Mulhearn was on the warpath, and he hadn't even opened his morning papers. Everything that Lorenz had told them about the sabotage plot was still whirling in Cain's mind, but he could already sense he was about to be sidetracked.

“I was out checking a lead in the Hansch case.”

“Yeah, well. Borough Homicide wants a look at that whole package, so don't get too comfortable. We had two break-ins last night up on 39th, and the precinct squad's already got its hands full at the scene. They'll be needing your help on the paperwork.”

Another punishment detail, plain and simple.

“Oh, and speaking of paperwork, somebody fucked up the UF-9 on that bunco artist you busted, Kannerman.”

“That wasn't even my collar.”

“But it was your tip on the address, and now some prosecutor downtown has a bug up his ass about how it was handled. He wants you to come straighten it out. Here. You're meeting him at noon.”

Mulhearn handed him a scribbled note. There was a name, Ben Revis, plus an address on Bleecker Street. Between that and the break-ins, he'd be lucky to get back to the Hansch case by late afternoon. He could only hope Danziger would make progress on the union side of things, checking for the literary aliases Lorenz gave them. He also had to hope the Borough Homicide detectives didn't come take the file while he was gone. If word got out about the
Normandie
connection, he might even lose the case to the Feds. And given the nature of federal involvement so far—the detention of Lorenz on Ellis Island where he was practically unreachable, the peripheral and perhaps unauthorized role of some officer from Naval Intelligence—Cain suspected the Feds might be more preoccupied with sweeping the whole thing under a rug. Now if he only knew why.

The mention of the botched UF-9, however, did give him a pretext to go back down to the 95 Room, where he hoped to get another few minutes to poke around. Piled among his messages was yet another call from Linwood Archer, and the sooner he could get Archer off his back, the more time he'd have for the case of the Germans.

He rushed downstairs at a minute after eleven. Officers Steele and Rose had already left for their regular break. Cain looked both ways and was reaching into his pocket for the key when Maloney's voice called out from behind.

“Hey, asshole, What are you doing lurking around here like some kind of ghost?”

Cain, heart jumping, let go of the key and withdrew his hand from his pocket.

“I need a UF-9 from the other day, but these lazy fucks aren't here,” he said.

“They're never here at this hour, nimrod, which you damn well ought to know.” Maloney got right up in his face. “And maybe you ought to just stay the fuck away from here, unless you want to go for another ride, and this time it won't be to your rabbi's supper club.”

Cain pushed past him and headed for the exit. He needed air and some time to think. The paperwork on the break-ins could wait, although he supposed the noon meeting with the prosecutor, Ben Revis, couldn't. He walked off his jitters by heading up 30th. Passing the Royal, he saw Officers Steele and Rose, sharing a laugh as they lazed over the day's
Racing Form
and their usual coffee and Danish. Too much to do, and too many assholes in his way to get it done.

Cain had calmed down by the time he arrived at the address on Bleecker Street, which turned out to be a restaurant just off Sixth Avenue, a quiet place called Nino's with mahogany booths running down either side of a tiled center aisle. At least now he could grab a bite to eat.

He stood just inside the entrance, looking from table to table. He was a few minutes early, so maybe Revis hadn't arrived. A well-dressed man with a proprietorial air strolled briskly toward him, as if intent on protecting his regulars from this clueless newcomer.

“I'm here to meet Mr. Revis.”

A frown of puzzlement, followed quickly by a smile of recognition.

“Ah, yes.” He handed Cain a menu. “This way, sir.”

He escorted Cain to a booth on the left in the back, next to the swinging doors for the kitchen. Two men were seated. The one facing the front, mostly hidden by a
New York Times,
was visible only from the eyebrows up—a huge, bulging forehead with dark hair, flecked with gray. A column of cigarette smoke rose above his newspaper. The fellow on the opposite side was also smoking, elbows on the table. On his plate were a few scraps of pasta. Cain didn't recognize him, but he perked up as soon as he saw Cain, and knocked sharply on the table.

“He's here, boss.”

The other man calmly folded his
Times
and stood in greeting, hand extended. The face was vaguely familiar. He was about five-nine, with a little extra weight around the middle. High arching eyebrows gave him an aspect of surprise, and he wore a crisp, professional-looking suit, nothing flashy.

“Ben Revis?” Cain asked as they shook hands.

The man smiled congenially.

“Frank Hogan, actually, the district attorney. Ben, how 'bout making some room for our guest.”

The other man, presumably Revis, got up and stepped aside. Cain reluctantly slid into the booth, already feeling duped.

“Sorry about using Ben's name,” Hogan said. “Whenever I use my own in setting up these little meetings, the captains get ants in their pants and start making phone calls. By the time lunch is over, half the cops in the city are gossiping about what I'm up to, usually without even a grain of truth.” He gestured toward a menu. “Please, have some chow while you're here. On me. The spaghetti with clams is first rate.”

A waiter appeared.

“I've eaten,” Cain said, shoving away the menu even as his stomach growled.

Hogan smiled. “Suit yourself.”

“Is this really about Kannerman?”

“Interesting case, and a nice collar. Also a bit of a small fry, don't you think?”

“That was my impression, sir.”

“Please. Call me Frank.”

Hogan's tone was cordial. He had a relaxed, patrician air about him that put you at ease even as it made you wonder what he was up to, and Cain already had his suspicions. Juries probably loved him.

“So was there some other matter you wanted to discuss, then?”

Hogan looked up abruptly as someone loomed up over Cain's right shoulder. Cain turned and saw Murray Gurfein. Stocky, clipped mustache, hooded eyes—the whole package—plus a scowl that could've curdled milk.

“Have a seat, Murray. We were just getting started.”

Was it Cain's imagination, or had the guy to his right moved a few inches closer, practically squeezing him against the wall? A couple seated on the other side of the room got up to leave. They were now the only remaining customers. Gurfein slid in next to Hogan.

“Murray, would you like to begin?”

“You do the honors, sir. Maybe he'll actually listen if it comes from the top.”

“Apologies for my assistant's peremptory tone, Sergeant Cain.”

“Call me Woodrow.” He said it pointedly, figuring he ought to show them that he wasn't a pushover.

“Very good.” Hogan's smile didn't waver. “The problem, Woodrow, is that we're told you've been tampering with a material witness in a very sensitive ongoing investigation.”

“Are we still talking about Kannerman?”

“You know who we mean. And we'd like you to cease and desist. No more excursions out into the harbor. No more inquiries, official or otherwise, into any and all matters pertaining to that conversation. And certainly no further trips to the Hotel Astor.”

The last remark caught him off guard, although he supposed it wasn't all that surprising that someone in the intelligence business would keep track of people who were keeping track of him.

“Why?”

Hogan looked at Gurfein, who took it from there.

“Maybe because we already have matters well in hand.”

“So well in hand that two men and one woman are dead, and at least two more fellows are probably in danger. Not that they don't necessarily deserve it. Then there's the guy who, as far as I can tell, you've put on ice. Treating him like an enemy alien even though he's a citizen of the United States.”

Hogan chimed in: “You might check the law books for a federal statute passed by Congress in 1909,” he said. “It sets out a clear procedure for denaturalization. We're operating completely within the bounds of law.”

He gave Cain a few seconds to digest that before continuing.

“His being ‘on ice,' as you so colorfully put it, is a matter of keeping him out of harm's way. In case you didn't notice, other branches of our government have placed men on the premises to ensure that no one's personal well-being is at risk.”

“So he said. I presume that's who told you I was out there.”

Hogan smiled and picked up his coffee cup. “They're very efficient fellows, for the most part.”

“Lorenz thinks this whole thing is all about the
Normandie.
Some kind of sabotage plot.”

This stopped Hogan cold. His smile vanished, and he set the cup in its saucer with a rattle, his first sign of less than total composure. Then he exchanged glances with Gurfein. Neither man was able to hide his surprise.

“He actually said that?” Hogan said.

“Yes.”

Hogan slowly shook his head. “He's been misinformed.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“Then what is this all about?”

Gurfein leaned across the table like a mastiff eager to take a bite out of his neck. “It's a matter of national defense. Way above your pay grade, detective.” His eyes bulged, hooded or not.

Cain stared right back, his temper rising.

“Is it also above my pay grade for me to ask why you've been meeting with the likes of Meyer Lansky and some lawyer who works for Lucky Luciano?”

Hogan's look of shock told Cain that he should've kept his mouth shut.

“See?” Gurfein said to Hogan. “I told you. He knows way too much. Him and the old guy, both of 'em.”

Maybe Cain had watched too many movies, but he was well aware of what could happen to people who knew too much, especially when seated among the powerful in an otherwise empty Italian restaurant in New York. Then he reminded himself that these guys were law enforcers, not law breakers. Unless, of course, they were crooked, and so was Haffenden, working off-the-books deals at his private office.

Hogan was staring at him with an air of deep disappointment. Cain speculated for a second on whether he might be able to shove Revis out of the booth and make his escape. Not likely, he decided, or not without bloodshed. Gurfein and Hogan exchanged grim glances and then zeroed in on him.

“Woodrow,” Hogan said, his tone chilly, “those are the kinds of questions that, under the present circumstances, can be very dangerous for a whole lot of people.”

“Me included?”

“Everyone included. This is bigger than you, bigger than me, and bigger than a few small murders. It's bigger than everyone in this city.” He leaned forward, the big forehead thrusting toward Cain like a bowling ball. “I urge you to not proceed with this matter a single step further.”

“And what happens if it gets kicked up to borough level?”

“Let us worry about that. And not for my sake, not in the least. Do this for the sake of your country.”

Another appeal to his patriotism, just like with Lanza. Either it was genuine or it was a convenient dodge. And whatever Hogan and the others were up to, at least some of the participants were willing to kill to keep it under wraps. But rubbing out a few illiterate Germans, or even a sadly addicted young woman, was one thing. Killing a cop would be quite another. So at least he had that going for him.

“What if I choose instead to keep doing my job?”

Hogan sighed, sat up straight, and looked away, while putting his hands on the table. Gurfein leaned into the breach.

“We've been doing our homework, too, Mr. Cain. For example, we understand you're a Valentine man.” He tacked on a smile, and not a friendly one.

“Where'd you get that idea?”

“Am I wrong?”

Cain shrugged, trying to act like it didn't bother him. “I'm a cop. We're all Valentine men.”

Hogan deftly took up the thread, calmly intoning his words as if he were the voice of reason. “Gentlemen, I'm sure we're all after the same thing here. Justice for the murdered, no matter their nation of origin, and the strongest possible defense for our country in a time of war. And at this point there's no reason we can't still have them both, provided you cooperate.”

“By doing nothing, you mean.”

“Woodrow, when I was in law school I worked a lot of different summer jobs in a lot of different places. I was a steamfitter, a Pullman conductor. I even kept books for a mining company in Guatemala, and, believe me, along the way I've come across any number of punks and tough customers. But let me say this about that breed of man. I have yet to find a tough guy in whom there is not some good. Meaning, lest I need to be more explicit, that even those people who you and I may oppose on most days of any given week might at other times be capable of acting for the public good, if you're willing to let them. Am I getting through to you?”

There it was again. A wave of the flag, in hopes that Cain would simply pledge his allegiance and look the other way.

“Tell you what,” Gurfein added, as if sensing Hogan hadn't closed the deal. “You do as we ask, and when this is over I'll happily give you enough dirt on crooked cops in the 14th to keep your commissioner happy until you're ready to retire.”

Smart move. Finally, a genuine incentive was on the table. It also told Cain that they truly
did
know he was a Valentine man, in the most secretive sense of the term. Wonderful. Further evidence that everyone he'd been dealing with had eyes all over the city. And if these guys knew about his arrangement with Archer and the commissioner, who else did?