L
ater that night, sitting at the big table at Sangree & Co., Jacobs related what he'd overheard at the office.
“So, your impression was that this detective had suspicions that he shared with Mrs. Roebling and C. C. Martin?” the captain asked.
“Definitely. I distinctly heard them discussing it and use the words âsinister, ' âscandal,' and âcontroversy.'”
“Could mean most anything. It doesn't mean they got any idea what we're up to,” Lincoln noted.
“No,” Jacobs admitted, “at least not that I heard. But we'd be wise to assume the worst. We know Braddock met with Roebling and Martin. We know what brought him to the bridge.” He said this looking from Watkins to Lebeau. Watkins's Adam's apple bobbed on cue. Lebeau wore his usual deadman's stare.
“Whatever roused his suspicions, he obviously thought it serious enough to pass on to them.” The captain looked at Lebeau. “Any reason why this cop should think that Bucklin's death was connected to a deeper conspiracy?”
“Cap'n, we don't know that's what he thinks,” Sullivan broke in. “Don't
think we should assume too much. There's no way for him to know, right, Earl?” Pat said, looking to Lebeau for confirmation.
“If you're askin' if I done him clean, the answer's yes. I sure as hell didn't leave nothin' that was gonna connect us. Think if I had, he'd-a been after me from the git-go.”
“Yeah,” Lincoln said. “All this cop's got is suspicions. We'd have heard from him before now if he really knew anything.”
“He don't know shit! No way! Hell, even Bucklin didn't know all that much. My tongue may have wagged a bit with the beer and all, but he never got no particulars,” Watkins lied loudly. In truth, he wasn't sure exactly how much he'd spilled of their plans. He had lost count after the eighth pint. He remembered bragging about some of the trains they'd wrecked, but what he'd said about the bridge was a blur.
“Watkins, you'll forgive me if I'm not reassured,” the captain said with a dry rattle at the back of his throat and a twist of his mouth.
Watkins noticed the tone. He figured he didn't have much time. He'd need to act soon if he wanted to stay alive.
The discussion turned to Braddock, how much he knew and how he knew it. Earl was certain that it wasn't Mike who had told anything.
“If he knowed, he'da squawked,” Earl said with certainty. “Kid practically pissed his pants he was so scared.”
Either way, whatever Braddock had was not enough to act on. The question became what to do about it.
“Kill the son of a bitch,” said Watkins, looking to the others for support.
Jacobs cleared his throat in that officious way of his and drawled, “You'll recall I was in favor o' that two meetings back.
“No problem, Cap'n. This Braddock's no harder to kill than the next man. Done it before. Ain't scared to do it again.” Lebeau had a killer's confidence in his abilities, and saw Braddock as simply a bull's-eye to hit.
“The point,” Sullivan said, “isn't just killing the man. We thought that getting rid of Bucklin would solve our problems, but it only created more. I say we need to think this all the way through ⦠do it right, or not at all.”
“I second that,” Matt said. “This is a New York City police detective we're talkin' about boys. Don't think they'll take kindly to someone killing one of their own. Raise a hornet's nest for sure.” Some of the others nodded agreement. “We're not even sure that killing the man would do any good. He reports to a captain, or police chief, or something, right? Who knows who he might have told about his suspicions? Killing this man might blow back in our faces. All he had to do was tell one other cop about his investigation. If Braddock
was to turn up dead somewhere, we'd have cops down here thicker than flies on a dead dog's eye.”
The captain looked up from the table, his face weary. “Gentlemen! We've got plenty to discuss beyond what we might do about this damned detective. I'm not against killing the man, but we must know that he is closing in on us before we act. Nothing must be done before that,” the captain said emphatically.
“And
we
can't do the killing,” Thaddeus said, smiling grimly.
Jacobs and Lebeau looked disappointed. Weasel took his glasses off, making a show of cleaning the lenses with a pocket handkerchief. Lebeau gave an almost imperceptible shrug.
“We get someone else to do it.”
Jacobs looked up at that then perched the glasses on the bridge of his nose. His small black eyes peered over the tops of the half-lenses. A predatory smile curled his thin lips. “I have someone who can help with that if need be,” Thaddeus said with a satisfied grin. There were nods around the table.
“Someone needs to be there,” Jacobs observed coldly. “Beyond needing to be sure the bastard is fed to these wolves, we should be ready to step in and finish it if the outcome appears uncertain.” Weasel, of course, had himself in mind. He wouldn't mind sliding his blade into that damned detective if need arose. Might be more of a challenge than what he'd done to that whimpering Clora Devine.
The captain rubbed his chin in thought. “I'm not against it,” he said slowly. “Has to be one of us he's not seen before. Wouldn't do to have him recognize one of us before the trap is sprung.”
Jacobs nodded in apparent agreement. He didn't give a shit about being recognized. He could be as inconspicuous as a priest in a confessional when he needed to be. He'd take his chances with that, so long as there was a chance for blood.
“I'll rely on you to carry out that task, Bart ⦠assuming, of course, that Braddock hasn't seen you before we set this in motion.”
Jacobs just grinned.
“Okay, Captain, so what's the plan? How're we gonna make sure of the whys and wheres and whatnots? I mean, this has to be arranged just so,” Matt said.
Thaddeus steepled his fingers under his chin, a wisp of a smile creasing his face. “Some little arranging, Earl, but nothing we can't see to. Here's how I see it.” The captain laid it out for them, what to do if Braddock came by again, what to say, what not to, and how to handle the situation if it appeared he was showing particular interest in any of them.
Thaddeus said. “We'll have no more than an hour's lead on him, so there's not much room for error. Matt, you and Lebeau will be the point men tomorrow. Braddock showed the most interest in you, so Watkins, you take tomorrow off. Any questions?”
Thaddeus looked around the room. He looked back to Watkins. “And, Watkins, listen to me well. Stay out of your place tomorrow, and keep the hell away from your usual haunts. You hear me, Private?” Thaddeus waved a finger for emphasis.
Watkins nodded. Maybe with some luck he'd be able to find Braddock himself and settle the whole affair, he thought. Tomorrow would be the day to do it.
Captain Sangree looked at Watkins hard. Watkins had had his uses over the years, but in truth he wasn't more than a twelve-year-old in a man's body. The captain figured he'd stuck to the work as much because he had no idea what else to do as out of any conviction in what they were doing. He was lazy, stupid, and dangerous, as his drunken expose to Bucklin had demonstrated. Though he'd been loyal to the cause in his way, and a good man in a fight, his uses in the present circumstances were very limited. Watkins was expendable. He was the kind of man the captain wouldn't mind losing, the kind he'd gladly sacrifice for an objectiveânot like his brother at all. Franklin was a diamond to Watkins's clay. Holes in the line ought to be filled with clay, after all. Save the diamonds for the important things, the cutting of things uncutable. But that wasn't how things had gone so long ago at Gettysburg. The diamond was under the sod. The clay sat before him, dull-eyed and needing a shave. Captain Sangree sighed. “Let's move on then. We're running late, and I have arrangements to make.”
T
om noticed the Black Maria on the side of police headquarters as he walked up to the building. The wagonâa black box on wheels, with a single door in backâwas used to transport prisoners. Every morning the wagons would make the rounds of the precincts, picking up those arrested the day before. Prisoners would be brought to the Tombs, for processing and to await arraignment. Before the prisoners were hauled to the Tombs, they'd be paraded in Byrnes's rogues' gallery during morning parade. The fact that none of these men and women had been convicted of anything yet didn't seem to bother anyone.
Tom went in and waved to the desk sergeant, who sat at a raised oak desk, with heavy railings on either side. He bounded up the broad staircase to the second floor. He turned down the paneled hallway, past the offices of various
superintendents and departments, their high oak doors reeking of importance. At the end of the hall, he made a left to the front of the building where the new detective bureau offices were. Tom got a warm reception when he strode into the squad room. Slaps on the back, robust handshakes, and lots of “atta boy, Tommy,” “Good to see you back,” and “You've got sand, Tommy” almost overwhelmed him. It seemed there were no secrets here. Any thought he might have harbored of pretending to have been sick vanished. Chowder Kelly pushed into the small crowd, clapping a thick hand on Tom's shoulder.
“Good to see you back, Thomas. The streets of the city âave been runnin' riot without your calmin' influence. Barely able to see above the flood of crime and lawlessness this past week.”
Tom laughed doubtfully. “Is that so? Thought you boys had a better lid on things.”
“Oh, we're tryin', Tommy, but the floodgates're open, an' the criminal classes are taxin' our poor abilities to hold back the tide, they are. Why, no more'n a week ago we found Venkmanâyou remember Venkman, Tommy? Well, we found the Dutchman all busted up and shot through the middle by some fella name o' Finney. And would you guessâFinney was stone cold too! Oh, you missed all the fun, you did.” Chowder aped a broad wink. “You bein' sick and all.”
“Sounds like it. I remember Venkman; big stupid German with a long sheet?” Tom said, playing along.
“Very stupid and very long. That would be him. Nobody here mourns his passing; Finney neither.” There were similar comments around the group.
“Finney I don't know.” Tom scratched his head and looked at the ceiling. “Course I read about it in the papers while I was laid up.”
There was a twinkle in Chowder's eye. “I suppose you did at that.”
“Detective Braddock!” Chief of Detectives Byrnes's voice boomed above their heads.
“Yessir!” Tom called back immediately.
“May I see you in my office?” the chief boomed back.
The little crowd melted faster than snow in April. Tom exchanged a look and a shrug with Chowder.
“Good to see you back, Thomas,” Byrnes said as he closed the office door behind Tom. The chief of detectives had a large office, with high ceilings and a big door with his name and rank stenciled on the frosted glass. “How're you feeling?” Byrnes asked, looking closely at Tom.
“Very good, sir. Ready to get back at it.” Which wasn't precisely the truth, but close enough. His stitches still pulled and oozed, and his hand hadn't gone
back entirely to normal size. He'd even get a little dizzy if he got up from a chair too quickly, but he could get by.
“Excellent, excellent,” Byrnes said as he strolled around to the other side of his desk. The room smelled of the cigars that Byrnes smoked constantly. The walls were hung with an endless array of photographs of Byrnes with politicians, officials, business and civic leaders, even one with J. P. Morgan himself, all of whom seemed to be very pleased to be in the company of the great detective chief.
“We have to watch our health, you know. Fresh air, good solid food, vigorous exercise, those are my prescriptions for a sound constitution. Don't you agree?” Byrnes asked, pounding his chest.
“That's the truth, sir. But I'm near to tiptop now,” Tom said without feeling it.
“Well, that's fine, that's fine.” Byrnes put his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “You know, there's a couple of men who came in on the Black Maria this morning who you might know.”
Tom became instantly wary. “Really?”
“Yes, I believe so. Haven't seen these boys through the system in a while. Don't really belong here from what I hear.” Byrnes's neck challenged his stiff starched collar as he glanced down at some papers on his desk. He was a big florid walrus in a tight suit that barely buttoned across his middle, but he was a man of some vigor when it came to enforcing the law as he saw it. He also knew the score as well as any in the department.
“I'll be interested to see them,” Tom said flatly.
“Coogan brought them in, you know. Good man, Coogan, a bit zealous at times, and overly jealous of what he sees as his, if you take my meaning.” Byrnes peered at Tom from under overgrown brows, his mustache balanced on a pursed lip. “You might want to see to this personally, Detective. I'll not have friction between departments.” Byrnes turned and looked out his window at Mulberry Street, his hands still clasped behind his broad back. “Got plenty of other problems to deal with in this city, Thomas. Don't need Coogan mucking up the works. I imagine he's overreacting to this Finney thing.” Byrnes words ricocheted off the glass, hitting Tom in the guts like the sharp twist of a knife. His stitches began to ache.