Authors: Michael Murphy
One corner of Hawkins’s mouth twisted into the smug expression I’d become so fond of.
“A cabdriver said he picked you up from the hospital and drove you to Mickey’s office. The next day we find the place ransacked and the three guns Mickey owned missing.”
“I didn’t take Mickey’s guns.” Laura could confirm the handguns were missing by the time I arrived, but I refused to bring her into my problems. “I also didn’t drag Jimmy to the trash can and leave the incriminating weapon. Are we through yet?”
Hawkins aimed his finger at me. “We’re finished when I say we’re finished.”
“You’re picturing newspaper headlines over a story about you arresting Jake Donovan, a murder-mystery novelist, for a real murder. Your buddies, if you have buddies, will buy you drinks, and women might even invite you up for
coffee
. You’ll be having lunch with the captain instead of sharing hot dogs with Stone.”
“Show some respect. You think Stone and I are a couple of beer-swilling, hot-dog-eating flatfoots.” He slammed his palms on the table. “What were you doing in Mickey O’Brien’s office?”
I wasn’t about to tell Hawkins about the locker key or Oliver Greenwoody’s hotel phone number. “Packing up his personal effects.”
A bubble of spit hung on his lip. “I could arrest you right now with what I have.”
I knew a bluff when I saw one. He’d make a terrible poker player. “You’ll be walking a beat in Flatbush within a week after your lieutenant finds out someone broke into Mickey’s office and snatched the guns before I arrived. The hotel can confirm I was in my room when Jimmy’s murder took place.”
Hawkins lunged across the table and grabbed my lapels. He let go as the door opened.
Stone came in munching on a hot dog. I smoothed my suit coat as he tossed a dog wrapped in paper to Hawkins. “Ketchup, no mustard, like always.”
“No thanks,” his partner barked back.
“Suit yourself.” Stone slid the hot dog toward me.
I hadn’t eaten all day. The dog smelled wonderful, but I’d never met a New Yorker who put ketchup on a hot dog.
After unwrapping the paper, I wiped off as much of the tomato goo as I could with the wrapper. The first bite made me realize how much I missed New York food and the simple things of my previous life.
Hawkins stared down his partner. “You going to tell me what you found out, or are you going to wait until Donovan finishes his meal?”
Stone took a final bite and tossed the wrapper into a trash can in the corner. With a mouthful of dog, he managed a long hard swallow. “I spoke to Frankie Malzone and his girlfriend Edith. She’s a piece of work. She definitely wears the pants in the family but is honest as a nun, you know? She confirms Frankie was home all night, as did a couple of neighbors I
checked with.”
“I’ve been telling the truth.” I struggled to rise. “I have a play to attend, fellas.”
“Not so fast.” Stone slid a chair from the corner and sat beside his partner. “Frankie told me you two spent the day looking for a hooker by the name of Belle Starr. I’m familiar with Belle … Miss Starr … ’cause I arrested her a couple years ago. Anyways, doesn’t sound like the person witnesses saw you with in the soup kitchen.”
I finished the hot dog, pulled a handkerchief from my pocket, and wiped both hands. “Unless you plan to arrest me for soliciting a prostitute, you have nothing to keep me here.”
Hawkins rose from the chair and slipped on his suit coat. “Just because we don’t have enough evidence to make charges stick, yet doesn’t mean you’re innocent. For now, you’re free to go, but don’t leave town.” He left the room and slammed the door.
After I grabbed my cane, Stone escorted me through the bustling police station. Outside, he stood beside me as I waited for a cab. “In the alley, you said your investigation of Mickey’s murder led in a different direction. Means you believe Mickey was the intended victim.”
“Get on with it.” I raised one hand as a cab sped by.
“You think the killer was somebody Mick was investigating, or someone from his past?”
“Mickey made a lot of enemies, but no one ever shot at him before.”
“I might be able to keep Hawkins from nipping at your heels, but you’ve got to give me something.”
I held up a hand when I spotted an approaching cab. “Why should I trust you?”
“Mickey did.”
Good enough. “Ever hear of something called the Golden Legion?”
“Sure, a bunch of rich snob bankers who went crazy ’cause Roosevelt took us off the gold standard,” Stone answered. “Word is they’re trying to buy off Congress to roll back the New Deal laws he jammed down the politicians’ throats. But what does a bunch of stuffed shirts with diamond stickpins have to do with Mickey getting plugged by gangsters?”
I had my suspicions about a handful of bankers trying to hold on to their power. After all, bankers had financed Mussolini’s rise to power. But I wasn’t ready to share my suspicions with someone I barely trusted. “Maybe Mickey got crossways with one of them.”
“I’ll do some snooping, but I gotta be careful. These are some of the most powerful men in the country.” Stone stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and went back into the station.
A cab pulled to the curb, followed by a white limo with dark windows. The limo driver, in a dark blue uniform, jumped out and spoke to the cabbie. A second later the cab sped away.
The limo driver tipped his cap. “Jake Donovan?”
I nodded. Who arranged for a limo ride?
The rear window rolled down and Spencer Dalrymple waved me forward. Of course.
What did he want? More importantly, how did he know the interrogation had ended? I had to find out.
The driver opened the rear door. I sat across from Dalrymple and laid the cane on the leather seat. “Nothing like leaving a police station in a limo.”
His face lacked the con-man smile he’d displayed in my hospital room. “I thought we should chat on the way back to your hotel. You’re coming to the play and the cast party, I hope.”
“Of course.”
“Laura will be pleased. She’s such an angel. After my wife died, I never thought I’d find love again.”
Dalrymple had two mistresses: money and power. A man like that couldn’t love someone like Laura. Hearing him profess his love made me sick enough to puke on his tailored suit.
“I’m sorry for your loss. How did …?”
He stared out the window and smoothed his thin mustache. “A tragic automobile accident five years ago. Icy roads …” Dalrymple twisted his hands together and appeared to regain his composure. A push of a button on the door raised a panel that blocked us from the driver. He pointed out a skyscraper under construction. “The Dalrymple Building. Should open next year.” A block later we approached a familiar office building where my publisher occupied the tenth and eleventh floors. “My bank purchased Empire Press recently.”
My publisher. This news wasn’t good.
He handed me an envelope as an arrogant grin spread across his face.
I ignored the urge to remove the dagger from my cane and slice off the man’s lips. Inside the envelope was a one-way train ticket back to Florida. How considerate.
Dalrymple’s voice lowered an octave and took on a sinister edge. “It’s time you get back to your writing.”
A thousand miles from Laura, too. I set the envelope beside me. “I don’t think the police would like me to leave New York.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “My lawyers will take care of that. No charges have been filed, and none will be.”
If I left the city.
With the glee of a chess master about to trap someone in check, he leaned forward and spoke in a soft voice. “I attended a board meeting last week at Empire Press. Imagine my surprise to learn your editor is having second thoughts about your latest novel and about continuing your Blackie Doyle series. I argued in your favor, but what can one man do?”
I was finding out. Dalrymple’s squeeze drove home the point. Stop digging into Mickey’s murder or I’d lose my income, and the cops would continue their efforts to link me to the murder of Jimmy Vales.
Behind his dark eyes was more than arrogance. Dalrymple was corrupt and dangerous. I couldn’t let Laura marry such an evil man.
“Ah, here we are.” He pointed to the Carlyle Hotel. “You have much to think about.”
The driver parked in front then ran around and opened the rear door.
I grabbed the cane and climbed out.
“Donovan.” Dalrymple tossed me the envelope. “Your train ticket.”
I wanted to rip the ticket to bits and stuff the pieces down his throat. Instead, I stuck the envelope inside my suit coat pocket. The limo drove off.
Inside the hotel lobby, I worried not about my finances but Laura’s safety.
As I passed the front desk, the clerk’s face lit with an eager-to-please smile. “Everything’s taken care of, Mr. Donovan.”
I nearly skidded to a stop. “Taken care of?”
“Your bill is paid up through the weekend. You’re scheduled for early checkout Monday morning.”
“Who made those arrangements?” As if I didn’t know.
His face flushed. “Why, I assumed you did. Oh, dear.” He sifted through a stack of papers. “Oh, yes. Your publisher notified us you’d be returning to Florida.”
“My publisher.”
“Empire Press.” He glanced behind him to a young woman hanging room keys on hooks. He lowered his voice. “There’s the matter of … your cousin. Will she be leaving as well?”
I grabbed the knot of his tie and twisted, my anger at Dalrymple spilling over to the frightened clerk. The reality of my actions hit home. I let go, disgusted by my behavior. Now I was a bully like Laura’s fiancé. “I’m terribly sorry.”
He straightened his tie, and color returned to his face. “I’ve dealt with plenty of artists, writers in particular, who …” He took off his glasses and stared into my eyes as if looking for signs of drug use. “Act out.” No longer appearing so eager to please, he put on his glasses and ran his finger down a ledger. “Now about your friend on the second floor.”
“She’ll be staying for the foreseeable future. Please continue to charge her bill to my account, and—”
“That’s just it,” he interrupted.
I felt Dalrymple’s strike even before the words left the clerk’s mouth.
“I’m afraid your bank account’s been frozen.”
Frankie drove us to my favorite Broadway theater, the Longacre. An usher showed us to our seats, mid-center, fourth row, where we waited for the curtain to rise on the final performance of
Night Whispers
.
Frankie had never attended a Broadway play. He dressed for the occasion in a freshly pressed blue pin-striped suit with a fresh carnation in the lapel, shined shoes, and a spiffy Panama hat.
While Frankie took in the glitz and glamour of New York celebrities and reporters, I replayed the limo ride in my mind. Dalrymple was a bully, something I suspected the first time we met. He’d complicated my plans to remain in the city and find Mickey’s killer, but checkmate? Hardly.
Frankie stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “So you once had a … a thing with the actress who plays the nurse.”
“We had a
thing
since high school … until I moved to Florida two years ago.”
“You ran away from Laura Wilson?”
When a woman in the third row turned and glanced at me over the top of her glasses, Frankie ran a finger around his collar. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”
I changed the subject and told him about finding Belle. He couldn’t believe I put her up at the Carlyle.
“She speaks highly of Edith, by the way.”
Frankie chuckled. “Well, the feeling ain’t mutual.”
A buzz swept over the packed theater when the lights dimmed and the curtain opened. A flutter churned through my gut. Laura’s acting talent germinated from not having a mother and being raised by an abusive father. She pretended to be happy at an early age. The pain of growing up gave her the drive to become a successful actress, but as I waited for her to appear onstage, I couldn’t help but wonder whether her feelings for me had been an act all along.
In a nurse’s uniform, Laura strolled onstage to a round of applause. She spoke her first line, and my thoughts of our past vanished. Like Frankie, I found myself immersed in the story of a nurse falling for a crippled soldier. Much of the audience shed tears at the play’s tender moments and laughed at Laura’s bawdy lines and slapstick antics in the operating room.
The first act ended to a standing ovation. I tried not to notice Frankie wiping away a tear. As the lights brightened, my gaze traveled to a private balcony box where three people rose to take a break between acts—Peggy and Dorothy Greenwoody and, I assumed, the war hero, Oliver Greenwoody.
I grabbed my cane. “I need to stretch my leg.”
As we left the lobby, we passed two women complimenting each other on their new jewelry. Twenty-four hours earlier I’d shared a free meal with more than a hundred people. The disparity in wealth between the average Joe and the rich who controlled Wall Street was dangerous to the country. The gap led to fanatics like those who’d risen in Europe. How had our country’s leaders allowed greed and corruption to ruin so many lives? More importantly, how
would Roosevelt ever get us out of this mess?
Outside, I flinched as a car turned the corner and sped by. The sedan recalled the images of the night Mickey and I were shot. A backfire would’ve sent me to the pavement. How long would my jumpiness go on?
Frankie ignored my reaction and lit a cigarette. “So, Belle’s doing okay?”
“Better at the Carlyle than living in a movie theater. You really were her favorite.”
“Dames. Sometimes things just don’t work out. You know that.”
Unfortunately, I did, much to my regret. A thousand miles away I nearly forgot what I’d left behind—Laura, friends like Gino, delis and shops where everyone knew my name.
Frankie interrupted my reflection when he gestured toward the theater. “Look who’s here.”
Gino stepped from the lobby looking uncomfortable in an expensive black suit, starched collar, and spats. On his arm was a glitzy blonde in a gold-sequined gown. He joined us and nodded toward the woman, who looked vaguely familiar. “You remember Stella.”