Brooklyn on Fire (24 page)

T
HE DOCTOR HAD
no idea what had caused Mary to faint. The Carnegies and Rockefellers had left and George had carried her upstairs to put her on a bed in one of the guest rooms. She was awake but still groggy when the doctor decided that she might benefit from bloodletting. Fortunately, that jogged George’s memory, and before the doctor could start the process, George informed him that she had given a good deal of blood to her brother that day.

“I’m glad you told me that,” said the doctor. “We could have had a catastrophe on our hands, and we wouldn’t want that.” George wholeheartedly agreed as the doctor prescribed a simple cure.

“Make sure she gets a healthy meal of meat or fish and drinks plenty of nonalcoholic beverages. Her recovery should be almost instantaneous.”

The doctor was right. Halfway through her meal, while sitting in Cornelius Vanderbilt’s dining room with George later that night, Mary felt her energy return.

“You told me you gave blood to Sean,” George said, recounting the events of the day, “but you neglected to tell me you hadn’t eaten all day.”

“So much was happening that eating didn’t enter my mind.”

“Well, the important thing is you’re all right.”

“You’ve saved my life twice now. Is this going to be a habit with you?”

“I hope not. I’m not sure if my heart can take it.”

“If yours fails, you can always have mine.” Mary paused for a second then cringed, her face crinkling up, “My lord, did I really say that?”

George nodded. “Most definitely.”

“It’s tragic. Look what you’ve turned me into: a sappy, lovesick fool.”

“It’s catching. I’m similarly afflicted.” He took her hand and kissed it as Cornelius entered.

“Well, it looks as if you’re feeling much better, Miss Handley,” Cornelius said.

“Yes, thank you, and please call me Mary.”

“Of course, Mary.”

“I’m sorry for anything I might have said this evening. I wasn’t myself.”

“You know what they say about people who are out of sorts or even drunk?” He stopped and stared at her. “That’s when their true selves are revealed.”

George turned to Cornelius and gave him a disapproving look. “Since you are not out of sorts or inebriated, dear brother, I will assume this is not your true self, and I forgive you for your behavior.” He held out his hand to Mary. “It’s time for me to take you home, Mary.”

On the way back, Mary and George sat for a while in the carriage without speaking until she broke the silence.

“Well, I certainly made a wonderful impression on your family.”

“Don’t mind Cornelius. He’s a twit, and a pompous one at that.”

“I can’t completely blame him. I did insult his guests.”

“They pushed you into a corner. Did he expect you to lie or to not have an opinion? That’s part of what I love about you, Mary. You don’t shy away from your beliefs.”

“Thank you, George, but telling Andrew Carnegie and John D. Rockefeller that their charitable instincts were motivated by guilt might have been going a bit too far.”

He laughed. “I so enjoyed the looks on their faces. Then you had to go and spoil it all by fainting.”

“I am quite the spoilsport.” She laughed too, then they both got quiet, almost solemn.

“Mary, don’t let my brother bother you. He’s very old-school and a monumental hypocrite. He talks about the importance of associating with persons of breeding and substance, yet he prefers the company of ruthless businessmen like Carnegie and Rockefeller. They both came from very poor backgrounds, and Rockefeller’s father is a bigamist, a cheat, and an all-around flimflam man. In essence, what Cornelius admires is wealth and power. They earned theirs, and he’s insecure that he inherited his.”

“I just don’t want his silly prejudices to affect you in any way.”

“They do. They provide me with constant humor.”

When they arrived at Mary’s tenement building George walked her upstairs and kissed her good night, but not before getting her to promise to rest the next day. After all, it was Sunday. Mary agreed and was eager to get some sleep, which took a while to happen. She had an anxious feeling. It might have been her worry over Sean’s predicament, or possibly not. But something was off.

Had she looked out her window and gazed across the street, she would have known what that something was: Shorty, standing in the shadows, watching her. He had decided to follow Mary like he had her brother. Then he could determine the right time to act, and he was sure it wouldn’t be long.

A
S USUAL,
H
UGH
McLaughlin was the first one in the office Monday morning. The first, that is, after Liam Riley. Liam was always there, waiting for him in case he had some pressing work for him to do. McLaughlin didn’t on this particular Monday, but under his arm he was carrying the architect’s drawing for his North Shore home, given to him by its former owners, and he wanted Liam’s opinion. He started talking as he entered the outer office.

“Liam, my lad, I need yer fine eye. The question is, where in blazes do I put my swimmin’—” He stopped as he looked up for the first time and saw Liam’s anxious face.

“You have a visitor, Mr. McLaughlin.” Liam nodded in the direction of the corner where Collis Huntington was seated.

“I heard you were an early riser, Hugh, though not as early as me apparently,” said Huntington. Instead of standing, he sat back more comfortably in his chair.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Collis fuckin’ Huntington. What the hell do ya want?”

“A word to the wise: you really need to clean up your language if you intend to mix in with the North Shore crowd.”

“Oh, ya know about that, huh?”

“I know more about you than your little lackey here.”

“This is the second time ya attacked Liam here for no good reason. Are ya put out ’cause no one gives a rat’s ass about ya or is it that
I
have a loyal fella who—”

“Please stop,” said Huntington as he stood up and straightened his clothes. “Whatever kind of perverse activity the two of you engage in is of no interest to me. What does interest me, and should also interest you, is that you’re being investigated for multiple murders and some very shady financial dealings.”

McLaughlin looked at Liam, who shrugged his shoulders. “Yer lyin’,” he replied.

“Am I? You’ll find out.” He started to slowly stroll toward the door.

“Who cares? I didn’t kill anybody.”

Huntington stopped and turned. “So that’s your defense: maintaining that you’re just shady and not a killer? You may want to reconsider that.”

“I don’t need a defense. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m surprised, Hugh. Surely you’re aware it doesn’t matter what you did or did not do. It’s what they can prove that counts.” He started to go once more but soon stopped. “Oh, and another word to the wise: I’d put that swimming pool in the backyard instead of the front, or your neighbors will think you’re
très
gauche.”

“
Très
fuck ya. Is that French enough for ya, Collis?”

“Language again, Hugh. Language.”

H
AVING THOROUGHLY ENJOYED
his short stay, Huntington felt chipper enough to bypass the elevator and walk down the three flights of stairs. As he exited the building, he saw a familiar face heading for the entrance.

“Good morning, Miss Handley.”

Mary was taken aback. “Mr. Huntington, what are you doing here?”

“Gloating. It’s a much-maligned activity, but it’s making a big comeback with me. Have a wonderful day.” Smiling broadly, he got into his carriage and rode away.

W
HEN
M
ARY GOT
up to the third floor, she could hear McLaughlin shouting from the hall.

“What the hell does that bastard Huntington have on me?”

“I have no idea, sir. None,” said Liam, obviously shaken by McLaughlin’s bluster.

“Ya better find out and find out soon. He’s settin’ me up for a fall, and if I go down, Liam, you know who goes with me, don’t ya?”

Liam’s mind was rapidly searching for an answer. “Maybe he’s bluffing.”

“Bluffin’?”

“He could be. That
is
possible.”

“Have ya learned nothin’ from me? Men like him don’t bluff. They destroy.”

The voices started to quiet, and, no longer able to hear them, Mary decided to go inside. The second Mary had closed the door Liam popped his head out of McLaughlin’s office.

“Who is it? Is that ass Huntington back?” McLaughlin called to Liam from inside.

“It’s that lady detective….” Liam paused, trying to remember Mary’s name.

“Lady detective?” McLaughlin responded as he quickly emerged from his office.

Mary stepped forward. “How do you do? I’m Mary Handley.”

McLaughlin suddenly calmed and started oozing charm. “I know who ya are, girl. I’d be ashamed to say I was from Brooklyn if I didn’t know Mary Handley.” He walked over and shook her hand, then pointed to Liam. “This is my associate, Liam Riley.”

“Mr. McLaughlin, Mr. Riley, pleased to meet you both.”

“What brings you here, Mary? I hope ya don’t mind if I call ya Mary?”

“No, of course not, go right ahead. I was hoping we could have a word.”

“Certainly. Please step inta my office.”

Mary did just that, followed by McLaughlin and Liam. McLaughlin nodded to Liam, and he closed the door. As McLaughlin sat at his desk, he gestured to Mary, who sat facing him. Liam plopped down on the windowsill behind the desk. When they were all settled, McLaughlin began. A consummate politician, he made it his business to know something about each one of his constituents, especially the Irish ones.

“So, what can I do for the lady whose father has the best butcher shop in Brooklyn?”

“Thank you, but it’s not his. He just works there.”

“For goin’ on twenty years. Believe me, that place would shut down without him.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Mary cleared her throat. “Mr. McLaughlin, as you probably know, my brother has been arrested for murdering his fiancée.”

“Yes, a terrible, terrible tragedy. Isn’t it, Liam?”

“Awful. My sympathies, Miss Handley.”

“The point is, he didn’t do it, and I’ve been reviewing the evidence. Some odd occurrences have arisen, and I was hoping you could help me explain them.”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” said McLaughlin, then he looked at Liam.

“Anything to help,” Liam said.

“On the day my brother was arrested, you made a call to District Attorney Ridgeway’s office. Do you remember what that was about?”

“Let me see—”

“I’m sure you remember the day. It made big headlines in all the newspapers.”

“I remember, all right. It’s the phone call. Ya see, I make a bunch of ’em. But I’m pretty sure I haven’t spoken ta Ridgeway in, oh, weeks.” He looked at Liam, who nodded.

“What about Judge Moore?”

“The judge? Whew, that’s been longer. The last time I saw the good judge was at my New Year’s Eve party. I throw a fine party, Mary. Yer family should come this year—”

“Thank you. I look forward to the invitation.” Mary knew not to hold her breath for it. “So you haven’t spoken with Judge Moore?”

“Not in a month of Sundays.”

“Then I don’t suppose you spoke with Ridgeway when my brother was arraigned or on the day he was transferred to the Raymond Street Jail.”

“I just heard about Sean being stabbed. It’s an awful thing and I know yer upset—”

“There’s no question I’m upset, Mr. McLaughlin, and I want to find out why, on each day there was a major decision affecting Sean’s case, the person responsible for that decision got a phone call from you.”

“I see,” said McLaughlin, pausing to size Mary up. “I don’t like what yer implyin’, young lady.”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m just asking a question that you refuse to answer.”

Liam jumped in. “Better watch your mouth. Do you know who you’re talking to?”

Mary held her ground. “I know perfectly well who Mr. McLaughlin is, and I didn’t say anything disrespectful.”

“Ease up on the girl, will ya, Liam? She’s been through hell.” He turned to Mary. “Sorry, he’s just bein’ loyal ta me. The fact is, I don’t remember makin’ those phone calls—the last one fer sure. I was out on Long Island buyin’ my new house.”

“Well, there it is then.” Mary rose to leave. “Nice meeting you, Mr. McLaughlin and Mr. Riley. Thank you for your time. And congratulations on your new house, Mr. McLaughlin.”

There were handshakes, pleasantries exchanged, and another hollow offer by McLaughlin, this time inviting the Handley family out to his house on the North Shore for a summer weekend. McLaughlin and Liam were sure they had evaded what might have been, at the very least, a political nightmare and maybe much more. When Mary got to the door, she turned to them.

“By the way, gentlemen, aren’t there telephones on Long Island and don’t they have records?”

The truth was, if McLaughlin had called from Long Island, it wouldn’t have been from his private phone. He had just bought the house and probably hadn’t moved in even if he had intended to get a phone. Most of the phones at that time on Long Island were not in private residences but rather in stores, and on the slim chance Mary could prove McLaughlin had placed a call from one of those stores, she couldn’t prove what they’d discussed. Mary just wanted to see their reactions when she made them aware she knew the phone records could be checked. McLaughlin’s and Liam’s faces had dropped, but it was hard to tell if it was because of the call or the realization that they hadn’t bamboozled her, or both. So, knowing full well that they weren’t going to divulge any more information, she left.

Walking downstairs, Mary was frustrated. Nothing had changed. Huntington and McLaughlin were still strong suspects, but despite the evidence she’d uncovered against Shorty, she was no closer to finding the person who was truly behind the murders. She needed that person in order to free Sean. Mary started to pore over the facts yet again. Besides Shorty, she had thought that she was the connecting piece between Abigail Corday’s murder and Patti’s. However, it was conceivable Gabrielle Evans was just another murder Shorty had committed that he’d tried to cover up by framing Sean, and Mary wasn’t part of the equation. It was all too coincidental, though, that three unrelated murders involving her and her family would occur separately in a fairly short amount of time. So where did that leave her? It was almost impossible to find a trail leading to the person who hired Shorty to kill Gabrielle Evans and Patti. That left one alternative. She would have to start back at the beginning—or at least the beginning for her in all of this—and find out who hired Abigail Corday to impersonate Emily Worsham.

It was upsetting. She had spent a lot of time chasing down leads, finding Shorty, questioning Huntington, trying to determine McLaughlin’s role in all this, yet she was really no further along than when she had returned from Biltmore. She’d had no idea then how to find out who hired Abigail, and now was no different. The clock was ticking away. She didn’t have time to waste and neither did Sean.

She walked down the busy Brooklyn street, crowded with people rushing to work, and racked her brain, reviewing all the facts over and over. Then it dawned on her. There was one person who might be able to help.

She chastised herself.
Why haven’t I thought of it before?