Thursday morning, the Chronicle led with the story of the Cinnamon Club massacre. By that afternoon, the citywide dailies had picked it up. By evening, people who’d never before heard of the Black Orchid or the Cinnamon Club were talking as though they’d known about them forever. There was talk about guns and the increase in crime and how Harlem had turned wild “ever since the ofays moved out and the darkies moved in.”
Five people were in the hospital. Six had died outright, including Spooner and the maître d’, the latter having died at the door in the first burst of gunfire. One of the victims happened to be a Harvard kid. His death turned what would’ve been forgotten as a local crime into a citywide manhunt. He was the nineteen-year-old scion of a wealthy, conservative Park Avenue family. The parents were aggrieved and ashamed. Plenty of white folk hung out in Harlem, but not in places like that. They tried to keep the boy’s name out of the papers but by afternoon it had leaked. The only thing left for the family to do was to come out swinging, and they did. They wanted the shooter who’d killed their boy, and they wanted him like yesterday. To get folks going, they announced a nice little reward to the tune of five grand.
Sam and I met in his office to discuss the story. We focused on the two big questions: who and why? I thought the second question would lead to an answer to the first. After some consideration, Sam agreed.
Why had the Black Orchid been taken? Was it an act of revenge by a disgruntled suitor, or was it a move for money? Would a ransom note follow? If so, then who did the kidnapper expect to pony up the cash? Maybe he didn’t realize that Queenie had no family. Once he did, what would he do?
“What would you do,” Sam asked, “if you had a celebrity hostage who had no relatives? Who’d you turn to?”
“The person who stood to lose the most.”
“Queenie’s boss, Lucien Fawkes?”
“Yup.” I shivered from a sudden chill. I had pushed aside my morbid thoughts of the night before as the aftereffect of the shooting. But I still felt cold inside, like a member of the walking dead. Seeing those people lose their lives the night before … it had done something to me. Images of the carnage kept slashing through my mind. I told myself to focus.
“At least twelve hours have passed since the kidnapping,” I said. “Chances are that he’s been contacted.”
“Do you honestly think he’ll tell you if he has?”
I shrugged. “Probably not. But he might drop something.” I drew my sweater close and folded my arms across my chest.
Sam regarded me over steepled fingertips. His eyes, which missed little, reflected concern. “You all right?”
I gave a little smile. “I’m fine. Why?”
“I don’t know … you seem … You sure you don’t want to take today off? After last night—”
“That’s the last thing I want, especially after last night.”
“Sure?”
I nodded.
His expression said he disagreed, but he knew better than to argue. He continued, “What would be more interesting is if Fawkes definitely hasn’t been contacted. If he says he hasn’t been and you believe him …”
Our eyes met.
I nodded again. “Then I’d have to wonder why.”