15

Thomas Green’s wake was held on the twenty-second-floor reception hall of the Times building.

Phil rode the elevator with several other attendees, four of whom had the familiar slouch-fitting, cigarette odor–saturated clothing of beat reporters. The other two were a man and woman, both midheight, darkly clad, and suitably somber.

Phil gritted her teeth and counted the floors as they passed, sometimes stopping at various levels to let on passengers and finally coming to a stop at the reception hall.

She stepped into the vestibule on rather shaky legs, but feeling considerably more comfortable than she had in her first trip up.

She stopped to check her coat with the check girl and slipped her ticket into her handbag. Phil had to resist the temptation to touch Tommy’s key, which was safely sequestered beneath her bolero jacket. She’d had Lily sew special pockets into several of her outfits for items such as this.

She’d worn this particular ensemble for that purpose, on the outside chance she might stumble onto a lock it actually opened. Preswick’s search had identified the key as most likely fitting a briefcase or small strongbox. She didn’t have much hope of finding either, since she knew from Marty that Sydney had already had Tommy’s desk cleared out and his work turned over to someone else—not Marty.

But there might be other places, if she could just get to them.

She went inside, where she stopped to peruse the high-ceilinged room, which took up most of the floor and was already filled with a large crowd. Colleagues in rumpled suits crowded around one of the bars. Printers and compositors, editors and office workers mingled with people from all walks of life and nationalities. The well-dressed rubbed elbows with the not-so-well-dressed at the buffet table.

All had come to pay their respects to Tommy Green.

The first person she saw was Detective Sergeant Atkins, standing across the room with Charlie Miller, Carr Van Anda, and Sydney Lord, and looking very distinguished in a gray wool suit.

Standing several yards away was a not-so-distinguished-looking policeman, just as tall but heavier, and not so handsome or honest as Detective Sergeant Atkins.

Sergeant Charles Becker. The Fireplug.

He was talking to a group of men who hovered over the food table and looked as if they wished him elsewhere. The Fireplug was not liked at the best of times. He was unforgiving, ruthless, and the hatchet man for many a crooked politician.

And any newsman who got too close to any of his dealings would pay.

Is that what had really happened to Tommy Green? He’d discovered something about Becker and his associates, something provable and damnable? Heaven knew Becker had so far escaped every suspicion that fell on him. He had powerful friends and ruthless henchmen.

Was Tommy’s murder as simple as that? Becker had him removed from a trail that led to him, or that led through him to someone more important?

Had one of his thugs done the deed while he waited nearby to whisk the body away in an official-looking van to be dumped where it might not be discovered until days or weeks later, and across town from where he had actually been killed?

Becker had threatened Phil once. He would not hesitate to use bodily harm to her person if he thought she was poking her nose into something he was involved in. She would keep a wide berth from him if she could.

She saw Marty and Bev standing at the edge of the room and made her way toward them.

“Phil!” Bev said. “I didn’t know you were coming today. I only came myself to support Marty.”

Marty didn’t look like she needed support—she looked ready for battle.

Bev shrugged. “Besides, when you’re still considered to be in mourning, receptions and wakes are the only events where you can have fun without censure.”

“Not that you give a hoot about censure,” Marty reminded her.

“No, but dear Papa has to live in this town, and without Reggie leading me down the path to hell as an excuse, I have to somewhat toe the line. Try the punch, it’s not bad. I saw Ernie Galloway pour a bottle of rum into it. Oh good, the divinely rugged Detective Sergeant Atkins is on his way over.”

Phil cut a sideways look across the room. He was definitely heading in their direction, taking his time, stopping to talk, as if he didn’t have a destination, but headed inexorably toward them. And she had no doubt Charles Becker would notice.

“Detective Sergeant,” Bev said. “So delightful to see you.” She frowned suitably. “Even at such a solemn occasion. You know Lady Dunbridge. And you remember my friend, Martha Rive?”

“Ladies,” he said, and settled back to his usual unflappable demeanor.

Small talk ensued while Phil merely observed, thinking how well Atkins fit into any situation. She’d never seen him ruffled, whether in high society or “under cover” as a bum at the docks where she’d first come into contact with him.

When several other people joined them, Atkins took the opportunity to move closer to her. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

“Because,” Phil said, looking straight ahead, “you know I have a respect for investigative reporting.”

“Investigative being the real reason?”

“I would think respect would be the reason.”

“Touché. Just steer clear of Becker. He smells blood, figuratively, at the moment. I wouldn’t want him to spill yours.” He nodded to her.

She nodded to him. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

“A bit.”

“Ladies.” He nodded to Bev and Marty and took his leave.

Bev sighed as she watched him walk away. “Those shoulders.”

“Would clap you in jail so fast your head would spin,” Marty said.

Bev chuckled. “He almost did, didn’t he, Phil?”

“Pardon? I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.” She’d just noticed Harriet Wells, red-eyed and morose. Atkins was headed straight toward her.

Now, if Harriet could manage to not blurt out the whole story of their visit to Tommy Green’s apartment.… Phil had every intention of telling Atkins about the episode, but not here, where so many curious eyes and ears might overhear.

Just as he reached her, she was joined by Eddie, the mail-room boy, who took a protective stance. Atkins didn’t even look their way, but walked past and joined a group of reporters.

Eddie handed Harriet his handkerchief, but she seemed not to notice. Sydney Lord had just walked by, and her eyes followed him, until Eddie shook the handkerchief at her.

“I wondered where she’d gotten to,” Marty said. “She hasn’t stopped crying since Tommy didn’t show up for his deadline. At least she has a real reason now. Though I guess I feel a little sorry for her. So did Tommy, I think.

“But he soon lost patience with her. There are things a journalist is born with, some things you can learn, hone, but not if there isn’t a germ of them to begin with.

“Tommy had it.” Marty took a shaky breath. “When I first landed a job here, they put me on society news, but Tommy told me not to resent being there. That there was where the real dirt was to be found. And digging it out sometimes led to major news.

“Tommy Green taught me about good reporting.” She breathed out a laugh that managed to sound sad. “That was four whole years ago. And I’m still covering birthday balls and opera openings.

“But he was right. There is plenty of dirt just below the façade of polite society. And I have more of the tools I need to learn the truth than most other journalists.”

“Let me guess,” Phil said. “Polish, money, and a brain.”

“Exactly. One day he took me to meet Jacob Riis. He’s one of the most important social journalists we have. His wife had just died, and he seemed like a broken man until he started talking. Then you could feel the power of his insight. And his photos, a whole world unseen by most. I would have taken up that work if given a beat of my own.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No. I did get a promotion. Now I’m the assistant editor of society news, but I’ve learned something about paying attention to the normal and deducing a story from what isn’t said. And I learned that from the best.”

This was a different side of Marty than she had shown before.

“Tommy took you on as his protégée?” Phil asked.

“Not really a protégée. Tommy was about the news. I didn’t expect more from him.”

“But it sounds like Harriet did. Perhaps she was just looking for a father figure.”

“In Tommy? Unlikely.” She physically shook herself. “I don’t know why I’m blathering on like this.”

Phil thought she did. It was a way of saying thank you to a man she admired and respected.

Somewhere in the room a glass tinkled. Followed by another, silencing the room. Charlie Miller, editor in chief of the Times, climbed to a dais that had been placed at the front of the room, and everyone turned to listen.

He looked over the crowd, maybe looking for the Tommy he’d never see again. Cleared his throat.

“Tommy Green’s first assignment for the New York Sun was back in seventy-eight. He was barely out of high school, and they sent him to Pennsylvania to cover the Molly Maguire trial. He was called back to New York right after the hangings. But when he came over to the Times, he told me that he was never totally convinced of the identity of the Molly Maguires or whether those miners were really guilty. He always said that being called back before he finished his investigation to his own satisfaction made him the man and the journalist he was. Pushed him to have the tenacity to get to the truth, no matter where that truth led.”

Hmm, thought Phil. So covering Roz’s award ceremony was not his first assignment. And unless something had happened to make him fall from grace, it wasn’t the kind of assignment he would have been given once he joined the Times.

“It’s only fitting that he end his work on assignment investigating the Black Hand. I only wish he’d lived to tell his story.

“We’ll tell your story, Tommy.” Charlie Miller lifted his glass. “To you, Tommy, give ’em what for in heaven.”

“To Tommy,” added Carr Van Anda, whose voice sounded a bit wobbly.

Everyone lifted their glasses; noses were blown; hard-hitting journalists broke down in tears. Tommy Green had been respected and well loved. And he’d been cut down at the height of his career.

From the tail of her eye, Phil saw Marty wipe a tear from one eye.

So, not so hardened as she put on.

Phil waited an appropriate moment, then turned to her. “You were saying Tommy was a bachelor.”

“Do you never let up? We’re at a wake.” Marty laughed. “I completely understand. Very well, here’s your last piece of gossip, and do not spread it around; the man is dead. Do you see that woman over there talking to Sydney?” Phil followed Marty’s gaze across the room to a woman whose deep black dress did nothing to hide her voluptuous figure any more than the fur-trimmed shoulder cape around her shoulders hid the deep V of her décolleté.

Her hat, one of the smaller silhouettes advanced for the coming season, set off thick black hair; a half-veil covered her eyes but left the rest of her face strangely vulnerable. Perhaps fifty years of age, she had the air of someone just outside the acceptable.

“Who is she?”

“Mrs. Toscana. She owns one of the most exclusive brothels in the city. On Thirteenth Street, a hop, skip, and scurry away from Tammany Hall. They say her girls are favorites of some of our most respected politicians.”

A brothel, thought Phil. “Her name wouldn’t be Rose, by any chance?”

“Sally, I believe.”

“Is there any particular reason for her being here?”

“Paying her condolences?”

“Is she acquainted with Tommy? Or sold him information, perhaps?”

Marty shrugged in a very noncommittal way.

“Are you saying Tommy Green frequented her house?”

“There were rumors he’d been seen there, but there are always rumors about everything.”

“You didn’t believe them?”

“Not exactly. Mrs. Toscana’s is above Tommy’s touch. There are many cheaper places adequate to relieve a man’s itch, if I may be so crude.”

“And it’s near Tammany Hall? By any chance the brothel attached to the Cavalier Club by the underground passage?”

“The same.”

Mrs. Toscana slipped a black-edged handkerchief beneath her veil. Crocodile tears, or real emotion?

“So if not a mistress, perhaps an informant?” Phil guessed.

“You do have a vocabulary, Phil. But I don’t know. No one has ever said for certain.”

“But do you think he was using visits to Mrs. Toscana’s as an opportunity to uncover political secrets?”

“Can you think of any other reasons beside the obvious?” said Marty. “I’m sure you’ll agree with me, that men tend to talk more than they should when they’ve sated themselves.”

“It can be a lucrative business, selling secrets.”

“Yes,” Marty said slowly. “It can. But Mrs. Toscana would never jeopardize her very singular connection to Tammany Hall and other men in power.”

Not unless it was for a very important reason or person, Phil thought. She would have to look into that relationship.

“Do you think it could be important?” Marty asked.

“Probably not. I’m sure you’re right about Mrs. Toscana—she would know the value of discretion.”

But it might be. Tommy was working on a story about the Black Hand; lived in the Union Square area; befriended Roz Chandler, a politician’s wife; and had some relationship with Mrs. Toscana, a brothel owner.

Disparate pieces of information. But like Marty, Phil had insight, patience, and grit. How else had she navigated the treacherous society of the London peerage and survived? And survived rather well, if she did say so.

But she also recognized her limitations. Whatever Mr. X was interested in, it was larger than her expertise.

It was time to make a new plan of attack, leave the Black Hand to those better equipped to deal with them, and concentrate on what she did well, and better than any man. Insinuate herself with the individuals involved.

“What are you thinking, Phil?” Marty’s eyes were intense, her voice low but insistent.

“Yes, Phil,” Bev said. “Have you learned something?”

“Maybe.”

“Was it something that John Atkins told you while you were monopolizing his attentions a few minutes ago?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Phil lied.

Did she dare trust Marty not to speculate and publish prematurely, or Bev to keep quiet about it?

“It isn’t much, Marty. And you must not tell a soul, not even your boss.”

“And if I promise?”

“Then … whatever I learn, I’ll tell you first.”

“Before the other papers get wind of it?”

“Yes.” If she could.

“Okay, I swear.”

Phil chose her words carefully. “Atkins thinks that Tommy was meeting someone when he was killed.” She paused long enough to look around to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

And caught sight of Harriet glaring at them across the floor. Eddie was no longer with her. But Sydney Lord was, and next to him stood Charles Becker.

“Marty, don’t look now, but what relationship does Sydney have with the police? Charles Becker in particular.”

Marty managed not to look, but Bev couldn’t help herself. “Euww. He’s fraternizing.”

“Ingratiating himself is more like it,” Marty said with a quick glance in Sydney’s direction.

“Marty,” Phil said. “Do you think you can stifle your disdain and use your feminine wiles long enough to get Sydney and Becker away from Harriet? No telling what she’ll say.”

“Why?”

“Do you want the story, or not?”

“I’m on my way.”

“And be careful.”

Marty crossed the floor and wedged herself between Harriet and Sydney, and slipped her arm into Sydney’s, effectively cutting out Harriet with the finesse born of years of etiquette training.

After a hard glare at the back of Marty’s head, Harriet stalked away.

Becker wandered off toward the bar.

And Phil went in search of Harriet Wells. Really, the girl was courting trouble. Someone had to impress upon her the need to not talk to Becker, or Sydney, for that matter. Phil wouldn’t trust him not to blurt something out just to make himself seem more important. Perhaps Phil could convince her to pay her parents a visit for the holidays.

She made the rounds, speaking to people and looking for Harriet. Perhaps she’d chosen the wise thing to do and gone home.

Phil went out into the hallway, where several people were waiting to take the elevator down. Harriet wasn’t among them.

Phil started to go back inside and heard someone sniffling nearby. She followed the sound around a corner to the stairs that connected all the floors of the building.

And there was Harriet, sitting on the stairs, clutching a handkerchief to her nose.

Phil sat down beside her. Harriet’s reddened eyes appeared above the white fabric. “What do you want?”

“I just thought you might want some company. And to warn you not to talk to Sergeant Becker. Stay as far away from him as you can.”

“I’m trying, but I needed to talk to Sydney and Becker was there.”

“So did you talk to Sydney?”

Harriet’s shoulders hiccupped. “No. I meant to ask him something, but then Becker came up. And then Marty butted in. I’m so unhappy.”

“Maybe you’re missing your family,” Phil said, hoping to give the girl a nudge about leaving town, but Harriet was not one to be inspired by deep thinking.

“No, I want to be here for New Year’s and see the new ball drop.”

“You can come back for New Year’s Eve.” Surely they would have solved Tommy Green’s murder by then. “I just thought a little change of scenery would help. Where it’s safer,” Phil added in a solicitous voice meant to instill fear.

Loud voices broke into their conversation, and Harriet cowered back against the steps. “It’s him,” she mouthed.

Becker. Phil didn’t need to be warned. She’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Harriet eased to her feet. Phil put out a hand to stop her, but the girl bolted up the stairs. It only took a second for Phil to follow.

They stopped on the next floor.

“In here,” said Harriet, and ran across the small lobby to a door that opened onto a similar room as the reception area, except it was lit from above and appeared to be unfinished.

“What is this?” Phil whispered as Harriet closed the door behind them.

“The storage room. Do you think he followed us?”

“I don’t know,” Phil said distractedly.

The walls were lined with steel lockers with preinstalled locks. Several rows of shelves held stacks of papers, boxes, and old typewriters and other small equipment. On the far side was another row of what must be temporary lockers. Some were closed by padlocks, others had no locks at all.

Phil touched the key in her inner pocket. Was it possible …

“Harriet, what is stored up here?”

“Junk,” she said uninformatively. “They’re going to fix it up, but everything else seems more important. So anyone who doesn’t know what to do with something they don’t need, they toss it up here. And stuff waiting to be archived in the library downstairs. Eddie’s forever having to cart junk up here.”

“Eddie, the mail boy?”

“Yeah, he delivers the mail and picks up stuff that needs to be stored. Oh, and they’re storing the New Year’s Eve ball in here before they take it up to the flagpole for its test run.”

“Really?” Phil said, only half listening; she was interested in the electrically lit ball that would be the centerpiece of this year’s New Year’s celebrations, who wouldn’t be? But at the moment, she was more interested in the possibility of her key fitting one of these lockers.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t very well test it in Harriet’s presence, which meant at some point, she would have to confide in Marty.

“So, what’s above us?”

“The observatory. You can see all of New York and Long Island and New Jersey from there, but it kind of makes you feel queasy. Above that’s the Lantern, a little room where they attach the ball before hoisting it up the flagpole. You want to see the ball?”

“Sure,” Phil said, wondering at Harriet’s sudden enthusiasm.

Harriet ducked under a rope that separated the ball from the rest of the room, to a corner where a tarp covered what had to be the ball. It was at least five feet in diameter. Harriet used both hands to lift the cover a few inches, and Phil caught a glimpse of curving wooden and metal lathes all fitted with round light bulbs that would turn it into a giant glowing globe when lit.

“How on earth will they get it onto the flagpole?” Phil asked.

“How should I know?” Harriet dropped the tarp and went back to the door.

Evidently her fit of the dismals was over, and the sullens were fully back in place.

Phil stopped her at the stairs.

“Remember, no talking to anyone about anything. And think about spending Christmas at home. I’m sure the paper won’t mind.”

Harriet nodded, then climbed down the stairs to the wake.

They reached the vestibule to find Mrs. Toscana being helped into her coat.

Drat. Phil had meant to make her acquaintance during the wake.

Oh well, it couldn’t be helped. Phil quickly handed her ticket to the coat-check girl, who seemed to take an inordinate time finding her coat.

When the girl finally returned, Phil practically snatched her coat from her hand and raced out the door to the elevators with it in her arms.

Mrs. Toscana was just stepping into the elevator. Phil stepped in beside her.

As the operator started to close the gate, a hand reached out and stopped him. Sergeant Becker stepped in.

Phil kept looking straight ahead. She imagined Mrs. Toscana did the same, though she didn’t dare look.

It was the longest elevator ride Phil could imagine.

At last they reached the ground floor. She was afraid Mrs. Toscana would continue down to the subway.

But Becker gestured to the open door. “Ladies.”

Phil stepped out of the elevator behind Mrs. Toscana. She didn’t dare look up; his voice had been enough to chill her blood.

Mrs. Toscana kept walking toward the Forty-Third Street exit, but Phil paused to put on her coat and adjust her hat, acutely aware of Becker, who headed for the Forty-Second Street exit. As soon as he was out the door, Phil took off after Mrs. Toscana.

She was just getting into a waiting automobile.

Phil didn’t hesitate but ran after her. “Mrs. Toscana. I’m Lady Dunbridge. I’d like to come see you tomorrow, if I may. It’s about Tommy Green.”

Mrs. Toscana’s face, what Phil could see of it, had been a sepulchral mask, but at the mention of Tommy’s name, her lip twitched violently.

“Truly, I only wish—”

“Shh—” She hissed so violently that Phil shushed.

Mrs. Toscana’s lips formed into a semblance of a smile, and her focus moved from Phil to someone who was passing by. Phil didn’t have to look to know that she’d been outsmarted by the crookedest cop in Manhattan.

She could kick herself.

With the same smile rigid on her face, Mrs. Toscana said, “Do not come. You do not want to get involved in this.” With that she climbed in. Her chauffeur shut the door and ran around to the front of the car.

Mrs. Toscana stared straight ahead as they drove away.

Phil hurried toward the taxi stand, not to follow Mrs. Toscana but to get home. And to get away from Becker, who was probably still lurking nearby. It hadn’t been coincidence that put him in the same elevator. She didn’t relax until she had given the driver her direction and leaned back against the seat.

Traffic had become more and more congested as the season progressed. Taxis were parked two deep along the Plaza curb. Another Christmas celebration being held at the hotel, Phil supposed. She had the driver let her off on the opposite side of the street

She waited for him to drive away and waved to Just a Friend at the park entrance before stepping out into the street to cross to the hotel.

She never made it.

A heavy black town car swerved toward her, barely grazing her side. She stumbled back as a door opened and a man jumped out. He grabbed her around the waist and pushed her inside the car.

The last thing she saw was Just a Friend dropping his papers and running toward her. Then a cloth was pushed to her face, a sickening sweet smell clogged her nose, and she saw no more.