The Gold Pawn Read online

  Praise for National Bestselling Author L.A. Chandlar’s

  Art Deco Mystery series

  “Engaging, vivid, and intriguing, this historical mystery is not only a fascinating behind-the-scenes of Fiorello La Guardia’s New York, but an action-packed adventure with quirky characters, snappy dialogue, a hint of romance—and starring one of the pluckiest, most entertaining heroines ever.”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan, national bestselling author of Trust Me, on The Gold Pawn

  “Chandlar does a good job of evoking the period.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Silver Gun

  “The Silver Gun has humor, excitement, mystery, danger, romance, lots of great characters, and more! I highly recommend The Silver Gun, especially to those who live, work, or vacation in the Big Apple, and to cozy readers who like their mystery mixed with history.”—Jane Reads, 5 stars

  “[The Silver Gun] was just phenomenal . . . I absolutely loved this book and HIGHLY recommend it to anyone who is a mystery lover.”—Valerie’s Musings, 5 stars

  Also by L. A. Chandlar

  The Silver Gun

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  THE GOLD PAWN

  L.A. CHANDLAR

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by L. A. Chandlar

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by LA Chandlar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1344-5

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-1344-3

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2018

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1343-8

  To Jack and Logan

  My inspiration to live, laugh, and love well

  “This, as I take it, was because all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil . . .”

  The cloaked figure waited in the thick, dank fog rolling in from the river. Halos of light circled the streetlamps. The cold was clutching, reaching through to the bones. The figure grasped the silver gun, feeling its strength, its purpose almost pulsating through the fingers.

  The timing was right. It was just like that moment of destiny when the gun fell from the Queensboro Bridge. Two items. One in each hand. Both meant death. But to the holder, they meant victory. More than that, though. They meant a future. They meant ruling the dynasty. His dynasty.

  Up ahead, a primal scream tore through the air. A snarl of a smile stretched across the face hidden in the dark hood. A door slammed.

  A man came stumbling out of a staunch, old building. A small piece of paper fell from his fingertips, alighting on the ground like a delicate butterfly.

  The man looked up and spotted the hooded figure. Instead of seeming afraid of the strange apparition coming toward him through the fog, he looked like the sight strengthened him. He straightened up, gathered himself, and slowly sauntered over. His confidence, which had been eclipsed by whatever that little piece of paper held, slowly returned to him with every step.

  The silver gun came out of the folds of the cloak and fired, seemingly of its own volition. It had a purpose to fulfill, after all. The man’s face registered genuine surprise, then, finally, a ripple of fear trekked its way across his arrogant features. The shot fell him to his knees, and then he slowly sank to the ground.

  The shadowy vision crept over, whispered a few choice words, then emptied the gun into him. At last, the final piece. It always was a hell of a calling card. The gold pawn was placed with reverent care, right on top of the blood-soaked chest.

  As the cloaked figure crept back into Manhattan, an eerie whistle wound through the air as the fog closed in like the curtain at the end of a play.

  CHAPTER 1

  The images twirled and flashed like they always did. Red mittens, a blue scarf, my laughing parents. This time the dream skipped over the detailed parts that were the most fear-filled, as if my subconscious had much work to do and needed to get down to business.

  I strolled along the front yard of my childhood home. The petunias, the little fountain, my purple maple tree . . . filled me with an old and familiar sadness. I walked in the front door and the stairs leading up to my father’s library were before me. I touched the railing, caressing its smooth, cool banister as I stepped up and up. Leading to what? I opened the door to my father’s personal sanctuary. Thousands of books lined the shelves, the dark green walls and oak furniture radiated masculine comfort. My eyes shifted to a wall safe, my hand clutched a cold key, and I slowly drew near. I wanted to reach out and stop my own hand, but I couldn’t. It was imperative that I open it.

  I reached for the handle, turned the key, and within were three things: the lethal silver gun with the red scroll on the handle, a gold chess piece, and lastly . . . I jumped back, surprised at what I was seeing and more than a
little nervous. I gathered myself to take a closer look. It was a photograph of a ghostly gray hand languidly pointing to the right.

  * * *

  My eyes fluttered open, my heart thumping in my chest. The curtains slightly ruffled from a soft morning breeze, making little hushes against the windowpane. My eyes ran over the pleasing, smoky blue walls of my room, the comfy white and blue down quilt over my bed, the white chair in the corner by the window, the dark brown dresser with the glass knobs . . . and Ripley. I started abruptly as his earnest furry face was only a few inches from my own, staring at me with his very concerned and furrowed German shepherd brow. His hot breath puffed indignantly into my face. Not exactly a pleasing scent to wake up to.

  I laughed, “Hey, boy! What are you doing up here so early?”

  He muttered a deep, “Roaw.” Suddenly I heard a bellowing human storm coming from downstairs and I knew why Ripley had come up here. I was late for work, damn it! And you can’t keep the mayor of New York City waiting. Especially if that mayor happens to be Fiorello La Guardia, close family friend, boss, and world renowned bellower.

  I bounded out of bed, threw on my favorite deep blue-green dress suit with three-quarter-length sleeves, brushed my dark brown hair, and pinned into place a pillbox hat. I brushed on some mascara and eyeliner, and threw on a coat of light pink lipstick.

  I raced down the stairs in record time, smelling the heavenly aroma of breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, and steaming hot black tea.

  “Good morning, Fio!” I said as I sailed past him to my breakfast plate. He ate as fast as he did everything else—faster than the Duesenberg J with its 320 horsepower and cranberry red paint job. Fio never gave me much time before we headed to work, so I followed suit and ate quickly.

  “Good morning, Laney Lane, my girl!”

  “Grrrrrr,” I replied. This was our customary morning ritual. And I went by Lane. Just Lane. He knew that.

  Aunt Evelyn greeted me with an amused smile. “Good morning, dear. Sleep well?”

  “Mm . . .” I said uncertainly. “Pretty well. Had another dream. Can’t quite figure out what it means yet.”

  Mr. Kirkland entered the dining room. His tall, slightly stooped frame with craggy good looks reminded me of a deep-sea fisherman yet he incongruously laid a fresh plate of homemade biscuits down at the table. He’d been Aunt Evelyn’s close friend for years. But well before I came to live with her thirteen years ago after my parents died, he had been established as her housekeeper and butler. He was the antithesis of a butler. He was swarthy and was a casual sort of man versus a stiff and polished servant. But it worked for them. I smiled up at his deeply lined face with the halo of gray, longish hair.

  I occasionally amused myself as I inquired about the possibility of deeper emotions between Evelyn and Kirkland and then would sit back to enjoy the great show of colors play out on one or both of their blushing faces as they avoided my questions.

  I hadn’t been listening to anyone as I thoroughly enjoyed my breakfast, but suddenly got the feeling I should have been paying attention. I sensed a certain tension in the air. As Fio paused to take a quick breath, I broke into the discussion with my usual subtle and graceful ease. “So! What are you talking about?”

  Mr. Kirkland gave me a wry look as he patted Ripley, who was standing guard next to his chair. Fio shook his head. “I’ll fill you in on the way to work. We have to get going. We have work to do!”

  With that daily exclamation, I knew my breakfast had officially drawn to a close. I took one last drink of my tea, swooped up my large handbag with my ever-present notebook and office essentials, said a quick good-bye to everyone, and hustled out the door.

  Today Fio had his car. “Hi, Ray!” I exclaimed to Fio’s driver. He was a wary fellow and continually on the lookout as the mayor’s driver and self-proclaimed bodyguard. Unless there were dire circumstances making security an even higher priority than usual, Fio didn’t employ detectives or official bodyguards. Instead, his main idea to “save the city money” was to have the New York Fire Department install two compartments in his car. For pistols. One for him and one for Ray, both of whom had gun permits. Fio fought in the Great War, was a bomber pilot actually, so he was no stranger to guns. At heart, he was a gun-slinging cowboy and knight in shining armor. He was practical and efficient to the extreme. And yet, he was also a big romantic. Art was deeply rooted in his heart. He felt that music and beauty were essential to the city. It was more than just adornment, it was like the heartbeat of the people. Without it, it wouldn’t be life. He often stopped in to the High School of Music and Art that he opened earlier in the year to check on his dream school and the dreams of the students and staff.

  I looked over at Fio, already working hard at his desk that he had installed in his car. Fiorello was five-foot-two-inches tall but radiated energy and power that made you think he was well over six feet (not to mention he had staggering talents in the yelling and temper departments that added to that impression). He was fearless, taking on the gangsters as well as the corrupt political institutions. Such as Tammany Hall, who had a stranglehold on the Democratic Party and who backed former mayor Jimmy Walker.

  I was just graduating high school the final year of that crazy era. What a time! If you looked at any other decade, you wouldn’t see so much change as you did in the Twenties. Even our clothing showed it. After the Great War ended in 1918, we all reveled in modern life. It felt fresh and new. We were done with long skirts, big hats, waist-length hair, old and trapped ways of thinking and living. We longed for change after those aching years of trench warfare—you could feel it in the air. Just like we wanted to get the men home and out of that mud, we mirrored that same desire for change in radical new ways. Skyscrapers were built, formal dinner parties went out and cocktail parties came in (in secret, of course, because Prohibition also came in), and women finally got the vote. I can’t even begin to express all the cheers and tears from Aunt Evelyn and her friends who had helped lead that cause for so long. She had been blessed with a family that made sure she could be a woman of independent means. But so many friends of hers had been trapped in all kinds of terrible situations from their lack of equality. Her fiery eyes held a fierce look of determination upon that victory. It took my breath away.

  Just then, our car passed the Chrysler Building with its Art Deco doors and famous triangular windows at the top. I loved that building like an old friend, even though it was only five years old. Art Deco was the most beautiful and inspiring art form for me. It had sharp geometric angles that mingled with natural elements like leaves and flowers. Even the elevator doors of the Chrysler Building were a work of art. How symbolic. How did all that beauty come out of the horrors of the war? And then there was the Depression we were just beginning to get out of . . . Whenever I looked at the Chrysler Building, I would always think of just what this era meant to us all. Where we’d come from.

  Fio finished arranging his accoutrements in the car and began barking out orders and duties for me to add to my never-ending list in my notebook. I began scribbling furiously as he shot through the day’s schedule.

  Finally, as the onslaught of information ebbed and he took a deep breath, I broke in. “So, what were you all talking about at breakfast? Is there something going on?” I tried to sound light, like I had just wanted an inconsequential piece of information. But Fio, as always, could see right through my feigned subtlety.

  “God, Lane. I’m sorry,” he said, adjusting his fedora to a slightly more rakish angle. “I should have said something sooner. Finn is fine. It’s not about him,” he said in a big hurry, flapping an arm dismissively, trying to dispel the anxiety that was probably written all over my face.

  I exhaled and said with a much happier and curious tone, “So what’s up? What’s going on then?”

  “Well, we’re not sure. It’s not in the papers yet, but it will be by the end of the day. Mr. Hambro—do you remember him? He’s an old friend of mine since before the w
ar. I’ve known Ted and his family for years.”

  I nodded my head as I recalled the tall bank president, with the charming look of a dignified professor masking a witty rascal beneath. When he and Fio had coffee or drinks, they would often put their heads together in solemn, urgent conversation with the air of dealing with important states of affair, then let out an ear-splitting peal of laughter that made it absolutely obvious they’d actually been sharing an uproariously funny joke—probably dirty. Where Fio was rotund and short, Hambro was skinny and tall. Where Fio was black-haired, clean-shaven, and almost always favored a hat, Hambro had smoky gray-and-white hair, a rich goatee, and went against convention going hatless much of the time. But that was on the outside. On the inside, they were very similar men and shared a deep bond of friendship.

  “Sure, what about him?” I asked.

  He took another deep breath and tilted his hat up in a baffled gesture. “He’s completely vanished.”

  CHAPTER 2

  We arrived at City Hall, Fio having filled me in on Mr. Hambro’s disappearance as we climbed the steps. He had been at work in the afternoon with nothing exceptional happening in any way. But by the end of the workday, his desk was empty and he never showed up at home nor anywhere else. His wife had no idea what had become of him. The Manhattan Trust Bank didn’t seem to have any issues going on that could have caused him to leave of his own accord, which was a pretty frequent occurrence these days. Since the devastating crash seven years ago, businessmen from all spheres had found themselves in hopeless positions and many just walked away and disappeared . . . or they took the permanent way out. At some of the major hotels, it became a dark joke that when a businessman went to the front desk to book a room, he was regularly asked, “To sleep or leap?”