The Pearl Dagger 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

  “Dangerous villains and gangsters in 1930s NYC, with humor, history, vintage cocktails, and art as a backbone . . .”

  —Jen J. Danna

  “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 Gold Pawn

  The Silver Gun

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  THE PEARL DAGGER

  L. A. CHANDLAR

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  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 © 2019 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.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1345-2

  Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1345-2

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1345-1

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Edition: September 2019

  For the artists

  Who make the world a bigger and better place.

  Especially for you, Destinee and Kellye

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The mystery reader and writer community is unbelievably encouraging and generous. I want to say a special thank you to my editor, Esi Sogah, for your endless enthusiasm and wisdom. The marketing team with Vida Engstrand and Larissa Ackerman has been such a joy to work with. My production and editing team of Paula Reedy and Carly Sommerstein make editing actually enjoyable—I know: amazing! And the cover art director Kristine Noble has done just sublime work making the Art Deco Mystery Series truly beautiful. Thank you to Jill Grosjean for working through this wonderful book deal with me. And there are countless authors who have taken the time to be interested and kind to a newbie. You have no idea how your acts of generosity have impacted me and I’ll never forget it. Special thanks to Jen Danna, James Ziskin, Adam Hamdy, Alyssa Maxwell, Eric Bishop, Mariah Fredericks, Kellye Garrett, Charles Todd, and Hank Phillippi Ryan.

  A big thank you to my husband and Number One research assistant and tech guru. I love that you know just how important my characters are to me and how you search high and low for the coolest books and photos! You’re amazing, Bryan, thank you. And for Jack and Logan, my biggest fans and very, very tall sons. I am so grateful to get to be your mom.

  I also want to give special thanks to Jamie Tulenko for finding an incredible signed book and letters from Fiorello! And to Don Wilson for lending me (and I really gave it back!) his amazing book on Winston Churchill that helped immensely for this novel.

  Thank you so much to my agent, Paula Munier, with Talcott Notch, for believing in me, sharing my love of martinis, and, most of all, for sharing your wisdom and your love of art and life with me.

  Lastly, dear reader, I can’t thank you enough for caring about this era, for loving these incredible real people as well as my fictional friends, and for enjoying the adventure with me. I am so grateful to get to share this different side to the thirties that is often overshadowed by the Depression. I hope the vitality, the humor, the artfulness (the cocktails!), and the joie de vivre that Fiorello La Guardia truly exemplified helps you soak up and enjoy life even more. Cheers!

  By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes . . .

  —the second witch, Macbeth

  PROLOGUE

  The day was full of changes. The light from the sun alternating from bright gold with a brilliance that hurt your eyes, to a dull gray as the thick white clouds raced across the azure sky.

  Chunk. He started with a jolt. “Charlotte! I taught you better than that,” he said with his usual gruff demeanor.

  Charlie flicked her lon
g auburn hair over her shoulder in a carefree motion. She turned her dazzling green eyes to him and said, “I wondered what would get your attention.”

  “Why—You did that on purpose,” he groused as he walked over to the large wooden target, gathering the knives and, lastly, the dagger from much higher up. It had lodged in a branch almost six feet to the left of the trunk, much closer to where he’d been standing, in fact.

  “What’s on your mind, Kirkland?” she asked, looking closely at him. He could feel her scrutiny and tried to look insouciant. She was really good at reading him.

  Didn’t work, damn it. He looked at her and her eyebrow cocked skeptically as she put her hand on her hip, basically telling him that he didn’t come close to fooling her.

  “Grrrrr.”

  She laughed. “Spit it out, Kirkland. And hand me those knives. You can talk while I practice.”

  He shook his head as he watched her capable hands carefully take the knives and that one special dagger, Matthew’s mother-of-pearl and ebony knife, and begin to throw with uncanny precision.

  Chunk. The first knife hit about an inch above the bull’s-eye.

  “Well. Here goes. I’m glad you, Matthew, and Laney have come here to Rochester, safe and sound. And I am even more glad that we finally got Rex. But . . .”

  Chunk. The next knife hit at three o’clock, about an inch outside the bull’s-eye.

  Putting his hands in his pockets and shaking his head pensively, he said, “I just can’t help but feel that we might not be done. It feels like the Red Scroll Network will keep on going, despite Rex. I know it sounds ridiculous.”

  Chunk. Six o’clock.

  Charlotte turned to him, weighing the remaining knives in her hand. “No. It doesn’t sound ridiculous. I’ve had similar thoughts.”

  “You have?”

  Chunk. Nine o’clock.

  “Yes. Matthew and I have talked about it, too. But we’ve done the best we can. When we changed our plans . . .” She had been about to say something, but then petered out, like she’d caught herself. He, too, was a keen observer and her eyes shot to him trying to assess if he’d caught that misstep.

  Chunk. She missed. Her last throwing knife missed the mark.

  “Damn it.”

  “What do you mean, Charlotte? Changed plans?” he asked.

  She quickly recovered even though the accuracy of her throw had suffered. “You know. Moving here instead of continuing on in our work.”

  He wasn’t completely convinced, but sure, he’d go with it. “Well, yeah, it will be hard to find you here. I’m sure we’ll be okay.”

  Chunk. The final throw—the pearl dagger—and it hit right in the middle of the bull’s-eye.

  “Show-off.”

  Charlotte chuckled her low laugh as she slowly sauntered to the tree. She started to methodically dislodge the knives, her petal pink feminine dress in complete juxtaposition to her knife-throwing talent. She took a deep breath and he watched her shoulders rise and then settle as she turned to him with a contemplative look on her beautiful face.

  “You feel pretty certain the Network might continue on?” she asked.

  “I just think that Rex would go to great lengths to have his legacy continue beyond the grave. The bastard loved toying with everyone. The ultimate game would be to have it go on. Even when he didn’t.”

  She put her hand on her hip and nodded slowly. “Hmm. Yes, you may be right.” She put her hand on the ebony handle of the dagger, its mother-of-pearl scrollwork glistening in the sunshine. She pulled hard on the handle, dislodging it from its perfect landing place. Something made her shiver despite the warmth of the day.

  Charlotte walked toward him weighing the satisfying handle in her hand, feeling its worth, weighing its mettle. She nodded, having come to some sort of decision.

  “Kirkland.” She nodded curtly to the dagger. She deftly threw it with a light hand and a good arc, so he could catch it easily as they’d practiced a hundred times.

  “Here. You’re gonna need this.”

  She turned smartly around and walked into the house.

  CHAPTER 1

  Who knew pinball machines could set off such an explosive development?

  “Lane, I’ve got a lead for us,” said Roarke.

  Roarke Channing was a top-notch investigative reporter and he also happened to be my sleuthing partner. When possible threats or the odd piece of curious information came through the grapevine at work—New York City’s 1937 mayoral offices—Roarke and I would investigate.

  He continued after a quick sip of his espresso, “I think that given the nature of the rumblings on the street, we need to follow up on it.”

  He sat across from me in a little French café off York Avenue. Roarke wore his signature wide pinstripe suit with his crisp white shirt, wide red tie, and fedora with a matching red ribbon. I grasped a cup of cappuccino in my cold hands as I soaked in the warmth of a glowing fireplace. The café was a little slice of Europe, with the kind of casual elegance that only the French seemed to achieve effortlessly. A little ripple of joy went through me as I breathed in the scent of coffee and cream.

  “I agree. If only for the fact that those gangs are notorious for following through on their threats,” I said.

  “Exactly. When Fiorello got rid of thousands of those slot machines from the delis, he also targeted the pinball machines. They fell through the cracks at first, but now he’s set his sights on them to finish the purge. And as we’ve already seen, that makes Fio a target.”

  Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, New York’s ninety-ninth mayor, was my boss and dear family friend. The little dynamo was fearless against the criminal gangs that had taken shape during Prohibition. When Fio took office just after Prohibition ended, he went to work. Ousting corruption, bringing health care and low-income housing to a desperate city, a whole fleet of public pools and parks, the first public arts high school . . . all accomplished with the panache and joie de vivre of the finest ringmaster.

  I set my cup down and rested my chin in my hand. “So, to sum it up, you and our sources at the NYPD have intercepted increased agitation against the mayor. What about Uncle Louie Venetti? He hasn’t been as active on that scene, having most of his slot machines thrown onto barges and dumped. He’s been working in other arenas, right? So do you think that these rumblings are other gangs vying for control?”

  “I think that’s definitely possible and I can’t tell who’s working with who. It’s all been vaguely threatening, like bar talk and an occasional intimidating note. But you know, Fio gets those all the time. So it’s hard to decipher what’s an actual threat,” said Roarke, thinking it through.

  “Absolutely. He gets that kind of mail a couple of times a week. But he gets ten times more notes that are encouraging and grateful. I think it’s all those petitioners he listens to every single day. Fio really does take note of their concerns and they never forget it.” I finished my cappuccino and set my napkin on the table. “So what’s this lead you have?”

  “Okay. So, an informant of mine has been running messages for different groups of, let’s just say, a less than savory type of crowd. He doesn’t ever look at the messages, not because of any moral high ground, but because the less he knows, the safer he is.” I nodded. Made sense to me.

  Roarke went on, warming to the subject. “The way it works is he receives a note by messenger that it’s time. He has a pickup place where he gets the message and directions on where to take it, so he’s never seen the person who is sending the messages. This morning, he caught a glimpse of a note when he dropped it inadvertently. He quickly grabbed it up off the sidewalk but the words mayor and get him out of the way definitely got his attention.”

  “I bet,” I said, eyes wide with appreciation.

  “Yeah. So he read the whole thing and started sweatin’ bullets and sent me word right away. Usually he does a dead drop for the messages, so he never sees the recipient. But today, I guess there were too many ways for the messag
e to get into the wrong hands because he has direct orders to hand it to a particular person. He gave me the time and place. I want to see just who this message is for.”

  “Yeah, we definitely need to see who it is. But, uh . . . where exactly is it all going down?” I asked a bit warily since we had gotten into many debacles on our past sleuthing sprees.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it, Lane.” Roarke chuckled. “It’s an easy one. It’s smack in the middle of Grand Central Station.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. For once it wasn’t in an unsavory, dark, and dangerous location. “Great! I’ll meet you after work and let’s check it out.”

  * * *

  Eight hours later I was running away from bad guys, down a busy thoroughfare in my high-heeled, red Mary Janes. Again.

  “Roarke! Honestly. This must stop,” I said between gasps of air.

  He chuckled.

  “You’re laughing?” My sides hurt. I twisted my ankle a ways back, scuffing the side of my left shoe. My blouse had begun to untuck itself from my vigorous running. Roarke looked impeccable. Bastard.

  We were in pursuit of information, and we found it. But we also found trouble. As usual. Roarke’s informant did in fact make a drop at the exact time and place he’d given us. He stood by the famous brass clock in Grand Central and I assumed he wore some kind of identifying article of clothing because the guy came directly to him without hesitation.

  We recognized the recipient right away, a notorious gangster with the appellation the Crusher. Unfortunately, he had looked over at us right at that moment and started toward us. Which led to the running and the panting. We darted up a stairway to the walkways behind the large windows in the Great Hall. From below, you could always see the forms of people walking to and fro. We went right to the top, as far as we could go.