The Silver Gun Read online

  “Well, well, well. Isn’t this little ambush fascinating,” he declared. Aunt Evelyn just smiled, saying without words, Yes, isn’t it?

  “Okay, dear friends. What can I tell you about him? Let’s see. Nothing. I can tell you nothing about him.”

  Aunt Evelyn put a determined elbow on the table and propped her chin in her hand, leveling a piercing gaze at Fio. His bravado of a second ago started to run like a frightened deer, his eyes shifting back and forth, assessing a possible escape route.

  “All right, let me ask you this, Fio,” I said. “I’m thinking you can’t tell us about Finn because it would compromise something, probably that special project of yours.” At this point, three sets of eyes turned to me.

  Fio started to sputter, “But . . . you . . .” And then gave in. “Yes.”

  “Look, Fio? The main thing I want to know is, can he be trusted? Is he playing on the right side?”

  Fio’s face softened. His mouth remained serious, but his eyes smiled, and he replied, “What I can tell you, Lane, is that I trust him. It’s complicated, and I truly cannot talk about him with you all, but I have taken him into my confidence, if that helps.”

  It didn’t look like it helped Aunt Evelyn at all, but it helped me immensely. She changed the subject with a slightly aggrieved air. “Well, Fio, maybe you can answer this question,” said Aunt Evelyn. “We are also wondering about two of the old Tammany crew: Donagan Connell and Daley Joseph.”

  “Why on earth would you ask about those two?” he asked, with great disgust.

  “Well,” began Aunt Evelyn, “we’ve been thinking through possible suspects, who could have the power and mental acuity to be behind all these events. Ellie thought that—”

  “Eleanor?” Fio cut in.

  “Yes, of course, dear. And she brought up these two, how they stood out to her because of their devotion to Jimmy and the fact that they have been off the map, conspicuously so. She felt that if we could locate them, we’d find some leads. What do you think?”

  He squinted in concentration, bringing his fist to his mouth as he thought through the possibilities.

  “The fact that they’ve fallen off the map did come to my attention. However, it was some time last year, and I figured they just disappeared, gone to wreak havoc on another unlucky part of the country,” he said sarcastically. “But given our current circumstances, those two do have a flair for such things. But I thought Danny Fazzalari was our prime suspect. What happened to him?”

  I took up the conversation. “He’s still in the middle of it all. But it’s so complicated. There are several things going on at once, from a calculated purse-snatching to a potentially deadly shove onto the subway tracks and the threatening message to you from Danny at the fire.... I’m just not sure Danny is capable of all that. Maybe. But on the other hand, it can’t hurt to think about other possibilities.”

  “Hmph. True, Lane, true. And those two characters are a whole different league of bad, that’s for sure. I had been hoping that they would be locked away, but no such luck,” said Fio.

  Aunt Evelyn inquired, “What can you tell us about them, Fio, that might shed some light on this?”

  “Donagan is a pretty predictable gangster. Big guy, narcissistic ego that’s written all over his face. You look at him and you wonder if he’s wearing makeup, which is incongruous with his tough-guy appearance. He’s Irish, but doesn’t have much of his brogue left, and has nappy red hair. Oh, and he has a bad scar on his left arm from his wrist to his bicep and one on his face. It pulls his lip down on one side. I heard he’d gotten out of jail through a legal a loophole.

  “His narcissism fed off of Jimmy Walker and the lifestyle he’d created: the galas, the opening night performances on Broadway, The Casino . . . Donagan would have a different model or movie star on his arm every night. So, yeah, he’s upset with me, all right.”

  “And Daley Joseph?”

  “I find him to be difficult to talk about,” said Fio, in a very uncharacteristic fashion. I’d never heard him ever find anything difficult to talk about. “He’s a psychopath. Criminally insane.”

  He let that sink in, then Fio went on, “He should have been locked up with the key thrown away, but with his mental issues, the court went too easy on him. And there wasn’t enough allowable evidence of his brutality to get him properly convicted. He was sent to a medium security mental hospital, but clearly it looks like he escaped or they let him loose.”

  “What brutality?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  Fio looked down and said with a pained voice, “He tortured and killed two prostitutes. It was disturbingly cruel and intentional. Yet he’d had no known past with either prostitute or prostitutes in general for a motive anyone could figure. It was one of the ugliest, most disgusting crimes I’ve ever seen.”

  “You gave a good description of Donagan, what does Daley Joseph look like?” asked Aunt Evelyn.

  “Ah, there’s where it gets even more interesting,” said Fio, with his face clearing. “He’s more than one person.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “He has two known personalities, but I suppose there could be more. I’ve never seen him in person, just through courtroom sketches and whatnot. When the side of his personality called Joseph is coming through, he wears a black suit or tux with crisp white shirt and black tie. He is educated, slick, sophisticated. Overweight, big around the waist, balding head, but he wears a hat most of the time.”

  We all nodded, getting a good idea of what to be looking for.

  He went on, “Joseph is cunning, but not the brutal one. He’s more of a businessman. Very educated, extensive vocabulary, and even knows a few languages.” He took a drink of his tepid coffee and looked like he was mustering up courage to continue.

  “And then there’s the personality called Daley. He’s gruff, sloppy, always has stains on his untucked shirts. He usually wears a grimy brown hat that looks like he sat on it. He smokes a cigar all the time.” I sat back in my chair, horrified. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Whatever his personality is, his most disgusting and prominent feature is the abundance of stiff, black nostril hairs that stick out of his nose.”

  The room swooped a little, and I rested my head in my hands. All the primal fear that had oozed into me that day in the subway came flooding back in a torrent.

  “Good heavens, Lane, are you all right?” said Aunt Evelyn as she reached out her arm and took hold of my shoulder.

  Fio stopped talking, and the coffee cup that he was about to raise was frozen in midair. “Lane?”

  “I saw him. I saw Daley Joseph.” No one moved. “At the train station, Fio. That’s the guy I saw on our way to work, watching us, remember? And when I turned around and caught his eye, he laughed.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together.

  —ML

  The next day at work, I was at my desk when Roarke beckoned to me from the office door, nodding to meet out in the hallway. I took a look around, and everyone seemed occupied as I walked over.

  His face was like death warmed over. “Roarke, are you ill? You look awful!”

  He didn’t parry my outburst; that’s when I knew something was very, very wrong. “Lane. I have to make this quick. A body washed up in the East River late last night. Some early morning fishermen found it.” He looked at me with an intense stare.

  “Oh, my God, your informant?” I asked, with a sinking feeling. He nodded.

  “And . . . they found a press badge in his pocket. From the water, they couldn’t make out hardly anything, but . . . I’m sure it’s one of mine he must have picked off me for insurance. I already talked to the police about everything I know.” He looked about ready to pass out.

  “Roarke, you better sit down. Did you sleep at all last night? How did you find out about this?”

  He shook his head, at the sitting down part or the lack of sleep part, I wasn’t sure.
His voice strained, he said quietly, “I need to get my head wrapped around this. This case is getting more complicated by the moment. I’ve got a cousin who lives out of the city. I told my bosses I’m taking a leave for vacation. I’ve never taken even a day off, so it’s not like they could argue with me.”

  “But Roarke, I . . . well . . . I don’t want you to leave,” I said, realizing how much I liked his presence and the safety and consistency of our friendship.

  He smiled for the first time, just a little. “I’ll miss you, too, Lane. It’ll be all right, it won’t be for long. This will give me time to check into something that’s been nagging at me. I’ve got this hunch. I’ll send you a telegram if I figure anything out, okay?”

  I looked up at him, worried. I had this feeling he might be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. I bit the inside of my lip.

  He kissed me lightly on the cheek. Then he leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Stick with Finn, Lane. I don’t get his involvement yet, but he obviously cares a lot about you. He’ll keep you safe. I gotta go, I’ll write soon!”

  The surprise at hearing Roarke extol the virtues of Finn just about knocked me off my feet. In my staggered silence, Roarke chuckled and ran down the stairs. At least in hearing Roarke’s laugh, I felt encouraged that he was all right. But still . . . the frying pan or the fire?

  * * *

  That night, I dreamed of eyes, but not Fio’s this time. First they were Finn’s dark eyes, looking deeply into mine, trying to tell me something. But then they transformed into the dead, watery eyes of Roarke’s informant. I woke up with a start from the creak of a floorboard sounding right above my head. It wasn’t unusual for Aunt Evelyn to paint at night, but what was unusual was the lack of other sounds. Usually she had music playing softly or I could hear her pacing. This was one creak, then it stopped. After a long pause, it happened again. I wanted to go downstairs to the kitchen to get Ripley, but it seemed awfully far away. The sound was directly above me in the attic studio.

  I reached out for one of the sturdy brass candlesticks that were on a little shelf by my nightstand. I quietly walked up the stairs to the fourth-floor studio. It just had to be Aunt Evelyn. I mean, it would have been ridiculous for a burglar to come up here; everything of obvious value was downstairs, not to mention the difficulty of getting all the way up there to the top floor and out again. I was willing the steps to not creak or groan as I ascended. Luckily, I knew them like the back of my hand, and by stepping on each stair in just the right place, I avoided making any noise.

  I was almost to the top. There was no door up here, just an open, airy space for Aunt Evelyn to work. I held my breath as I reached the top step. The window was open and the night wind was blowing in; the moon cast striking shadows in its white light. Maybe she’d left the window ajar to air out the studio and a raccoon got in or something.

  Just then a shadow shifted over in the corner. A shadow much too large to be a raccoon’s. A man was going through some stacked paintings. I cautiously backed out into a hidden niche in the stairway, and then at the top of my lungs, I yelled, “Ripley!”

  The guy jumped about a mile. I kept to the side so he couldn’t see me in the deep shadows of the stairway. I saw a flash of a knife in the moonlight as he swiped in startled fear from side to side. Already I could hear loud, deep barking and large paws flying across the foyer and up and up the stairs, every second getting closer. The guy clearly understood what was coming for him because I heard him swear elaborately, then he grabbed a small painting from the floor, and before I could yell at him to drop it, he ran to the window.

  Ripley made it to my side, and I yelled ridiculously, “Get ‘m, boy!” Ripley snarled and barked like a hell hound. The man leaped out the window, landing hard on the roof below that jutted out from the third floor, cussing in pain and anger.

  Ripley was barking his head off at the window. I made my way over to him, taking a firm grip on his collar so he wouldn’t jump out. “Good boy,” I said, patting the raised hackles of his fur. “Good boy.”

  Just then Mr. Kirkland ran in and skidded to a halt. “What the hell is going on?” he bellowed.

  Aunt Evelyn rushed in right behind with her nightgown billowing as she ran to us. “What on earth?”

  “I heard something up here. I thought it was you, Aunt Evelyn, but the light wasn’t on, so I came up, and I saw a man rifling through your paintings there on the floor.” I was panting from all the excitement and from telling them the tale so quickly. “When I saw the man, I backed over to the stairs and yelled for Ripley.”

  They both looked down as one at our huge German shepherd, whose ears and furrowed brow were still perked, still on guard duty.

  “Ripley!” said Aunt Evelyn with immense affection. “Very, very good dog!”

  As he patted Ripley’s big head and back, Mr. Kirkland said gruffly, “That’s my boy, good boy.” Ripley sat down, very pleased with himself and with the attention. Finally feeling off duty, he let his big tongue loll out of his mouth.

  Sirens rang out, coming down the street fast. Aunt Evelyn said, “We’d better get dressed. I called the police as soon as I heard you yell for Ripley.” We all went our own ways, getting dressed as quickly as possible. I pulled on a pair of trousers and was buttoning my blouse when I heard pounding on the front door.

  Mr. Kirkland and I made it to the door at exactly the same time. He swung open the door to two stern, worried, angry men.

  Simultaneously, Pete and Finn yelled, “Lane!” Mr. Kirkland jumped back, about to seek Ripley’s assistance once again. Pete and Finn looked at each other with a wide variety of emotions racing across their features.

  I exhaled with a big huff. “Do you two know each other? Finn, this is Valerie’s boyfriend, Pete.” The mutinous look on Finn’s face disappeared to be replaced by just plain anger. “You both better come in.” They looked at each other once again. Pete had Finn in height, Finn had Pete in muscle. They sized each other up. They did seem to know each other, but neither looked too happy about the other’s presence. They resignedly came in. Pete motioned to the other policemen who had come along that he’d be taking point on this.

  The five of us sat at the kitchen table, and Mr. Kirkland started pouring cups of coffee. Ripley went over to Finn and cocked his head at him as if he’d known him in the past and was trying to recall from where. Finn smiled and rubbed Ripley’s back and neck.

  I started the conversation. “Ripley there actually saved the day.” Mr. Kirkland beamed and nodded smartly.

  Pete said, “All right, so I hear there’s been an intruder. First of all, are you all right?”

  Aunt Evelyn, not wanting to be left out, jumped in with, “Yes. Thanks to Ripley and Lane’s quick thinking to call for him.”

  Finn, not missing a beat, said, “Lane’s quick thinking?” When he was angry, his accent was more Irish than British. “Lane, you did not go and confront a burglar, did you?” Pete turned a frosty stare on me as well.

  “Well, I didn’t know it was an intruder,” I said indignantly. “I heard something above my bedroom. It woke me up. I didn’t hear Aunt Evelyn’s usual music when she’s in her studio, but the floorboards creaked. Sometimes she leaves a window open to air out the paint fumes. I went to check to make sure a raccoon hadn’t gotten in.” Finn squinted his eyes at me like he was trying to decide if that was the whole truth. Pete rolled his eyes, and a smile was tugging at his lips despite his best efforts.

  Pete cleared his throat, back to all seriousness, and asked his next question. “So, when you checked out the studio, what happened?”

  “I made it up the stairs and stood to the side at the top. I could hear movement up there, and by now I was sure it wasn’t Aunt Evelyn, but then again, I wasn’t sure what it was. The window was open, and in the dark I saw a large figure of a man in the corner by Aunt Evelyn’s stacked paintings. I slowly backed farther into the stairwell so he wouldn’t see me.”

  “What exactly made you thi
nk it was a man? Did you see him well enough to describe him?” asked Finn, Pete nodding.

  “He was much too large and broad-shouldered for a woman, but other than a trench coat, I couldn’t see anything but his form. That’s when I thought of Ripley. I knew Ripley would be up there quick as a flash, causing a ruckus, and scare the guy into leaving.”

  “Damn it, Lane!” exclaimed Finn. “What if he had a gun and you scared him into shooting the area where you were standing?” His dark gray-green eyes looked black, and the muscles in his jaw were tensing. I couldn’t help but admire how his short-sleeved shirt was nice and tight around those biceps. My preoccupation and obviously unbothered stance at his anger made him close his eyes, rub his forehead once, and then hold his mug of steaming coffee rather tightly.

  “Well, he’d been pawing through the paintings and hadn’t been carrying anything in his hands. And I was about twenty feet from him and around the corner,” I said.

  Pete asked, “Did you see anything else that would be helpful to know?”

  “One last thing,” I said. “I don’t know if it was what he was looking for, but he did take a painting. It was a small one, and he grabbed it right before he dove out the window. Aunt Evelyn, I think it was that little one you did of a rolling field, with a little town in the middle.”

  Aunt Evelyn blinked once and sat back in her chair. She was curiously silent, which really caught my attention. Pete hadn’t noticed, but Mr. Kirkland had. He said in his gruff but gentle voice, “Evelyn, was that painting meaningful or valuable to you?”

  She exhaled in a quick spurt. “Of course it’s not valuable, Kirk. I was trying my hand at a replica of an old friend’s work. So, it was meaningful to me. But only to me, so I don’t think it will shed much light on what he was trying to find. It’s all just my own work up there. Our older, more valuable paintings are down here, in the parlor.” She said that, and it was an honest reply. But the way she swept her hair away from her face made me think she wasn’t telling us everything.