The Silver Gun Read online

  Just as we were about to wrap up our meeting, a loud horn honked from the front of the townhouse, succeeded by a concussive bang of the front door being shoved open, with immediate hollering.

  Fio had arrived.

  The five of us said a collective, Oh, boy. Ripley greeted Fio’s shouts with some joyful barking, inviting him to play. Aunt Evelyn yelled to him, “In here, Fio! We’re all in the kitchen!”

  Fio was just barely dressed; he had his pants on, but his nightshirt had been tucked into them. His usual hat had been left behind, and he had two different black shoes on. His yelling came to an abrupt halt as he came into the kitchen and saw all five of us standing up to greet him by the table. None of us said one word.

  Fio stuttered out a circuit of all our names. “Lane . . . Evelyn . . . Mr. Kirkland . . . Peter . . . Finn?” The last name was said with an obvious question mark. Which made it dawn on all of us at once: Why exactly was Finn here, and how did he know about the police call?

  Aunt Evelyn cut to the chase. “I am very aware of why you’re here, Finn.” She gave me a pointed stare. I blinked. “But, if I may ask, how did you know about our dilemma?”

  Pete cut in with a disgusted curl to his lip. “Because . . . he’s a detective.”

  In the midst of jaws dropping and general gasps of dismay, I blurted out, “But you had on a fireman’s outfit.”

  Finn looked at me with a one-sided smirk. “You saw that?”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Oh, yes I did,” I said.

  Fio took a good look at us, figured out how to take charge, and began barking out orders. “Finn? It’s probably time you’ve headed off to your other, er, ah, affairs.”

  Finn glanced at me again with a hesitant look on his face, then looked back to Fio, and with a quick nod, said, “Yes, sir.” Then he headed out the door.

  “Peter, did you have a look around the room where the intruder came in?”

  “No, sir, I’ll get right on that. Ms. Thorne, would you take me to the studio, please?” asked Pete as he picked up his pad of paper, ready to take more notes.

  “Of course, Peter. Come with me,” said Aunt Evelyn as she led him upstairs.

  “Mr. Kirkland, nice work with Ripley, he’s a beaut, isn’t he? And could I bother you for a cup of strong coffee?”

  “Absolutely,” said Mr. Kirkland as he stood up to pour him a cup.

  “And that leaves you, my dear,” he said to me as he sat down with a getting-down-to-business, elbows-on-the-table stance.

  “Yes . . . me.” My head was swirling with thoughts, from the intruder and what he could possibly have been looking for, to Finn and his “other affairs,” to more about Finn and why Peter would have an inherent dislike of him, to how I suddenly felt exhausted.

  “Lane, let me just say that I realize your unanswered questions concerning Finn have to be frustrating.”

  “Yup.”

  “I know, but it’s dangerous for you to even know Finn by name. And it’s patently clear that you know each other better than just by name . . .”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  Fio cleared his throat, trying to find another tack, when we heard Aunt Evelyn and Peter coming back down the stairs. Mr. Kirkland had been at the kitchen counter listening to Fio and me, then he joined us back at the table, handing Fio his coffee, as we all reconvened.

  “Peter, what did you find?” asked Fio.

  “Lane was right. The thief took a small painting of Ms. Thorne’s. One painted by her, approximately fifteen inches square with a black frame, not valuable in Ms. Thorne’s estimation.”

  Fio asked, “Evelyn, is there anything else you can think of that would help us figure out this puzzle?”

  We all looked at Aunt Evelyn. I could tell she was considering the situation, but it struck me as odd that I couldn’t tell if she was trying to think of why a thief would want that picture, or if she was prevaricating.

  “Evelyn?” Fio repeated.

  Startled, she looked at us all as if she had no recollection of how she’d gotten back down the stairs so suddenly. “Oh, yes. Sorry, Fio. I’m just trying to figure out why on earth someone would want that painting or if he’d come looking for something else, was thwarted, and just took whatever he could. It’s just so odd.”

  At that point, the other policemen came to the door and Pete went over to talk with them. We busied ourselves with our coffee, each of us lost in our own thoughts and fatigue.

  Pete came back to the kitchen to make a last report. “The only other piece of evidence we found is a bit of torn fabric from a dark coat that was caught on the roof just below your studio window. We’ll have the neighborhood police on the lookout, with a man posted for just this block, watching your house in particular. For now, let’s make sure your windows are locked, and I don’t think there’s anything more to do here tonight. If you think of anything else, just let me know.”

  “Good work, Peter,” said Fio. “Evelyn? Let me know if you can think of any other reasons for the robbery. Or if anything else comes to mind. Mr. Kirkland? Thank you for the coffee and for watching over our dear girls here,” he said, making Mr. Kirkland smile but also slightly roll his eyes as if the two of us just might be beyond him.

  “Lane? I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep if you can. The morning will be here before you know it. Good night, everyone.” And with one last pat to Ripley, he headed out the door with Peter.

  The three of us remained at the table, not quite ready to go back to bed.

  “Evelyn,” said Mr. Kirkland, with a pointed look at her. “Are you all right? I know this is very disturbing, having our home invaded. You look very preoccupied. Is there something you need to tell us?” He always seemed to have her number.

  “I do have some thoughts, but nothing of substance yet,” she said, with her mind still ticking away. “I just can’t work my mind around why an intruder would go up to my studio.” She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Then she looked at me and took a deep breath and let it out as she studied my face. “Did Fio tell you more about your friend Finn?”

  I shook my head. “No, just what we talked about the other day, that he can’t tell me the whole story yet. And that it is somehow dangerous for me to even know Finn’s name, let alone . . .”

  She pursed her lips. “Yes, let alone . . .”

  Despite myself, I started to laugh. “I can’t help it, Aunt Evelyn. He’s been at the right place at the right time a lot lately. I don’t know what’s going on, but he’s got to be a good guy.”

  “Hmph,” grunted Mr. Kirkland. “Well, I think we should keep our eye on him. Pete doesn’t seem to care for him, and that doesn’t make sense if Finn’s on the right side.”

  Which made me uncomfortable, because that thought had run through my own mind when I saw how Pete had divulged that Finn was a detective. I’d never seen Pete be the slightest bit disagreeable. But when he talked about Finn being a detective, he looked like he’d just gotten a whiff of trash in August.

  CHAPTER 11

  He sat down on a bench after the police call to Evelyn and Lane’s home. Things were getting very complicated. But he could handle it. They just needed to stay in the dark until he figured out the final game plan. He thought about that first day he’d finally infiltrated the notorious gang. It was a strategic triumph for all his efforts. It had all finally paid off. Until he realized more was at stake than he’d planned. He hadn’t planned on meeting Lane.

  He started to play back in his mind those mere minutes that would change his life.

  They were walking toward 77th. It was a glorious spring morning, but it was all he could do not to be overwhelmed by the presence next to him. He’d been around some vile creatures in his past, but this man—if you could call him that—was, hands down, the most sinister. There were slight subtleties in faces, details that came together in figuring out who a person really was inside. If you knew how to see through the mask, you could read or manipulate
anyone. Unless he was a psychopath.

  This man walking along next to him fit that description, and on top of it all, he was actually two people. Few really knew this, but he’d just figured it out yesterday when he saw the rare transformation. Two evil personalities that made up one diabolical being. Great, he thought, a psychopath with two personalities. Brilliant.

  He’d never worked with someone like this before; there was a terrifying element to it. The constant changing, never knowing who you were going to get, making him that much more deadly. Slippery and lethal, like a moray eel trying to devour you, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get your hands around its throat.

  They were walking past the Butterfield bakery, the cozy scent of bread wafting out making him think incongruously of his grandmother and the back porch of her home that he used to visit as a child, where the rolling hills were endless and deep green.

  The man next to him made that signature gurgling clearing of his throat and said, “Not much farther now. I want to see what you think, what you pick up on.” He just nodded his head and looked determinedly forward.

  The morning rush hour was in full swing, thousands of colorful people heading off to their day. Up ahead he saw a bobbing black hat of someone short in stature, his arms working busily as he walked quickly, occasionally waving hello to people. It was definitely the mayor. He looked back to his left and saw a slight nod of affirmation that this was indeed what he was supposed to be picking up on.

  Beside the mayor was that assistant of his, practically running on red high heels and writing furiously as the mayor’s instructions left his mouth. They followed them down the couple of flights of stairs into the subway station, keeping back quite far, yet still able to watch them. They walked casually, slowly, and saw the mayor talking to many people, saying good morning, giving a message to some member of the family and whatnot. The assistant continued taking copious notes.

  The mayor walked over to where he had decided to wait for the train. He must have ceased giving orders and directions, because the aide’s pen finally stopped its furious pace. She flexed and pointed her foot like she was working out a cramp. Her legs were gorgeous in those red high heels. She turned slightly toward them, drawing her brown hair behind one ear, and looked at a young mother with a couple of kids who had bumped her. She smiled, her red lipstick making her smile even more vibrant and contagious, but it was her eyes that made him take a quick breath.

  What was it? They weren’t an exotic color, just sort of bluish. Yet there was something utterly alive about this girl, like she was capable of just about anything and enjoyed everything. He’d seen her before, a few times, but maybe he hadn’t actually seen her. She was captivating.

  Then his partner, for lack of a better term, slowly moved a few inches toward the girl. He had an involuntary, repulsive reaction to this grisly man drawing close to her. She looked up, and her radiant face turned to a travesty of what it was moments ago. The rosiness of her cheeks paled, her eyes grew wide, and fear rippled through her. The joy was gone. His own left hand made a fist, and his right moved back to his gun in one fluid reflex. He heard a disgusting grunt come from his left that was supposed to be a laugh; a grotesque noise that meant he recognized her fear and was amused by it.

  Just then the train roared in, and the girl turned abruptly to it while he and his partner disappeared into the dark shadows, back toward the exit. They left the station, walking farther downtown along Lexington Avenue.

  “So, what do you think? What are your thoughts?” he asked with his greasy drawl as he pulled over to a corner to take some puffs of his cigar. Today he wore a white shirt that was covered in stains, and a dirty brown hat. His face was pudgy and mean, vacant of any human warmth or kindness. Then there was his defining feature: long, bristly, black nose hairs that poked straight out of his nostrils like a scrubbing brush had been shoved up there. It was almost impossible not to look at them, but he’d actually seen someone beat to a pulp for staring.

  “Yes, it’s possible. LaGuardia has a gun in his car, but he doesn’t carry. And he isn’t careful to have guards with him everywhere he goes. The only tricky thing about him is that he has no reliable daily routine. His meetings are at all hours, and sometimes he takes the car, sometimes the subway, sometimes the El on Second or Third. . . .”

  “Mm hm. Mm hm,” said the man around his chewed cigar, which was dripping a slimy piece of blackened paper at the mouth. “But what about the tasty treat who was with him? Do you think we could use her to get to him?” He grinned like he particularly liked the idea. The nausea was almost overwhelming.

  He steeled himself. “Possibly. She’s young and with him a lot, but other than that, I don’t know if she’s a person of interest.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see. . . .” said the oily voice, with an accompanying chuckle.

  He tried to keep the fox from seeing his real thoughts. If he played it too nonchalantly, the predator would see right through the lie; yet if he sensed his personal interest in the girl at all, he’d sink his teeth in and never let go.

  “We’ll meet again next week and talk through more details. You’ll hear from me by the usual means,” he said as he scratched a bothersome spot just under his grimy hat brim. “Oh, and uh, Finn? Don’t think for a second I didn’t see your reaction to little Miss Red Lipstick. Oh, yeah, I saw it. It better not get in the way of your duty, boy. Do you understand?” He made that repulsive gurgling in his throat again.

  “Got it, Daley.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I would rather die of passion than of boredom.

  —ML

  After the fireworks of the burglary, the Fourth of July came and went in reasonable peace. Aunt Evelyn, Mr. Kirkland, and I took Ripley down to the East River walkway, where we could see the Macy’s fireworks. The barges went down the East River to about 36th Street, but up around 84th Street along the river, there was a wonderful view, and it was not quite as crowded. Plus, the distance helped muffle the firecracker pops and booms so that dogs weren’t as bothered.

  At work on the fifth, we had a boatload of things to do as we prepared for the Randall’s Island grand opening the following day. We kept up a tiring pace, even more so than usual. The entire office was a flurry of activity, enduring an epic heat wave as the temperatures soared over a hundred. Even Lizzie and Roxy didn’t have the time or strength for dirty looks or caustic comments, and poor Ralph could scarcely get in any flirting time with us. Once in a while I’d catch him grabbing a coffee, looking longingly at all the women of the secretary pool.

  I was really missing Roarke. I hadn’t heard a word from him. We’d seen so much of each other lately, and I wanted to fill him in on the burglary and bounce some ideas off him.

  As I was pondering this, a messenger bounded into my office carrying a telegram. Since it was later than usual, I thought the telegram office would have already closed. I looked up at the young, dark-haired messenger, then I looked at my watch. He replied to my quizzical expression, “Yeah, I know, miss. We’re usually closed already, but we got the message just now, and they wired us saying they’d pay extra to get it to you right away. I was on my way home anyway.” He plopped the telegram into my hands and ran off.

  I opened the yellow paper carefully. It read:

  IN MICHIGAN STOP ON WAY BACK STOP

  FOUND CNXN STOP WATCH OUT FOR

  RANDALL DAY STOP HOPE TO BE THERE

  IN TIME STOP TELL FLOWER TAKE GUN STOP

  I had no idea Roarke was in Michigan. What could be there that would be a connection? Maybe a Detroit gang connection to Uncle Louie? The Purple Gang fizzled out a few years back. Maybe the notorious Detroit Partnership? Randall Day meant, of course, the opening day of the arena on Randall’s Island tomorrow. There could be thousands of people in attendance; the arena held thirty thousand. Could he mean a possible assassination attempt? If Roarke had clear evidence of that, he’d surely be talking with the police. Or . . . Roarke did have dramatic
tendencies.

  Well, I had nothing to go on, but I could at least give Fio the warning. He was still in his office, so I went over and knocked on the door.

  “Come in!”

  He was writing and mouthing words to himself, presumably working on his speech. “Mr. LaGuardia?” It never failed to feel strange calling him that formal name as I was always careful to do at work. At least when other people were around. Mostly.

  “Yes, Lane?” said Fio without moving his eyes from his text.

  “Sir, I just received a telegram from Roarke, and I think you should see it.” That got his eyes to look away from his consuming speech.

  “I thought I hadn’t seen him in a while. Didn’t you say he was on vacation or something?”

  “Sort of. I think he was visiting family, but he also said he’d had a hunch about the events that have been going on here. That’s all I know, except this.” I handed the telegram to him.

  “Bring my gun, eh?” he chuckled. “Good grief. Well, we don’t have any evidence that we can take to the police that offers anything like direction or purpose,” he said, mulling over the problem. “If Roarke had found some information about a bombing or something catastrophic, he certainly would be talking with the police. So we can assume it has more to do with me specifically, I think, and mustn’t be anything too dramatic. We’ll keep a wary eye, Lane.”

  “I was thinking along the same lines,” I said, nodding.

  “All right, Lane, let me know if anything else comes to mind. Have a good night, get some rest. We’ll see you early tomorrow morning!” He’d already moved on to more pressing issues.

  “Okay, Mr. LaGuardia, see you tomorrow,” I responded, with a wave as I went out the door and closed it quietly behind me.

  I practically ran into Lizzie. I bit back a loud yell. “Where’d you come from, Lizzie? You made me jump out of my skin!”