Murder on Lexington Avenue

Table of Contents

 

 

MURDER ON ASTOR PLACE
MURDER ON ST. MARK’S PLACE
MURDER ON GRAMERCY PARK
MURDER ON WASHINGTON SQUARE
MURDER ON MULBERRY BEND
MURDER ON MARBLE ROW
MURDER ON LENOX HILL
MURDER IN LITTLE ITALY
MURDER IN CHINATOWN
MURDER ON BANK STREET
MURDER ON WAVERLY PLACE
MURDER ON LEXINGTON AVENUE

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2010 by Victoria Thompson. The Edgar
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Thompson, Victoria (Victoria E.)

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-18814-9

1. Brandt, Sarah (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Midwives—Fiction. 3. Malloy, Frank (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 4. Police—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 5. Deaf—Fiction. 6. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3570.H6442M8685 2010

813’.6—dc22 2009050680

 

 

D
ETECTIVE SERGEANT FRANK MALLOY PUSHED HIS WAY through the crowd gathered at the entrance to the modest office building. Murder always drew a crowd in New York City, even in respectable neighborhoods. Even on a peaceful, autumn Saturday afternoon. The uniformed copper guarding the door nodded and admitted him, causing much outrage to the curious onlookers, who had been fruitlessly demanding admittance for quite some time.

Inside, the building wasn’t so modest. Marble floors gleamed in the late afternoon sunshine, and rich, dark woodwork gave the place a distinct air of respectability. Not the kind of place where people usually got themselves murdered, Frank thought as he scanned the loitering figures for whoever was in charge of this investigation.

The man in question had already spotted Frank, and he disengaged himself from the men he’d been speaking with and made his way across the marble floor. Frank recognized him immediately. They’d crossed paths before, and Frank knew he wasn’t the kind to resent Frank’s involvement in the investigation. In fact, he’d be glad to be relieved of the responsibility.

“Malloy,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Good to see you.” He was one of the ward detectives. His main job would be collecting bribes and blackmail money from the crooks and the madams and distributing it to the right places. But he was also responsible for reporting crimes in his ward to Police Headquarters and getting one of the detective sergeants down to investigate as quickly as possible. Today, Frank was the one called down. For some reason, he’d been asked for by name.

“Sullivan,” Frank replied, shaking the outstretched hand. “What’s going on?”

“Some fellow got his skull cracked open. Blood everywhere,” he added with obvious disapproval. “Not so bad when it’s in an alley, but in a place like this . . .” He shook his head again. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his suit had probably been slept in. Frank could smell the whiskey on his breath, but his bloodshot eyes betrayed his intelligence. Sullivan might be a drunk, but he was no fool. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Have you sent for the medical examiner yet?” Frank asked as he followed Sullivan down a hallway.

“Yeah, as soon as I saw what happened, but nobody’s come yet.”

Frank heard an exclamation of surprise as they passed an open doorway, and a moment later, a round man with a shiny bald head popped out. “Mr. Malloy, is that you?”

Frank turned in surprise. “That’s right,” he said, thinking the man looked familiar but unable to place him.

“Edward Higginbotham,” he said, taking Frank’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “I’m the one who found Mr. Wooten.” He still looked a bit shaken, and his face was beaded with sweat, but that could just be because it was warm on this September afternoon.

“Mr. Higginbotham said he knew you,” Sullivan reported. “Asked me to send for you special.” Which explained a lot.

“Because of your son, you know,” Higginbotham said.

Frank frowned at the mention of Brian. Who was this man and how did he even know Frank had a son?

“You spoke to me about putting your son in our school,” Higginbotham reminded him eagerly. “The Lexington Avenue School, or rather the Institution for the Improved Instruction of Deaf Mutes. The name’s so long, we just call it Lexington Avenue, but you already know that.”

Now Frank remembered. He’d visited the place when he’d been trying to decide whether to send his boy to school at all. Finding out Brian was deaf had been a shock, but not as much as it might have been. Until then, he’d believed Brian was simpleminded and would have to be cared for his entire life. Now he’d enrolled him in a school where he would learn to read and write and eventually be able to learn a trade. But it wasn’t Mr. Higginbotham’s school.

“I remember now,” Frank said, deciding not to mention that he’d decided against the Lexington Avenue School. “Is that why you asked for me? Because we met before?”

“Well, yes, but . . . well, I mean, I thought you might be more . . . I mean . . . Mr. Wooten, he was very interested in our work. A great champion for the deaf. Tireless. And now—” His voice broke, and he pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to his lips.

“You were friends with Mr. Wooten?” Frank asked.

“Oh, yes,” Higginbotham said, using the handkerchief to mop his face. “Well, not friends exactly. Not socially. Acquaintances, I suppose you would say. His daughter is one of our students, and he has been a great supporter of the school. He serves on our board, and he’s been an advocate for—”

“Mr. Higginbotham found the body,” Sullivan reminded Frank, eager to get on with it.

“How did you happen to do that?” Frank asked with interest.

“We had an appointment,” Higginbotham said. “And when I went to his office, there he was . . .” He grew even paler than he had been.

“Why was he in his office on a Saturday afternoon?” Frank asked.

“He would come in at all hours,” Higginbotham said. “Especially if he was seeing people about the school. He didn’t want it to interfere with his regular business hours, you see, and he didn’t want his family bothered at home.”

“Did you see anybody else when you got here?”

Higginbotham’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, dear, I didn’t think of that! I could have seen the killer!” Now he was chalk white, and Frank wouldn’t have been surprised to see him keel over in a dead faint.

“Why don’t you go sit down and wait for me. I’ve got to . . . to look around, and then I’ll be back to ask you some more questions,” Frank suggested.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Higginbotham agreed weakly. “I’m only too happy to help.”

Sullivan was calling a uniformed cop over to escort Higginbotham back into the room where he’d been waiting. Frank could see now that it was some sort of conference room, with a large table surrounded by chairs. Higginbotham didn’t object to the assistance the cop offered, and Frank and Sullivan were finally able to continue on their mission.

“I already questioned him,” Sullivan explained as they moved down the corridor. “He didn’t see anyone in the building, and he said the body was cold when he got here, so I’m guessing the killer was long gone.”

“You’re sure he didn’t do it himself?”

Sullivan shook his head. “If you’d seen him when I got here, you wouldn’t even ask. He was almost crying, and white as a sheet. Had some blood on his shoes, from stepping in it—you’ll see the footprints—but none anywhere else, and the killer would’ve had some blood splashed on him, at least. See for yourself.”

They’d reached the last door at the end of the hall, and Sullivan stood back and allowed Frank to enter first. He could smell the blood the instant he stepped through the doorway, the sharp, metallic scent that you never forgot once you’d smelled it.

The body lay on the floor in the middle of the room, in a heap just where the man had fallen. A pool of blood had formed around the ruined head, congealing now in the autumn heat, and flies were buzzing, settling on the red-streaked face. A few bloody smudges marked the floor where Higginbotham had stepped in the pool and tried to wipe his shoes clean on the carpet.

Beyond where the body lay sat a large desk made of dark, polished wood. The kind of desk an important man would have. He’d sit there behind it and intimidate those who came to see him to ask a favor or beg for business.

Two chairs had been positioned in front of it for visitors to use. They weren’t comfortable chairs. The dead man hadn’t wanted to encourage his visitors to linger. One now lay on its side. Frank studied the tableau, taking in every detail.

From the way the blood had splattered, he could see that the victim had been standing, probably talking to or arguing with his killer. What had he said to enrage someone enough to pick up . . . ? What had the killer picked up? Or maybe he had been carrying the weapon with him. He thought of the weapon that had killed another man whose murder he had recently solved: a silver-headed cane. Many men carried canes, and just about any of them could bash a man’s head in if wielded correctly.

“That’s what he used,” Sullivan said, pointing.

A brass loving cup lay on the floor where someone had dropped it. Frank walked over and hunkered down beside it. Blood and a few hairs clung to the rounded, marble base. The sunlight streaking through the windows glittered off the metallic finish, highlighting the engraving. Mr. Nehemiah Wooten had won first place in sculling at Harvard University over thirty years ago. Maybe if he had lost on that long-ago day, he’d still be alive.