Ripper (29 page)

Carver had seen Roosevelt angry, but never so stone-faced. He raised his index finger to Hawking. “In our great nation, Mr. Echols is free to say what he likes, both to the press and to his servants. Yet he is not free to act in contradiction to the law. I will not tolerate any interference in this investigation.”

Hawking lowered his voice. “I’ve no such intention, Commissioner, none at all.”

Roosevelt narrowed his eyes. “How, then, do you intend to fulfill your obligation to your employer?”

“As an asthmatic child, your doctor warned you against a strenuous life, did he not? You rejected that advice, with great results, so I’ll assume you’re familiar with the expression don’t just sit there, do something?”

“It is a favorite,” Roosevelt said.

“You may
not
have heard the dictum, since it is my own, don’t just do something, sit there. That, sir, is my intention.”

To Carver it sounded like the strangest thing his mentor ever said. It didn’t make any sense.

Roosevelt’s small eyes glowed as he scanned Hawking’s face, taking his measure the way Carver had seen Hawking do dozens of times. All at once, as if he’d stumbled upon something unexpectedly vile, the commissioner took a step back. He wiped his mustache with his thick hand and then stiffened to attention.

“Sir, I misjudged you. You are not in the way of this investigation, you are
nothing
to it. There is no fire in your belly, none at all. You ask no questions, you provide no information. If I thought he’d listen, I’d instruct Echols to get his money back and spend it on a more useful tracker, like a bloodhound. Any animal at all, really.”

It was the worst insult Carver could imagine. Roosevelt paused, waiting for a reaction, but none came. “Your attorney informed us that you and your ward will be at his office at nine a.m. sharp for a complete interrogation. If you do not appear, I will have you arrested. If you remain here now, I will also have you arrested, whereupon you may sit and do your great nothing in one of our fine prison cells.”

Roosevelt spun back to the detectives. Hawking clambered back over the ledge.

“Time to head home, boy,” Hawking whispered to Carver. “We’ll have to hurry before the reporters make it around the block.”

Carver was confused to say the least. “That’s it? We barely looked at the murder scene. There must be a clue here from my father. And what was all that about doing nothing? Are you feeling all right?”

“What we need to know will be in the papers. It’s far too crowded, the light too bright.”

Hawking ambled toward the stairs. Carver followed. “You sounded as if you don’t intend to find the killer at all.”

“I
don’t
intend to find the killer,” Hawking said, not even slowing his descent.

Comfortable they were out of earshot, Carver said, “What? How can you stand there… how can you… say something like that as if it’s obvious, as if it’s adding two and two to get four? People are dying! Is this some kind of game for you, too?”

As if Carver weren’t even there, Hawking calmly leaned against the wall and withdrew the apple from his pocket. He sliced off a piece and popped it into his mouth.

As he chewed, he said, “A game for
me
? No, boy, not at all. As you said yourself, it’s a game for
you.
Apple?”

CARVER
and Hawking barely exchanged words as they headed back to the abandoned New Pinkerton headquarters. Carver wanted to scream, to grab Hawking’s cane and beat him with it until he made sense. Instead, he just felt nauseated. Had the blow to his head, Tudd’s death, or both left the man completely insane? Carver couldn’t do this
alone.
He needed help.

After a fitful night and equally wordless breakfast, they headed to the attorney Sabatier’s office on Centre Street. Hawking hadn’t even told Carver how to handle the questioning.

The tension on the streets was even more palpable. News of the fourth killing spread like wildfire. The fear seemed writ as large on people’s faces as it was in the headlines. Pedestrians walked faster, rudely shoved one another, seemed ready to fight at the smallest slight. Newsboys shouted reminders,
calling out every word of the letter sent not to some paper, but directly to the police:

His father wasn’t even bothering to conceal his identity anymore. From his reading, Carver knew the middle part of the letter was practically a quote from the “Saucy Jack” postcard the Ripper sent in London on October 1, 1888. He was too furious to even mention it to Hawking. He didn’t want to disturb him while he was so busy “doing nothing.”

Echols was waiting for them in the marble lobby of the law office. While he wasn’t surrounded by photographers, as usual, he also wasn’t alone. Finn was with him. It was an awkward surprise. Carver hadn’t seen the powerful redhead since the night he’d helped him break into the editor’s office. So much time had passed, so much had happened, he had no idea how to react to his old nemesis.

“I trust we have no worries here, Mr. Hawking?” Echols said,
holding out his hand. Hawking balanced on his cane and put his good left hand forward.

“Not a care in the world,” Hawking said.

They fell to whispering, their murmurs echoing in the gilded lobby. Carver wanted to try to hear what they were saying, but a sudden tug on his arm turned him toward Finn.

They grunted hellos, Finn seeming as uncomfortable as Carver. Delia said the bully had tried to lie to protect them, so Carver felt he owed him an apology for getting him in trouble in the first place, but the words wouldn’t come.

With a sneer, Finn nodded toward Hawking. “So that’s the best detective in the world? The only reason my… Mr. Echols… hired him was to get more photos of himself in the papers. He couldn’t care less about catching your dad. So what’s been going on?”

Though mad at Hawking himself, Carver did not care for Finn’s tone. The last thing he wanted to do was confide in his former tormentor about Hawking’s bizarre speech last night.

“Nothing,” Carver said.

Finn looked confused. “Nothing? Did we break into that office for nothing?”

Many emotions fought for control over Carver. “We? It looked to me like
you
did it to impress Delia. Beside, when did you ever care what you might be stealing?”

Carver realized he was being ridiculous. He was trying to think of some way to say so when Finn moved to slam him in the shoulder. No longer a frightened little boy, Carver blocked his meaty hand.

If Finn was surprised, he didn’t show it. “You’re helping Echols and you’re still lying about me being a thief?”

He shoved Carver with both hands. Carver shoved back. “You
did
steal that necklace. Why can’t you just admit that much at least?”

“You
still
haven’t told anyone about that letter from your old man, have you? What does that make you?”

Without thinking, Carver socked Finn in the jaw. As he did, a sharp pain traveled from his knuckles, along the back of his hand and up along his arm. But it was Finn’s jaw that took most of the blow. The large youth’s head snapped sideways, his eyes widening in disbelief and fury.

After that, things happened so quickly, it took time for the adults to react. In response, Finn reminded him exactly what
scrawny
meant. He grabbed the slighter boy by the belt and lapel, lifted and
threw
him three feet into the wall. Carver’s back hit hard, winding him. He fell but scrambled to his feet, still ready to fight.

Finn came forward with his left. The meatier fist barely grazed his chin, but Finn followed up by forcing the top of his skull into Carver’s abdomen. He wrapped his thick arms around Carver’s waist, planning to slam him down onto the hard, expensive marble tiles.

Carver refused to go down easy. He dug his elbows into Finn’s wide back, hitting his ribs below the shoulder blades, making them both fall sideways. On the floor, they pummeled each other.

Even a soft punch from Finn was nothing to be sneezed at. One landed on Carver’s ear, filling his head with a dull ringing. He let fly with a decent shot to Finn’s nose.

Above the throbbing came the muffled bark of adult voices. The next thing he knew, Finn was sliding away along the marble floor. Carver felt himself lifted by his shoulders.

“Cease this nonsense at once!” a voice bellowed. Carver twisted and saw he was being held by no less than Commissioner Roosevelt. Would there ever be a moment, he wondered, where he didn’t look like a thief, liar or fool to the man he had to convince about his father?

Two detectives were holding Finn, the raging youth helpless against them. Echols rushed up. “Release him at once! Release my son!”

When they let go, the wealthy man pointed a bony finger into Finn’s face. “How dare you cause this scene! You’re lucky the press isn’t here yet! I should throw you back into the gutter where we found you!”

Finn, flushed with rage and embarrassment, muttered, “You’d be doing me a favor.”

“You can let him go now, Commissioner,” Hawking said, trudging up on his cane. “There’ll be no further trouble. Right, boy?”

Carver eyed his mentor. “Yes, sir.”

But Roosevelt ignored Hawking. He kept his hold on Carver until the slight Echols had shoved Finn out the front door. When he did let go, Carver stepped away and straightened his clothes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, still panting.

“You
are
sorry,” Roosevelt said. “Sanity is in short supply lately. Hold on to what little you have.” He turned to Hawking. “And you, sir, are as poor an example of a mentor as you are a detective!”

There was a barely perceptible twitch in Hawking’s lip. “It won’t happen again.”

Roosevelt seemed oddly disappointed, as if he’d hoped Hawking would fight back. “Well, then, see that it doesn’t.”

They entered the elevator; the operator closed the door. Carver was close enough to Hawking to hear him say, softly, “We shall see how poor an example I am.”

Whether he heard him or not, the commissioner struck a more respectful tone. “Hawking, I’ve been reading about you. It’s a matter of record that you worked with Septimus Tudd at the Pinkertons’.”

“Has the interrogation begun?” Hawking said.

“No,” Roosevelt said. “I only wish to offer my condolences. As the man who had him arrested, I can’t help but feel some responsibility for his fate. But I know what I heard him say on the phone.
He thinks I’m completely loyal. There isn’t a shred of evidence to connect me…
Had he at least owned up to that much, he might be alive today.”

Carver cringed.

This was not going to be easy.

“THE KILLER
is your dad, and you’re part of a secret detective organization?”

“Yes.”

“In Devlin’s department store?” a detective asked for the thousandth time.

Once inside the plush offices, Carver and Hawking had been separated. As he was led away, his mentor didn’t offer so much as a meaningful glance. Carver decided to tell the truth, but it turned out to be more difficult than lying.

“Underneath. The headquarters was built as an extension to the Beach pneumatic subway,” Carver said.

“Perhaps you rode on it as a boy?” Sabatier put in, his smile unwavering. “I know I did.”

His green eyes darted from the detectives to
Carver to Roosevelt. “Surely two such great minds can at least come up with new questions?” the attorney prompted.

The detective gave the slight Sabatier a wicked stare.

Roosevelt exhaled. “He’s right. This isn’t getting anywhere. Sabatier, I want to speak with the boy alone a moment. Without all this… formality.”

Sabatier shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t allow…”

“It’s all right,” Carver said. “Anything’s better than just sitting here repeating myself.”

The lawyer rose smoothly. “It’s against my better judgment, but as long as you realize any private conversation will not be admissible in court?”

Roosevelt nodded. Sabatier turned to the detective. “Perhaps I can interest you in some scotch?”

“Not while I’m on duty,” he grunted.

“Perhaps you’ll enjoy watching me have some, then,” Sabatier said, walking out with him. Before closing the door, he glanced back at Roosevelt and said, “Ten minutes. No more.”

Roosevelt stepped closer to Carver. “The fellow you fought with before was much larger than you. Are you in the habit of challenging impossible forces, or did you know him?”

“Both,” Carver answered. “I know Finn from Ellis Orphanage.”

“You got in a few good shots. It was impressive, but not right.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“For hitting him?”

“No… for the circumstances.”

Roosevelt allowed himself a chuckle. “Bully. So you’d rather do something than just sit there, unlike your Mr. Hawking, eh? No need to answer that. The purpose of having you repeat your story was to try to uncover inconsistencies. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Carver said.

“There weren’t any, which means either the lies are well prepared or you believe what you’re saying. The late Mr. Tudd wished me to believe you were deluded, but he also wished me to believe he was loyal to me. I know that wasn’t true, and you sound fit to my ears. You interrupted the party at the
Times
because you’d found the letter upstairs and were convinced it was from your father?”