Ten Days in August (23 page)

“Tell me, sir,” Knight said, “are you a prostitute?”

“No.” At least Nicky could say so without hesitation.

“Mr. Brandt does not pay you for your services?”

“He has never given me a cent.”

“So depraved, the two of you. Certainly my wife would not approve of such things. It's why the men who service me must die afterward. The dead cannot speak. One got away, but he'll likely meet his maker within the week if this heat keeps up.”

Nicky's stomach rumbled and he worried he was about to revisit his last meal. He swallowed and his throat stung.

“Just how precious are you to Brandt?” Knight let out a sigh. “He can't be foolish enough to come after you. I've already informed him I plan to ruin him if he does. His career as a police inspector would be over and he'd likely end up in jail for his trouble. A career officer such as himself could not have that.” Knight waved the knife and it caught the dim light of the bare electric bulb dangling precariously from the ceiling. “But suppose he is foolish enough to come for you? I cannot be caught. So I will ruin him either way. If not by reputation, then perhaps by slitting your pretty throat.”

Nicky gasped. He really was going to be sick. He could feel his stomach burbling. “Please, no. Leave Hank out of this. If you want me, take me, but leave Hank be.”

“Hank? You call your Mr. Brandt Hank? Of course you do.” Knight chuckled. “Well, dearest, I shall take your pleas into consideration. You really are quite pretty. I like my prey to struggle a bit before I partake, however.”

Nicky was sick then. His body felt like it was turning itself inside out. He leaned over and vomited on the hard, scuffed floor.

“Why did you have to do that?” Knight asked. “Perhaps I have terrified you? I am not so completely hideous. I might make a fine lover for all you know.”

Nicky missed Hank. It was a tangible need. He didn't know how to face this situation, couldn't fathom how to get out of it, didn't know what to do. But Hank would know. With Hank at his side, Nicky could do anything.

Because Hank cared about Nicky as more than just a plaything. Hank cared about Nicky's well-being. Hank could very well have been scouring the city for Nicky right then.

Or Hank could have decided not to risk his job.

Not knowing how Hank would react to this situation didn't do much for Nicky's nausea. The room now smelled horrifically, but there was nothing to be done for it. Nicky just sat on the floor and stared up at Knight.

“I'll let you think about this for a bit. Stew in your mess. Then I'll be back because I intend to have you to determine what this Hank of yours finds so appealing. Or perhaps I'll pop uptown and let his friends the Coopers know what Hank does in his off hours. Or”—Knight brandished the knife, then ran his fingers over it again—“We'll just have to see what I'm possessed to do.”

Nicky's stomach flopped as Knight left the room again. He was overcome with worry: worry for himself, worry for Hank, worry he'd never see the outside of this room again. The smell was barely tolerable, the heat oppressive, and he felt grimy all over. He listened to Knight's retreating footsteps with a sense of foreboding.

How much time had passed? Hank hadn't found him yet, which he didn't think boded well for his prospects. Unless it had only been a matter of minutes. The basement had no windows to the outside and no clock, so Nicky had no sense for the time of day.

There was no way to win. If Hank rescued Nicky, his career was over. If he didn't, Lord knew what Nicky's fate might be at the hands of Brigham Knight. But if Hank didn't find Nicky, perhaps life was not worth living.

With a pang in his chest, Nicky realized that in just a matter of days—and it had only been just over a week, hadn't it?—he had fallen hopelessly in love with one Henry Brandt.

He was doomed.

T
he line of people waiting for ice outside Police Headquarters was already around the block before the ice had even been delivered. Women stood holding children on their hips and men in tattered suits stood behind them, with children playing alongside old people teetering on canes. Many people had boxes, baskets, towels, aprons, and all manner of receptacle ready to take the ice away. Once the ice had arrived, the officers started handing it out on the sidewalk, but it soon began to melt and the distribution had to be moved to the cellar inside the building. Andrew, meanwhile, stayed perfectly, unpleasantly hot inside, and thus was at his desk when George Stephens stormed the gates.

Andrew was writing out a note to the Seventeenth Precinct captain when he caught sight of Stephens. He finished the note and handed it off as Stephens arrived.

“A word, Mr. Ritchley?”

“I am quite busy.”

“I understand. I just need a moment.”

Andrew looked him over. His patience was thin. “Would you like to help me solve the issue of the city-wide
coffin
shortage? So many people have expired in the heat the city has run out of coffins. Can you believe that?”

“I am sympathetic, but I have an issue of some urgency.”

“All right.” Andrew stood up straight and looked right at Stephens. “What is it?”

“I believe Inspector Brandt is acting contrary to the central tenets of good police work. I wish to file a complaint.”

Andrew nodded slowly. “You wish to file a complaint.” Not that Stephens's request was a surprise, but Andrew couldn't see the urgency.

“Er, Mr. Ritchley?” asked one of the other runners.

“Yes?” said Andrew.

“Chief Conlin needs a word.”

Andrew turned to Stephens. “Excuse me, Detective Stephens. I have to see to something for a moment. Please wait here and we'll see about your complaint.”

Probably leaving Stephens to his own devices was a poor choice, but Andrew didn't see the alternative. He spent the whole of his meeting with Chief Conlin imagining Stephens measuring Roosevelt's office to plan his own decorating scheme.

Indeed, Andrew ran into Stephens standing outside Roosevelt's office. Andrew's arms were weighted down with a stack of reports, but he said, “Do you have any proof of impropriety on Hank Brandt's part?” He cocked his head toward his desk and started walking.

Stephens followed. “Not proof exactly, but I do believe he's been fraternizing with a witness. Is that not grounds for dismissal?”

Andrew couldn't hide his grimace. “What has led you to this belief?”

“He's been acting strangely, so I followed him last night on my way home. I happened to see him with our witness. They greeted each other as old friends.”

Andrew sighed and eased the stack of reports onto his desk. “Could he have been questioning the witness?”

“I do not believe so. It was a male witness as well. As we discussed yesterday, I do not believe Inspector Brandt is entirely well suited for his position.”

Andrew knew he was bearing the brunt of this complaint because everyone knew he had the ear of Commissioner Roosevelt. If Roosevelt knew one of his inspectors was fraternizing with other men, let alone male witnesses, he'd be sure to dismiss that inspector without prejudice. Andrew guessed Stephens's real motives leaned toward gaining Hank's position once Hank was out of the way.

“I'd like to investigate further,” Andrew said, handing Stephens a form. “Record your complaint here and I'll look into it.”

Stephens squinted at the form. “I will do this right now.”

As Andrew started processing reports, Stephens sat at an unoccupied desk and filled out the form. He spent a lot of time looking up at the whirring fan overhead, probably thinking out his responses carefully.

Andrew tried not to let the fact Stephens was making a formal complaint concern him. It would be easy enough to circumvent the form. Stephens was likely unaware how close Andrew and Hank were as friends.

Stephens completed the form and handed it to Andrew with a flourish. Andrew pretended to look it over. “All right,” he said. “I'll file this with the internal affairs bureau. Be aware that because of recent events, it may be a while before anyone gets to it. We've got our hands full with the aftereffects of the heated term.”

“All the more reason to file it now, so it's in the queue. I merely want to be sure we have only the most upright men as officers in the Police Department.”

“Of course. The police commission would have it no other way.”

That seemed to satisfy Stephens, who shook Andrew's hand, nodded, and left.

 

The clerk at the records office managed to uncover a previous address for Brigham Knight, a little house on Pine Street, not far from Trinity Church if Hank's recollection of Manhattan geography was correct. The housing records further indicated the house had never actually been sold.

“This must be where he is,” Hank said to Charlie. Then he headed for the door.

Charlie snagged his arm. “You heard what Andrew said. If you go there on your own, you could be killed. That will not be of much help to Nicky.”

Hank knew Charlie was right, but that did not keep him from wanting to run straight for this house. Police Headquarters was back uptown, away from Pine Street.

“Perhaps I could go to the scene and look around. Verify Nicky is there. I won't go in until you arrive with the team Andrew is putting together.”

Charlie shook his head. “What if Knight catches you? You can't go alone.”

Hank groaned. This was an impossible situation. He worried every moment he wasted investigating or waiting was a moment that put Nicky into further danger.

“All right. We'll do it your way and speak with Andrew first.”

“Thank you.” Charlie touched Hank's upper arm. “He's my friend. I want to rescue him, too. I want for Nicky to be all right. But I want to be smart about it.”

So they left the records office with a list of every one of Brigham Knight's previous home addresses, dating back to 1885, just in case. Hank hailed a cab back uptown. Andrew was in conference with a pair of officers at his desk when Hank and Charlie returned to Police Headquarters.

“Ah, Inspector Brandt,” Andrew said as Hank approached. “May I introduce you to Officers Sherwood and Polk. They are with the eighth precinct.”

Sherwood was vaguely familiar, but Hank couldn't remember ever having met Polk. He extended his hand to each man and said, “I'd tell you it's a pleasure to meet you, but I trust Andrew has given you the brief version of the circumstances.”

Sherwood, who had dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, said, “A young man has been kidnapped by the suspect in a series of murders you've been investigating.”

“Ritchley says you can tie four murders and an assault to this same man,” said Polk, who had light brown hair and a surprisingly light voice.

“I believe so, yes,” said Hank. “And I believe our kidnapping victim is in grave danger.”

Sherwood leaned close and said, “This victim has some sort of personal connection to you.”

Hank's breath caught in his throat and a long moment passed before he could breathe again.

“I can vouch for these men,” Andrew said. “Your secrets are safe.”

Hank still struggled to get his breathing back to normal. He rubbed his chest where it hurt. The stakes were so hard to fathom. They were wasting time on pleasantries now, and who knew what fate had in store for Nicky, but Hank still worried he was about to be exposed. “You should be aware, then,” Hank said, “my suspect, an architect named Brigham Knight, sent me a letter threatening to tell my superiors about my . . . about the role the kidnapping victim Nicholas Sharp plays in my life should I decide to try to rescue him.”

“I suppose it comes down to who makes a more credible accuser,” said Polk. “A seasoned police inspector combined with us as witnesses or a man accused of five counts of murder or assault?”

Andrew shot Hank a look that seemed to say,
See? I'm saving you
. Witnesses of good standing with the police department would likely prove invaluable should Knight decide to expose Hank's personal life. It was something Hank was too rattled to think of to do on his own, and he was deeply grateful to Andrew for being so level-headed.

“Yes,” said Hank. “Which is why I'd like to go to this location with all possible haste.” Hank showed everyone the paper on which he'd copied the Pine Street address.

As a group, they went outside. Andrew tried to talk Charlie into staying behind, which caused a brief delay and an awkward explanation as Andrew told Sherwood and Polk that Charlie was his new assistant. “Assistant. Of course,” said Polk.

When they got to the yard in which the police vehicles were usually stored, they found it empty.

“I'm sorry, sir,” said an officer posted near the entrance. “All available vehicles had to be deployed as ambulances. None are available.”

“There are actual crimes being committed beyond those perpetrated by the weather,” Andrew said, hopping mad now.

“How are we to get downtown if all police vehicles are engaged?” Sherwood asked.

“Cab,” said Hank. “Come along.”

Hailing a cab proved difficult. Most that drove by Police Headquarters were already occupied. Hank was about to yank people out of the next one that came along when Polk finally got one to stop. There wasn't really room for all five of them, but they made do, with Charlie half-sitting on Andrew's lap.

“Is there a plan?” asked Sherwood.

“Since I have you all with me,” Hank said, “I have an idea.”

 

There must have been a clock upstairs, because Nicky heard chiming. He held very still to count the chimes. It stopped after three. Was it three in the morning or the afternoon? Nicky bemoaned the fact he couldn't tell if it was day or night in this dark basement.

He supposed he should be glad Brigham Knight had mostly left him alone. Knight came down the stairs periodically, but he was more menacing talk than action. At one point he had come over and whispered in Nicky's ear, “You are a treat too sweet to leave alone for long,” and then reached down and grabbed between Nicky's legs. That was the worst thing that had happened so far. Nicky was still whole, he still had his clothes on, and Knight had been pacing upstairs for what felt like an hour. There was a spot that must have been near a vent because Nicky could hear Knight mumbling to himself whenever he got to that spot.

The clock started to chime again, which seemed odd until Nicky realized this chime was different. Could it be the door?

There was a metallic squeal—Knight opening the front door perhaps—and then by some miracle, Knight and his visitor both stumbled into the spot where Nicky could hear them, because their voices rang through quite clearly.

“Terribly sorry to barge in on your afternoon,” said a male voice Nicky didn't recognize. “But I work for the city and I've been going door-to-door to check on how people are faring in this heat. How are you today, Mr . . . ?”

“Knight. I seem to be all right,” Knight said.

“I'm glad to hear it! Well, if you need any further assistance, you can of course go to your local police precinct. They will be giving away ice near City Hall later this afternoon, as well as at every police station, if that does not prove too difficult a walk for you.”

An outsider, even a stranger, might be an opportunity. Nicky tried standing again, but couldn't quite get his feet under himself. Even when he crashed back to the floor, it hardly made a sound. He kicked his feet and he banged his bound hands against the wall, but there wasn't a sound much louder than a slap. It certainly wasn't loud enough for the strange man upstairs to hear.

Nicky let out a breath and fell back against the wall.

Then he heard a third voice upstairs. “Ah, Mr. Polk, sir, could I get a hand with something outside. And you, sir, you look like you've a strong back. Would you mind helping us out?”

Nicky listened to the patter of feet across the floor above him. The voices were mere murmurs now they'd moved out of the magic spot on the floor. If Nicky's guess was correct, they were headed toward the front door. There was a loud slam, but no steps back into the house. Had Knight gone outside?

Nicky resumed his attempt to stand up. He scrambled against the hard floor, his feet slipping. He fell back down with each attempt. He cried out in frustration.

If he could just get his weight forward enough to stand, if he could just wriggle out of the ropes around his wrists, if he could just . . .

He threw his shoulders forward as he attempted to stand. He succeeded in getting over his toes, but then he fell forward, his chest slamming onto the hard floor just before his chin hit. His teeth rattled together as he hit the ground.

That hurt, but he began to cry more out of resignation than anything else. He'd never see the outside of this basement. He'd never see Hank again.

So when he heard someone above say, “Nicky?” and that person sounded like Hank, Nicky thought he was hallucinating.

Then it came again. “Nicky? Are you down there?”

“Hank?” Nicky croaked out, not believing it.

There were footsteps in the far corner of the room, and they sounded like they were descending a staircase. Nicky's heart faltered. Knight could be headed down those stairs to exact his revenge, cutting off whatever magical place Hank's voice was coming from. Or Nicky really had imagined it and it was an omen of the end.