Secret of the White Rose Page 2

  “A white rose? Like a bride’s?”

  He nodded sagely. “I know. Hard to come by this time of year.”

  “The color of purity, innocence,” I added, thinking of brides I had seen with such roses on their wedding day.

  “Sometimes it is.” He paused. “Other times, it’s the color of death—usually associated with betrayal. During the War of the Roses, a white rose was given to traitors who had betrayed their word. It warned them that death was imminent.”

  “So you think—”

  He cut me off. “I don’t know what to think. But I want you involved.”

  “Where was Judge Jackson killed?” I glanced at him with skepticism.

  “Gramercy Park West.”

  “That’s in the Thirteenth Precinct; not my jurisdiction.” I was now working as a detective under my longtime friend Captain Mulvaney of the Nineteenth Precinct.

  “I’ve seen you help out other precincts.”

  “This new commissioner is a stickler for protocol.” Police Commissioner Theodore Bingham didn’t want officers straying beyond their jurisdiction, absent specific orders from him.

  “I can make the necessary connections,” Alistair said, getting up and crossing the room toward my Strowger telephone. “May I call a cab?”

  He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. “Operator, yes, telephone twenty-three eighty Columbus, please.”

  While he waited for the connection to be made, he spoke to me again. “My friend was an eminent man. Your police will be under significant pressure to solve his murder quickly.”

  I was obviously going to have to accompany him downtown. I got up and started toward my bedroom to get dressed. But his mention of the police brass triggered something in my memory. “What did you say this judge’s name was?”

  “Jackson. Judge Hugo Jackson.”

  My brow furrowed as the name he had just mentioned stirred a flicker of recognition. The name registered, and I spun back around toward Alistair. “Not the same judge who is hearing the Drayson case?”

  “Of course.” Alistair held up a finger as he spoke into the telephone once again. “New York Transportation? Yes, I need an electric automobile at Seventy-first and Broadway, please.” He then hung up, grim-faced as he turned back toward me. “The jury was to have begun deliberations today. Now? There’s a strong chance a mistrial will be declared.”

  That changed everything. The death—the murder, even—of the judge presiding over the most controversial trial the city had seen in years would set off the worst unrest imaginable.

  Like everyone, I had been following the trial with great interest—more so because I’d known men like Al Drayson. They grew and flourished in my native Lower East Side neighborhood, where new immigrants weary of hardships in their adopted country were sympathetic to those who championed their rights. Most were idealists who wanted only better working and living conditions.

  But I’d seen the way some men’s eyes fired with passion when they discussed their cause, lit with an enthusiasm I could not comprehend. Not when their talk turned to guns and dynamite. Not when they showed no regard for the human lives they destroyed. It made no sense to fight one injustice by creating another. I understood the devotion and sacrifice men might feel for another human soul.

  In my experience, even the loftiest ideals were often twisted for individual profit and ambition.

  Real good rarely came of it. The worst sort of evil often did.

  CHAPTER 2

  2:30 A.M.

  I dressed in haste, gathering those supplies I brought to every crime scene—a notepad, pencil, and cotton gloves to protect anything I touched from my own fingerprints. We waited at my second-floor apartment window overlooking West Seventy-first Street until the electric cab pulled up in front of my building. We hustled down the stairs, through my courtyard, and into the cab itself—where we settled onto black leather seats. Alistair was in no condition to drive his own car, but his choice of an electric cab rather than one of the new, faster gasoline cabs seemed an unnecessary extravagance. Alistair swore that they were more reliable, and no doubt they appealed to his luxurious tastes. For my part, I considered them impractical and slow-moving, given their eight-hundred-pound batteries. The subway was my preference—where a five-cent ticket carried me uptown or downtown, faster than any other mode of transportation.

  Alistair gave the driver an address in Gramercy Park, and we were whisked south along the Boulevard—which was how most people still referred to the part of Broadway north of Columbus Circle. The streets were deserted, and wrought-iron gaslights cast murky shadows against buildings that still slept. I liked this part of the city—the Upper West Side—where row houses and apartment buildings were springing up as fast as architects could design and build them. While the construction had its drawbacks, on the whole I liked being part of a neighborhood that was constantly changing. My own sublet apartment on West Seventy-first and Broadway was among them, built just two years ago. Normally I’d never be able to afford a one-bedroom in a new luxury building on a detective’s salary. But a friend of Alistair’s had moved unexpectedly abroad and wanted his apartment cared for in his absence: I’d be doing him a favor, or so he’d said. I wasn’t sure about that, but I’d moved in the third week of August and returned to my career as a detective in the Nineteenth Precinct, which my former partner Declan Mulvaney now commanded. And so—after two years in Dobson, a small village just north of the city where I’d enjoyed a respite from the city’s corruption and violence—I once again called the island of Manhattan home.

  Alistair sat beside me, silent and preoccupied as our cab continued downtown. We passed through the Theater District in the west Forties, where along the Great White Way electric billboards made the streets shine bright as day—even at this wee hour of the morning. It was also the site of Alistair’s and my most recent case together, when last spring a deranged killer had targeted beautiful young actresses. I had always enjoyed the theater on the rare occasions I could afford it, but I had not yet returned to a show. The Broadway murders had—at least temporarily—impaired my appreciation of the stage.

  Faster than I had expected, the driver turned left onto West Twenty-third Street and we drew closer to Gramercy. The area swarmed with police officers, but the driver pulled as close as he could manage to the western edge of Gramercy Park. Alistair paid the exorbitant six-dollar fare.

  The judge’s home at 3 Gramercy Park West was typical of all those surrounding the park: a four-story red-brick town house surrounded by a two-and-a-half-foot wrought-iron fence. I immediately recognized men not just from the Seventeenth Precinct but also the Thirteenth and the Eighth.

  I also recognized a reed-thin man with graying hair and hunched shoulders who hung back from the crowd. “Harvey,” I said, “good to see you again.”

  He started in surprise but then broke into a smile and reached out to pump my hand. “Ziele. I heard you were back in the city. But you’re with the Nineteenth now, right? Have you guys been called in on this one, too? It’s chaos. Seems like the mayor’s got every detective in the city working this case.” He indicated the men in blue spilling out into the street.

  I managed to say something noncommittal before I briefly introduced Alistair and asked, “Who’s in charge? Not the General himself?”

  Harvey shook his head and flashed a grin. “We got lucky: he’s out of town, in Boston with the missus. Though I’d say the judge’s murder will scuttle his plans and bring him home early.” He nodded toward the commotion indoors. “Meanwhile, Saunders is running the scene.”

  Learning of Saunders’s presence I breathed a sigh of relief. “The General” was Police Commissioner Theodore Bingham himself, a former military man who had brought forthrightness to his job—but also a stubborn belief that he alone knew the right answers. He had been commissioner for almost a year and was already deeply unpopular within the ranks. I had not yet crossed paths with the city’s top police official, but I could not i
magine he would be pleased to discover an ordinary detective attempting to insert himself into an investigation. Grandstanding, he’d call it—and not one of Alistair’s connections would be sufficient to salvage my reputation.

  Alistair brightened upon hearing the name. “Do you mean Deputy John Saunders?”

  After Harvey confirmed it, Alistair explained how he had met Saunders, one of the comissioner’s many deputies, earlier this year when he was in meetings at police headquarters. “Like me, he’s interested in how new methods can help combat violent crime. I’ve suggested several ways they might incorporate my own research into their efforts.”

  I knew that the top brass had so far responded to Alistair’s proposals with skepticism at best, and sheer mockery at worst. Most policemen, myself included, were not averse to trying new techniques that had been shown to work reliably in the field. But most of Alistair’s ideas were textbook only—untested and untried.

  I watched Alistair hesitate for just a moment at the door’s threshold. Then he set his shoulders and walked squarely into the home of his old friend. I followed him through the foyer toward the library at the rear of the first floor where a cluster of men, Deputy Saunders among them, waited somberly just outside the door. The reason why was immediately apparent: two junior officers emerged from the room bearing a wooden gurney on which, covered by a thick white sheet, was a large form we knew to be the judge. We watched in silence as he was carried from his home for the last time.

  “Wh—?” Saunders swallowed his words the moment he recognized Alistair. He held out his hand. “Professor. This is unexpected. I’m afraid you can’t be here tonight. While I’m aware of your interest in such matters, this is a sensitive crime investigation, you understand—restricted to official personnel only.” He gave me a hard look. “And restricted only to those precincts from which we’ve requested assistance.”

  Alistair fixed Saunders with a cold icy stare. “You’d better check with Mrs. Jackson. When she specifically requested my help, of course I came—and I insisted upon Detective Ziele’s joining me.”

  Saunders stopped and looked uncomfortable. “I understand Mrs. Jackson is upset and thinks her friend—one who just happens to be a criminal scientist—will help matters,” he said. “However, those of us investigating this case must be able to do our job without unnecessary interference.”

  When we did not move, he added, “That means I need you to leave.”

  “But I need him to stay.”

  The words, spoken with authority, came from an imposing woman with gray-silver hair that swirled round the top of her head. A black shawl covered most of her dress, and her face was pinched with grief. Mrs. Jackson, I had no doubt.

  Close behind her was a tall, handsome woman with olive skin and black hair pulled into a tight bun. She wore a formal housemaid’s garb of starched black and white, and carried a silver tray filled with coffee and small cookies.

  “You may take that into the parlor, Marie,” Mrs. Jackson directed coolly. “Men, please help yourselves. I know the hour is late.”

  “Mrs. Jackson,” Saunders said, “I apologize, but you need to trust me to handle your husband’s death according to protocol.”

  “My husband’s murder, you mean,” she said tartly, mincing no words. “Professor Sinclair is a family friend and an eminent criminologist. I have requested his help in the investigation”—she paused as her eyes rested upon me—“as well as that of whomever he trusts to help him.”

  When the deputy commissioner began to protest yet again, she silenced him. “I trust you do not wish me to telephone the mayor and inform him of our disagreement.”

  “Very well, madam,” he conceded, and I immediately registered both the importance of the man who had been killed here tonight and the power of his family’s connections. I would later learn that Mrs. Jackson herself had been born a Schermerhorn—one of the city’s oldest and wealthiest families, whose influence within political and social circles remained strong.

  Mrs. Jackson came forward to grasp Alistair’s hand, and for the first time her voice trembled just slightly. “It was good of you to come.”

  “Gertrude,” he began, “I’m so very sorry—”

  “Of course.” She was brisk once again. “The important thing is that justice be done. I need you to promise me you’ll make sure of it. Now, come.”

  As she turned toward her husband’s library, Alistair placed his hand on her arm and gave her a look of searching concern. “Are you sure?”

  She gave a terse reply. “My avoiding this room will not change the fact he was killed here tonight. Might as well face up to it.”

  I exchanged another glance with Alistair before we followed her into the small library. I had seen many different types of grief in my years of murder investigations—but admittedly, never a reaction as fiercely stoic as Mrs. Jackson’s.

  I drew myself up, forcing myself to breathe slowly the moment I detected the sickly-sweet scent of blood. I had an unnatural aversion to it—a distinct liability in my profession that I tried to keep hidden. Most of the time, I succeeded—but only because of sheer willpower. My stomach lurched and a wave of nausea forced me to swallow hard.

  Saunders hung behind us, keeping a discreet distance yet watching us closely. The other officers stayed in the hallway as we entered a small room filled with dark walnut bookcases stuffed to capacity with legal tomes. There was a mahogany desk by the window, littered with papers and books—all of which were now drenched from the dark pool that overran the desk and continued to drip slowly onto the floor. The judge had lost a tremendous amount of blood. I noted the black-leather-bound Bible Alistair had mentioned as well as the long-stemmed white rose—now heavily stained—lying at the center of the desk.

  Mrs. Jackson circled behind the desk and leaned against her husband’s burgundy leather chair, while the rest of us purposefully refrained from staring at the pool of blood on the desk itself.

  “He came in here just after dinner,” she said. “I had hoped he would retire to bed, but he insisted on reviewing his notes. Stubborn man. He had terrible insomnia. The case, you understand.” She shuddered. “He was handling Drayson the best he could, but there’s no pleasing some people.”

  She took a deep breath and addressed Alistair. “Hugo couldn’t have been alone in here for more than an hour. It was just past nine when I came to insist that he go to bed. Instead, I found him. Dead.” She gestured to her husband’s blood.

  We remained silent, none of us knowing quite how to proceed.

  “People said the most vile things,” she continued to say. “And they sent horrid threats. He received letters from those who had the audacity to support the child-killer.” Her voice was cold with anger as she turned ever so slightly toward the window. “He received equally terrible letters from men who felt he was too soft on Drayson. He was a fair and just man,” she said, clutching at her heart, “but emotions are running so high…”

  I waited ten seconds in deference to Saunders, who stood apart from us at the door. When he did not speak up, I asked her, “You said he came in here at eight o’clock, and you found him shortly after nine. You had no visitors this evening?”

  She shook her head. “Not one. I would have heard the bell. As we’ve told the deputy commissioner and his men already, neither Marie nor I saw or heard anything unusual.” She gave Saunders a pointed look.

  “Send for the maid, please,” Saunders said, instructing one of his deputies who was standing in the hall.

  “Who else was home with you tonight?” Alistair asked.

  “No one. Charles, our driver, had the evening off. And our cook went home once she cleaned up after dinner—which would have been right around eight o’clock. My husband had checked all the doors before retiring to his office, as was his habit. Each one was locked.”

  “So how did his murderer get in?” Alistair asked, walking toward the window. It was locked.

  “Were your doors unlocked earlier in the da
y?” I asked.

  “Of course, in the afternoon,” Mrs. Jackson replied. “We have too much help coming and going, between the deliveries and the shopping.”

  Alistair and I exchanged a look. It certainly raised the possibility that the judge’s killer had entered his home earlier in the day and hidden—lying in wait.

  The maid reappeared, closely flanked by one of Saunders’s men. “You asked for me, sir?” Her voice was soft, but she remained composed, even when she realized all eyes were centered upon her.

  “How long have you worked in the Jackson home, miss?” Saunders asked.

  “Going on five years, sir.”

  “Marie is one of my best helpers, Deputy,” Mrs. Jackson answered with a smile meant to reassure her maid. “Reliable and a good worker. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  “And did you notice anything amiss earlier tonight?” Saunders gave the woman a hard stare.

  “No, sir,” she answered with confidence. “The judge and the missus had dinner. Then he went to read in his study and I didn’t see him again. The missus and I were going over preparations for a dinner party planned for next week, then I started my evening cleanup.”

  “And you heard nothing unusual?”

  She shook her head.

  “And the doors were locked?”

  “Yes, sir. I locked them myself.”

  “Gentlemen,” Mrs. Jackson said with renewed determination. “I’ve already told Deputy Commissioner Saunders and his men all the details of my husband’s routine this evening. It will be in his report. I asked you here tonight because of these.”

  She reached for a pile of letters from the desk—and though they were on the far corner, away from the bloody pool, they were still heavily splattered with the judge’s blood.

  Saunders gulped. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jackson, but that’s police evidence.”

  She forced a brittle smile. “Yes, Deputy Commissioner. That is why I am giving this evidence to a policeman. Specifically to…” She gestured toward me.