Grace's Pictures (35 page)

But to her surprise, Mr. Parker made no mention of her staying when Mr. Crawley arrived to escort her home that evening. “Maybe I should ask him,” she explained to Mr. Crawley.

She made her way to the parlor, where she’d last seen Mr. Parker after bringing the children in for good night wishes. He was still in his chair, but unlike other nights, he had switched on the globe lamp next to his chair. “Grace, come here a moment.”

She stepped into the room. He was holding the snapshots she had forgotten to retrieve from the table. “Are these yours?”

She dipped her head and went to take them from his
outstretched hand. “They are. I’m sorry. I forgot I left them there.” She licked her lips as she turned to leave, wondering if he was going to ask about the ones taken in Chatham Square.

“Grace?”

She turned back.

“I want you to take tomorrow off. That will give you Saturday and Sunday off. I need to spend more time with my children.”

“Your sister is leaving.”

“She is, but she’ll be coming back frequently. The children like her.”

“So do I. But are you sure you don’t need me? The baby?”

“I have a wet nurse arriving in the morning.”

“Oh, all right. If you’re sure.”

“I am. Good night.”

When Grace returned to Hawkins House, she found a telegram waiting for her. She almost squealed aloud in delight. From Ma!

She rushed upstairs to read it. Flinging herself on her bed, she carefully slid a fingernail under the seal and pulled the message out.

S. P. inquired by way of nephew if you can receive visitors. Answer is yes. Will be visiting in time for St. Patrick’s feast day.

This was not what Grace had expected, but her mother was coming to see her!

She rolled onto her back and lifted her arms toward the ceiling.
God! Did you hear me after all?

She clenched the letter in her hand.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, love!” The Hawk clapped her hands when Grace told her the news. “St. Patrick’s Day, you say? Even though that’s a ways off, I’ll reserve a room for them at Miss Hall’s boardinghouse. We want to make sure it’s available to them. It’s very nice and popular with visitors. Just a few blocks from First Church.”

“But my mother will stay here.” Grace held the letter against her heart. “She can share my bed.”

“Her husband is coming, right, love? They will want to stay together, and I don’t permit men to board here, not even fathers.”

Grace gritted her teeth. “He is not my father.”

“Sorry. Stepfather. Just the same—”

“Fine. Reserve a room for him.”

“But won’t your mother want to stay with him?”

“She will not.”

The Hawk shrugged and reached for a butter biscuit on the tea tray near her chair. “We will let them sort that out. I’ll reserve a double just in case. Of course, your mother is welcome here, should she choose.”

“Thank you. You’ll need money for that room. How much?”

The Hawk pursed her lips and shook her head. “I will take care of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“I have a job. Just tell me how much.”

“No, no. When my girls get visitors from home, the Benevolents provide the guests’ room and board. That is our way. Do not argue with me.”

“But—”

The woman held up a hand. “I said no argument. It’s settled. So long as they are not permanently staying on. Your mother said a visit, yes?”

“She did, but I expect she will stay on and her husband will go back.” Grace fought hard to keep disgust from her voice. “He has a job to return to, Mrs. Hawkins. Responsibilities.”

The Hawk poured Grace a cup of tea. “Your mother is welcome to stay with us as long as she wishes, love.”

Grace inhaled the flowery smell of Mrs. Hawkins’s special brew. She wanted to say that the man was definitely not worth the Benevolents’ concern.
Let him sleep on the floor at the police precinct.
But she held her tongue. Grace had to admit that she was relieved there was now a means to separate her mother from that man, at least at night.

34

OWEN NOW HAD TWO GOOD SOURCES FOR LEADS:
Grace’s potential drawing of the suspect and the name the pawnbroker had written down for him, a man called Michael Taggart, a fellow who had left the gang and held a vendetta of some kind.

After discussing the note with his captain, Owen surveyed the wall of mug shots until he found the one he wanted: Michael Taggart.

“Shift’s up, McNulty. Follow this tomorrow.” Nicholson leaned over his shoulder. “Ugly mug, huh?”

“At least his pockmarked face is one I’ll remember. See you tomorrow.”

Murphy tapped Owen on the shoulder. “Message for you. Jones has it at the desk.”

“Thanks.” This could not be good. He hurried over to pick it up. From his father.

Arrange to see Blevins immediately. He is spending more money.

John McNulty

Owen dismissed sleep in order to catch Blevins when he arrived at the office. Fatigue caused his mind to swirl. He could
have used a cup of coffee, but Joe had indeed closed up shop, and he had no time to go looking elsewhere.

The Sixth Avenue el slowed at the Fourteenth Street station, and Owen stood to get off quickly. Marching past the white limestone department stores, he made his way a few blocks down to his father’s building. No one would suppose the great McNulty Dry Goods Store held their business office in such a modest structure.

He let himself in and was pleasantly surprised to find a secretary there brewing coffee.

“How is your father?”

He accepted a cup from the plump, middle-aged lady he’d not met before now. “If he could lessen his emotional stress, he’d be much better.” He could have kicked himself. He should not give such personal information to an employee. He was not good at this and told himself to use his detective instincts from now on.

“Isn’t that the way with us all? Mr. McNulty, are you here to see Mr. Blevins by any chance?”

“I am, as a matter of fact.”

“He just telephoned and said he wasn’t feeling well today.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Oh, I don’t think you should—”

“Look, madam, both the principal owner and his second in charge are under the weather. Do you truly think I should leave the company’s welfare to chance?”

She set the coffeepot she’d been holding down on her desk. “Well, when you put it that way . . .”

“I’m in a dreadful rush, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly. Mr. Blevins lives at number 105 East Seventeenth Street in Gramercy Park.”

Thirty minutes later Owen rapped on the door.

Blevins, rather than a servant, opened it. “Mrs. Miller let me know you were on your way, Owen. Please come in.”

Owen didn’t move. “What is going on, Blevins? I’ve just come off my beat and had no sleep. Shall we get right to it? My father thinks you are spending him out of business.”

The man’s smile disappeared. “He thinks that?”

“He does.”

“Please, my boy, come in. We have much to discuss.”

They sat in a well-appointed receiving room, not as plush as Owen’s parents’ but much more comfortable than the dwellings in Owen’s neighborhood. Alvin Blevins leaned back in a fat leather chair and folded his hands over his chest.

“Mr. Blevins, I have to say you don’t look ill to me.”

The man laughed. “I did not tell the secretary I was ill, just that I wasn’t feeling well and that is true enough. This mess we are in is quite disturbing.”

“We?”

“Well, my boy, you are making it your business now, aren’t you? And that’s the point.”

“Please, cut through the bacon fat and get to the meat of the matter, would you?”

“Hmm.” Blevins leaned toward a small round table on his left and poured himself a shot of whiskey.

Drinking so early in the morning. This must indeed be a mess. “You thought you could clear things up by returning some stock and cutting some positions, right?”

The man rubbed his mustache. “That’s what I said, yes. And I will do that. But the trouble goes beyond finances. Let me explain.”

“Please.”

“Would you like a drink? Some coffee perhaps? My wife is in the kitchen. She could make you some biscuits.”

“I’d rather not take the time, if you don’t mind.”

Blevins glanced at the mantel clock and kept his focus there while he spoke. “When I first came to work for your father, I was mesmerized by his business sense and his sheer intelligence.” He smiled, still gazing into space. “He built his business from the dust to become one of the most successful in town.”

“I understand. Please, Blevins, what is the trouble?”

“Oh, it’s true that I overpurchased at times. Hard to turn away some of the folks I heard hard-luck stories from, I tell you. But that is not the mess, not really.” Blevins took another drink. “I am not sure how to say this. Your father does not . . . Well, he’s not himself lately, I daresay. His judgment is . . . well . . . skewed a bit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, long before the problems with his heart, he . . . well, he’s not making sound choices, son.”

“What? My father’s not that old. His mind is fine.”

“I’m just answering your question, son. If you choose not to believe it . . .” He shrugged.

Owen didn’t believe one word of it. “Tell me about your association with the Committee of Fifteen.”

Blevins straightened his vest. “An entirely different subject. I am a reformer in my off hours. Running into you at the meeting was quite the coincidence.”

“Was it?”

“Indeed. My status is well lauded in New York, Owen. I was invited to join. Those other men and I banded together because we don’t like the vice and crime in our neighborhoods.” He
lifted his glass. “And you will see. We’ll make a difference. We’re not trying to supersede law enforcement, just aid you men.”

“So this committee business has nothing to do with my father?”

“It does not. I will say, though, that if your father continues in this vein, on this foolish venture of pride, the company’s lost, son, and the debtors will come after us all unless . . .”

“What?”

“If only he had listened to me years ago and incorporated.” He pounded a fist on the arm of his chair.

“Blevins, unless what?”

“Unless you take control or give me authority. Your father is not fit.” He stared at his hands in his lap. “There. I’ve said it.”

Owen stood and paced between his chair and the front window. “That can’t be.”

“If you think there is any discrepancy in what I’ve said, you better go talk to your father.”

“I will.”

“But be aware. Things might not be as he presents them.”

He left Blevins’s house and walked west on Seventeenth Street. He could get to his father’s house if he went to Union Square and caught a Broadway trolley, but he always avoided the area of Deadman’s Curve whenever he could. And he was bushed. He turned and caught the Second Avenue el heading south instead. He had to get some rest. Nothing Blevins said made any sense at all.

When he got to his apartment building, he met Mrs. Varga on the stairs. She was carrying down laundry for another tenant.

“Let me help you.” He took a basket from her and toted it down to the bottom step.

“Thank you, thank you.” She joined him at the door and
reached up. She could not touch his face because she was so short, so she waved her hand until he lowered his head. She patted his cheek. “You catch bad men, Officer. You catch them!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He wearily climbed back up the steps.

After he’d slept, he borrowed his neighbor’s telephone. “You said he was stable, right?”

“I know, but, Owen, he’s distraught. Did you talk to Blevins?”

“Put Father on the telephone.”

“I . . . uh . . . I better not. He’s not exactly making himself clear, Owen.”