Ten Days in August (18 page)

Rooney was a short, balding man with glasses, who smiled kindly as he let Hank in. “I don't wish to take up too much of your time,” Hank said. “I'm merely looking to verify the whereabouts of a man last Wednesday night.”

“Brandt, eh? Any relation to the Brandts who lived on West Tenth Street?”

That brought Hank up short. “Er, yes, actually. I still live in the house on West Tenth Street.”

Rooney laughed. “Henry! Of course. Our fathers fought together, you know. The old Eighty-second Regiment. Antietam, Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, yes?”

“Yes, sir.” Hank's father had been a part of the Eighty-second Regiment, but Hank had no idea there were other veterans living in the neighborhood.

“I was about twelve years old when the war began,” said Rooney. “You must have been a wee babe.”

Hank was in awe of this strange situation he'd walked into. “Yes, sir. Born 1860. I was not quite a year old when my father left for war.”

Rooney nodded. “I left for West Point shortly after my father returned home. I had this idea I'd be a soldier and go South to help with the Reconstruction. Turns out I am not quite suited for military life.” He shrugged. “Our families seem to have lost track of each other after your father passed. I am very sorry for it. And now you are a police inspector!”

“Well, acting inspector. The promotion is pending police board approval.”

“Yes, of course. I read about the police board troubles in the paper.” Rooney gestured toward a worn armchair, so Hank sat. Rooney sat on the settee across from him. “Now, what can I help you with, young Henry Brandt?”

Hank nearly laughed. No one really called him Henry except in very formal settings. “Well, sir, I am actually just verifying a dinner party took place last Wednesday.”

Rooney thought on it. “Yes. I had dinner at Delmonico's with a few of the fellows from an architecture firm. I'm investing in a property uptown, you see.”

Hank hoped it wasn't the foolish proposition of a sliver of a building on Madison Square. “Are you acquainted with an architect named Brigham Knight?”

Rooney nodded. “Yes, and he was at that very same dinner. Very bright young man. He has a lot of incredible ideas. I think he might just be the next Stanford White.”

Hank doubted that, particularly if he got his way and put Knight behind bars. “Do you happen to know if he went straight home after dinner?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Rooney looked at the ceiling. “Well, I saw him get in a cab, at any rate. Why do you ask?”

“A witness spotted a man fitting his description at the scene of a crime I'm investigating. It's probably of no consequence, but I thought he might be a witness.”

“All you've to do is ask him yourself,” Rooney said. “I've known him a few years and have never known him to be anything but honest.”

Hank nodded. This was getting him nowhere. Knight must have known Rooney would back up his alibi; Hank wondered if Knight made sure to be seen by prominent people before he went to the Bowery resorts so he'd have plausible alibis lined up.

“What sort of crime are you investigating?” Rooney asked.

“Oh, nothing too significant. There was a scuffle involving a man and a prostitute.”

Rooney chuckled. “Ah, what has this city become?”

Hank stood and looked around. The house was nice, but utterly masculine. “Are you married, Mr. Rooney?” he asked.

“Confirmed bachelor, I'm afraid.”

Hank nodded and wondered if perhaps the relationship between Knight and Rooney was more than a business acquaintance. He shook Rooney's hand and smiled. “Given we are neighbors, we should have dinner sometimes, perhaps. If you have any recollections of my father, I would be happy to hear them.”

Rooney winked. “Oh, I recall a few war stories. I imagine you've heard a lot of them.”

“Probably. But it's not every day I meet someone who knew my father. I . . . I miss him a great deal, still.”

“He was a fine man, as I recall. I can make tea, if you'd like?”

Hank glanced at his pocket watch. “Unfortunately, I need to get back to my precinct house. I do thank you for your help. I apologize for taking up your time.”

“It was no bother at all, Mr. Brandt. Please call on me anytime.”

Hank left Joseph Rooney's house feeling like he hadn't accomplished much beyond perhaps gaining a new acquaintance. He knew in his gut Knight was his man, but proving it felt impossible.

Day 8

Wednesday, August 12
Temperature: 103 °F

T
he knock on the door came as Hank finished breakfast. He didn't feel especially enthusiastic about going back out in the heat. Making sweaty love to Nicky in the wee hours of the morning had not precisely cooled him off.

Nicky stood at Hank's hallway mirror, fiddling with a plaid scarf before scoffing at his reflection and tossing it aside. “I cannot live with this weather,” he said. “It is so difficult to adorn myself properly.”

And then the knock at the door.

Hank went to answer it and was surprised to find Amelia there.

“What are you doing here?”

“Shopping with Isabelle Cartwright, so I was in the neighborhood. I told her I wanted to stop by to see you, but the hats in a shop on Seventh Avenue distracted her. I told her I'd meet her back there after I said hello to you.”

“Oh.”

“I apologize for arriving unannounced.”

“It's all right. It's just I have company—”

Amelia pushed past him and into the house. She clearly spotted Nicky immediately, and he stood there looking just as shocked to see her. He was dressed relatively plainly, at least, in a white shirt and crisp brown trousers. His dark blond hair was elegantly combed atop his head into a wave and he'd rouged his cheeks as was his wont. He was Nicky, in other words. And not, alas, Alice McGraw.

Nicky and Amelia stared at each other for a long moment.

“Er, well. I had not expected this,” Amelia said.

Hank stammered, but managed to say, “Amelia, this is—”

But Nicky pushed passed him and held out his hand to her. “Perhaps we should dispense with illusions here, love,” he said to Hank.

Hank's heart beat so fast he worried it would burst. If he hadn't already been sweating, sweat likely would have bloomed on his forehead. He went cold everywhere, though, shocked and unable to verbally reconcile this man before him and the person Amelia had met two days before.

“I don't—” Hank started. There could have been a logical explanation. Nicky had dropped by to say hello. It wasn't obvious he'd spent the night. It was rather early for callers, but Amelia was here, so . . .

“Nonsense. This is all nonsense.” Nicky crossed his arms over his chest. “We could just admit we've been caught, darling.”

Hank stopped breathing. “Yes, but—”

“I can't believe you would betray Alice in this way,” Amelia said, venom in her voice.

Nicky turned to her, alarm on his face. “That is not precisely what is occurring—”

“I thought you'd changed, Hank.” Amelia swished past him into the foyer. “I thought things were different this time. That girl was lovely and she suited you well. I don't understand why you couldn't have just . . . that is, I don't know why you . . .” She grumbled and turned to face Nicky again. She gave him a good long look. Then she gasped. Something in Nicky's expression or the way he moved his hands must have tipped her off, because she said, “Alice. You're Alice.”

Nicky balked, but then dropped his shoulders. “Yes. In the flesh, darling.”

Hank was surprised into silence, shocked Nicky wouldn't even bother to deny it.

Amelia said, “This does explain a great deal.”

“Amelia,” Hank said, finding his voice. He could not tell if she was disturbed by this situation, upset with him, or if she just thought this another strange day in the life of Hank Brandt. He took a step forward and gestured toward Nicky. “This is Nicholas Sharp.” He put a hand on Nicky's shoulder and then took it away. “I wanted to tell you, but there was no good opportunity to—”

Amelia slapped Hank across the face.

It smarted. “What did you do that for?”

“My god, Hank, do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”

Hank held his hand to his face.

Amelia started pacing and shook her head. She wore a dress made of what looked like heavy red fabric, and under all the layers, she must have been boiling, but Hank knew he had to focus on the matter at hand and not her clothes.

She said, “I cannot believe you, Hank. Did you really bring a man dressed as a woman to my charity ball, at which a number of New York's most prominent people were in attendance, and expect no one to notice?”

“No one did notice,” said Hank.

Amelia screamed low in her throat and threw her hands up. “You are so reckless sometimes. If anyone had caught you—”

“They did not.”

“—you could have been arrested or worse. Both of you.”

Hank, feeling defensive, took a step backward. “Allow me to point out, first of all, I am an officer of the law. I knew what I was doing. Nicky dressed the way he did of his own volition. He is . . . something of a professional.”

Amelia gawped at Nicky. “A . . . professional?”

Nicky stood with his hips cocked and his arms up with his wrists twisted out, a pose perhaps best suited for a female nude statue. His voice lilting, he said, “Yes, darling, a professional. I work as a female impersonator. I sing on a stage at a fairy resort. Are you irredeemably scandalized yet?”

Hank tried to shoot Nicky a look—this had just gone too far—but Nicky turned away from him.

Amelia blustered for a moment, looking for all the world like she was about to throw a tantrum as she'd done dozens of times when they were young, but she managed to calm down somewhat. She let out a breath that blew the front fringe of her hair away from her face. Then she stood there with her fists clenched at her sides.

“This is all completely absurd,” she said with remarkable calm.

“Amelia, I'm sorry,” Hank said. “I am so very sorry. I wanted to tell you honestly what the situation was about, but I never had the opportunity. And I needed to get Nicky in the same room as some of what you call the most prominent people of New York so he could identify a potential suspect. Which he did, by the way. Your husband's friend Mr. Knight? He spends his evenings slumming at fairy resorts.”

Amelia's eyes went wide. “He what?”

Hank held up his hands. “I apologize for manipulating the situation the way I did, but I could find no better alternative plan. Nicky spotted Knight and identified him as the man who was last seen with my murder victim. You should tell Jonathan he'd do well to stay away from Mr. Knight.”

“And you trust this Nicky.”

Hank hadn't realized he'd been referring to Nicky by his familiar name. He looked back at Nicky, who stood ramrod straight now. All of his defenses were up. Hank half expected him to mince his way out the door in an effeminate flourish.

So Hank risked telling the truth. “Yes, I trust him. The affection you witnessed between me and ‘Alice' was not all show.”

If he hadn't been so worried two of the people he cared for most in the world were about to walk out the door and out of his life for good, Hank would have laughed at the comically exaggerated shocked expressions both were making. They froze in a strange limbo where no one moved or spoke for several long moments.

Amelia broke the silence when she said, “You lied to me.”

And Hank had to admit, yes, he had, but he said, “Perhaps by omission, but we needed our cover. I did plan to tell you when I solved the case. Had Knight discovered Nicky was not the woman he appeared to be, he might have recognized him from the club. Who knows what harm might have befallen him then?”

Amelia resumed her pacing. Nicky backed away and leaned against the stairwell, as far as he could be from the fuming Amelia without leaving the foyer. The only sound was the rhythmic clack of Amelia's heeled shoes against the wood floor.

“You think I would have betrayed your trust?”

“No. Not on purpose.”

“You jeopardized everything. You jeopardized my ball, my reputation. You put your own life and Mr. Sharp's at risk. And you came to my ball not to support my cause but because of your own agenda. Is that about the sum of it?”

“I do support your cause. I was happy to give money for the children in the tenements.”

Nicky jerked slightly. He was in Hank's peripheral vision now as Hank tried to concentrate on Amelia.

“Would you have come to the ball had you not wanted to identify a suspect?”

Hank hesitated just a moment too long before opening his mouth to respond. Amelia made a frustrated noise that was more than a grunt but less than a scream.

“Amelia,” Hank said. “I love you and you are my greatest friend and I feel tremendously guilty for having used your ball in this way, but I thought it was the right thing to do at the time. I still believe it was the right thing to do, because it has connected Mr. Knight to this crime.”

“What if he is not your killer?”

“Then he's innocent, I suppose, though he lied to me about his whereabouts the night of the murder I'm investigating, and he's lying to you all about his after-hours activities.”

“Says Mr. Sharp.”

“Yes, and I believe him.”

“Perhaps I should leave,” said Nicky.

“No. Please stay,” said Hank. He turned back to Amelia. “And you, please accept my sincerest apology. I would have told you about Nicky when the time was right.”

“Am I correct in assuming his presence here in the morning means he is your lover?”

Hank bristled at how intimate the question felt, but he nodded.

Amelia sighed. “And here I had thought you had seen the light and changed your nature. That it was possible for you to fall in love with a woman and make a family and be happy finally.”

“I do not think that possible.”

Amelia nodded. “You know it does not bother me that you are . . . an invert. I love you no matter what. But I want you to be happy.”

“I know. But happiness the way you mean it may not be possible, either.”

Amelia frowned and glanced out the window.

Nicky stepped forward. “Far be it from me to intervene in a dispute between friends. But I worry we've lost sight of what is important here.” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Cooper, I am deeply sorry for my deception. It was never my intention to cause trouble at your ball. I am, actually, deeply grateful I was able to attend such a soiree. Never in my life have I seen a ballroom as nicely appointed as yours.”

This seemed to mollify Amelia somewhat; she blushed and smiled faintly.

“This particular deception was entirely my idea,” Nicky went on. “Hank initially suggested I dress as one of his police colleagues or as a young banker. I'd be a pal who came with him to pay homage to your cause. But as you can see, I am hardly the rough police officer type. I thought I might be more convincing as Hank's young lady friend. So the fault for that particular crime lies entirely at my feet.”

Amelia glanced at Nicky and then looked back at Hank.

“I worry for you, you know,” Amelia said. “I worry about you a great deal. One of these days you will get caught, and you will lose your job or worse. If anyone at Police Headquarters has even a suspicion, your promotion will never be approved.”

“That outcome is a strong possibility,” Hank conceded. “But until such a time as that occurs, I intend to be the best inspector I can be, which means solving this murder within reasonable means. A man is assaulting and killing young men in my precinct. I cannot just let it go.”

“No. I realize that.”

Amelia looked up and met Hank's gaze. He understood her frustration with him was borne of concern. He knew she wanted him to be happy, but something about the way she expressed that, framing his happiness as depending on changing himself, struck Hank in the gut.

He might never find happiness. But he thought he could get some semblance of it with Nicky at his side.

He did not know how to convey that to Amelia.

“Your anger is justified,” he said. “I should have explained the situation to you before my arrival. But it is too late to change what happened now.”

Amelia nodded.

Although he regretted angering Amelia, the rest of it could never be regretted or forgotten. He'd danced with Nicky in the ballroom as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do. He'd hold that memory close for a long time to come.

“I should be returning to Isabelle,” Amelia said, gesturing toward the door. She picked up the parasol she must have dropped when she came in. “Mr. Sharp, it was a pleasure to meet you again, this time as yourself.”

“Yes.” Nicky bit his lip. “I meant what I said, darling. I do sincerely wish you and I could be friends. I think we'd get on brilliantly. But I understand if you want nothing to do with me.”

“It's not that precisely. I just need some time with this, I suppose. It's not every day I meet Hank's . . . friends. I've never met one such as you before.”

“I am one in a million,” Nicky said with a hollow smile.

“I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you both if your actions were in the service of solving a crime. Do not do this ever again, though.” She held up her hand and pointed at Hank. “We've been friends for too long for you to lie to me.”

“I know. I won't do it again,” said Hank.

Amelia took her leave, which kept Nicky and Hank in the foyer for a long silent moment.

“She really cares for you,” Nicky said.

“Yes.”

“I've never had a friend like that. One who just accepted me as I am. But she accepts you.”

“Yes. And I treasure her for it. I do not know what I would have done if she had not accepted my apology.”

Nicky touched Hank's arm, ran his fingers down the length of it. “Once we have put ourselves to rights for the day, would you please escort me home?”