The Detroit Electric Scheme (38 page)

That all sounded good to me.

Wesley and I stopped for dinner on the way home. In deference to my situation, he didn't drink, but I'm sure the other patrons thought we were soused. We joked and hooted and laughed like a pair of drunks, finally going home around midnight.

The next day, the newspapers ran with Sutton's information, along with confirmation from the Oldsmobile garage manager that Frank had, in fact, been in the Detroit area on November 2. Both Frank and John's fingerprints had been found in Sapphira's house. There wasn't
much doubt that she and Frank had conspired to kill John. An editorial in the
Herald
went so far as to say the district attorney should drop his case against me, under the headline:
VAN DAM ELECTRIC EXECUTIONER!

My jubilation began to fade later that day as the specter of my bag and Judge Hume's body rose again in my mind. The next week and a half crawled past. I tried to stay focused on the auto show, but every day was one day closer to the inevitable discovery of the evidence that could put me in prison for the rest of my life. At the time, it seemed it would almost be a blessing when they finally found him, and I could get this over with.

I felt much differently on the afternoon of January 6 when someone pounded on my door, and I looked through the peephole.

My favorite policemen, Bottlebrush and Slack Jaw, stood in the hallway fondling their nightsticks.

 

I backed away from the door on tiptoes, my stomach grinding. They'd found Judge Hume. They'd found my bag. I was going to jail. My eyes darted to the fire escape.

One of them pounded again, this time with his nightstick. The door shuddered with the force. I'd never get away before they broke it down. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. The cops grabbed me and shoved me downstairs to a Chalmers police car waiting at the curb, not even letting me get my coat. They were silent all the way to the Bethune Street station, ignoring my questions and protests. I couldn't stop my legs from shaking. This was my last view of the world.

At the station, they dragged me to a darkened room with five other men, who stood in a line facing a window. Three were older toughs who looked like cops. The other two were younger, disheveled and unshaven, obviously just brought out of jail.

Slack Jaw put his hand on my chest and shoved me against the wall between two of the older men. The lights came on, bright electric lights. I faced the window, trying my best to look innocent. Behind the window was nothing but darkness.

“Turn to your right,” another policeman said.

Both the younger men and one of the cops turned left. Eventually everyone faced right.

“Turn to your left.”

This time everyone got it.

“Face the window.”

A minute later, the other policeman shut off the light and Slack Jaw shoved me down the corridor. I clasped my hands in front of me to hide their trembling. At the end of the hall, he pushed me into another small, musty room.

Detective Riordan waited at the table, puffing on a cigar, rubbing his hands together like he was watching his favorite meal being brought to the table. With a grin, he said, “Got you now, Anderson.”

 

Icy fingers ran down my back. Riordan's whole person radiated glee. “Dumping Judge Hume's body off the Zug Island train bridge in the middle of the night. Might not have been a bad idea if that train hadn't come along.”

They'd found the body. I'd been seen. My knees started to buckle, but I caught myself. I kept my face expressionless. If I had learned anything, it was to keep my mouth shut, no matter what. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Riordan sneered. “Please. The engineer saw you. He just picked you out of the lineup.”

My throat was so tight air could hardly pass through it, but I tried to keep my voice steady. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. The smoldering end of his cigar glowed orange under his elbow. “Sit down, Will.”

I slid into the chair across from him.

“Why do we have this same conversation over and over? I know you did it. An eyewitness identified you. Face it, Will. You've got to give it up.”

I stared at the tabletop. “I want to see my lawyer.”

“Not this time,” Riordan said. He stood and strode to the door. Before he walked out, he looked back over his shoulder at me. “Don't say I didn't give you a chance.”

My hands trembled. I made them into fists.

Two hours passed before the door opened again. Bottlebrush and Slack Jaw sauntered in.

“Hello, Will,” Bottlebrush said. “Nice to see ya again.” He took off his bobby hat and carefully set it on the table, then hung his coat over the back of Riordan's chair. Slack Jaw did likewise. They began rolling up their sleeves.

Bottlebrush nudged his partner. “Oughta see the joint his ma and pa live in. Anderson here's a regular prince.”

Slack Jaw just stared at me, smiling. His large brown eyes were so far apart as to be almost on the sides of his head. Bottlebrush walked around to the back of my chair and jerked my hands behind me. A cold metal ring snapped around my right wrist and then my left, the short chain between them looped through the wooden slats of the chair back. He pulled out my chair and spun it around on one of the back legs, then leaned down in my face. “Last chance, Nancy-boy. 'Fess up. Course, I'd rather you didn't. Yet.”

Without really thinking about it I gave him the dead eyes.

Bottlebrush laughed. “He's a regular tough guy, ain't he, Steve?” He rocked his head from side to side and rolled his shoulders, loosening up.

I clamped my jaw shut and tensed my muscles for the beating. A shiver went up my spine.

Behind me, the door opened. Riordan said, “Hold it.”

Bottlebrush did his best impression of Slack Jaw. “What?”

“Just thought I'd run something past ol' Will here,” Riordan said. “I'll let you have him in a minute. Unless he wises up.”

He walked around in front of me and leaned against the wall, his ever-present cigar clamped in his teeth. The other cops left.

“I want to see my lawyer,” I said.

Riordan puffed on his cigar. “Would you like a smoke? Calm your nerves a little?”

My legs were bouncing up and down. I stopped them. “No, I wouldn't.”

He reached over and put a meaty hand on my shoulder. “Listen, Will, I don't want to make this any harder on you than I have to. I've been talking to the DA. I convinced him to give you a deal if you confess.
And you're going to confess, either to me or,” he gestured toward the door, “to those two. Higgins said he'll take life in prison off the table. Of course, it doesn't matter to me either way. I've got you wrapped up now. Just thought I'd offer.” He winked at me. “Wouldn't want you to think I'm a bad guy.”

I stared at Riordan, trying to figure his angle. He had an eyewitness but wanted to give me a deal? I guess he thought I was stupid, a reasonable assumption given my decisions since Cooper was murdered. For once my foolishness had gained me an advantage. “Gosh, Detective Riordan, that's awful nice of you.”

He didn't seem quite sure what to make of that. “You can tell me, Will. Let's end this like gentlemen.”

“Why haven't you arrested me?”

“Just a technicality, boy—”

“If your witness identified me, you'd have charged me and trotted me out in front of a herd of reporters.” I stared up into Riordan's ice blue eyes. “So like I said before, I don't know what you're talking about.”

He twisted his fists into the front of my shirt and lifted me from the floor, chair and all. “Why'd you kill him, Will? Frank Van Dam's nothing but a ruse and you know it. You killed him, too, didn't you?” He threw me back. The chair tipped over, and my head smacked against the floor.

Colored lights exploded in front of me and then everything went black.

 

That evening, my father and Mr. Sutton picked me up from the jail. I still hadn't been charged. Once we were in the back of Sutton's Pierce-Arrow, my father asked if I was all right. I lied. I told him I was. The back of my head felt like I'd been hit with a sledgehammer. The driver pulled away from the curb, and I nestled down in my coat to block out the frigid wind. Why couldn't Sutton buy a coupé?

“Did they tell you?” Sutton said. “Judge Hume's body was found this morning.”

“I thought it might have been.”

“A fisherman on Fighting Island found it frozen to the crook of a birch tree overhanging the river.”

“Did he find anything else?” I wanted to swallow those words as soon as they came out of my mouth.

“Like what?”

“You know, clues, evidence, that sort of thing?”

“Not that I know of. But there is some good news. The state police just took over the investigation of Judge Hume's murder, and they want to question Frank Van Dam. Both he and John Cooper have been implicated in the Employers Association scandal.”

“Really.”

“Yes. And they're suspected of fostering a relationship between the Employers Association and certain criminals, who supplied the EAD with men for their union-breaking activities.”

“Vito Adamo.”

“They haven't said, but it stands to reason.”

I talked with my father about family matters the rest of the way home, waiting until they dropped me off to allow myself a sigh of relief. They might have found the judge, but my bag hadn't surfaced.

My luck was still holding.

 

The train was already in front of the Humes' house when I arrived an hour early for the funeral. A plain black car with no name or number, black bunting overhanging every window, sat in front of three regular DUR trolley cars, similarly decked out. The motorman sat in his seat in the front car, and two somber men in black suits and top hats stood motionless at the side of the funeral car, ignoring the snow drifting down from the sky.

The windows of the Humes' yellow and white Queen Anne were also draped in black. The huge oak trees in the yard were bare, stripped of their greenery by the season. A coating of gray snow covered the ground.

I felt more than a little trepidation climbing the steps to the house.
Mrs. Hume's reaction upon seeing me could range from fury to dismay, if she was even in condition to acknowledge I was there. But I had to speak with Elizabeth, to offer my condolences and my help.

Alberts answered the door, dressed in his usual dark gray suit with waistcoat, a black armband his only sign of mourning. His eyes widened a bit when he saw me. He hesitated but allowed me in, having apparently had no specific instructions on what to do if I arrived. On the way to the parlor, I passed a gilded wall mirror, covered, as all their mirrors would be, in black crepe.

A closed coffin—satin-finished dark walnut with burnished brass fixtures—sat at the head of the room, opposite the blazing fireplace. Elizabeth and Mrs. Hume were perched side by side, backs ramrod straight, on austere wooden chairs. Both women wore black from head to toe, with heavy crepe veils covering their faces. A lavish spread of food and drink—meats, cheeses, fruit, desserts, and dozens of bottles of wine—sat on a large table in the middle of the room. A smaller table stood next to it, piled with gifts for the guests—black kid gloves for the men and gold mourning brooches for the women. Four men stood in a corner, talking quietly. A heavy flowery odor hung over the room.

I approached the ladies. “I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Hume, Elizabeth. I know how much you loved him.”

Mrs. Hume's head jerked up when she heard my voice but sank again when she saw me. “Thank you, William,” she murmured.

Elizabeth forced a smile onto her face. “Thank you, Will. Thanks for coming. I know it must have been hard.”

I just nodded, knowing this was not the time to discuss my differences with her father.

“Could . . . Could I talk to you?” Elizabeth said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

I nodded again.

She turned to her mother. “Would it be all right if I spoke with Will for a moment?”

Mrs. Hume nodded, her head moving just a fraction of an inch.

Elizabeth patted her knee. “I'll be right back.” She was trying to be reassuring, but her voice trembled like she was on the brink of tears.
She got her coat before leading me out through the kitchen to the back porch. The wind had died, and it was very quiet. Large white snowflakes floated down in front of us into the gray backyard, covering the arbor's dead vines in the empty garden.

Elizabeth glanced toward the door and raised the veil from her face. “Have you got a smoke?” Her eyes were red-rimmed and hollow with dark rings underneath.

“Of course.” I took one from my case and lit it for her, then another for me.

She took a deep drag and leaned against the painted white post, staring out at the gray snow. “I need to apologize to you. I tried to get to the police when you were arrested for kidnapping me, but my father practically had me under house arrest. I got word out as soon as I could. And I should have told you right away that John was paying off my father. But I knew my father couldn't have been involved in the murder, and it was all so hazy.” She turned and looked at me. “Everything was hazy.”

I touched her arm. “Don't apologize. Your instincts were right. But are
you
all right?”

After a moment she said, “I still want it.” Her voice was thick. “I salivate just thinking of it.” She glanced at me and turned back toward the garden, shaking her head ever so slightly.

“It started with Dr. Kilmer's Female Remedy,” she whispered. “I'd been having some pains, woman pains, and John said his mother swore by it. After I used it for a week or so, my stomach began to bother me, so he bought me some dyspepsia syrup. In a month I couldn't go more than a few hours without them.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and turned around, leaning with her back against the rail. “I found out they both contained opium. Rather than go to a doctor and risk the scandal, we decided to try heroin to cure me. I liked it.” She looked at me again. “It let me forget. John bought the heroin for me from the pharmacy on Hastings. With my family's reputation at stake, I couldn't buy it.”