Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [109]
“Director Flynn,” said another man, less disheveled than the others, “my readers want me to tell you that you’re a fine American.”
“Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate that. You’re a fine American.”
“My readers,” continued Tommy, “feel a lot safer since you began rounding up the foreigners who are trying to take over this city.”
“Now that’s how to be a newspaperman,” said Flynn. “Listen good, the rest of you. Once we get our hands on the political prisoners, which we already got our hands on, we’ll have this whole bombing wrapped up like a Christmas present. That’s your story. Signed, sealed, and delivered. You print that.”
On Friday, October 15, Littlemore returned to Police Headquarters on Centre Street to pack up a few things. His men Roederheusen and Stankiewicz stopped in. They carried their hats as if attending a funeral.
“Spanky,” said Littlemore, shaking each by the hand. “Stanky.”
“We’re going to miss you, Cap.”
“Knock it off,” said Littlemore. “Now don’t forget. The alley is the key—the alley between the Treasury and Assay Office. Look for people who ran into the street on September sixteenth, or went to their window, and saw a big truck carrying a massive load out of that alleyway onto Pine Street. That’s how the bombers made their getaway.”
“Why would the bombers be in a truck?” asked Stankiewicz.
“Carrying a load of what?” asked Roederheusen.
“Can’t tell you yet, boys,” said Littlemore. “But find out what that truck looked like and where it went, and you can break this case. You know where to reach me.”
The officers put on their hats unenthusiastically. “Say, Cap,” said Roederheusen on his way out, “you asked me to locate that Mexican guy—Pesqueira? The consulate says he’s gone. Left for Washington last week.”
“Not interested anymore, but thanks.” Littlemore strode down the corridor to Commissioner Enright’s office, knowing it was likely to be the last time. He rapped at Enright’s door and, when a voice from inside gave him permission, entered.
“Captain Littlemore,” said Enright from his desk. “Not captain much longer, eh?”
“Already got sworn in down in Washington, Mr. Enright. Just packing my things.”
The Commissioner nodded. “I knew your father, Littlemore.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A good man. Imperfect, as we are all are. But a good man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Your badge, Captain. And your weapon.”
Littlemore placed his badge on Enright’s desk. It hurt so much he almost couldn’t let it go. “The gun’s mine,” he said.
“Well, I’m not happy to do the formalities,” said Enright, “but by the power vested in me as chief of the New York Police Department, I hereby revoke your commission. Mr. Littlemore, you’re no longer a member of the Force.”
Littlemore said nothing.
“Do us proud, my boy,” said Enright.
THIRTEEN
AFTER A DAY AT SEA, an ocean liner steaming out of New York becomes its own and only point of human reference. No other vessels interrupt the vast waters. Under a cloudless morning sky, Colette and Younger strolled the upper deck, the swell unsteady enough to make her accept his arm. The ship’s engines set up a dull, churning roar behind them.
“What did they want with me?” she asked.
“The redheads or the kidnappers?”
“All of them.”
“The more I think about it,” said Younger, “the more I think the note we got at the hotel—the note from Amelia—was a trap. Bait. We thought Amelia never came back to the hotel the next morning. But perhaps she did, with the kidnappers.”
“Why?”
“Maybe it’s their business—kidnapping girls, selling them.”
“Selling them?”
“We have a term for it: white slavery. Perhaps they were going to lure you somewhere; Amelia would prey on your compassion, telling you she needed your help. They expected you to be alone. Instead I was with you. So they changed plans. They followed us to Wall Street. Amelia was caught in the bombing. But her friends kept watch, and when you went back to the hotel, they took you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re a foreigner. No family in America, no