The Alienist - Caleb Carr [207]
“Then I’ll redouble my efforts,” Sara answered with a coy smile, “to conceal that involvement.”
“Hmm, yes,” Theodore noised dubiously. He studied us for a few seconds more, then nodded. “Here’s what I’ll offer you—take the next eighteen days. Find out all you can. But when the twenty-first comes around, I want you to tell me everything you know, so that I can post officers I trust at every potential murder site and avenue of escape.” Roosevelt pounded one beefy fist into his other hand. “I will not have another of these butcheries.”
I turned to Sara, who gave the deal quick consideration and then nodded certainly.
“We can keep the detective sergeants?” I asked.
“Of course,” Roosevelt answered.
“Done.” I put my hand forward and Theodore shook it, taking his pince-nez from his nose.
“I only hope you all have learned enough,” Roosevelt said, as he turned to shake Sara’s hand. “The idea of leaving my post without solving this case is not one that I relish.”
“You planning to quit, Roosevelt?” I jibed. “Has Platt finally made things too warm for you?”
“Nothing of the sort,” he replied gruffly. Then it was his turn to coyly reveal his legion of teeth. “But the conventions are coming up, Moore, and then the election. McKinley will be our party’s man, unless I’m mistaken, while the Democrats look as though they’ll actually be foolish enough to nominate Bryan—victory will be ours this fall.”
I nodded. “Going to campaign, are you?”
Theodore shrugged modestly. “I’ve been told that I can be of some use—in both New York and the western states.”
“And if McKinley should prove grateful for your help…”
“Now, John,” Sara chided sarcastically. “You know how the commissioner feels about such speculation.”
Roosevelt’s eyes went round. “You, young lady, have spent too much time away from headquarters—dashed impudence!” Then he relaxed and waved us toward the door. “Go on, get out. I’ve got a pile of official papers to sort through tonight—being as someone seems to have stolen my secretary.”
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time Sara and I got back out onto Madison Avenue; but between the exhilaration of having been allowed to continue our investigation and the warmth of the clear spring night, neither of us felt much like going home. Nor were we in any mood to lock ourselves back up in our headquarters and wait for the Isaacsons to show up, although we were anxious to talk to them as soon as they got back. As we began to stroll downtown a happy compromise occurred to me: we could dine at one of the outdoor tables in front of the St. Denis Hotel, across the avenue from Number 808. Thus positioned, we’d be sure to spot the detective sergeants on their return. This idea suited Sara thoroughly; and as we continued our march down the avenue, she became more thoroughly delighted than I’d ever seen her. There was little of the usual edgy intensity in her manner, though her mind was quite focused and her thoughts were consistently sharp and relevant. The explanation for all this, when it came to me during dinner, wasn’t particularly complicated: despite what Theodore had said about the possible official and public reaction to her involvement in the investigation, Sara was, for the moment, her own woman, a professional detective—in fact if not in name. In the days to come we would face many trials and frustrations, and I would have much cause to be grateful for Sara’s increasingly good spirits—for it was she more than anyone else who became the driving force behind the continuation of our work.
My consumption of wine that night was such that by the time dinner was over, the hedges that separated our table outside the St. Denis from the sidewalk