Near Prospect Park Read online

  None of that fazed Harper. He was on an important mission, but at the moment all he could think about was Josie’s first word. “Da-da” kept ringing in his ears. It brought a big smile to his face and made him oblivious to his surroundings.

  4

  It was thirty-one degrees outside, but it seemed much colder in the Long Meadow section of Prospect Park, where the wind whipped through with few trees to stop it. Mary had been standing there for quite a while. No sign of an extortionist nor Gilbert’s leather-bound folder. Not much sign of anything. She knew it was absurd, but she couldn’t help feeling jealous of the sheep, which didn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by the weather.

  In order to keep her mind off the cold, Mary periodically scanned the field for any sign of a human in the faraway trees, one who might possibly be watching her, or for any life at all besides the sheep. There was none. About a half an hour earlier a woman had been walking her dog. It looked like a German shepherd, but the two of them were so far away it was hard to definitively determine the breed. Mary never got that chance, because a gust of wind had swelled up, causing the woman to immediately turn and leave the park.

  Mary checked her wristlet and saw that it was now a full hour past the time the exchange was supposed to have taken place. She dreaded the thought of explaining to Gilbert that the ransomer had never shown. He’d seemed so thrilled at the prospect of snagging Lillian Russell for his drama. It did occur to her that it might be the proverbial blessing in disguise. Lillian Russell in a drama had fiasco written all over it.

  She slowly walked out of the park, careful not to step on any sheep droppings, and exited onto Third Street. The brownstones blocked the wind and she immediately felt warmer. That didn’t lessen her concern about reporting the bad news to Gilbert, but that was the kind of ugly truth detectives sometimes had to report to their clients. If he had an emotional response, she would just have to steel herself and point out the positives. Whoever had stolen his folder still didn’t have Gilbert’s money. If they really wanted it, they would have to reconnect. Life intrudes even in criminals’ lives. Who knew what could have prevented the culprit from showing up?

  These thoughts were rattling around in Mary’s mind, alternating with the conversation she’d had with Harper the night before. She decided that secrets were no good for their relationship or for any relationship. She very much wanted Harper and her to be free with each other. She was going to tell him when she got home, hoping it would lift any cloud, no matter how minor, that was surrounding them and inhibiting their total commitment to each other.

  “Psst.”

  Mary was passing an alley. She turned. An unshaven and unkempt man, wearing working-class clothes and a flat cap, was leaning against a building about fifty feet inside the alley. She had learned a long time ago not to respond to strangers like him and continued on.

  “Psst,” he repeated louder than before, but Mary kept on going. “Psst, lady, I got something you want….Stop!”

  Mary turned and was about to tell him to leave her alone when he revealed a leather folder he had been hiding behind his back. Seeing that he had finally gotten Mary’s attention, he grinned widely, revealing a missing tooth, an upper left incisor.

  A thought immediately crossed her mind. How did this man steal Gilbert’s folder or even know that it was valuable? Then she quickly chastised herself. Never judge a person by his/her appearance or you could easily be setting yourself up for an unpleasant surprise. She carefully approached him.

  “What do you want?”

  “Nothin’ much, but you can start by forkin’ over the bankroll in your pocketbook.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on, lady. You weren’t lollin’ around the park ’cause ya like freezin’ that pretty little body of yours.”

  “You were watching me?” Mary’s question was really for herself. She had looked and hadn’t seen anyone. How could she have missed him?

  From the outside left pocket of his jacket he produced a small pair of binoculars. “Had to make sure it wasn’t a setup. By the by, ever consider being a shepherd? You’re magical with sheep.” He then burst out laughing.

  “And a fun time was had by all. Now, let me see the merchandise.” Mary stepped toward him and he put up his hand.

  “Not so fast, pretty lady. Show me the money first.”

  “You’re the one who plays games. Not me.” With that, Mary opened her pocketbook, took out the envelope of cash Gilbert had given her, flashed some bills at the man, then dropped the envelope back in her pocketbook, closing it. “Now let me see the merchandise or I promise you, this is as close as you’ll ever get to that money.”

  The man chortled. “You’re a tough one, huh? I like that. Okay, but I hold it while you look.”

  “Afraid I’ll run away and a big, strong man like you won’t be able to catch me?”

  “Just taking precautions. I’m a businessman.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” said Mary sarcastically.

  He stepped toward her and Mary edged closer as they met in the middle. He opened the leather folder. “As promised, very valuable stuff.”

  Mary looked down and quickly perused the contents. There were several pages of handwritten notes followed by a typewritten title page for The Fortune Hunter by W. S. Gilbert. After that, there were many typewritten pages of dialogue and stage directions written in play form with some handwritten notes in the margins. With the limited information she had, Mary concluded it was most likely Gilbert’s missing dramatic work. Just as she was about to tell the man that it was a deal, he yanked her pocketbook out of her hand.

  “Why did you do that? I was about to give you the money.”

  He took out the envelope of cash and thumbed through the bills. “Just takin’ the proper precautions.”

  “It’s all there.”

  “That it is. Indeed it is.” He then stuffed the envelope in his coat pocket and tossed the pocketbook back to Mary. It landed on the ground, and she picked it up.

  “You scratched my pocketbook. Was that really necessary?”

  “Truly sorry about that.” He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a quarter, and tossed it to her. “Here, get it fixed.”

  Mary caught it and again sarcastically responded, “Thank you. I’m touched by your generosity.”

  “Buildin’ up some goodwill. You’re not gonna be happy after I take that folder from you.”

  “That would be a huge mistake.”

  The man laughed. He had about seventy pounds on Mary and figured that getting the folder would be a simple task. What he didn’t know was that Mary wasn’t bluffing. She was a black belt in jujitsu and had been since her school days. A friend’s father who was a jujitsu master had taught the two of them skills to defend themselves against the bullies at school who were tormenting them. She had kept up those skills, practicing every day, only taking a break during the last months of her pregnancy and for a short while after Josie was born. She had been practicing again for a while now and was as sharp as she had ever been. His weight advantage meant little to her, because part of jujitsu is learning how to use an opponent’s size against him or her.

  As he came for the folder, she dropped her pocketbook and the folder to the ground and stopped him with a jumping scissors kick. Surprised, the man went reeling backward and slammed against the wall of the building, the one against which he had been so casually leaning earlier. He quickly shook it off and came after her. Mary was ready. When he threw a punch, she blocked it with a high parry, then grabbed his arm and flipped him to the cement, where he came down hard, visibly shaken.

  “Stay down,” said Mary. “There’s no reason for you to get hurt. You have the money, I’ll take the folder, and we’ll consider this transaction completed.”

  The man looked up with fire in his eyes
, and Mary braced for another attack. Seconds later he charged at her and threw a roundhouse right. She blocked it with her left forearm, then struck a blow to his neck with her right hand, aiming at his main artery. She hit her mark. His eyes immediately rolled up into his head, then she put her left foot behind his legs and tossed him to the ground.

  He was unconscious. but he wouldn’t be for long—maybe seconds or minutes. As far as she was concerned, his decision to welsh on their deal ended any obligation she had to follow through with it. She would give the money and the folder to Gilbert. Keeping her eye on the man at all times, she took the envelope of cash out of his coat pocket and then slowly stepped backward to collect the folder and her pocketbook.

  A gunshot rang out from behind her. She felt a sharp pain on her right side just above the ear. She stumbled against the wall, hitting her head, and fell to the ground unconscious.

  * * *

  When Mary awoke, she felt a throbbing pain where she had been shot. She gently touched that area with her right hand and felt moisture. She knew what it was but looked at her hand anyway and saw it was covered in blood. The good news was that she was conscious, and she surmised the bullet had just grazed her head. Besides the fact that she’d been shot, the bad news was that the man was gone, as were the envelope of cash and the folder. She was woozy, but that didn’t stop her from feeling stupid. The man must have had a partner hiding somewhere. She chastised herself. It was a careless mistake on her part. She should have been more cautious.

  She slowly rose, picked up her pocketbook, and looked inside. Everything was intact. What good sports, she thought, her sarcasm the only thing keeping her from breaking down and getting very upset. She didn’t know how long she had been out. She checked her wristlet, but it had broken in the fall. Sunset hadn’t fully occurred yet, and there was still some light outside, so she figured it couldn’t have been too long. Unsteady, she had just begun to exit the alley when she saw a man’s body a few feet inside of the entrance. He was lying facedown on the cement, a pool of blood surrounding him. As she headed toward him, she thought she recognized him and hastened her pace, going as fast as she could in her wobbly condition. Mary was almost frantic when she finally got to him and turned over the body.

  It was Harper, and he had a bullet through the back of his head.

  5

  It was December 16, 1896, seventeen days since Harper had been murdered. Mary had secluded herself in her apartment with Josie and didn’t venture outside except to get groceries and other necessary items. The excitement of Christmas had invaded New York, with people shopping, kids making lists, families decorating trees, and sidewalk Santas ringing their bells. But all this good spirit had eluded Mary. In a desperate attempt to protect what was left of her family, she never let Josie out of her sight, smothering her with love and constant talk about what a wonderful father she had. She tried to pass their time together by teaching Josie to walk, but Josie wasn’t cooperating. That minor frustration kept sending Mary back to reliving what had happened, aggravating her already raw feelings, which were also being fueled by massive guilt.

  After finding Harper’s body, an unending parade of police and coroner personnel had marched before her in a surreal haze. She was numb, unable to cry or show any emotion. She did give a description of the man, which she doubted would be helpful because he looked like any member of the multitudes of working-class men in Brooklyn. She particularly remembered a newspaperman who had plagued her at the police station.

  “What can you tell me about the murder in Prospect Park?”

  “It wasn’t in Prospect Park. It was near it.” That was all she could handle at the moment. She brushed by him and left the station.

  Mary had had one more unpleasant chore to do before going home. She had to inform Gilbert of what had transpired. He was shocked but amazingly pleasant considering he’d lost his money and still didn’t have his play. He was more concerned about Mary, who, though she still wasn’t capable of showing much emotion, was grateful for his concern and impressive display of humanity.

  By process of elimination, she figured out that Josie was with her mother. At a time like that, the last thing she wanted to do was to deal with her mother’s list of “I told you sos”: the working-mother issue, being a detective, and not heeding her advice, which encompassed every facet of Mary’s life. Elizabeth had always been predictable and had never failed to make Mary’s successes seem like failures, turn her happiness into gloom, and make a defeat seem even worse. This time, though, she surprised Mary. She told her not to worry, that she’d make all the funeral arrangements and that Mary should just go home and take care of Josephine (well, not all of her idiosyncrasies disappeared). Some people drop their emotional baggage and miraculously come through in times of crisis. Apparently, Elizabeth was one of them.

  When Mary got home to her empty apartment, the reality of what had happened began to sink in. Harper wasn’t there. He would never be there again. The sight of his typewriter sitting on the table hit her hard. She tried to be strong for Josie but couldn’t. About to break down, Mary squeezed her tightly as she went into the kitchen to get away from the memories. It was there that she saw something that devastated her even further.

  Sitting on the kitchen counter was the ransom note. In her haste to get to her meeting with Gilbert and then the one in Prospect Park, she had taken it out of her pocketbook to once again review the details and had neglected to put it back. It was not difficult to deduce what had probably happened. Harper had found the note and had decided that he needed to protect Mary. The overwhelming guilt she immediately felt permeated every cell of her being. Her carelessness and her profession were the causes of his death. She felt weak, too weak to remain upright. Mary stumbled to Josie’s crib and laid her down, then made it to her bed and collapsed. She began to cry for the first time. It soon turned into deep sobs, and it seemed as if they would never stop.

  * * *

  A few days later, as Mary took Josie in her arms to leave for the funeral, she glanced at the newspaper that she had kept from the day after Harper’s murder. The headline read: MURDER IN PROSPECT PARK. Mary shook her head. The one thing she had told the reporter, he had ignored. Before they left, Mary put a photo of Harper in her pocketbook, then turned to Josie and said, “See, sweetie? Now we will always have Daddy with us.”

  The funeral was a difficult ordeal. Everyone close to her was there: her mother; her brother, Sean; Lazlo; her best friend, Sarah; Sarah’s husband, Walter; and an old family friend from Second Street Station, Billy O’Brien. Harper’s huge family turned out en masse, along with his longtime colleague and chum the famous muckraking journalist Jacob Riis. The only one missing was her mentor from the Brooklyn Police Department, Chief Patrick Campbell. He had retired a while ago, but after years of poor eating habits, about which Mary had constantly warned him, he had had a heart attack and was recovering.

  There were several speeches, wonderful tributes to Harper from his family and newspaper people with whom he had worked. Harper’s father, a working-class man who had never been very articulate, gave a lovely speech. It didn’t matter that his grammar wasn’t correct. It was so heartfelt that it moved everyone.

  Mary tried to speak but didn’t get very far. After a few sentences, she stopped. “I can’t do this. I’m responsible. I killed him.”

  Her brother, Sean, immediately rushed up and put his arms around her, trying to give Mary some comfort as he ushered her to her seat. No one made much out of what she had said, attributing it to a grief-stricken wife whose husband had been taken from her much too soon. Still, Elizabeth, who had agreed to hold Josie while Mary was speaking and still had her in her arms, felt a need to explain.

  “I’m sure you all understand that my daughter has been through a terrible shock. An awful, awful tragedy. She was very much in love with Harper, and in no conceivable way would she cause even the slightest bit o
f harm to him, just as she would never cause any harm to Josephine.”

  The funeral crowd was silent. They all knew Mary and Harper and had never considered that Mary would have had any part in his death. After a full ten seconds of silence, a man in the back raised his hand.

  “Who is Josephine?”

  Elizabeth raised Josie in the air. “This is Josephine, their daughter.”

  “Oh, you mean Josie.”

  Elizabeth stiffened, but she knew this wasn’t the time or place to have a dispute over her granddaughter’s name. She emitted a very cold and controlled “Yes.”

  * * *

  During her seclusion, Mary had several visitors, family and good friends who sympathized with her but who also tried to shake her out of her depression and get her to begin living life again. Elizabeth was the most frequent and easily the most annoying. She tried many methods to lift Mary out of her doldrums. Though she earnestly didn’t want to cause Mary any more distress, that was what Elizabeth did, and she did it so well.

  Her first ploy was to appeal to Mary’s motherly instincts. “Mary, you’ve been through a terrible ordeal, but it’s not just you. You have a daughter to raise. There’s Josephine.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Mother.”

  “Then you’re also aware you’ll need a job to support the two of you. And whether you like it or not, that involves leaving your apartment.”

  “I won’t have to do that for a while. Harper and I were very frugal—”

  “Mary, girl, ya don’t squander yer life savins just ’cause ya had a setback.” Elizabeth was a native of Ireland, and her accent reemerged when she got upset or excited. For the sake of her grieving daughter, she had tried to withhold her frustration and show empathy, but the accent was a dead giveaway.