“Hey, Gault. Does the name Carlin mean anything to you? As a last name, that is?”

  Gault considered it for a moment, his pudgy cheeks looking like the jowls of a bulldog. “Nah, I don’t think so. The only Carlin I know is Carlin Whiskey.” He chuckled and shook his head. “But that’s long gone now, I guess. Fuckin’ prohibition.”

  Frank clicked his fingers and sat straight up. “Hot damn, that’s it! Thanks, Gault.”

  Gault smiled and walked away. “Glad to help,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Want to fill me in?” Ava asked.

  “That’s why the name stuck out to me. Carlin Whiskey. It was a really popular brand of whiskey before prohibition came along.”

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “I think it just might,” Frank said, getting up and walking quickly towards the records. “And we can start with the fact that Rufus Carlin played dumb. He acted like he was a nobody.”

  “Well, if the company went out of business because of prohibition, maybe he is.”

  “Yeah, but usually someone from a family like that—a popular family with even the slightest bit of fame attached to it—doesn’t tend to not talk about it. right?”

  “Maybe. But isn’t there a chance he’s from a different Carlin family?”

  “Maybe. And I bet it will only take us a few minutes to find out.”

  In tandem, they got up and headed for the records room. It was not a part of the station that Ava was very familiar with, having only been inside once, so she was quite excited to use it properly.

  The records room sat to the far-left side of the station, occupying a small room. The room’s walls were mostly covered up by bemouth-looking filing cabinets that Ava had to wrestle with to get some of the drawers to open. A large, battered desk sat in the middle of the room for officers to go through whatever records they were studying.

  It did not take long for them to discover that there weren’t many records to help them with a search for the Carlin family, but Ava was surprised to find that there were enough forms and registrations for the business to give an overview of the story. Not only was Carlin Whiskey a hot name before prohibition, but the Carlin family had been among the elite Fifth Avenue families. They’d found the information easily enough, flipping through folders and steel drawers of bulky black, steel cabinets that lined three of the room’s four walls.

  “That might be another reason the last name was sticking out in my head…or trying to, anyway,” Frank said. “They were right there in the midst of the Picketts, right on Fifth Avenue.”

  “Why are there prints of all of these registrations?” Ava asked.

  “Because of prohibition. Anyone making liquor was required to register and then give proof that they were no longer creating it. The—”

  There was a knock on the door and they both turned to find Captain Minard standing there. “I saw you two rushing in here. Please tell me there’s some kind of a lead on the Pickett case.”

  “I came across a guy named Rufus Carlin today,” Frank said. “The name stuck out to me and I wasn’t sure why. I’m looking into Carlin Whiskey. They were a big Fifth Avenue family, right?”

  “Oh yeah,” Minard said, stepping inside the room. “And that family took a huge hit after prohibition. The Carlins went broke pretty quickly after that. Thomas Carlin, the owner of the company, tried getting lucky with some sort of gambling and then started selling his whiskey illegally. He killed himself when the cops came calling.”

  “That’s right,” Frank said, excitedly, as if it was all coming back to him. “I had just started the force back then…1921. Jesus, no wonder the name was so familiar. Chief…do you happen to know if there was anyone in the family named Rufus?”

  “You know, I don’t know for sure. Check the registrations and see if he’s on there anywhere.”

  Ava held up the copy she’d started reading over when Minard had come in. “We’re already on it.”

  Now just as curious and caught up in the excitement as his detectives, Minard came into the room. He had barely come over long enough to cast a shadow over Ava before she saw the name right there at the bottom of the sheet. It was hard to read because it had been signed, but it was unmistakable.

  “He’s right here,” she said. “His signature is right here, under Thomas Carlin.”

  “Are there any other names?” Minard asked, politely taking the form from her. He looked it over, already shaking his head. “No. No other names. It seems Rufus Carlin was Thomas Carlin’s son.”

  “So that means he would have been the heir had Thomas died and prohibition had never come along?”

  “Seems that way,” Minard said, handing him the form. “Why?”

  With a beam of excitement in his eye, Frank grinned and said: “Because less than an hour ago, he was telling me he wasn’t anybody important.”

  He and Ava started for the door right away, leaving the records out on the little table in the center of the room.

  “Tread carefully, would you?” Minard said. “The last thing I need is for those rich assholes calling me with more complaints.” He then cut his eyes specifically at Ava and added, “Especially if they have legitimate points about hasty accusations and arrests.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ava said as they made their way out of the room.

  They rushed out of the building and back out onto the street. Ava had nearly forgotten about their access to one of the precinct cars and started walking briskly in the direction of Fifth Avenue—which would be one hell of a hike at this time of the day as people started filling the streets on their way home from work.

  It was a bit maddening to sit in the passenger’s seat while Frank did his best to make his way through traffic; pedestrians, a few horse-drawn carts, and other cars were all in the way and Frank did an impressive job of getting around it all.

  “You think the Picketts will be happy to see us again?” Ava asked.

  “Oh, at this point I really don’t care,” Frank said. “I do think we need to heed Captain Minard’s advice, though. I think we need to really be careful how we act and what we say when we get there.”

  Ava felt the need to argue this, but kept her mouth shut. She simply had to accept that people with lots of money were indeed somewhat above the law. It was unfortunate, but Ava felt she’d done a decent job of getting adjusted to men looking down on her even with her job as a detective, so she was used to being seen as second-class.

  Not yet accustomed to the convenience of an automobile, Ava found herself astounded at just how fast they were able to cover the distance between the precinct and Fifth Avenue. It had taken about fifteen minutes and Frank had only one near-accident when he’d come less than six inches away from running into a newsboy that was rushing across the street. When they arrived at the Pickett residence, Frank did seem to have a bit of difficulty with parking but managed to get it right after three attempts. They hurried out of the car and Frank was knocking on the door the moment Ava joined him on the doorstep.

  When the door opened, Evelyn was there to greet them. She had a tired expression on her face; Ava could only imagine the amount of shouting and crying the poor woman had endured over the last two days, on top of everything George and Millie Pickett demanded of her. Worry instantly crowded into her eyes. She did not verbally say it, but the look in her eyes seemed to say: “Really? You two again? Are you intentionally trying to piss this family off?”

  “Good afternoon, Evelyn,” Frank said. “By any chance, is Mr. Carlin still here?”

  “He is, sir. I believe he’s in the parlor. Come on in.”

  She ushered them in quickly, perhaps hoping they could get in, do what needed to be done, and then get out without George or Millie seeing them. As it turned out, though, there was no chance at all of this happening. As soon as Ava stepped in behind Frank, she saw George Pickett standing just outside of the foyer, looking into the parlor. When he heard the door closing behind Ava and then the footsteps of the two detectives, he turned to face them. Irritation settled on his face at once. Shaking his head, he started walking their way.

  “No. Absolutely not. I’ve given you full access to this house in the midst of our loss and it’s getting out of hand.”

  “I understand that,” Frank said. He then took a step closer to George and lowered his voice a bit. “But we have a potential lead now. Something has come up in the past several minutes.”

  George’s irritation flickered and he cast his eyes to Ava, then back to Frank. “What sort of lead?”

  “I can’t give you the exact details until we know for sure. But for right now, we need to speak with Mr. Carlin.”

  “You mean Rufus? No. I don’t know what you think he’s done, but I can assure you, he—”

  “Sir, it’s quite alright,” Rufus interrupted him, stepping into the foyer. He looked to Frank, trying to look confused and perplexed. But even Ava could see that he was trying a little too hard to look that way. He was acting…and not doing a very good job of it.

  George looked confused as well, as he was not acting. Behind the anger and irritation, Ava could see that he was tired. And, of course, he was profoundly sad at the loss of his daughter and still wrestling with how to behave and present himself.

  “Do what you want, then,” he sneered at all three of them. “But not here. Not in my house. Take it outside. I’m…I’m done with this.”

  As if to put an exclamation point on this, he waved both hands at the trio like an aggravated child and stormed away in the direction of his office. Meanwhile, Evelyn looked at them apologetically and opened the front door for them. Ava led the way out and she noted that Frank made sure to stay behind Rufus, making sure he didn’t try to make a quick escape.

  Not wanting to test George Pickett’s limits, Ava stepped down onto the street, opting not to speak with Rufus on the steps. Frank and Rufus followed suit, and Frank started in on the man right away.

  “When I spoke to you not an hour and a half ago, you told me that you had no idea why your last name might sound familiar to me,” Frank said, doing his best to remain calm. “You told me that you were no one important.”

  “That’s right, sir,” he said. He still did his best to seem confused but the acting job remained poor.

  “Your father was Thomas Carlin,” Ava said. “You would have been the heir to Carlin Whiskey if the company had not gone bankrupt and folded.”

  “That is also right.”

  “So why were you trying to mislead me?” Frank asked. “My partner and I are in the middle of a pressing murder investigation. A little truth would be helpful.”

  “Why would my family’s failed business be of any consequence in this case?” Rufus said. “If you know any of the history behind it, especially the details about the demise of my father, I imagine you can see why I don’t like talking about it.”

  “Yes, but you once lived here, on Fifth Avenue and these stretches of wealthy streets,” Frank said. “Your connection to that and the social circles of the area tie you a bit closer to the Picketts as far as I’m concerned.”

  Ava had a thought and she did not think it through before saying it. It was simply a point that came to her and she felt it was quite important. “Being that you are from a well-to-do family and are now working for the Picketts makes me wonder if there was any connection between your families.”

  Saying this, Ava’s eyes travelled to the lamppost where she’d watched as immigrant being chastised by three wealthy men. It was hard to imagine Rufus Carlin among that sort but then again, she also knew how money could corrupt people. She needed to look no further than the Picketts and Duvalls to see evidence of that.

  “Is that the case?” Frank asked.

  Rufus looked slightly embarrassed now. He seemed to be struggling with an answer, perhaps even finding one and then deciding not to speak it.

  “I’ll level with you,” Frank said. “Your blatant lies from earlier make you a possible suspect for the murder of Penny Pickett. There’s no hard evidence, but at this point your dishonesty is enough. So if you want to avoid that, I suggest you start talking right now.”

  Panic flooded Rufus’s face instantly. “Yes, I was set to take the distillery over when dad stepped down—something he planned to do at the age of sixty. But, of course, prohibition came along and changed all of that. Dad killed himself when he was just fifty-four and by then, Carlin Whiskey was pretty much just as dead as he was. It took about five months for our family to lose everything. It all came apart so fast and we…we didn’t know what to do. Mom had a heart attack shortly after and I found myself suddenly homeless. I knew I needed a job, so I worked down at the docks for a while and hated it. I’d never been used to manual labor because of our wealth and…well, this job with the Picketts came along and I took it. My dad and George knew one another rather well and I think they did it out of respect. And, God…I wanted the job because I missed the lifestyle. Just to be around it…that was enough.”

  Ava kept the comment to herself, but this sounded pathetic to her. This man would rather be a servant to the rich than to not be around these snobby social circles at all.

  “What sort of interactions have you had with Penny while you’ve been working here?” Frank asked.

  “Barely any. She stays to herself, mostly. And, as I said, I’m really not here at the house very often.”

  Ava believed it. And even if he had been at the house quite a bit, she still doubted Rufus Carlin would have killed Penny. He was so desperate to be around this scene that he’d never do anything to jeopardize it.

  The tone of Frank’s voice made Ava think he was putting these same pieces together. There was resistance in it—the sound of another lead slowly slipping away from them. “Can you provide your whereabouts on the night Penny was murdered?”

  “Yes. From about ten to one in the morning, I was playing a bit of poker. After that, I went back home to my apartment.”

  “Can you give the names of people you played poker with?” Frank asked.

  “And anyone that can verify you were indeed at your apartment for the remainder of the night?”

  “Aye, I sort of had a little tumble in the bedroom with a broad from my old distillery days. I can give you her name, but I’d appreciate some privacy on it. She’s engaged, you see…”

  Ava nodded, looking to the ground, God, are all men this hopeless? It made her miss Clarence, who suddenly seemed to be far superior to just about any man she’d met since joining the force.

  Rufus Carlin gave the names of five men he played poker with, as well as the engaged woman. As he wrote them down, Ava figured they’d end up contacting them all, but it would just be a formality. She was certain standing there in front of the Pickett home that Rufus Carlin was certainly not their man…which meant they were back at the start. No leads, no hope, and no answers.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  That night, Ava and Jeffrey stayed at her father’s apartment once again. Jeffrey took it a bit easier this time, as it had now started to become almost like an adventure to him. Roosevelt seemed happy to have them there, too, though he was constantly apologetic about the state of the place. Ava was so tired when she finally allowed herself to sit down on the couch that she didn’t even notice the state of the apartment or most of her father’s apologies and excuses.

  In fact, the majority of the night was a tired blur to her. The one thing she was able to truly focus on was the reason that she and Jeffrey were here at all. Caught up in the rapid whirlwind of disappointment that was the Penny Pickett case, she’d nearly forgotten about the large, dead rat the mob had placed at her front door. Toss in anonymous threats from fellow cops as well as reports and whispers of the man that may have killed her husband, and it almost made sense she’d slink back to her father’s apartment for refuge.

  She fell asleep sitting up on the couch and when she woke up, it was slightly after four in the morning. her back ached from the position she’d taken up on the couch and her heart stung with the guilt of knowing she’d not helped get Jeffrey to bed. She saw that her father was conked out in his throne, snoring lightly. At some point during the night, he’d placed a blanket over her.

  She tiptoed into his very small bathroom and managed to take a shower in the dirty, cramped wash space. With that done, she set to making breakfast for her son and her father. There wasn’t much in her father’s kitchen, but she did her best. She made some fried bread, grits, and used up the last five eggs, frying them up in an old skillet.

  “What’s that you’re doing?” her father asked several moments later. “I don’t know that I’ve ever cooked this much in one night in this place.” He put water on to boil for coffee, then took the tin of grounds out, measuring them out carefully.

  “I got that impression,” she said. “But shouldn’t a former boxer try to stay in shape? Shouldn’t you make sure you take care of yourself?”

  “The important word there is former,” he said with a chuckle.

  They worked together to finish up breakfast and by the time they had the table set, it was nearing 6:30. Jeffrey came into the kitchen, blurry eyes and in the same pajamas he’d worn last night. When the three of them were all in the same room, Ava was reminded of just how cramped the place was. Somehow, she needed to get to the bottom of this mob nonsense. She couldn’t allow herself and Jeffrey to live here. Their journey together had started with her father living at her place to help with Jeffrey, after all. She’d felt that had been the right move and she needed to get back on that track.

  The three of them moved deftly around one another as they all prepared for their day. Roosevelt was out the door by 6:45 to head down to the gym to make sure it was opened up on time. Ava and Jeffrey were out just forty minutes later. They held hands on their way to school and it pained Ava to realize it was the first time she’d spent more than just ten or fifteen minutes with him in the last two days.

 

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