“Persuade? How hard?”

  “Just do your best.”

  Sarah looked indignant. “Who’s this Kerry?”

  Lars winked. “Don’t you worry, a chara; it’s a friend of his, not of mine. I’m fancy-free.”

  “Ignore him,” Justy said. He reached for Sarah’s hand. “Thank you.”

  She brushed him away. “You nearly ’ad me in an early grave, coming in like that. Don’t think I’m going to forgive you in a hurry.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.” She glanced at Lars. “Promise me you’ll make him see a surgeon about those cuts.”

  The big sailor put a hand on his heart. “On my honor, sweet lady.”

  She snorted. “Don’t mistake me for someone who falls for a lost cause.” There was the faintest touch of color in her cheeks.

  Lars grinned. “Don’t worry, a chara. We’re a long way from being lost just yet.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Jacob Hays sat at a wide desk in his office, writing in a ledger. The only other furniture in the room was a single wooden chair in front of the desk. The Marshal looked up as Justy walked in. Hays’ face gave nothing away, but it was a moment before he spoke. “I’m told the reason the British wear red is so soldiers in the line can’t see their fellows bleed. Perhaps I should lend you my coat.”

  Justy made a face. The trickling sensation at the back of his neck told him the collar of his shirt was slowly turning pink with bloody water. The rest of his shirt was clean, but blood had soaked through the bandage around his hand, and his forehead was livid with an angry bruise where he had connected with Turner’s skull. He decided to be direct.

  “I had a fight with Marshal Turner.”

  Hays stared. “Turner? Where is he?”

  “I left him tied up in a warehouse off Broad Street.”

  “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “No joke. Those four girls who were killed and marked? Turner did it. He confessed. And Drummond and Cantillon? He may have killed them, too.”

  Hays’ face was red. “This is preposterous.”

  Justy unwound the strip of linen from Turner’s knife. “Do you still have that knife sheath that I found up on Church Street? I gave it to you at the morgue.”

  Hays gave him a blank look. After a moment, he pulled open a drawer. He laid the piece of leather on the desk. Justy placed the knife carefully beside it. “I took that knife from Turner. I think you’ll find they’re a match.”

  Hays picked both items up. The steel of the knife slid neatly into the leather pouch. There was a loose piece of leather at the hilt end of the sheath. Hays pulled the leather over the handle of the knife. A smooth brass knob at the base of the knife’s handle slipped snugly into a buttonhole in the sheath.

  He placed the knife carefully back on the table. “And?”

  Justy sat down in the plain wooden chair. “William Duer.”

  “What about him?”

  “Turner used to work for Duer, back in ’91. Did you know that?”

  Hays frowned. “No.”

  “It will be easy enough to check. Duer was running a scheme with Colley and Isaac Whippo. And my father. It was a fraud and an immoral business, laid one on top of the other. Turner was their bagman.”

  Hays’ chair creaked as he leaned back. “A fraud, you say?”

  “Nothing strictly illegal. But a massive swindle, just the same.”

  Hays snorted a short laugh. “Like so much of the goings-on on Wall Street. And the immoral business?”

  “It was a kind of bespoke brothel. They told investors they were prospecting for gold in Brazil, but really they were procuring Negro girls from plantations in the South. The idea was to ship them to New York, then sell them at auction to rich New Yorkers. They built a house on Bedlow Street, where the clients would be able to warehouse their property, for a fee. Sparing them the inconvenience of having to house them in their own homes. Something their wives might object to, I’d imagine.”

  “So, slavery and prostitution. Which would certainly make it an immoral enterprise. But not an illegal one. Not in ’91.”

  “No. Not strictly. And besides, the scheme never really got going. Procuring the women proved harder than they expected. And then the whole scheme fell apart in the Panic, when the money ran out.”

  The sound of singing wafted up from the street below. Hays got up to peer out of the window. “Bloody Quakers,” he muttered. “I’m all for Manumission, but these damned boycotts will be the death of the city.”

  He spun around, his hands clasped tight behind his back. “So. Duer, Colley and Whippo. No surprise there: those three were up to all sorts of flummery before we sent Duer away. But a slave brothel? That is an unexpected low, even for them.”

  He walked slowly back to his desk and picked up the knife. “What any of this has to do with your assault on Marshal Turner, however, I fail to see.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you.” A door slammed somewhere in the building, and there was the sound of someone hurrying along flagstone floors. “They’re doing it again. And this time, Turner is in on it.”

  “Preposterous,” Hays said again. But this time his eyes were sharp and Justy could see he was interested. “What do you mean?”

  “Colley is replicating the venture. And this time, Turner’s one of the partners. The Bull, too. Do you know who Harry Gracie is?”

  “Fat fellow. Loud clothes.”

  “The same. He’s the front man for Colley’s venture. And he’s attracting a lot of capital. His investors don’t know where the money goes, but they don’t really care, because he’s paying sixteen percent returns.”

  “I’ve heard.” Hays settled back in his chair. “I’ve also heard he has recruited some big names to back him.”

  “You heard right. I saw two of them earlier in the street. Alexander Hamilton and Robert Troup.”

  “Here for the conference, I should imagine.”

  “No doubt, except I saw them just down the street from here, going into the Tontine together. That made me think they might be meeting to discuss their investment with Mr. Gracie.”

  Hays steepled his fingers. “Hmm. And being Manumission men, they wouldn’t take kindly to the notion of their money going to buy female slaves, would they?”

  “They would not. Especially not if they knew what will happen to the women, once they’ve been sold off and warehoused in the house on Bedlow Street.”

  Hays grimaced.

  Justy could feel his cuts leaking. He needed to move. He stood up, his chair grating on the floorboards as he pushed it back. He paced in a circle and rested his hands on the back of the chair. “You’re worried about the political aspect.”

  “Of course I am,” Hays snapped.

  “Well, I don’t wish to make you feel any worse about this, but Colley claimed that John Adams is an investor, too.”

  Hays was very still.

  “I threatened Colley,” Justy went on. “I told him I’d tell everyone I could what he was up to. He said if I did that, I could spark another Panic. I could bring the market down, and the country with it.”

  “You could,” Hays muttered. “You could very well.”

  “I could have told Hamilton today. He was right in front of me. I could have walked up to him and told him everything.”

  “We can thank heaven that you did not.” Hays was pale. “Are you absolutely sure about all of this?”

  Justy shrugged. “About Adams? I don’t know. Colley is capable of any kind of lie. But I believe what he told me about the venture. He boasted about it. He said it’s a precise replication of what they planned to do ten years ago. Only this time they’ve managed to succeed. And Turner confirmed it. He told me the house is already operating. They started with a dozen girls, brought up from Louisiana, but four escaped. Turner hunted them down, killed them and marked them to look like waterfront doxies.”

  “Turner.” Hays reached out and picked up the knife. He turned it over in his hand.

  Justy sat down. “Remember the night you found the girl on Church Street?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Turner was late, if you recall. Half the Watch made it there before him. And his hand was bandaged. Now look at that knife. There’s no guard on the handle, so if you’re not wearing gloves, and your hand gets slippery with blood or sweat, you’re liable to cut yourself. Just like Turner did.”

  Hays put the knife down. His eyes were hard.

  “You say he confessed to killing these women.”

  “He did.”

  “What about Drummond and Cantillon?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask him. I was … interrupted.”

  “But you believe he may have killed them. Why?”

  Justy sat up straight and rubbed his face. “Because of me. Because of the questions I’ve been asking about my father.”

  “Your father?”

  “As I said, he was part of the original partnership, with Duer and Colley. He was murdered. That’s why I came back to New York, to find out who killed him, and why. I started up at the jail. Someone must have told Turner, and when he heard I’d met Drummond the next day, he decided not to take any chances.”

  Hays looked skeptical. “Why stop there? Why not kill you, too?”

  “The Bull. He was looking out for me. He told the others that he could convince me to join them.”

  “And Cantillon? Why kill him?”

  “Like my father, he was part of the original scheme. But he wasn’t involved this time around. He invested in Harry Gracie’s venture, not realizing Colley was involved. I think he was happy enough to take the returns at first. He was probably reassured by the sight of people like Hamilton investing as well. But then he got suspicious. He didn’t believe Gracie could make that much money honestly. He must have noticed the similarities to the scheme they cooked up in ’92. So he started asking questions, although he was a good deal more subtle than I was.”

  “But not subtle enough, you think?”

  “No. He found out what Colley and Turner and their partners were up to. And Turner killed him for it.”

  Hays stood up, bumping his desk so that a pile of papers spilled across the wood. He looked down his nose at Justy. “Marshal Turner is a trusted and valued member of this administration. What you’re telling me is unthinkable. I should have you locked up.”

  “What for?”

  Hays snorted. “What for? You have just admitted to assaulting a Mayor’s Marshal!” His eyes were hard and there was a set to his mouth, but Justy had the impression that Hays was playing a part.

  “It’s strange that Marshal Turner is not here to accuse me, isn’t it?” Justy said. “You’d have thought that he would have set up a hue and cry by now.”

  “Perhaps he is still where you assaulted him. Perhaps you killed him.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Hays gave him another of his long looks. “No.”

  He walked to the window, the nailed heels of his glossy shoes clicking on the parquet tiles of the floor. He looked down into the street, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “There’s a substantial hole in your thesis, Mr. Flanagan. As we both know from our studies, assassins tend to favor a single weapon. If Marshal Turner did indeed kill the women, that makes him a knife man. But both Drummond and Cantillon were garroted.”

  Justy nodded. “That’s true, but if you want to make a murder look like just another waterfront milling, you don’t use a specialist tool like a garrote. Before Drummond, when was the last time you saw anyone killed with a wire?”

  Hays said nothing. Justy nodded. “I thought so. One doxy killed with a wire would have stood out. And four? That’s why Turner had to use a knife. Knife killings happen all the time in this city, and time was, Turner could have filled up the harbor with dead molls and no one would have minded a mote. Turner didn’t reckon on these causing such a stir, especially with you.”

  Hays drew himself up stiffly. “They were human beings. The murder of any citizen is an outrage, regardless of color, or social standing.”

  Justy smiled slightly. “And if you ignored these killings, the Negro community would be up in arms. And the city would burn.”

  Hays said nothing. He turned to look out over Wall Street.

  Justy could hear the clatter of carriage wheels and the whistle of pastry sellers. He took a deep breath. His head was beginning to ache again, and he could feel a prickling sensation as the blood dried in the cuts. “There’s one more thing. The bodies. How could they disappear from the morgue like that?”

  Hays shook his head. “The almshouse is lightly guarded. Anyone with half a wit could break in.”

  “Yes, but why? Why steal the corpses of four unclaimed, unnamed prostitutes? It must have been to prevent you examining them further. Which means the person who stole them, or ordered them stolen, must have known your plans to do so. And how many people knew your plans, Marshal?”

  Hays said nothing.

  “You’re right about the almshouse: a one-eyed monkey could have got past that guard of yours, but you said yourself there was no sign of a break-in. Nothing was disturbed, which means the taker knew his way around the place. Which makes him one of your people, wouldn’t you say?”

  Hays lowered himself into his chair. Justy could see the conflict in his eyes.

  “You told me Turner was a scout in the army, remember?” Justy said.

  “What of it?”

  “Well, I know what scouts do. They sneak about. They get into places no one else can get into. And they kill. Quick and quiet. And they get a reputation for it. Ask Turner’s old comrades. I’m sure there are one or two in the Watch. I wager they’ll say he was just as good with a wire as he was with a blade.”

  Hays nodded. His face looked bone white against the collar of his scarlet coat. “Very well, Mr. Flanagan, you have made your case. Now leave me to look into it.”

  THIRTY

  He checked the warehouse, found Turner gone, then went to the Norwegian alehouse. He arrived a few minutes after the four o’clock bell. Lars was in the same snug with three of his crew. The three sailors looked dirty and ragged in the clean space.

  “Any luck?” Justy asked.

  “Charlie saw her.” Lars nodded at one of the sailors.

  “Did you speak to her?” Justy asked the lad.

  “Aye. I said she was tae be here at four o’ the clock, just like Lars telt me.”

  “And what did she say.”

  The sailor’s face reddened. He reached out to pick at the pool of wax on the table. “She telt me to go box maself.”

  Justy smiled. “Well, that sounds like Kerry, all right. Where was she?”

  “The Bowery. South end. Near McGillivray’s dance hall.”

  Justy reached in his pocket and took out a handful of coins. He gave one each to the other two sailors and an extra one to Charlie. He was rewarded with a wide grin.

  Lars cuffed Charlie gently around the back of his head. “Don’t spend it all in one shop.” He jerked his head towards the doorway. “Curfew’s at nine, remember.”

  The three young sailors scrambled their way out of the snug, as quick and lithe as ferrets. Lars waited until their chatter had faded. “I’m only going to say this one time, and then I’ll not say any more about it.”

  Justy rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re still cooking about Turner.”

  Lars slapped his palm on the table. “I don’t give a goddamn about Turner.”

  “What then?”

  The pine bench creaked as Lars leaned back. “We did some bad things in Ireland, lad. Terrible things. All of us. Me included.” He gave Justy a long stare. “But we didn’t enjoy it.”

  “You’re saying I did?”

  “I saw that look in your eye.”

  Justy looked down at the table. The back of his head throbbed. He felt dirty, as though he had fallen into a sewer. As though he stank. Lars was right. A part of him, deep inside, had thrilled with the power he had held over Turner.

  “What’s wrong with me?” His voice was a whisper.

  Lars reached across the table and took him by the shoulder. “Look at me.”

  The big man’s beard bristled, golden in the candlelight. His eyes looked like the open sea. “No one comes back unbroken from what we’ve seen and done. No one. Some are broke so badly that they can’t stand to live no more. But of the ones that live, there’s two kinds. There’s those who find a way to mend themselves and live out their lives. And there’s those that stay broken inside, so that the horror and the pain and the evil takes over. Those men turn into something else. Something you don’t want to be. So you have to find a way to mend. If you stay broken, you die inside.”

  The waitress, Lise, appeared at the door of the snug. She placed two brimming pots on the table. “A boy came. With a message for the red giant.” Her mouth twitched. “I told him the giant is not such a big man as he seems.”

  Lars snorted. “Norwegian women are an acquired taste, Justy. The kind of thing you can go off pretty quick, if you wit.”

  He glared at Lise. “So what’s the message? Or are we to be treated to more of your jesting?”

  She matched his stare. “You’ll be treated to nothing unless you behave with some grace.”

  There was silence in the snug. Lars stood. He placed his right hand on his chest. “Forgive me, my bird, for speaking to you so.”

  The slightest incline of her chin. “You are forgiven.”

  Lars beamed like a small child.

  Lise glanced at Justy. There was a triumphant look in her eyes. “The boy said you can find your friend where she first met your father.”

  She picked up the empty mugs and left.

  Justy placed a hand on his chest. “I promise not to tell anyone your secret,” he mocked.

  Lars smirked. “I believe that’s what the financial folks call a hedge.”

  He took a long drink and wiped his mouth. “Now, come on. You’ve an appointment to keep.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  The sound of their boot heels echoed off the black flagstones of the church, carrying all the way to the high ceilings, where forbidding-looking saints looked down on them. They walked quickly, side by side down the center aisle. In front of them, the altar was covered in a white cloth, decorated with a long runner of bright green silk.

 

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