Dash whistled.
“Exactly. When the FBI sees those names, they’ll have no choice but to act.”
“Especially when some enterprising young Fed sees a chance to make a name for himself.”
“That too.”
“Do you think it was intentional on Walter’s part?”
Pru shook her head. “I think it was a happy accident. Most of his victims couldn’t very well pay the blackmail, but these gentlemen and ladies could. They could afford to pay indefinitely.”
“It’s why he could survive being asked to leave the Committee of Fourteen.” Dash looked at her. “What kind of evidence would Tyler be stealing?”
The moment he asked the question, he had the answer.
“A ledger.”
Surprise lit Pru’s face. “How did you know?”
“Karl told me Walter worked in their finance department and kept meticulous records. I guessed a habit like that is a hard one to break.”
He leaned forward again. Now for the important question.
“Do you have it, Pru?”
Her guard came back up. “That’s really none of your concern.”
“Let me tell you why I want to know. It’s not to tell Walter Müller.”
“It’s not?”
“Somebody killed Tyler Smith and Karl Müller, Pru. And the answer hinges on if the ledger was found and by whom.”
“Not necessarily. Walter could have done it.”
“Then he’d have the ledger.”
“Not unless he’d hidden it.”
Dash shook his head. “Tyler would’ve never let Walter into his room.”
“He could’ve forced his way in.”
“There’s a tightly run lobby downstairs, plus an elevator man. Even if Walter got past those two, Tyler still wouldn’t have opened the door. And the door was not broken open. I know because I saw it a day later. Whoever killed Tyler was someone he knew and trusted.”
He watched her face carefully. Her eyes lost their sparkle. Her jaw went slack. The skin on her face paled to an ashen white.
“You have it, don’t you?” Dash said, his voice soft.
She nodded.
“Who gave it to you?”
She shook her head. “He couldn’t have. He was with me that night, hiding out in my apartment.”
“The whole night?”
She paused. Her voice dropped in volume, so soft it was almost a whisper. “Not before we met at the club, no. But we didn’t have it until days after Tyler was killed.”
“Timelines are easy to fudge, Pru.”
“No, I refuse to accept it.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it makes no sense! What’s the motive?”
An idea materialized, so clear and so simple, Dash couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.
“Pru, when did Tyler break things off with Karl?”
Whatever she was expecting Dash to say next, it wasn’t this. “Excuse me?”
“The breakup. When did it happen?”
An uncomfortable laugh. “That’s absurd. Tyler didn’t break things off with Karl. He wouldn’t have. They were going to Paris together at the end of the month. Where on earth did you hear such a preposterous idea?”
“From two men. The first was Karl—”
“What? That can’t be!”
“—and the second was the man pretending to be Tyler.” Dash gazed hard at Pru once more. “I think we found our motive. Tell me, Pru, who gave you the ledger?”
Tuesday at mid-morning, Dash and Joe first went to Paul Avery’s apartment. Not surprisingly, he wasn’t there. Dash managed to charm Marjorie Norton into giving him Paul’s employer.
Scorsoni Construction was located uptown on 77th Street and Madison. After paying the cabbie, they walked towards the building’s entryway with purpose.
Dash glanced at Joe, who was at his side. “Are you ready?”
“Aye, lassie. You?”
“Ready doesn’t begin to describe it.”
The building housing the construction company was surprisingly nondescript, a boxy square rising four stories into the sky. It dwarfed the buildings next to it, allowing for scorsoni construction to be painted on its sides. Underneath was the epigraph: no job too big, no problem too small. driven by the american spirit.
Inside, they spoke to the doorman, saying they had a 10:00 appointment with Paul Avery. The doorman called up. The secretary had no record of such an appointment. Dash pressed that there must be a mix-up and successfully implored the doorman to ask the secretary to patch him through to Paul. They must’ve reached him, for the doorman asked for their names. Dash was pretty sure their names would get the man to at least come down.
Mr. Avery had serious stones. He invited them up.
The office was on the third floor. The setup reminded Dash of newsrooms, where multiple desks were arranged in the open air, sitting two at a time. It was mostly women who sat there, typing on large typewriters or chatting on phones.
One woman was in an argument and, in a thick Brooklyn accent, said, “Listen, wise guy, I don’t care what you think was in the agreement. I’m looking at the contract as we speak and we did not promise a twenty percent bonus if you deliver on time . . . Why would we reward you for simply doing your job . . . ? Do I sound like I’m joking?”
Three closed doors sat at the far end of the room. One of them opened and out stepped Paul Avery, dressed in a light blue suit.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice purposefully low in pitch.
Knowing his secret, Dash found the voice to be strained, an unconvincing disguise for a man who preferred Chantilly lace and face paint.
Paul gestured for Dash and Joe to join him in his office. As Dash passed the argumentative Brooklyn girl, she said into the receiver, “Ya talk to ya mother with that mouth . . . ? Just ’cause you can’t read doesn’t mean my company is gonna shell out some dollars . . . Oh yeah? I got some words for you too!”
And then she slammed the receiver down, ending the call. The Brooklyn girl leaned over to her desk mate, a woman whose eyes never left the fast-moving typewriter. “Can you believe that jerk? What a cad!”
They stepped into Paul’s office, which was moderately big. A large mahogany wood desk covered with stacked papers sat on one end. On the opposite side, two chairs for guests. Two filing cabinets hugged the
