“I would appreciatethat,” Celeste murmured overwhelmed by her sudden change infortunes. Far from poor, she’d socked away a tidy nest egg,but she never owned property. Never wanted to since it required alevel of commitment. “And if you can find a buyer for thetenement, I’ll be over the moon.”
Smiling,Mr. Percy steepled his fingers. “Not very business minded, Isee.”
Celeste shook her head. “More of a free spirit.”
“Your father warnedme.” Imagining the dreadful, wayward–daughter stories herfather burned his solicitor’s ear with, Celeste inexperienced awave of unease. “He said you might not want anything to dowith your inheritance, but considering your father left you verylittle in the form of cash and the insurance policy has becomeforfeit due to your father’s suicide I was hoping you might bemore amenable.”
Interest piqued, Celeste satforward. Mr. Percy didn’t seem to notice because he fell into adull diatribe about the depression, dust bowls out west and how herfather’s charitable deeds drained most of his liquid assets.
Most if not all of itpractically fell on deaf ears.
“Mr. Percy,”Celeste broke in, “did you say my father’s death was asuicide?”
Seeminglystartled by her question, Mr. Percy’s eyes widened. “Noone told you?”
* * *
An hour later and armed witha one-page police report provided by her father’s solicitor,Celeste walked into the eight-eighth precinct. Housed in a Romanesquerevival hunkered on the corner of Casson and Dekalb Avenues, thestation resembled the red brick mansions dotting the historic ClintonHill district.
Celesteremained rooted to the spot. Like brown and white liqueur, she andpolice officers didn’t mix.
“May I help you?”Although the officer asked, Celeste guessed it was only out of sheerhabit than actual altruism since he barely looked up from his eveningnewspaper.
Celeste glanced down at thepolice report. “I’d like to speak with Detective CharlesDwyer, please?”
With a drawn out sigh, theofficer picked up a phone receiver. “I’ll see if he’sfree.” As he dialed, he finally glanced up. “May I tellhim who’s callin’?” he asked, his gaze slowlyraking over her.
Refusing to meet herfather’s attorney looking like a poor relation, she’dtaken extra care with her appearance. Dressed in all beige from acloche hat that covered her finger waves to a knit biased cut daydress, silk stockings and Mary Janes, she’d tried her best tolook like a society woman. Depending on the company, that could be agood or bad thing like now it seemed to be the latter.
Still, Celeste held herground under the detective’s perusal as she gave him her name.
“HeyCharlie, there’s a Miss Celeste Newsome, here to see ya.”The copper’s gaze swept over her again. This time Celestesmiled. As her grandmother would say, you caught more bees with sugarthan vinegar.
“You can go on up,”he said, hanging up the phone. “Third floor, turn right at thetop of the landing, you can’t miss it.”
Celeste blew out a steadyingbreath as she turned toward the stairs. One just never knew when itcame to the cops. According to popular public opinion, half of theforce was on the take and in collusion with the mob or Tammany Hall.
Upon reaching the thirdlanding, she followed the officer’s directions and foundherself standing outside a large room filled with dozens of desks andmore plain-clothes cops than one could shake a leg at. Just as shesummoned the courage to breach the entrance, a detective near theentrance whistled at her.
“Hey, lady, you gottatake a number first,” he said nodding at the wall directly infront of him.
Dressed in red shirt sleevesand a charcoal vest, he looked a lot like the officer in Kalamazoowho’d processed her fingerprints after she’d been pickedup for disorderly conduct.
Celesteglanced around for a ticket dispenser, but didn’t find oneexcept for a half-filled water cooler and a corkboard containing amap of Brooklyn.
“Detective Bristol’spulling your leg, Miss.”
A cop sitting adjacent toBristol stood up. “Detective Morrissey,” he offered alongwith his hand for a handshake, “how can I help you?”
Thankful for his timelyassistance, Celeste clasped his hand. “I’m here to seeDetective Charles Dwyer.”
As if someone had switchedoff the lights, the detective’s smile faded. “You’rein luck,” he paused to glance over his shoulder. “Dwyerjust came in. If you want I can walk you over.”
“I’d appreciatethat,” Celeste gushed and then stepping in line as he led theway. Any more wise guys like Bristol and she’d be here allday. And there was no way she was going to miss her date.
“Hey Dwyer, this younglady’s here to see you.” Detective Morrissey pulled out achair for her.
“Tellme something I don’t know,” Dwyer said, barely looking upfrom several stacks of paper littering his desk. Narrow shoulderedand petite the other detective was a direct foil to Morrissey’stall lankiness. “Green buzzed her through about five minutesago.”
To Celeste’s surprise,Morrissey perched himself on the edge of Dwyer’s desk.
“Don’tyouhave a half-a-dozen cases to crack?”
“Hmm, oh yeah! Sorry,Charlie.” Morrissey slapped his thigh as he stood up. “Notevery day we get such a good-looking lady up here. It’s a nicebreak from all you mullet heads.”
“Yeah,yeah now go back to twiddling your thumbs.” Dwyer waited forhis colleague to move out of earshot, before he gave her his fullattention. “The name’s Newsome, right?”
“Celeste Newsome,”she clarified, enunciating every syllable as if hearing every vowelwould jog the detective’s memory.
Obviously,she’d hoped for the moon because not even a flicker ofrecognition affected his body language or his impassive expression.Somewhat deflated, Celeste sat back. She tried rationalizing thedetective’s inability to connect her name to one of his mostrecent victims to a heavy caseload. Still, the excuse didn’ttemper a wave of inexplicable sadness.
“Why’d you wannasee me?” Dwyer asked, yanking her out of the past.
“You handled myfather’s case.” Celeste placed the police report on histhe desk. “I wanted to ask you a couple questions regarding howmy father died.”
Detective Dwyer leaned backwith his hands clasped on his black suspenders running the length ofhis torso. “What’s to know?” he asked. “Wefound your father with a gunshot wound to the head and a revolver inhis hands. End of story.”
Celesteblinked back tears. There was absolutely no way her father would takehis own life. He considered it a moral
