“Forgetting what?”
“It’s not the hangman anymore. It’s the electric chair.”
“I came—”
“Go away, Isaac. Anything I didn’t tell you I didn’t want to tell you.”
She was seated on a stool. Bell indicated the stool on his side. “May I sit down?”
She ignored him.
Bell pulled up the stool and sat face-to-face with her, inches from the mesh. “I came to change your mind.”
“Forget it.”
“I’ve spoken with some men in the prosecutor’s office. It is possible that I can persuade the District Attorney to offer you some kind of a break.”
“You want to give me a break? Get me out of here.”
“I can’t.”
“Let me go home.”
“I can’t.”
“So I can’t remember what I didn’t tell you.”
“I can’t get you out of jail, Francesca. No one can. But maybe I can make it better.”
She glanced about her. “Better than this wouldn’t be hard.”
“I’m thinking of much better. If we can convince a judge that you should be in an asylum.”
“I don’t think the bug house is better.”
“There are still some excellent private sanitariums.”
“Really? How excellent?”
“For wealthy patients. Very wealthy patients.”
“I’m not wealthy, Isaac. And I’m sure as heck not very wealthy.”
“I can arrange it,” said Bell.
“Pay out of your own pocket?”
“The agency will pay at first. At some point after we seize Branco’s assets, we can tap into them.”
“Won’t the government keep them?”
“Not if the Van Dorn Agency deserves a bounty. And certainly not if we, in essence, pay you for your testimony against Branco with Branco’s money.”
“That would be ironic.”
“How so?”
“Is this on the square?” she asked, and for the first time she let Bell see that she was scared.
“Yes.”
“You’ll really do it?”
“You have my word you will get a square deal.”
Francesca Kennedy nodded. “I’ll take your word . . . Shake on it.” She slipped her fingers through the mesh. Bell squeezed them before the matron interrupted with a sharp “No hands!”
Francesca flashed her a pleasant smile and said, “Sorry.” To Bell she whispered, “It’s ironic, because Branco used to be a regular customer.”
“You knew Branco? You said you didn’t.”
“Not as the Boss . . . I didn’t lie to you, Isaac. I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“When was this?” asked Bell, thinking to himself, Bless Joseph Van Dorn for steering him back to her. The “old man” had invented the best tricks in the detective book.
Francesca took a deep breath. “Back when I was streetwalking. He set me up in an apartment. All I knew was, he was a rich grocer. Gave me this little apartment and a few bucks a week if I’d stay off the streets. I said to him, ‘What are you, jealous of my other customers?’ and he said, ‘You’ll get killed on the street and you’re too valuable to get killed.’ Fine with me. Nicest thing anyone ever said to me. Besides, he was right. You die on the street; it’s just a matter of time. Anyhow, ’til he showed up at the Waldorf, I hadn’t seen him in ages—not since I started ‘confessions’ with the Boss. But he had kept sending the dough and paying the rent.”
“Didn’t you recognize his voice?”
“Not through the grille. And he talked different, too. Different words. I feel kind of dumb, but I never thought for a second he was the same man.”
“Where was the apartment?” asked Bell.
“I still have it. Or did ’til now.”
“Would he hide there?”
Francesca shrugged. “He never came to my place. When he wanted me, we’d meet at an apartment he kept on Prince Street.”
“His home that blew up?”
“No, he didn’t live there. I never saw his home. Our place was over near Broadway. He just kept it for me. And whoever else I guess he had.”
“What was the address?”
Antonio Branco returned to Raven’s Eyrie the way he had left, through the cave. His handsome face was battered from the fight with Bell and Abbott, both eyes blackened, his nose swollen.
“Detectives are watching my safe house.”
“You’ve become a less valuable asset,” J. B. Culp shot back.
“It means nothing.”
“You are turning into a liability.”
Culp was ready to pick up a gun and shoot him. End this whole thing before it got worse. He had his story ready: Italian fugitive snuck in here. I caught him trying to steal my guns. Thank God I got the drop on him. Reward? No thank you, give the money to charity.
He was about to turn around and pluck the Bisley off the wall when Branco surprised him by answering mildly, “I am moving my business to Canada.”
“Canada?”
“I have padrone business in Montreal. The railroads are hungry for labor. The Italian colony grows larger every day, and many owe me their place in it. A good place to lay low.”
“What about our deal?”
“I’ll stay here until we’ve finished Roosevelt. After, I’ll run my end from Canada. It’s easy to travel back and forth. The border is wide open.”
“What about your big idea to discredit the city aqueduct? How can you do that in Canada?”
Branco spoke mildly again, but his answer made no sense. “Would you look at your watch?”
“What?”
“Tell me the time.”
“Time to make a new arrangement, like I’ve been telling you all morning.”
“What time is it?” Branco repeated coldly.
Culp tugged a thick gold chain. “Two minutes to eleven.”
Branco raised two fingers. “Wait.”
“What? Listen here, Branco—”
“Bring your field glasses.”
Branco strode into an alcove framed with tusks and out a door onto a balcony. The day was cold and overcast. Snow dusted the hills. The frozen river was speckled with ice yachts and skate sailors skimming the glassy surface. He gazed expectantly at Breakneck Mountain, three-quarters of a mile opposite his vantage on Storm King.
Culp joined him with binoculars. “What the devil—”
The Italian stilled him with an imperious gesture. “Watch the uptake shaft.”
A heavy fog of steam and coal smoke loomed over the lift machinery at the top of the shaft, the engine house, and the narrow-gauge muck train. Culp raised his field glasses and had just focused on the
