What she said was true. The ladies who ran the soup kitchen liked him because he had the muscle to keep order during the occasional rumpus that happened when they ran out of food.
“Whatever you tell me will be confidential,” Mrs. Kellerman said. “All I want from you is the truth about Malone’s role in kidnapping my brother, and I think you know how he did it.”
He looked at the soup kitchen, where every Saturday he scraped the bottom of the kettle to eke out a final meal, then had to disappoint everyone else in the line. Every Saturday. He leaned forward to brace his forearms on the tops of his knees, twisting his hands and thinking.
He knew exactly how Mick had kidnapped that boy, because he’d personally scrubbed all the details out of the original manuscript, but Mick’s drunken confession still seared in Patrick’s mind. The Blackstones suffered the anguish of unanswered questions, and Mrs. Kellerman deserved to know the truth, but he couldn’t betray a client.
“I wish there was a way I could help you,” he said honestly. “I can’t.”
“Would it help if I doubled the reward?”
He shook his head. “It would only make it harder for me to turn you down. This isn’t fun for me, ma’am. You have no idea.”
She leaned across the table, her lemony perfume tempting him as she kept up the pressure. “With $100,000 you could get out of the Lower East Side,” she said. “You could put your talent to work someplace worthy. Buy yourself a better office. Take a better class of clientele; people who deserve your time and talent.”
He folded his arms across his chest in satisfaction, for she’d just made her first mistake. He wasn’t ashamed to work here. He was proud of it.
“Take a look at where I live.” He tilted away to gesture at the weeds growing in the cracked pavement, the trash collecting in the alley, and a drunkard slumped against a wall. “You look at a neighborhood like this and see a slum. I see the garden I was meant to tend.”
Mrs. Kellerman’s eyes widened. In admiration? He couldn’t imagine a low-rent lawyer like him could impress her, but the signs were unmistakable. A gleam of respect lit her eyes, but it vanished quickly, replaced by a hint of steel.
“You know something,” she said. “You know more than what Malone wrote in that book.”
He did, which was why he wanted to avoid this conversation. He gave a dismissive shrug.
“Did you know that in the years after it happened, my parents used to look into the faces of children they saw in parks and in church pews? They never gave up hoping.”
He glanced away, unable to imagine what her parents had endured. Mick was guilty down to the marrow of his bones, and his greed was about to victimize the people who loved Willy Blackstone all over again. Patrick struggled to find the words to mitigate the pain she felt.
“Both of your parents have passed on now,” he said gently. “I can’t do anything to help them, and learning the details of your brother’s kidnapping and death will only plant images in your mind that are better left in the past.”
She banged a fist on the table. “I want to know,” she said in a voice that came from deep in her gut. “I grew up haunted by my brother’s absence. I pretended that he was still alive, that he would someday come back and be the strong, protective older brother I should have had all along. That’s impossible, but I owe it to William to uncover the truth about what happened to him.”
“I can’t help you, and I’m sorry for it,” he answered honestly.
“Sorry enough to tell what you know?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be in court on Friday morning, doing my best to see that Mick Malone gets the protection the Constitution affords him. No more, no less.”
“I’ll be there in the front row, waiting for you to make a mistake so I can pry the door of this case wide open.”
It would be best if she stayed away from the hearing. The family wasn’t wrong for trying to stop Mick’s book, but they were going to lose.
“Mrs. Kellerman, this memoir is going to be published,” he said as kindly as possible. “Don’t read it. Don’t think about it. Mick’s blatherings can’t undo the honorable work you and your father created at that college. Don’t let Mick drag you down into the muck with him.”
His words didn’t make a dent in her. The steely light of determination came back into her pale green eyes. “This will never be over for me,” she said. “Even if you win your court case. Even if Mick Malone sells a million copies of that book, I will come after you again and again and again, because I think you know what happened to my brother.”
He did, and that was what made this conversation so painful. He pushed away from the table and stood, unable to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry about what’s going to happen in court. You seem like a decent woman, and I want you to know that defending Mick gives me no pleasure.”
He began walking back to his office, but the pained expression on her face haunted him the entire way.
8
Patrick wore his new suit to the meeting with Mick’s editor at the publishing company. On most days he wore simple shirtsleeves with suspenders because it made his clients feel more comfortable, but when he talked business with the publisher, it was best to look sharp.
And he’d need to look extra sharp for court tomorrow, when the hearing for Blackstone vs. Carstairs Publishing was the first case on the docket. Carstairs Publishing was not New York’s finest imprint. Raymond Carstairs published a weekly tabloid filled with society gossip and crimes of lurid interest. Their books were dime-store westerns or seedy detective stories. The Mick Malone biography was going to be their crowning glory.
Raymond had asked to meet with Patrick at seven o’clock in the evening. It was an odd time for a business meeting, so Patrick assumed they would be going out for a meal.
