In November 1924, Connor said at St. Pat’s that he wasn’t ready to repent. Told me to take care of his aunt when something happened (not if).
In April 1925, Connor asked Doreen if she could imagine adifferent life in a different city, but then resigned himself to the status quo.
In August 1925, only three guns went missing from police evidence. Connor was involved in those three raids, too.
On September 28, a photograph was taken of Wade Martin exiting a speakeasy. His face was marked with a black X.
Before October 2, the photograph was delivered to Connor.
On October 2, Connor and I participated in the same speakeasy raid. I was arresting Wade Martin, saw him drop the oyster shell. He denied knowing about it and told me to ask Connor, who had allegedly dropped it in his drink. Connor shot and killed Wade.
On November 26, I asked Connor about the oyster shell, and he told me to leave it alone for my own good.
On December 25, Doreen mentioned our conversation about the bottles he’d given her, and he got angry.
Joe stared at the timeline. If Connor had been paid for those guns by someone, it hadn’t been in cash. He’d been paid with crates of the most expensive French wine smuggled into the country. It was time to share this, along with the photograph, directly with the new police commissioner, but since McLaughlin had just taken office on January 1, he’d be in meetings all week at least. So until Joe could put this in the commissioner’s hands himself, he would keep quiet.
What happened with Connor in August and September? How was Wade Martin involved in all this? He hadn’t forged the oyster shell—that honor had been Escalante’s—and it certainly was not worth killing over. But if it held zero significance, why had both Connor and Wade tried to deflect attention from it?
Joe wouldn’t find answers in the burned grounds at the bottom of his mug.
He might, however, find some over a pastrami on rye.
———
Forty minutes later, Joe sat in a bentwood chair at a table against the wall at Katz’s Delicatessen. According to one of the owners, theantique dealer Reuben Feinstein always came on Mondays before the lunch crowd. While he waited, Joe took a bite of the best sandwich in town. If the glistening meat was piled any higher between these slices of rye, he’d have to eat it with a fork and knife. The pastrami melted in his mouth, erasing the leftover taste of the scalded swill from this morning.
When Feinstein entered, Joe watched him take a ticket and stand in line before bringing it to the counter. They punched the slip of paper with his order, loaded a tray with matzoh ball soup and potato latkes, and sent him on his way.
Swiping a napkin over his mouth, Joe waved him over. “Saved you a seat.”
Feinstein’s expression fell when he spotted Joe. But after looking over his shoulder, he joined him anyway. “I assume we’re not meeting by chance.”
Joe took a bite of the pickle spear that came with his sandwich, then pushed his tray to the end of the table. “You assume right.” He wiped his hands again. “Have you had any more trouble with hoodlums breaking into your shop?”
“Not since you came to visit.” Feinstein ducked his head and slurped a spoonful of soup.
“Listen, Mr. Feinstein.” Joe leaned forward, dropping his voice. “I know you didn’t file an insurance claim after that break-in. I know you’re hiding the identity of whoever was responsible, and I’m guessing that’s so no more harm comes to you or your shop. I get that. They probably warned you—strongly—against involving the police.” He paused, studying every shift in the man’s expression.
So far, Feinstein’s breathing was steady, and so was his hand as he ate the soup. He made no reply, and no denial.
“But if they were extorting you for money, meeting their demands only feeds their power. Next time they’ll come back for more. No matter what they told you, you’re better off cooperating with me. The police are here to help law-abiding citizens like you.”
Feinstein cut the fist-sized matzoh ball with the side of his spoon. “They didn’t want money.”
“Information, then.”
No reply.
“All right.” Joe sat back. “You don’t want to talk. I get it. You eat, I’ll talk, how’s that? I’ve been looking into forgeries all over Manhattan. I caught one forger; his name is Vincent Escalante. You probably saw that in the paper.”
Feinstein kept eating, unperturbed. “That sounds familiar, yes.”
“Last October, a man named Wade Martin was killed while in possession of an oyster shell pendant forged by Escalante.”
Feinstein shrugged. “I read that Martin was shot by a policeman in self-defense. The article didn’t say anything about a forgery or piece of antiquity.”
“Allegedly,” Joe said quietly.
