She crossed her arms and stared vacantly at the fire. Sparks lifted from the flames, flying erratically before turning to ash. The floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the fireplace were bare of any coverings. Angled as they were, Lauren caught her reflection as she stood there, centered in the tall pane. Then a spark appeared at her shoulder, and she slapped at it before realizing the orange glow came from outside.
Strange.
“Do you have neighbors, Dad?” she asked. “I saw a light outside, maybe a cigarette being lit. I thought we were quite secluded in this location, but is there a gazebo or house out there that I can’t see?”
He sucked in a breath. “Come away from the windows,” he said.
CHAPTER
26
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1925
Nine o’clock in the morning found Joe in the gymnasium for the daily lineup. One by one, those who had been arrested in the previous twenty-four hours were led onto a stage at one end of the room. Daniel Bradford was not among them. Joe had been watching for someone matching the art dealer’s description.
Most of the men brought into headquarters were between nineteen and twenty-six years of age. Three-quarters of them were drug addicts. Joe and the rest of the detectives wore masks during daily lineups, so they could get close enough to question the suspects without risking being recognized on the street by these men later.
Notebook in hand, he observed the accused. From the stage, they’d go directly to the photographer’s studio, so at least he didn’t need to record every physical detail. Instead, he wrote their numbers and the charges levied against them, their expressions and demeanor.
An elbow knocked his ribs. Joe frowned at the offender.
“Sorry.” Oscar McCormick’s voice was muffled by his mask. He tucked in both elbows and continued scribbling.
Joe moved closer to the stage and focused on the next suspect, a part-time waiter picked up in another raid last night, this one a high-class club catering to the very rich, not just flappers and two-bit floozies. Joe still considered raids an ineffective long-term strategybut had started participating again, as much to keep an eye on his own fellow officers as to enforce Prohibition. Last night, he was glad he did. Among the bottles left behind were some that matched Doreen’s and Ray Moretti’s.
He stepped up to the rope holding the detectives apart from the stage and named the French wine in question. “Where else is that wine sold?”
“I have no idea. I just serve the food, trying to pay my way through college.”
“Who supplied the wine to the club?”
The handcuffed young man shook his head. “I told you, I wait tables. How would I know?”
“Have you seen it in the personal possession of anyone? Or is it just in clubs and speakeasies?”
“That’s pricey stuff. Only a few regular customers bought bottles to take home with them.”
The detective beside Joe stared at him. “Is the wine on trial? Come on, buddy. Don’t drag this out.”
“Do you know Ray Moretti?” Joe asked. “Was he one of the customers to purchase that wine?”
“Never heard of him.”
Figured.
The waiter left the stage as another suspect took his place. It wasn’t worth the cost to incarcerate him. The ones who were worth it hardly ever got caught.
After the lineup, Joe tossed his mask into his desk drawer but didn’t bother refilling his mug. The coffee this morning had been too weak to deserve its name, but he had enough adrenaline to keep him going the rest of the day. Most energizing—even four days after the revelation—was that Connor had been feeding empty bottles of confiscated wine to Doreen. He had zero plans to leave it alone, as Connor had so hotly commanded.
Questions fired. The notebook he held was full of them long before this morning’s lineup began.
Why can’t I find a record of that many bottles of wine being confiscated over the last few years?
Was that half-full bottle Doreen caught him with an anomaly, or had Connor collected them full of wine?
If the latter is true, how could he afford it?
If he couldn’t afford it, what had he done for the trade?
