money yet.”
“But you’re going to. You’re going to be richer than a Vanderbilt, aren’t you?”
“I don’t think so.”
O’Brien sighed in exasperation. “But you’re going to be rich enough that you don’t need to work here anymore.”
This is what Frank had been dreading. “I suppose.”
“And I suppose that you won’t be
able
to work here anymore, not another day. Not with every cop on the force envying you and hating you. You see that, don’t you?”
He did, of course. He probably would’ve felt the same way about anybody who suddenly found himself almost as rich as a Vanderbilt through no fault of his own. “How did you find out?”
“Is it supposed to be a secret?”
“No, but it’s not exactly public knowledge either.”
“It will be soon. Some reporter got wind of it. He’s going to break the story.”
Frank thought about the way he’d just strong-armed the editor at the
World
. Still, that would be fast work. “Which newspaper?”
“The
Sun
.”
But the
World
would pick it up and sensationalize it even more after the way he’d treated Brisbane an hour ago. That reminded him of Grace Livingston. “I’m in the middle of a case. A young woman is missing . . .”
“Tell whoever’s around to pick it up. Here’s your pay packet, although I don’t guess you really need it now, do you?”
Frank took the envelope, thinking how he’d never imagined leaving the police force like this. He’d expected to retire as an old man and get a gold watch, and his friends would have a party for him and tell stories about the cases he’d solved and . . .
“I’m sorry to lose you, Malloy. You’re a good man, but millionaires aren’t cops.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A small crowd had gathered outside O’Brien’s office, but they instantly dispersed when Frank stepped out. Nobody made eye contact with him. He walked down the hall to the detectives’ room. Several men were lounging there, feet up on the desk and cigars smoldering in their teeth while they lazily traded lies.
All conversation ceased abruptly when Frank came in. Their hostile gazes told him they’d already begun to hate him. “I’ve got a case. A missing girl. Who wants it?”
For a long moment, nobody moved. Frank thought he was going to have to get mad, but finally, Bill Broghan dropped his feet to the floor and said, “I’ll take it.”
Frank wouldn’t have picked the old drunk to handle
any
of his cases, but Broghan was probably the only volunteer he was going to get. Frank pulled the letters and clippings out of his pocket and placed them on the desk in front of Broghan. As he started to explain what he knew and what he had discovered, the rest of the detectives silently stood up and filed out. Frank ignored their cold stares, and Broghan looked after them with an ironic smile.
“They’ll never forgive you, you know,” Broghan said when they were alone.
“I know. I’ll probably never forgive me either.”
That made Broghan’s smile even wider. “Still, they say a million dollars makes up for a lot of unhappiness.”
“Do they? I’ll let you know if it’s true. Now, about this girl . . .”
When he’d finished telling everything, Broghan shook his head. “You know we’re not going to find her, don’t you? Girls like that, they never go back home. End up in a bawdy house, too ashamed to face their families.”
Frank didn’t want to argue. “Like I said, I’ve got a girl who’ll meet this Pendergast character. I’ll let you know when he answers her letter.”
But Broghan shook his head again. “She won’t want to be found. You mark my words.”
Frank was tired of marking people’s words. “I’ll let you know.”
He started the long walk out, his footsteps unusually loud in the hallway. Of course, every other time he’d walked down this hall, all the other people there and in the adjoining offices had been busy working and talking and moving around. Today, they were
“But you’re going to. You’re going to be richer than a Vanderbilt, aren’t you?”
“I don’t think so.”
O’Brien sighed in exasperation. “But you’re going to be rich enough that you don’t need to work here anymore.”
This is what Frank had been dreading. “I suppose.”
“And I suppose that you won’t be
able
to work here anymore, not another day. Not with every cop on the force envying you and hating you. You see that, don’t you?”
He did, of course. He probably would’ve felt the same way about anybody who suddenly found himself almost as rich as a Vanderbilt through no fault of his own. “How did you find out?”
“Is it supposed to be a secret?”
“No, but it’s not exactly public knowledge either.”
“It will be soon. Some reporter got wind of it. He’s going to break the story.”
Frank thought about the way he’d just strong-armed the editor at the
World
. Still, that would be fast work. “Which newspaper?”
“The
Sun
.”
But the
World
would pick it up and sensationalize it even more after the way he’d treated Brisbane an hour ago. That reminded him of Grace Livingston. “I’m in the middle of a case. A young woman is missing . . .”
“Tell whoever’s around to pick it up. Here’s your pay packet, although I don’t guess you really need it now, do you?”
Frank took the envelope, thinking how he’d never imagined leaving the police force like this. He’d expected to retire as an old man and get a gold watch, and his friends would have a party for him and tell stories about the cases he’d solved and . . .
“I’m sorry to lose you, Malloy. You’re a good man, but millionaires aren’t cops.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A small crowd had gathered outside O’Brien’s office, but they instantly dispersed when Frank stepped out. Nobody made eye contact with him. He walked down the hall to the detectives’ room. Several men were lounging there, feet up on the desk and cigars smoldering in their teeth while they lazily traded lies.
All conversation ceased abruptly when Frank came in. Their hostile gazes told him they’d already begun to hate him. “I’ve got a case. A missing girl. Who wants it?”
For a long moment, nobody moved. Frank thought he was going to have to get mad, but finally, Bill Broghan dropped his feet to the floor and said, “I’ll take it.”
Frank wouldn’t have picked the old drunk to handle
any
of his cases, but Broghan was probably the only volunteer he was going to get. Frank pulled the letters and clippings out of his pocket and placed them on the desk in front of Broghan. As he started to explain what he knew and what he had discovered, the rest of the detectives silently stood up and filed out. Frank ignored their cold stares, and Broghan looked after them with an ironic smile.
“They’ll never forgive you, you know,” Broghan said when they were alone.
“I know. I’ll probably never forgive me either.”
That made Broghan’s smile even wider. “Still, they say a million dollars makes up for a lot of unhappiness.”
“Do they? I’ll let you know if it’s true. Now, about this girl . . .”
When he’d finished telling everything, Broghan shook his head. “You know we’re not going to find her, don’t you? Girls like that, they never go back home. End up in a bawdy house, too ashamed to face their families.”
Frank didn’t want to argue. “Like I said, I’ve got a girl who’ll meet this Pendergast character. I’ll let you know when he answers her letter.”
But Broghan shook his head again. “She won’t want to be found. You mark my words.”
Frank was tired of marking people’s words. “I’ll let you know.”
He started the long walk out, his footsteps unusually loud in the hallway. Of course, every other time he’d walked down this hall, all the other people there and in the adjoining offices had been busy working and talking and moving around. Today, they were
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