Second Street Station (6 page)

“You won’t sleep tonight, knowin’ you got me riled up and then deserted me.”

“Not when I know tight undergarments or a stiff breeze can perform the same task,” Mary retorted, thinking it would dispatch him. It was a
miscalculation.

Burt’s disposition was much more fragile than his body. As Mary walked away, he raised his hand to smack her down, only to find it being grabbed by Charles.

“Didn’t your mother teach you never to hit girls?” Charles asked.

His plan to be the hero then took a drastic turn for the worse. Burt came across his body with his other fist and landed a crushing blow to his chin, which propelled Charles into one customer, then another, and finally to the floor. Burt turned back to Mary, but Charles was determined. Still groggy, he stumbled to his feet, grabbed a stool, and smashed it over Burt’s head. Burt dropped to the floor with a loud thud.

“Are you all right?” Mary said as she approached Charles.

“I’ve been hit harder,” Charles said, feeling his chin, still somewhat dazed. “I think.”

“Pity it was unnecessary. I’m well versed in several arts of self-defense, including jujitsu, and thus more than capable of defending myself.”

“Then I’m more than honored to make your acquaintance. Charles Pemberton.” He nodded, introducing himself.

“Poor boy. Nowadays it seems like every Tom, Dick, and Harry is called Charles.”

“My cousins are Tom, Dick, and Harry, so I’m afraid my parents had no choice.”

Mary laughed. She found Charles handsome, bright, witty, but also suddenly in danger. She hastily shoved him aside. Fortuitously, the speed of her kick to a charging Burt’s crotch landed at the point where the combination of the two forces was the most devastating. Burt froze, stunned at his pain, then crumpled to his knees. Mary clasped her hands and whacked him in the face, sending Burt down and out. The bar erupted in raucous cheers. To celebrate, Mary downed her ale in one gulp.

“I must take up jujitsu,” Charles said, impressed by Mary’s achievement.

“That’s not jujitsu. That’s good ol’-fashioned Brooklyn street fighting. The name’s Mary Handley. Welcome to Brooklyn, Charles.”

They shook hands. There couldn’t have been a more perfect exit, so Mary left. He watched her go, thinking she was much more than the one-night stand he had envisioned.

In a much quieter tavern in another part of Brooklyn, Charles Goodrich entered, anxiously looking around. Goodrich soon spotted whom he was searching for and hurried toward a secluded booth where Nikola Tesla was patiently sitting by himself.

“I hope you had no trouble finding this place, Mr. Tesla,” Goodrich said. “Sorry you had to come to Brooklyn, but it’s best to be discreet.”

“No problem at all,” said Tesla. “Please sit.” And Goodrich joined him.

Outside the tavern, spying on them through the window, was a large and powerful man by the name of Samuel. Samuel had orders to follow Goodrich to make sure he did nothing untoward. His employer had given him the discretion to act if need be, and this meeting seemed odd to him. He would wait. He might need to take action.

In a cheap boardinghouse room with two small beds and a rickety desk, John Pemberton was seated, judiciously poring over some papers, when Charles Pemberton entered. A bearded man in his fifties, Pemberton rose to greet his son.

“Ah, the prodigal son back from a night of carousing.” He noticed the bruise on Charles’s face. “What’s this?”

“A mark of gallantry. I interceded on behalf of a damsel in distress.”

“A damsel who didn’t succumb to your charms, or you wouldn’t be home.”

“Please try not to refer to this…room as home.”

“It’s a necessary sacrifice. The longer we can stay here, the better chance we have.”

“You still honestly believe people will invest large sums in a fountain drink?”

“I feel it with every fiber of my being,” said Pemberton. His conviction was so strong it bordered on being maniacal.

“I assume that’s a yes?”

Pemberton laughed, and Charles joined in. It was good they could still amuse each other. Pemberton had his last dime riding on this venture. Pemberton’s laugh soon turned into a cough. It was no ordinary cough. Charles went to him, concerned.

“Are you all right, Father?”

As Pemberton caught his breath, he nodded, then changed the subject. “I wangled us invitations for the governor’s Salute to Thomas Edison,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Edison’s an inventor. He’ll understand what I’ve done. I know it.”

“I hope so. I really do.” Yawning, Charles stretched out on one of the beds.

“I’ve been fooling with the new name. It should look good on signs.”

Pemberton tossed a sheet of paper to Charles. On it, there was a bright red background and across it in big, white letters were written the words
COCA-COLA
.

“Not bad,” Charles said. “Not bad at all.”

Goodrich walked down the row of brownstones on Degraw Street to the one in which he lived. He’d had too much to drink and was humming his favorite song, “Over the Waves.” It had been an eventful day. Not only had he finally quit working for Edison, he had purged himself of the guilt that had been nagging at his soul, and to top it off, he was in love. As he carefully mounted the stairs and entered his brownstone, Goodrich could say that he was finally happy.

A moment after he went inside, a gunshot flash crackled through one of the windows as its sound pierced the silent night. Charles Goodrich was dead.

It was a few days before spring, and the remnants of the blizzard were still quite evident. However, the sun was shining, and the temperature had edged up to fifty degrees, feeling twenty degrees warmer—the kind of deception the mind plays on the body after suffering through miserable weather. Spring was definitely in the air, and it reeked of hope for new beginnings. As Mary and Kate exited their tenement and strolled along Elizabeth Street, Kate’s body surged with country exuberance.

“I’m so happy for you, Mary! Isn’t it wonderful to be in love?”

“Please, I just met this man last night, I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.”

“You will,” the ever-positive Kate said. “I have a second sense about these things. The two of you will fall hopelessly in love. I just know it.”

Kate’s prediction only made Mary regret her decision to leave the night before. True, it had been a perfect exit, but maybe she should have stayed and tried to get to know him better. Charles Pemberton intrigued her. She sensed he was different,
unconventional,
and therefore the type of man with whom she could envision herself.

“Who knows?” Mary smiled. “You just may be right.”

“Of course I am. You listen to this Haddonfield girl, Mary Handley. Brooklyn has nothing on me when it comes to intuition.”

The two of them were laughing, enjoying each other’s company and the day as they passed a newsstand. Mary was still laughing when she noticed Kate had stopped. Her brow crinkled as if processing information, then her face suddenly turned ashen.

“What’s the matter?”

Unable to speak, Kate slowly raised her arm and pointed toward the newsstand.

Confused, Mary turned. At first, a steady stream of customers blocked her view. Finally, the newsstand was empty, and she realized Kate was pointing to the headline of the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle.
Big bold letters covered the front page—
CHARLES GOODRICH MURDERED! GRISLY KILLING ON DEGRAW STREET
!

Kate barely managed to say, “They…killed him…my Charlie.” Then she collapsed.

Nothing attracts people like a good murder, and with the added spice of celebrity, the Charles Goodrich case had the makings of a sensational one. After all, Goodrich was the brother of Brooklyn alderman W. W. Goodrich and an employee of Thomas Edison. One of New York’s luminaries could have been involved, and no one wanted to miss that.

Not long after the murder had been reported in the newspapers, curiosity seekers had rushed to Goodrich’s brownstone on Degraw Street and spilled out into the street, covering half the block. Pushcart peddlers were out in force, selling their wares. One man’s cart was full of pistols. He was proclaiming that if Charles Goodrich had owned a pistol he’d still be alive.

Mary shook her head. She already knew about the public’s fascination with the macabre. She had once seen dozens gather around a fruit peddler’s horse. Its leg had broken, and it was lying on the cobblestones, writhing in pain. They watched eagerly as the distraught owner put the poor animal out of its misery…and then, in an instant, they were gone. She was the only one who had stayed to console the man, who had lost his best friend and business partner of the past twenty-two years.

Mary had just left Kate in her room on Elizabeth Street after a doctor had seen her. He had prescribed nothing but rest. Mary knew that would be impossible until Kate found out what happened to her fiancé. As she worked her way through the throngs of people, many were reluctant to cede their hard-earned positions to a newcomer. Mary suffered several elbows, some pushes, and countless angry stares until she finally made it to the front. In this “prime” position, she was surrounded mostly by newspaper reporters as she faced Charles Goodrich’s brownstone and three policemen on crowd control.

The excitement of being at a crime scene surged through her. It was nothing like the morbid curiosity that most in the crowd were feeling. Hers was akin to that of an aspiring actor in the audience of a play, desperately yearning to be a part of it. For now though, she had to put these feelings aside.

Mary didn’t know the three policemen in front of her. As she was trying to devise a plan of attack, another policeman came out of the brownstone, and for the first time she could see the man standing guard in the hallway.

“Billy!” she screamed, lurching forward, “Billy!”

The three policemen swiftly moved to contain her. Just as the crowd was beginning to enjoy the first real action they had seen, it ended as fast as it began.

“Unhand the girl, fellas,” Billy’s voice boomed, “and let her through.”

Mary wasted no time in ridding herself of the policemen. Then, straightening her dress, she ascended the stairs in as ladylike a manner as possible, a vindicated woman.

Rumors tore through the crowd. “She’s a Goodrich. No, she works for Edison,” etc. Newspaper reporters peppered the three policemen with questions about Mary, but they had no idea who she was.

“Mary, darlin’, what in God’s name are you doin’ here?” Billy whispered.

“Mr. Goodrich was my friend’s fiancé, and she’s absolutely devastated, Billy.”

“Her fiancé, huh?” Billy shook his head. “The poor girl.”

“When she got word of it, she passed out,” Mary said, emphasizing the drama. “Please, Billy, I have to tell her something. She’s very distraught, as you can imagine.”

Billy took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He stared at her for a moment, then announced loudly, so everyone could hear, “What’s that, information about the murder? Why, go right in, Miss Handley.”

Pleased, Mary smiled, continuing the charade. “Thank you, Sergeant,” she said, trying to match his volume. “I certainly hope it will help.” And she marched right in.

Charles Goodrich’s brownstone was decorated very much in line with his personality. Every choice was safe, with little chance of offending anyone. The floors were pine and the furniture mahogany, all stained in a warm brown. Muted colors reigned, with only a hint of something brighter on an occasional throw pillow or in a painting. The most outrageous choice, and it was hardly that, was a large steamer trunk in his study next to his couch, as if it were a coffee table. The study was to the right of the entrance directly across from the living room, which was on the left. Chief Campbell was in the living room with W. W. Goodrich and Officer Russell. Older than Charles and very much his opposite, W. W. Goodrich was known for his stylish dress and for being outspoken. He was very upset. As a result, no one noticed Mary.

“My brother would never commit suicide,” he protested, seeming more concerned with his family’s name than his brother’s death. “He’s a Goodrich, for God’s sake!”

So it wasn’t murder. Evidently, the
Eagle
had rushed to press too quickly with a “hot” story. Mary saw Charles Goodrich’s body lying in the study and couldn’t resist going over to examine it. She had read many books on forensics and felt confident she could tell whether a man had committed suicide or not. There was a bullet hole through his temple, and he had a gun in his right hand.

“No reason to get excited, Alderman,” Chief Campbell cautioned, his voice drifting over from the living room. “Nothing’s official until the coroner examines him.”

“He’ll find the same, Chief,” Officer Russell interjected. “Powder stains on his hand and black ones on his temple, showing he was shot at close range. It’s a suicide.”

Officer Russell sneered confidently, positive he had made a big impression on the chief. He had, but not in the way he had thought. Chief Campbell was trying to put out a fire, and one of his officers was pouring kerosene on it.

“It’s not a suicide,” Mary announced from the study, taking the three men by surprise. Almost in unison, they turned to see her rising from Goodrich’s body. “You will probably find a second bullet in a wall or cushion where the killer fired the gun from Mr. Goodrich’s hand after he was dead. Hence, the powder stains on his hand.”

Officer Russell quickly responded. “I see we have a lady expert. How fortunate.”

“They’re teaching us to read now, too,” Mary responded immediately. “It’s highly experimental.”

Chief Campbell walked toward the study, and the others followed. At the moment, he didn’t care how Mary had gotten into a murder scene. He was hoping she might create a diversion for W. W. Goodrich until the coroner arrived. If that meant a sparring match of words between Officer Russell and Sean Handley’s sister, so be it.

“Meet the woman who saved your life the other day, Russell. Mary Handley.”

Mary held out her hand. Officer Russell didn’t take it. “I see you make a habit of interfering.”

Mary looked at her empty hand, then at him. “And they say chivalry is dying.”

Officer Russell realized he was not going to win this war of words, so he just stood there, quietly steaming. But W. W. Goodrich didn’t care that Mary was a woman. He just cared that someone was confirming a scenario that would avert a family scandal.

“How do you know this, young lady?” he asked.

“I have seen many gunshot victims, granted mostly in pictures or in drawings, and one thing is uniform. It’s messy. As you can see on the floor, there are massive amounts of blood.” She kneeled down next to Charles Goodrich’s body. “Yet there is no blood at all on his clothes. That’s highly improbable, and his body is positioned like an actor in a bad melodrama.” She sniffed Goodrich’s shirt. “His clothes are fresh. It’s reasonable to assume the killer changed them, possibly because he got blood in the wrong places when positioning the body to pass as a suicide.”

“See, it’s not a suicide!” W. W. Goodrich shouted joyously. “I knew it wasn’t!”

Just then the coroner entered with his assistant. It had been a busy morning. This was his fourth case. “Where’s the unfortunate Mr. Goodrich, Chief?”

Chief Campbell stepped aside, revealing the body, and the coroner went to work.

With the situation under control, Chief Campbell turned to Mary. “In my office at the station in one hour, young lady,” he said sternly.

Mary’s heart sank. Officer Russell, who had a sneer for every occasion, had one of pure joy.