Gangster Walk Page 5

  “Guess I’ll see you later.”

  “Happy hunting,” he said.

  ~~~

  EIGHT

  The business center was everything Lacey could want and more.

  Of course.

  Four desktop computers, top of the line, so fast she barely pushed the enter key before a new web page popped up on the browser. Two printers, both color lasers, one that printed on DVDs and CDs, a projector mounted on the ceiling that could throw any computer’s image onto a huge screen on the back wall.

  She chose a computer by a window and started in.

  “Do you need anything else?” Glenn asked hopefully. Lacey got the distinct impression he’d like to stay and sit at her shoulder as she worked.

  “No, thanks,” she said with a smile. “I’m good. Although I have been known to fall down a rabbit hole once I get started, so if I don’t surface in a few hours, you might send in a search party.”

  “Will do,” Glenn said.

  She started with Charles “The Hammer” Harcourt, since it was his man who built the shed.

  Born in 1881 to a baker in Cleveland, Harcourt fell in with a rough crowd at a young age. He began by running messages for a mobster in his teens, then rose through the ranks to first lieutenant. In 1920 when Prohibition came in, his boss was gunned down by a rival mob and Harcourt came to power. He was known for his ruthlessness, and Cleveland police estimated at least a dozen murders could be laid at his feet—if they could get anyone to talk.

  No one would.

  He bought the estate in 1922, and Bobby Gillette, The Bricklayer, was already his right-hand man. Six years younger than Harcourt, Gillette had a good-looking, all-American face that inspired fear in those who crossed Harcourt. The Bricklayer, apparently, was at least as ruthless as his boss—and possibly more so.

  Lacey had heard of the lawlessness of the Prohibition years, the time when Al Capone ruled Chicago and killed with impunity. She imagined a similar scenario played out in any larger city that could turn a profit for men willing to buck the law.

  Like Harcourt.

  While he spent most of his time in a mansion on the outskirts of Cleveland, he did “vacation” at Dreyfus Hall periodically. Joining him on most of those getaways were the Bricklayer, a host of bodyguards and Angela Edson.

  A photo showed twenty-seven-year-old Angela as a petite platinum blonde, the epitome of a flapper. She had thin, penciled eyebrows above robin’s egg-blue eyes, a cupid’s bow mouth and a fixed position on Harcourt’s arm. Lacey could never quite figure how a pretty girl could align herself with a known murderer, but obviously it happened all the time.

  The only thing all these people forgot was that if they lived by the sword, sooner or later they died by the sword.

  She fully expected to find that Harcourt and his mob would have to always be on guard, not only from the police, but from rival gangs and ambitious insiders as well.

  But the rest of the story surprised her. There was no raid by police; no hit by a rival mob. On October 5, 1929, Harcourt, Gillette and Edson all just… disappeared.

  From where? Dreyfus Hall.

  Lacey sat back in her chair and stared out the window. Disappeared without a trace. Why? Did they leave the country? Take the money and run? Or was this a Jimmy Hoffa sort of disappearance?

  She plunged back into the web for more detailed information.

  Someone, a retired Cleveland cop, did an exhaustive study of the disappearances in the late ‘30s, even wrote a book about it. While much of his information came from unnamed sources—sources either already incarcerated or in fear of their lives—he put together a reasonable explanation. As far as anyone knew, there was no hit on the house, no attack, no sign of aggression at all. No shots fired, no blood, no bodies found. Harcourt’s bodyguards knew nothing, just that the three people had taken an evening stroll around the grounds, which apparently they were known to do. No alarm was raised until hours later when none of them could be located.

  The investigator concluded that the three had skipped out, most likely leaving the country. Harcourt had plenty of hidden bank accounts to tap into, and the trio could live like royalty in Brazil or Argentina. Edson was from a small town in Iowa and Gillette was from Columbus, but no one in either family ever saw them after that fateful night. While it was certainly possible that a gangland abduction had occurred, plucking three heavily protected people off an estate without any evidence of violence seemed highly unlikely.

  Lacey sent the summary article and pictures of the three people to the printer. She wanted Sam to see this. It sounded intriguing except for the fact that Sam only felt one presence, not three. She had to dig deeper.

  The story of Susan Isley and Roger Dawkins seemed pretty straightforward. They were America’s sweethearts of stage and screen and bought Dreyfus Hall in 1947 when they were appearing in a long-running Broadway play. They owned the estate for almost twenty years, she selling in 1965 after Roger’s death. Roger died in a plane crash near Miami—a private plane that he was piloting. She died several years later in New York City of a stroke.

  Conrad Bettany, the surrealism artist who bought the property next, was seldom in residence. He roved the world, hosting gallery showings in New York, Paris and London throughout the ‘70s. He died in Berlin in 1982, shot by a mugger when he refused to give up his wallet.

  Alicia McKenzie, the singer/songwriter who owned the estate next, was still alive—although retired—in Beverly Hills. Likewise Kurt Mauer, the real estate mogul, had moved on and was still doing business, but out of his penthouse in Houston.

  No searches that Lacey did on the property or the address brought up any information about deaths there. Police records online were very limited, and most departments only posted recent activity due to digital storage limitations. She’d need to visit a local station to make a formal request for records, and that was going to take time. Especially going back almost a hundred years.

  Feeling stymied and not at all happy about her results so far, Lacey printed out the bits about the other owners and their pictures. Maybe Sam could see something she couldn’t

  She was just pushing back from the computer when Neva came in. The kitchen aid brought a tall glass of iced tea and more of those delicious cookies on a tray.

  “I thought you might be getting hungry,” she said. She stood with the tray, waiting for Lacey’s agreement.

  “Oh, thank you,” Lacey said. She motioned to an open space on the desktop. “There is fine. What time is it?”

  “After twelve,” Neva said. “Lunch is being prepared.”

  “Oh, is it already?” Lacey grinned at the woman. “I tend to get lost in the weeds when I’m doing research.” She took a grateful sip of iced tea and helped herself to a cookie.

  Neva smiled and nodded. She took a half step away, but then stopped. She ducked her head and peered at Lacey shyly. “It’s so interesting, what you do. It must be fascinating.”

  “It is pretty interesting,” Lacey agreed. “We never know what we’re going to find. And this house has certainly had its share of interesting owners. Have you been here long?”

  “Just a couple of years. I don’t know much about its past.”

  “Sit down,” Lacey said, pulling another chair up for her. “So do you live here, or just work here?”

  Neva glanced toward the doorway, but then slid down into the chair. Lacey thought the woman was close to her own age, maybe thirty, although her apparent awe of Lacey and her obvious reluctance to overstep the bounds of her job made her seem younger. She had brown hair pulled back into a bun and green eyes like Lacey's.

  “Just work,” she said. “I live in Newburgh, so it’s not far.”

  “Do you know about the ghost we’re investigating?”

  “Not really. I heard George mention it to Paloma, but I don’t know the details.”

  Lacey took another cookie and offered the plate to Neva. The woman hesitated just slightly, then took one and nibbled it.
>
  “Seems like everyone gets along pretty well here,” Lacey said.

  Neva nodded. “Yeah, we do. We all like working here.”

  Lacey leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “What’s it like working for Cameron? I get the impression he’s pretty unpredictable.”

  Again Neva glanced at the doorway behind her. “He’s not here that often,” she said. “But when he is… yeah, we never quite know what to expect.”

  “He treat you okay, though?”

  Neva shrugged. “He doesn’t really notice us. You know, Paloma’s the head chef.”

  Lacey nodded. She’d seen that. Cameron called on his employees as he needed them, then dismissed them from his mind. She wondered if he even knew their last names, or their birthdays.

  “Probably pretty good pay, though, huh?” she asked.

  Neva blushed. “Yeah.”

  “Good. You deserve it.”

  Neva finished the last morsel of her cookie and stood up. “I should get back.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the snack. And for talking with me.”

  Neva smiled. “Sure.” And she bustled out the door.

  Lacey went to the printer and pulled off all the pages waiting for her. She leafed through them, through all the rich people who had owned this estate. What was it about the rich that awed ordinary people? Cameron was smart and certainly ambitious, but aside from his millions was as human as the next person. What was it about money that commanded the loyalty of others, the respect, the reverence, even? Sure, he had the power to hire and fire his employees, but if Lacey and Sam hired a cook like Neva, would the woman feel the same about them? So determined to please? So afraid to displease? Somehow Lacey didn’t think so.

  And Cameron—had he been so blythe about ordinary workers all his life? Or had he “developed” that flippant attitude only since making his first million? Were all rich people so casual about the ones who served them? That just seemed so… elitist. It troubled her.

  She sighed and shook her head. Not for her to figure out. She had other mysteries to solve.

  She picked up her pack and, carrying the printouts, headed out the door.

  ~~~

  NINE

  She found Glenn on the patio nursing a tall glass of iced tea. As she’d walked past the kitchen, she’d glanced in and had seen the staff hard at work fixing lunch.

  “Can I join you?” she asked, setting her pack in one chair as she took another.

  “Please,” Glenn said. No sooner had she sat down than Dante brought her a new glass of iced tea.

  “Thank you.” She smiled. She felt it important to let the staff know she saw them—really saw them.

  “Where’s Sam?” she asked.

  Glenn nodded out toward the back yard. The tall, lean figure of her husband could be seen in a sand trap on the golf course, raking the pure white sand.

  “More Zen?” she chuckled.

  “Maybe I’ll suggest Mr. Gregory put a few boulders in the bunkers,” Glenn said. “Stress-busters during tough rounds.” He turned to Lacey. “Have any luck?”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure. Nothing that’s a slam dunk.” She patted the sheaf of papers. “I want Sam to look at this and see what he thinks.” She glanced around. “Where’s Cam?”

  “Meetings,” Glenn said. At her surprise, he explained. “He’s meeting some people at MIT this afternoon, then on to Pasadena to see some folks at JPL tomorrow morning. He’ll be back in the evening.”

  Meetings, she thought. MIT. JPL. The best minds.

  Just then Sam sauntered up from the golf course. He crossed the patio and took the chair next to Lacey, moving her pack to another. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey, yourself. You going to rake every sand trap on the golf course?” She leaned over and kissed him.

  “I might. It’s soothing. I’m definitely thinking of putting a Zen garden in at the studio. What have you got?” He picked up the stack of printouts.

  “I’m not sure. Nothing that fits exactly. The only possible is Charles “The Hammer” Harcourt, who disappeared in 1929—along with his enforcer and his girlfriend. I found no records of deaths on the grounds. I thought I’d go to the local police station and put in a request for information.”

  “’The Hammer’?” Sam repeated.

  “Yeah. He’s the mob guy. His enforcer was the Bricklayer guy who built the garden shed.”

  “Where do these people get these names?” Sam asked. He scanned the pages Lacey had printed and studied the photos. “You said these three disappeared? Didn’t die here?”

  “Not as far as anyone can figure,” she said. “No signs of foul play, no bodies, no blood. General consensus is that they skipped out to South America.”

  Sam tapped the picture of Bobby Gillette and looked at Glenn. “What else did he build here? Or did he build anything else?”

  Glenn nodded. “He built a basement here. It’s actually a safe, a big safe. He also built a long row of terraced rose gardens, but those were torn out years ago to make way for the tennis courts.”

  “The safe is still here?”

  “It is. You want to see it?”

  “Yeah. Can we do that?”

  Glenn shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Come on.”

  He led the way to the hall that fed the offices and the business center. Halfway down the hall was a plain, unassuming door, and when Glenn opened it, it revealed only a small closet. A raincoat hung on the rod, and a vacuum cleaner sat below it.

  Glenn chuckled at Sam and Lacey’s obvious surprise. “Here,” he said. He reached behind the raincoat and gave the edge of the wall a targeted shove. The wall swung outward, exposing a small, square room with a door on the opposite side.

  Glenn stepped in and retrieved keys from his pocket. He found the one he wanted and slid it into the keyhole. The lock clicked, and Glenn pushed the door open.

  Stairs of concrete block led downward into darkness. Glenn flicked on a light and started down.

  Lacey tried to see the room below as she took the stairs, but finally decided to pay attention to where she put her feet. There was a smooth wooden handrail on the wall, and she used it to steady herself. The steps were tall, but not deep. She made sure her heels were well back on the steps as she went down.

  Glenn hadn’t been kidding. The basement was a single small room, maybe ten or twelve feet to a side, and solid concrete block. In the wall across from the stairs was the door of a safe, a walk-in, judging by the height of the door. Beside the door handle was a built-in combination lock panel with a round tumbler.

  On the wall to the right of the safe was a large free-standing gun safe, also protected by a combination lock. There was nothing else.

  Sam approached the safe but didn’t touch it. He held his hands up, palms out, just a few inches from the concrete blocks. With careful deliberation, he moved around the room, his hands before him as if he were doing a slow rendition of a mime’s invisible box routine. When he’d scanned all four walls, he lowered his hands and shook his head.

  “Nothing. It’s clean.” He turned to Lacey and shrugged.

  They returned to the patio. As soon as they sat down, Paloma came to ask if they would like lunch. They all agreed, and she returned to the kitchen to dispatch her staff. In just a moment, Dante wheeled out the cart, and Jennifer and Neva set the table and served.

  A platter of quartered sandwiches took up the center of the table. Alongside that were dishes of macaroni salad, coleslaw, and potato salad. Fresh glasses of iced tea replaced the earlier empty ones.

  “This looks good,” Lacey said. She smiled to Jennifer and Neva. Jennifer nodded solemnly, but Neva’s lips quirked up in a small conspiratorial smile.

  Sam took a sandwich but barely noticed as he ate, studying the printouts again. He spread the pictures on the table, all three grainy, low-res photos staring back at him.

  Lacey looked over at the pictures, also. She wondered how the trio would have felt about leaving their home country
forever. The men were in their forties—late forties for Harcourt, early forties for Gillette—but obviously had left a trail of death and destruction behind them. She doubted they would think twice about escaping any consequences. But Angela was only twenty-seven; how would a young woman like her feel about going underground? Living out her life in a foreign country? Lacey kept flashing back to scenes from the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, to Etta Place telling the Kid, “I won’t watch you die.” Etta had returned to the States before the two outlaws faced their final, deadly showdown. Would Angela have stayed, or might she have retreated from exile at some point?

  “You know,” Sam said, tapping the picture of Harcourt, “it’s hard to see much detail in this photo, but he does look a little heavy. I can’t tell if his hair is thinning or not, but he certainly has a receding hairline.” He looked to Glenn. “Could we get George back here? Have him look at this?”

  “You got it,” Glenn said. He was up and off to the kitchen in a flash, returning a few moments later. “He’s on his way.”

  Lacey slid the picture of Harcourt closer so she could study it. Why hadn’t she thought of that? But Sam was right; it was hard to tell about his hair, except for the widow’s peak left on his high forehead by the receding hair on either side. There had been other photos of him online; if George wasn’t sure, she could print others.

  George arrived shortly, half nodding and half bowing to all three of them. He slid into the chair next to Sam and Sam pushed the picture across the table toward him.

  His response was immediate. And conclusive. His eyes widened and he pushed back in his chair, as if worried the man in the photo might attack—again.

  “That’s him?” Sam asked gently.

  George nodded, his mouth opening slightly although no words came. He looked up at Sam in awe.