The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel by Chris Holcombe (ebook reader for laptop .TXT) 📗

was in stark contrast to the purple bruising of his face, now turning blueish black. As if the man couldn’t look more like a nightmare.

Dash put on his best smile. “Good evening, Mr. Müller.”

Walter raised his hand. Dash winced, waiting for a blow. Instead, Walter was checking his wristwatch.

“You are late, Mr. Parker. “

“I apologize. The IRT is not the bastion of efficiency. I have something to report about your, uh, inquiry.”

“Let’s have it then.”

Before Dash could respond, a voice called from the top of the stairwell. “Walter! Who is there?”

Mother.

Walter took a deep breath and ignored her. “Tell me, Mr. Parker, where you’ve found this pansy.”

“Walter! Answer me!”

A door on the ground floor opened up, and a pugnacious, overweight man stuck his head out into the hall.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said. “You can’t conduct business in the hall!”

Walter turned and said to the neighbor, “Mind your own business.”

“Hey, pal, you made it my business by yakking it up so that the whole fuckin’ building can hear.”

Mother’s voice called again. “Walter?”

The neighbor pointed upstairs. “And tell that bitch to shut the hell up. Now go upstairs or I’m calling the cops.”

Walter was about to reply when his mother called for him again.

The neighbor crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, pal. Do it now.”

Walter blew out a frustrated sigh. He gestured roughly to Dash. “Come upstairs.”

Dash hesitated, the threat of danger weighing his feet down like cement.

The neighbor in the ground floor apartment looked at Dash. “What are ya waiting for? Go the fuck upstairs!”

Dash nodded and stepped into the building. Walter closed the front door behind him with a slam, causing Dash to jump. Walter gave a withering glare to the neighbor, who ignored it completely, and proceeded up the stairs at a fast clip. Dash followed, his feet struggling to keep up.

At the top of the staircase stood Mother, looking fragile and pale in a lilac robe. Her hands shook as she tried to keep the robe closed against her chest. The signs of grief. It hadn’t been more than three days since she learned of her youngest son’s death.

Walter was obviously playing the caregiver. “Mother, go back inside,” he said at the top of the staircase landing. His voice was surprisingly gentle.

Mother’s eyes, glassy and big, looked at Dash instead. “Who are you?”

Dash replied, “I work with your son, remember? At the Committee of Fourteen? A colleague of mine and I were here earlier this week.”

“Oh,” she said, “I remember now.”

Walter took his mother by the shoulders and guided her back to their apartment. Dash followed, wondering if Mother registered the fact both he and Walter had bruised faces. Had she assumed they’d fought each other? Did Walter have a history of violence?

I sincerely hope not.

The apartment was cramped and unbearably hot. The front square-shaped room Dash walked into was decorated with severe German furniture made from heavy, dark wood. A Black Forest hunting cabinet hugged one wall; a high-backed sofa bracketed by end tables hugged the other. In the center was a round oak table with a square base. On top were a few books, their titles faded and unreadable in the dim light.

Mother said, “I’ll go make some tea.”

Walter replied, “There is no need. My colleague here will give a report and then be gone.”

“Why is it so late? Why are people visiting you at all hours?”

Dash said, “It is an emergency, madame.”

“What emergency could there possibly be?”

Walter answered that one. “A club, Mother. A club that must not be allowed to stay open for longer.”

Mother rubbed the side of her head. “What could be going in that club? Oh Walter, you don’t think it was like when Karl was—”

Whatever gentleness Walter showed quickly fell away. His voice was sharp, his words short. “Mother. That is none of this man’s business.”

She nodded. “It’s just the similarities. The late night visit. The urgent news.”

Dash looked upon her with interest. Was she talking about a night when Karl was arrested? Visit enough speaks, in particular their kind of speaks, and the odds of ending up in the paddy wagon rose exponentially higher.

Walter softened his tone. “Go back to sleep, Mother. I will handle this news.”

Mother nodded again. “Perhaps I’ll do more of my knitting.” She shuffled her way down a narrow hallway to the right of the front room. At the far end was a half-opened door. Her bedroom, Dash supposed.

“Mr. Parker.”

Dash turned and faced Walter, who was now sitting on the sofa. The end tables on either side held family photographs. The sight of an even younger Karl caused a moment of melancholy for Dash.

I tried to save him, I tried to . . .

Walter looked at him expectedly. “Well?”

“I’m having trouble finding the woman lawyer, but I have a few leads.”

There was something odd about those family photographs. Dash looked past the image of Karl.

“And the pansy?”

There were just three figures in the frame: Karl, Walter, and Mother. Dash looked to another framed photograph of the family. The same three. And those frames which held single portraits only showcased either Karl or Walter, occasionally Mother. Where was the father?

“Still no sign of her,” Dash replied. “It will be difficult to find her, given that she may have heard what happened to Karl and is hiding in plain sight. In men’s clothes.”

Dash raised a finger before Walter could voice his displeasure.

“One item of interest regarding Tyler Smith, Karl’s friend at the Shelton.”

“Yes, yes, the one you claimed you didn’t find.”

Looking back at the family photographs, Dash noticed the shape of the pictures didn’t fit the frames. They were too small. The pictures had been cut. Dash could make out the clean edge where scissors excised a figure out of the family. The father. A chill set in to Dash’s chest.

He cleared his throat. “There’s a reason we couldn’t find him. He’s dead.”

Walter blinked. “Dead?”

“Murdered. Bludgeoned to death with an ashtray.” Dash gathered all his strength and bravery and gave what he