CHAPTER FOUR
Ava sat at her desk down in the basement, in the office of the Women’s Bureau. It was one of the rare occasions where no one else was in the office, all of the desks empty. She’d heard rumbling about a sting operation that hoped to use female officers to lighten the tongues and morals of bootleggers. It was, as she understood it, quite hard for men to deny a willing woman alcohol.
She didn’t mind being down in the WB offices, though. It gave her a chance to discreetly look over the records of men like Jim Spurlock and Kenny Sanderson. So far this morning, Ava had been doing a deep dive on Sanderson and finding out just how right Frank had been. Sanderson was a real piece of work and as far as she was concerned, a man like him should be locked up in Welfare Island. For the rest of his life if possible.
He did have a physical assault charge on his record, filed by a woman. She also found one case of carrying a concealed firearm, a charge for inciting a small riot, and an aggravated assault charge that was filed by the proprietor of a small tobacco shop when Sanderson thought the man had shortchanged him by twenty-two cents. And then, of course, his charges from just a few days ago, involving bootlegging and trying to fight two cops.
While it did make her just a bit more cautious about going to visit him, it also made her feel more confident that Moody had been right. Sanderson certainly fit the bill for the sort of person who would run in Jim Spurlock’s circles.
As she was reading over the details on the aggravated assault charge, a loud, rapid knocking sounded out from behind her. She turned and found the door open, Frank peering in with his knuckles still on the doorframe.
“You got a minute?” he asked.
“Yeah, come on in.” Being that it was only Frank, she made no huge stride to hide what she was looking at.
As he entered, he showed her a sheet of paper he was holding in his other hand. “I overheard Minard talking about this case this morning and thought you’d want it. A murder case—a wealthy white man who was killed in Harlem yesterday afternoon. So far, the only suspect is a black saxophone player. The murder occurred in an alleyway behind a jazz club called the Candle’s Wick. The suspect is currently in a holding cell. Seems like a simple case but I thought you might want to poke at it because of the jazz band link.”
Ava knew the name of the place; she’d seen a few shows there in her time but had never had the privilege of singing there. Good Lord, she thought. Singing.Remember that? Seems like a lifetime ago now, doesn’t it?
“Let me guess,” she said. “A black man kills a rich white man. No one upstairs was willing to take it.”
“Well, they took it long enough to make sure the black man spent the night in a cell even though there’s no real proof he did it. But yeah, a few of the other guys were griping about who’d take it, so I snatched it up before Minard had the chance to task it out to someone else. Besides, I think he would have given it to you—the jazz connection and all.”
As she took the paper from him, Frank started to recite the facts of the case as he knew them. “The victim is Monty Lincoln, age fifty-one. A banker who was suddenly looking for other streams of revenue now that the stock market has gone to hell. The suspect is Carter Epps, twenty-nine years of age. Sax player by night, and unloads crates down on the docks by day.”
“I know him,” she said, eyeing the name on the paper with sadness. “Not well, but enough to be shocked he might have killed someone.”
“Epps? You played with him?”
“No. But I saw him play a few times and knew a few musicians who had played with him. He was…huh. This is a strange one for sure. The Carter Epps I know was not a violent man. I don’t know that I ever saw him not smiling or joking around. Again, though…like I said, I don’t know him well at all.” She considered this for a moment, trying to draw up a better picture of the man she remembered. “No details yet?”
“Just that a white man was found dead with a black man standing over him. The only initial witnesses were the other band members and the owner of the club.”
“The Candle’s Wick is owned by a huge Italian guy—Tony something or another,” Ava said. “Again…someone I barely know. But I think he’d be on the up-and up regardless of the color of a man’s skin.”
“Want to pay him a visit?”
Ava paused before responding. She could feel the tension between them, a tension that had never truly let up the night before. Even after he’d left an hour after the poker game at the kitchen table, Ava had felt it.
“Did you take this case so eagerly hoping to distract me from Jim Spurlock and Kenny Sanderson?”
“No,” he said, with a flare of irritation in his voice. “I took it because I thought you’d want the opportunity to give this Carter guy a fair chance. I think you and I are the only ones out of this building that would, sad as that sounds.”
“In that case…thank you. Do you have anything better to do right now? Want to take a trip into Harlem with me?”
“Yeah, I’d love to go.” He grinned and she thought it felt a little forced. “You know, as far as Minard and anyone else in the precinct knows, we’re partners.”
“At work or away from work?” she asked.
“You know, surprisingly, I don’t think anyone has any idea that there’s anything going on between us.”
“Then they’re not very good cops.”
They headed for the doorway and when she was about to pass through, Ava felt Frank’s hand fall on her shoulder. “Hey, I do think I need to apologize for last night.”
“Why? You did nothing wrong. You just expressed your opinion. And while I understand it came from a protective place, I just happen to disagree with it.”
“So you’re not angry?”