Read Online Secret of the White Rose by Stefanie Pintoff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stefanie Pintoff
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Historical, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Police, Judges, New York, New York (State), Crimes against, Terrorists, Judges - Crimes Against, Terrorists - New York (State) - New York, New York (State) - History - 20th Century, Upper West Side (New York; N.Y.), Police - New York (State)
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been released just this past spring.
Oliver continued to talk. “There’s two men who are clear leaders. They’ve got direct access to Red Emma herself, and the mass of ’em don’t lift a finger without gettin’ say-so from one or t’other. So there’s no way Judge Jackson was murdered by anarchists without these men knowin’ ’bout it.” He looked to Bill Hodges, who stood ready, chalk in hand.
“Jeremy Wesson is one,” Oliver said.
Hodges wrote the name in block capitals on the board. It meant nothing to me, but I saw that Howard Green had begun to sweat profusely.
“I believe this is your cousin, Detective Green,” the General said, then shook his head in mock pity. “Someone oughta do a report sometime about how one half of a family can turn out decent and the other half scum. Happens more often than not, from what I can see.”
“Jeremy’s not—” Howard began to sputter.
The General cut him off. “Don’t even try to tell me he’s not involved in the anarchist movement. All of us know better. We’ve got proof. So instead of trying to defend your family’s honor, I want you to use your family connection to find out what Jeremy knows.”
“I haven’t spoken with Jeremy in over seven years,” Howard finally said, his voice flat.
“Then I’d say it’s the perfect time to renew your acquaintance.” The General’s voice was not unsympathetic, but he was all business. “You’re one of us, now,” he reminded Howard, more gently this time—and the turn of phrase made me wonder whether he had overheard our comments earlier. “Your allegiance is to me. Not to whatever black sheep are in your family—and we all have them,” he finished, looking roundly at the rest of us in the room.
But he would not find any with mine—at least, not anymore. My father had followed my mother to the grave six months ago—and with him, so too lay buried any claim my family had to unrespectable behavior. He could not gamble from the grave, and my sister was a respectable matron in Milwaukee. There was no one else.
“Petrovic,” the General said, “you will assist Detective Green. You look the part of an anarchist if any officer does.”
Petrovic flushed but said nothing. Not every anarchist was a Russian Jew, but clearly the General was more interested in stereotypes than actual facts.
Hodges began writing the second name on the board—and at first, I couldn’t make it out, for his large frame completely blocked the chalkboard from my perspective.
The General’s words alone brought the name home to me. It was one I’d neither heard nor thought of the past two years. I physically winced the moment I heard it, so sharp was the pang of the memory it caused.
Jonathan Strupp. Hannah’s brother.
“Jonathan?” The name erupted unbidden from my dry mouth.
When I had known him, he had been a serious boy in wire spectacles, always wrapped up in a book. Since he was four years Hannah’s junior, I hadn’t known him well. And I’d not kept in touch with the Strupps … no, not since the early weeks following Hannah’s death. It had been selfish, of course—but I hadn’t been able to bear the look of sad reproach I imagined I saw in her mother’s eyes. “You were there,” she seemed to say, “and yet you didn’t bring her home.” It was true: I’d helped save many lives the day the Slocum burned, but not that of my own fiancée. And the injury I still bore—my weak right arm that had never healed from an improperly set fracture—was a constant reminder of that failing.
“I gather he wasn’t a card-carrying anarchist when you knew him?” The General’s lips curved into a sarcastic smile. “People change. He’s in a position of authority now—and if Drayson directed the hit on the judge, then Strupp participated in it.”
He turned to Savino. “I believe you and the Strupp boy were schoolmates. If Ziele has no luck, I’ll ask you to follow up.”
Tom Savino nodded unhappily
Oliver continued to talk. “There’s two men who are clear leaders. They’ve got direct access to Red Emma herself, and the mass of ’em don’t lift a finger without gettin’ say-so from one or t’other. So there’s no way Judge Jackson was murdered by anarchists without these men knowin’ ’bout it.” He looked to Bill Hodges, who stood ready, chalk in hand.
“Jeremy Wesson is one,” Oliver said.
Hodges wrote the name in block capitals on the board. It meant nothing to me, but I saw that Howard Green had begun to sweat profusely.
“I believe this is your cousin, Detective Green,” the General said, then shook his head in mock pity. “Someone oughta do a report sometime about how one half of a family can turn out decent and the other half scum. Happens more often than not, from what I can see.”
“Jeremy’s not—” Howard began to sputter.
The General cut him off. “Don’t even try to tell me he’s not involved in the anarchist movement. All of us know better. We’ve got proof. So instead of trying to defend your family’s honor, I want you to use your family connection to find out what Jeremy knows.”
“I haven’t spoken with Jeremy in over seven years,” Howard finally said, his voice flat.
“Then I’d say it’s the perfect time to renew your acquaintance.” The General’s voice was not unsympathetic, but he was all business. “You’re one of us, now,” he reminded Howard, more gently this time—and the turn of phrase made me wonder whether he had overheard our comments earlier. “Your allegiance is to me. Not to whatever black sheep are in your family—and we all have them,” he finished, looking roundly at the rest of us in the room.
But he would not find any with mine—at least, not anymore. My father had followed my mother to the grave six months ago—and with him, so too lay buried any claim my family had to unrespectable behavior. He could not gamble from the grave, and my sister was a respectable matron in Milwaukee. There was no one else.
“Petrovic,” the General said, “you will assist Detective Green. You look the part of an anarchist if any officer does.”
Petrovic flushed but said nothing. Not every anarchist was a Russian Jew, but clearly the General was more interested in stereotypes than actual facts.
Hodges began writing the second name on the board—and at first, I couldn’t make it out, for his large frame completely blocked the chalkboard from my perspective.
The General’s words alone brought the name home to me. It was one I’d neither heard nor thought of the past two years. I physically winced the moment I heard it, so sharp was the pang of the memory it caused.
Jonathan Strupp. Hannah’s brother.
“Jonathan?” The name erupted unbidden from my dry mouth.
When I had known him, he had been a serious boy in wire spectacles, always wrapped up in a book. Since he was four years Hannah’s junior, I hadn’t known him well. And I’d not kept in touch with the Strupps … no, not since the early weeks following Hannah’s death. It had been selfish, of course—but I hadn’t been able to bear the look of sad reproach I imagined I saw in her mother’s eyes. “You were there,” she seemed to say, “and yet you didn’t bring her home.” It was true: I’d helped save many lives the day the Slocum burned, but not that of my own fiancée. And the injury I still bore—my weak right arm that had never healed from an improperly set fracture—was a constant reminder of that failing.
“I gather he wasn’t a card-carrying anarchist when you knew him?” The General’s lips curved into a sarcastic smile. “People change. He’s in a position of authority now—and if Drayson directed the hit on the judge, then Strupp participated in it.”
He turned to Savino. “I believe you and the Strupp boy were schoolmates. If Ziele has no luck, I’ll ask you to follow up.”
Tom Savino nodded unhappily
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