Free Secret of the White Rose by Stefanie Pintoff

spectacles, and though his words continued to be abrupt, there was now genuine curiosity behind them. “I understand your point. But no one has a more personal and compelling motive than Drayson. Good God, man—his very life is at stake.”
    “Yes,” I replied calmly, “but the problem is: Drayson doesn’t value his own life.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I interviewed him this morning, sir. I admit, it’s hard for rational men to understand—but I believe he’s prepared to die for his cause. In fact, he wants to become a martyr—as he puts it.”
    “This city is happy to oblige him,” the General groused. “That doesn’t mean his followers don’t want to save him.”
    “They may,” I agreed. “But you’ve seen the crime scene report, General, and I’ve explained my own concerns. You have to admit that your typical bomb-throwing anarchist wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of leaving a Bible or a white rose behind.”
    “But our informant has told us that he personally overheard talk by those who would rescue Drayson from jail.” The General looked approvingly at the boy.
    “With due respect, sir, I believe you pay your informant by the tip,” I said delicately.
    “Why, I oughta—” Oliver bolted out of his chair, but the General silenced him by placing a firm hand on the boy’s arm.
    “You may go now, Oliver,” the General said.
    Oliver stumbled out of the room, giving me a final, sullen glance.
    “Why would an anarchist—or anyone, for that matter—care about a Bible or a rose?” he demanded.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “But the judge’s hand was placed on the Bible, as though he were swearing an oath. Maybe his murder was retribution for breaking one?”
    “You … you can’t possibly say that Judge Jackson was derelict in his duty in any way.” The General now sputtered in anger. “He was one of the finest judges on the bench. To suggest otherwise is the worst tomfoolery I’ve ever—”
    “General, the truth isn’t what’s important here. It’s what the killer perceived —in his own, tainted view of the matter.” I watched as the General visibly relaxed. “With your permission, sir, it’s something I’d like to explore further. I believe the crime scene offers leads that are ultimately more promising than anything we may learn from hounding the families of two known anarchist leaders.”
    The General drew himself up. “Detective, I promise you we won’t ignore any good leads. But as your commissioner, it’s my decision to focus on the anarchist leadership. I believe they will lead us to the killer responsible for Judge Jackson’s murder—and a whole lot faster than this gibberish about Bibles and white roses.”
    He paused for several moments, looking me up and down.
    I waited. Was he going to take me off the case?
    Finally, he said, “Look into your theories all you want, Detective. But on your own time—and not at the expense of my direct orders.”
    “Of course, General.”
    “I’ll be watching you,” he said with a stern look as he dismissed me. “Help me solve this case quickly and I’ll see you promoted. But interfere with my commands, and you’ll suffer the consequences.”
    He didn’t have to spell it out. At best, I’d find myself on desk duty filing paperwork; at worst, I’d never work as a policeman again. I was walking a fine line, indeed.
    The General smiled, and stroking his handlebar mustache, he dismissed us all. “Get to it, gentlemen. Make me proud of what we can accomplish when we set our minds to it. My goal is to arrest those responsible for the judge’s murder within forty-eight hours.”
    As I walked out, I tried to steady my nerves. Focus on the victim, I told myself. That also reminded me that anything I risked professionally or personally was nothing compared to what the victim had already lost: his very life.

 
     
    CHAPTER 6
The Dakota, 1 West Seventy-second Street. 3:30 P.M.
     
    “You’ve come in time for