Page 89 of Hawk & Sparrow

Vesper leaned over the desk. “Martha,” she said in a lower voice. “I’ve never asked you for anything, but I’m asking for your help now. Please.”

The woman hesitated, clearly at odds with herself. After a moment, her eyes dropped to her paperwork. “There’s no way you’ll be able to get into the cell they’re holding him in,” she murmured. “It’s way down the hall, and I’m pretty sure Stettner’s ordered the room to be guarded at all times.” Her eyes flicked up. “But the man who came in this morning and confessed that he was paid to kill that Gladwell guy? His name’s Nick Bartolucci. He’s just down the hall, four doors on the left.” She looked down again and shuffled some papers. “Do what you will with that information, but if you get jammed, I’ll deny everything.”

Vesper took a deep breath. “I understand, thank you.”

She turned from the desk, glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was looking, then started down the hall. How many times had she come back here with Stettner over the years? How many times had he given her access to things most reporters could only dream of because he trusted her? She felt a pang of guilt when she thought about what he’d say if he knew what she was doing.

For Maximilian, she told herself. This is for Maximilian. Max.

She crept farther down the hall, until she’d reached the room Martha had indicated—fourth on the left. Vesper peeked inside a window, and saw that a man was sitting behind a metal table alone. She braced herself, then entered the room.

“Mr. Bartolucci?”

The man looked up. He was thin, pale, with scraggly butter-yellow hair and blond stubble on his jaw. His clothes were dirty and stained. He stared at her, eyes narrowed.

“What do you want?”

“I’m … an investigator,” she said. “I’m here to verify your story, and ask some questions about your confession.”

“Someone’s already come in and done that,” he grunted.

“I know,” said Vesper. “But I’d like to hear it again, for myself.” She pulled out her notebook.

The man gave her a wary look. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start from the top,” said Vesper. “You said Maximilian Kite hired you to kill Francis Gladwell. How did you meet?”

The man crossed his arms. “Outside that fancy men’s club on the corner of Thirty-Fourth and Dalrymple Road,” he said. “I’d just gotten off a shift at the rail yard. He was smoking a cigarette. I asked him if I could bum one.”

Vesper drummed her fingers against her knee, recalling the time she’d asked Maximilian about whether or not he smoked. She still remembered his look of disgust, the words he’d said.

I despise smoking in all its variants—it’s a nasty habit, if you ask me.

The man was lying. But why? Vesper made a note and schooled her expression before looking up. “And when did Mr. Kite first broach the subject of a murder-for-hire scheme?”

“Didn’t take long,” he said. “We got to talking, and he said there was a guy giving him trouble, a man called Francis Gladwell. He joked with me a little at first, trying to gauge my interest to see if I’d be willing to take care of him for a price. When I told him I actually was, he offered me twenty thousand gild to get it done.”

Vesper tapped her pen against her notebook. “And when Mr. Kite was asking you to help him get rid of Francis Gladwell, by chance did he give you a reason that he wanted the man dead?”

Nick laced his hands together and sighed. “As far as I understand it, Kite wanted some machine Gladwell was working on,” he said. “He wanted to do business, but Gladwell wasn’t interested.”

Vesper sat up straight. He was lying. She knew that now. Maximilian had an age-old grudge against new technology; he never would have wanted to go into business with Francis Gladwell. Now she just had to catch this man in his lie, prove that Maximilian was innocent.

“You mentioned before that you worked at the rail yard,” she said in a different voice. “Those are long hours.”

The man nodded. “Six at night till six in the morning, six days a week.” A small smile touched his face. “Boys at the yard call it the devil’s shift.”

Vesper nodded. “My father worked in the rail yard too, once. I think his favorite day of the week was Sunday, when he got to be home with me, my mother, and my sister.” She offered a small smile. “He was a switchman.”

Nick nodded. “I worked on the tracks,” he said. “Always wanted to be a switchman though.”

“My father liked his work, even when it was hard,” said Vesper. “I don’t think anything would have convinced him to give it up.” She paused. “Well, maybe one thing. He’d have given it up for my sister and me. He’d have done anything for the two of us. For him, family came first, always.”

Nick nodded. “Sounds like he was a good man.”

“He was,” said Vesper sadly. “He died when I was eight. I miss him, all the time.”

Nick looked away. “I got a son,” he murmured. “A baby, six months old. I’d do anything for him too.”