Page 90 of Hawk & Sparrow

“I’m sure you’re a good father, just like mine was,” said Vesper. “I didn’t get to grow up with my dad, but your son deserves to. He shouldn’t have to visit his dad at the Basalton Jail for the next ten years. Someone needs to teach him how to navigate this world. He needs you.”

Nick rubbed his eyes, as though in pain. “This is what’s best for Walter,” he said. The words sounded practiced. “He doesn’t need me.”

“I think he does,” said Vesper.

“My boy’s sick.”

“Sick?”

“My wife noticed it first, he stopped sleeping right away,” he said. “Then came the night sweats, and the coughing. We got him to a doctor, and he said…” His eyes filled with tears. “He said my boy had tuberculosis. They said there were ways to treat it, to save his life, but…” He looked up at her. “I didn’t have that kind of money. I could work double shifts for the rest of the year and still not have that kind of money.”

“Mr. Bartolucci.” Vesper’s voice was quiet, barely a whisper. “I don’t believe you killed Mr. Gladwell at all. I believe you did something because you were trying to do what was best for your son. Am I right?”

The man dragged his nose across his dirty sleeve. “It was a trade-off. I would say that Kite guy hired me to kill Francis Gladwell, and in exchange my wife would get the money for Walter’s medicine.” He looked up at her. “I couldn’t let my boy die.”

Vesper felt something in her heart shatter. “I know. My father would’ve done the same thing for my sister and me in a heartbeat.”

“I—I could never kill anyone,” he stammered.

“I know,” said Vesper.

“And that Francis guy, I knew him!” he added. “We grew up on the same block in Shalescreek. He was Frankie Everett when I met him. Good lad.”

Vesper froze. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you say Frankie Everett? Not Frankie Dawson?”

Nick shook his head. “His brother, Stan, was a Dawson, but Frankie’s last name was definitely Everett.” The man’s expression turned sheepish. “They had different fathers, I think.” Nick worked his jaw from side to side, licked his lips. “The rumor was that Frankie was born out of wedlock to some rich businessman in the area.”

Vesper started. “His brother never told me that.”

Nick looked wry. “I imagine he didn’t. He always thought of Frankie as his brother, even if they didn’t share the same father.”

Vesper’s mind was whirring. Tom had taught her never to assume, never to take something at face value, and always to dig for answers. When she’d talked to Stanley, he’d introduced himself as Stanley Dawson and she’d assumed that Francis Gladwell’s real name was Franklin “Frankie” Dawson.

“Thank you, Mr. Bartolucci, for answering my questions,” she said. “I just have one more. If you didn’t really kill Francis Gladwell, who paid you to say you did?”

The man hesitated before he opened his mouth. “It was some fancy guy in a uniform, maybe a valet or footman,” he said. “Wouldn’t tell me who he worked for, but—”

“What is the meaning of this?”

Vesper whirled around. Chief Stettner was standing in the doorway. In all the years she’d known the police chief, never before had she seen him this angry.

“Chief—”

“Outside, Evans,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now.”

Vesper jumped to her feet. She tried to slide around Stettner, but he grabbed her by the upper arm and frog-marched her out himself. They passed Martha as they entered the lobby again, but true to her word, the receptionist looked away. Stettner said nothing until they were outside, standing on the front steps. He turned to her, eyes blazing.

“Fred,” Vesper said quickly. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to—”

“Silence.” The police chief’s eyes were cool. Vesper said nothing.

“I’ve given you a lot of leeway, Miss Evans,” said Stettner quietly. “I’ve never given you a hard time about staying on cases, even when it was completely inappropriate for you to be involved. I’ve taken all kinds of hell from the men in my department who think I’m a fool for having any kind of camaraderie with a reporter, especially one who’s a woman. You should know I’ve never minded what they said behind my back, because I saw something special in you. I knew you weren’t just some reporter out for a good piece of gossip, but a real professional I could trust.” His expression hardened. “Today, you’ve proven that I was wrong about you.”

Vesper felt as though she’d been slapped.

“What you just did in there, trespassing into a police station, that’s a crime, Miss Evans. Speaking to a witness without going through the proper protocol could very well have just jeopardized this entire case, and made weeks of this department’s diligent work worthless. I cannot begin to tell you how disappointed I am in you.”

Vesper’s chest tightened. She felt as though all the air in her lungs had been forced out, and she couldn’t draw new breath.