The Dreams We Knew

Delvina Salvastano Kline

October 1924

    My Chanel evening frock had conspired with the darkness to cloak me, but the approaching dawn would soon betray my trespassing presence. Daybreak whispered a ghostly chant across the expanse of abandoned warehouses. Without the shadows to cling to, I pressed my back against the soot-crusted walls of the fifth structure I’d searched in as many hours. The coarse stucco snagged the expensive silk, reminding me of the horrid party I’d subtly invaded in order to wheedle the information that brought me here.

    Though maybe the drunk butler I’d chatted with at the posh speakeasy had led me wrong. I’d thought it’d all been a lost cause until about three in the morning. His fourth glass of scotch had unhinged his jaw and loosened his tongue, but that didn’t mean he’d provided the right location. One could never tell where loyalties lay. Especially when it came to Jules Dempsey and his bootlegging empire. The recently sacked butler of the Dempsey estate was too deep into his cups to be certain. Though he wasn’t so far gone not to recognize I was siphoning information.

    And with the hours stripping away, I couldn’t afford a mistake. A life depended on my accuracy.

    The faint yet sour smell of corn mash in the air betrayed the presence of a nearby still. But I wasn’t traipsing around the outskirts of New York City to sniff out a moonshining operation.

    I was here on behalf of Judge VanKirk. Hopefully, His Honor would keep his end of the bargain and stall the verdict of the case against Dempsey until I could recover the judge’s fifteen-year-old daughter from the mobster’s cronies.

    If I could find her.

    I set my sights on the grime-laden structure before me, keeping alert for any movement other than the skittering of rodents. The lower windows were blackened with soot, but one sweeping gaze of the angled skylights closer to the rooftop revealed the truth. Those glass panes were significantly less grimy, meaning the ones at eye level had been purposefully darkened.

    Someone didn’t want trespassers peeking inside. Maybe because those seedy walls housed Judge VanKirk’s daughter. Kidnapping the presiding judge’s child in effort to get him to throw the case against the notorious crime boss was a cruel but effective tactic.

    The harried father couldn’t rely on the corrupt police to recover his only offspring, so he’d turned to me. And I had to deliver the girl before court resumed—otherwise the judge would no doubt rule in Dempsey’s favor, marring the integrity of his legendary iron gavel.

    Ignoring the slight pinch of my little toes in these satin slippers, I dashed toward the ladder affixed to the side of the warehouse, which led to a narrow landing on the second story.

    I wound my purse strap tight on my wrist and climbed the dew-slicked rungs. I clambered over the ledge, my silk stockings catching on the rusty railing, and settled my feet on the puddle-dotted surface.

    After freeing my purse from my wrist, I withdrew my revolver. A thigh holster sounded reasonable in theory, but the blasted thing had a habit of slipping down my leg with the weight of my weapon. Clearly a man’s design.

    Besides, I needed my bag for my lockpicks, which I’d had to employ several times this morning in search of the fair-haired Marianne VanKirk.

    The shuffle of footsteps reached my ears, and I whirled on my heel, aim at the ready. An unexpected view of wavy black hair coupled with an easygoing smile—more fit on a Variety ad than on a shifty rooftop—greeted me.

    “Kent Brisbane.” 

    I feigned indifference, as if that name hadn’t haunted me. “I wouldn’t suppose you fancied getting shot today.” Ignoring my pounding pulse, I offered a practiced smile. “Because my Colt almost left its lead calling card between your ribs.” I lowered my revolver and noticed his own was clutched in his right hand.

    “What a nice keepsake.” That voice. It was just as smooth and deep as I remembered. “One that’d hit very close to my heart.”

    I didn’t want to talk about his heart. Or mine, for that matter. I’d come here to do a job. Question now, what was he doing here? Our paths hadn’t crossed in four years, intentional on my part. And though there was a time I’d once trusted him implicitly, I wasn’t certain now. Crime lords and bootleggers had bloated bank accounts controlling most of New York City. For all I knew, Kent could be on Dempsey’s payroll. If so, I might indeed have to shoot him if things turned aggressive. Not the most pleasant thought, considering the man had once been my husband.

    His gaze took me in, a serious note darkening his gray eyes before masking any hint of emotion with that easy breeziness I’d known so well. The scar on the upper corner of his mouth made his smile lopsided, which only added to his charm. “I don’t suppose you brought a change of clothes? With that kind of dress”—he playfully flicked the bow on my shoulder—“you’re bound to attract attention and ruin my cover.”

    He implied he was working on a case, which had me easing my grip on my gun. Though I knew better than to lower my guard. One could never tell with Kent. I’d fooled myself into thinking I’d understood him, only to be betrayed before the ink had worn off on our marriage license. I didn’t have time to unearth the buried hurt. Any other day I could wallow in fuzzy memories about one poor life choice that had led to a terrible marriage, but not now. A young girl depended on me. 

    So I pushed back the rising disgust of my former husband’s presence and reclaimed my composure, albeit a bit shaky. “Who hired you, Brisbane?”

    “Same man who employed you. Judge VanKirk.” He slid his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew his cigarette case, which never stocked nicotine sticks. But what it did hold? Secrets. He’d stash his notes from current cases within that little silver-plated box. He cracked it open and withdrew a picture, flashing it my direction.

    Marianne VanKirk. The same photo was in my purse.

    This shouldn’t surprise me. Though His Honor was also a family friend, he’d expressed doubt in hiring a detective who also happened to be a woman. The thought that my gender alone gave him misgivings rankled me. Hadn’t I proved myself in the Big Dante case back in Pittsburgh? I’d been the one who’d exposed the high-ranked police officer leading a double life as a mobster. With such a victory, also came a tragic loss. Something my brain couldn’t touch on at present. That case gained national attention, but all it took was one glimpse of my pleated skirt and pomaded lips, and I was reduced to my proper place.

    Holding social gatherings that would make my mother proud held as much appeal as embroidering enough pillows to fill all Hemswick Manor’s parlors, something Mother had always threatened growing up if I hadn’t behaved. Which had been often.

    “Sure it’s nothing personal, Vinny.” He tucked the photo back into the case and slipped it in his pocket, all while keeping his gaze on me. “His Honor may not know of your competency. He only wants his daughter back.”

    Once again my pride got the best of me. It was only logical the judge would worry about his child and therefore do all he could to secure her safety. Even if it meant employing more detectives. I would go to extreme lengths to protect those I loved. In fact, I had. Which was why I was back in New York in the first place. I checked my watch pin—7:45. Court resumed in a little over an hour. “Who gave you this location? Do you know for certain she’s here?” I silently congratulated myself for carrying on a civil conversation, keeping any emotion from my voice.

    “Turns out Dempsey’s chauffeur likes to flip the cards. I trounced him in poker.” He raised his hands in a show of surrender, but his rogue smile revealed how amused he was by my narrowed eyes. “I used my powers for good. Saved the man from explaining to his wife why he’d lost several hundred bucks, by giving me information instead. He provided me with this address.” He peered at me from beneath dark lashes. “As for Miss Marianne, I was just about to take a gander through those skylights. Perhaps you’d like to go sightseeing with me.” He offered me his arm, as if we were to stroll Central Park and not spying through glass smattered with bird droppings.

    The man could charm a teetotaler to guzzle moonshine, but I knew the likes of Kent Brisbane. Fell too hard and too fast, only to regret it. I ignored his mock gallantry and brushed past him toward the skylights. “Have you encountered any of Dempsey’s men?” I asked in a hushed tone over my shoulder.

    “No. You?”

    “Not yet. But no doubt this warehouse is crawling with them.” I hoped I was wrong. If a legion of armed brutes awaited us, I wasn’t sure how to safely rescue Marianne.

    “I’m guessing not.” He moved close, and the hair prickled on my neck. “The fewer men aware of this hideout, the fewer chances of a location leak. Besides, how many goons are needed to guard a defenseless girl?”

    We crouched the last few steps before reaching the glass. The row of panes slanted on an inclined section of the roof. Kent tested its sturdiness by putting his weight on the weathered boards, all the while holding the metal railing to his left. Once proven he wouldn’t plunge through the splintery planks to his death, he leaned onto the roof, rising just enough to glimpse through the glass. A muscle leaped in his jaw.

    “How bad is it?” Fifteen men? Twenty?

    “I can’t see.” He glanced over. “Just below us appears to be a landing, but it’s stuffed with crates.”

    “Is there space enough for us to get in?”

    “Barely. Maybe for one of us.” And his tone specifically meant he referenced himself. Evidenced by him fishing his pocketknife from his trouser pocket and using the tip of the blade to unscrew the fasteners in the metal strip securing the glass.

    “There’s no way I’m letting you take control of this case.”

    His hand stilled, and he glanced over, the early morning light shimmering in his eyes, making them appear as silver pools. “We’re going to get real cozy then. You know . . .” His grin took on a wicked twist. “There are other ways to get close to me. You only have to ask.”

    I’d always assumed our first interaction after our wrecked marriage would be bitter and accusing, though I supposed after nearly four years, the hostile edges had been worn down. Kent was now as he’d always been. As if we hadn’t a disastrous history between us. Meanwhile, I put on a decent air of indifference, but my insides hummed with chaotic energy.

    When I didn’t reply to his teasing, he only shrugged and finished unfastening the window. With careful handling, I helped him remove the glass pane from its spot without a sound. I peeked inside the hole. Kent hadn’t exaggerated—there was room for one breathing body, and judging by the narrow space, Kent’s broad shoulders wouldn’t fit. “I’ll go first and clear the way for you.”

    As if realizing it to be the best option, he nodded. “The exposed sill is shaky. Any extra strain and it could make a clean break from the wood. I’ll lower you down.”

    Hating to be at his mercy, I studied the warped frame and had to concede. Better to stay clear of anything that could come crashing onto the landing. I wrapped my purse tight around my wrist and drew in a fortifying breath. I moved as near to the opening as possible.

    “Ready?” The warmth of Kent’s body encircled me as he cupped my elbows. 

    His chest lightly pressed into my back. The gentle fall breeze sent traces of his cologne my way, surging unbidden memories of those early moments of marriage, taking my mind to places I’d rather not revisit. Especially now, when I needed to keep my wits about me.

    I scooted back, letting him take the brunt of my weight. He held me with ease. As I lowered, his firm grip slid to my wrists. The tips of my toes brushed the dusty floor, and I glanced up at his serious expression. For all the charm and flirty remarks, Kent would always take his job—which right now included my safety—seriously. I nodded, and he released me to find my footing, which proved simple enough.

    I took inventory of my surroundings. Tall pillars of crates surrounded me. Thankfully, the stack to my right was low enough that I could see over it. The glare from the skylights didn’t help my vision any, but a stairway appeared to be on the far left. Maybe I could slide the boxes back, giving a clear route to the steps. Though perhaps I should climb over the crates rather than risk the scraping noise against the concrete. This level didn’t go all the way across the space. The narrow glimpse of a railing told me the center of this warehouse was wide open, which improved our chances of scouting Marianne but also increased our risk of being spotted. I inhaled a deep breath, my mind sorting through possible strategies.

    A masculine voice cut through the silence. “Boss says to stay put until further notice.” 

    While I couldn’t see the man, the location of his voice seemed below and to the left. “That includes sneakin’ out to see your dame.”

    “You got this under control.” A lower snarl marked that at least two brutes were on guard. “No one knows we’re here. ’Sides, I don’t wanna be round when you kill the kid. My conscience is sensitive like that.” 

    His droll tone ignited fire my veins. They weren’t going to let her go, no matter if Judge VanKirk threw the trial or not. 

    I had to get to her.

    “What’s going on?” Kent whispered from above.

    I held up a finger to my lips, and his brow wrinkled.

    “You make me stay and do all the dirty work, then I’m taking half your cut,” the man snapped.

    “Suits me. Small price to see my girl. I’ll catch ya tonight at the Thirsty Trough.”

    A speakeasy on Rum Row.

    The click of footsteps was followed by the closing of a door.

    I didn’t have time to clear the space. Kent needed down before he got spotted. I motioned him with a clipped jerk of my head and mouthed, Now.

    Sensing the urgency, he climbed down. I flattened myself against the crate, but Kent was pressed flush against me, his face too near to mine. “What’s happening?” His hushed words tickled my neck.

    “It seems there’s only one goon left. But we need to act. He’s going to kill her.” I didn’t wait for him to follow but hoisted myself over the crate, relieved to see a clearing that indeed led to a stairway. I eased back onto my feet but kept low.

    Kent trailed behind. “Let’s get closer.”

    Still crouching, I moved behind a crate positioned close to the railing. I held my breath and peeked around it, zeroing in on the ground floor.

    There she was.

    Marianne sat tied to a chair in a shadowed corner. She’d been gagged, her youthful complexion as pale gray as the cement blocks behind her. A man stood guard by the door, a good twenty feet from his prisoner.

    I eased back to the safety of the crate and lifted on my tiptoes to Kent’s ear. “She’s here. In the far corner.”

    “And the crony?”

    “By the door.” Which neither of us could glimpse without easing into the brute’s view again. That included getting a clear shot at him. Though I didn’t want to take out the guard if we didn’t have to. I scanned the area, an idea forming. “See that shelf?” I pointed to the line of wooden barrels. That particular shelf was suspended on each side by ropes. “The door is almost directly beneath the edge of the left side.”

    “We can create a diversion with the barrels.”

    Which was actually a good idea. Partly. “Give me your knife.” I wiggled my fingers impatiently.

    He reluctantly handed it over. “What are you going to—”

    “Just be ready to nab the girl.” Then I was on the move. Slinking into the shadows toward the other edge of the landing. Kent hissed my name, though I wouldn’t look back. We were running out of time. I pressed my back to the wall and rounded the corner of the open landing. I was directly above the barrels. The ropes were knotted just below me. I flattened on my stomach and reached over the ledge. Problem was, the top of my body was visible. If the goon happened to glance up, I’d be spotted. So I’d better be quick. I locked the pocketknife in place and eyed the blade. Kent kept it sharp.

    With quiet movements, I worked at cutting the rope holding the left side of the shelf. It seemed to stretch an eternity but could only have been a minute. Finally it snapped. The shelf hitched lower, sending the barrels careening off the side.

    The guard yelled.

    I launched to my feet and moved to snatch a better view.

    The guard scrambled for safety, but a barrel collided with his shoulder, knocking him to the dusty floor. Another barrel fell, landing atop the man’s leg, his anguished moan following. No doubt a break.

    Soon as he was immobilized, Kent dashed down the stairway, his gun drawn.

    “You get her,” Kent yelled as he sprinted toward the gunman, who grappled for his weapon. But Kent moved with speed and finesse, quickly grabbing the thug’s gun and apprehending him.

    I rushed down toward Marianne. Tears filled her stricken eyes.

     “You’re safe now.” Still holding Brisbane’s knife, I severed the gag so she could breathe better. I made quick work of the rest of the bindings and tossed them to Kent.

    He tied up Marianne’s captor with the ropes that had once bound her.

    I helped the young girl to her feet. The poor thing trembled all over. Wrapping my arm around her, I held her to my side. My Duesenberg was only parked two blocks away, but we still had to drive to the courthouse. One quick glance at my watch told me we still had time. “Let’s take you to your father.”