the names of potential chiefs and mayors flying. Sullivan’s wasn’t among them. Some of the men on the force had been quoted as saying a new chief would clean up the detective office, which rankled Sullivan and angered O’Brien. The city of Seattle had never seen such tight control over gambling and the Tenderloin District.
The realities of policing a modern city of over one hundred thousand citizens with a force of eighty-some men clashed daily with the idealists who wanted the city squeaky clean. Seattle was not the wide open city it had once been, yet it was true that below Jackson Street, in the section of town designated for such businesses, parlor houses and dance halls thrived and continually attempted to crawl back up toward Yesler.
Bradshaw knew that the public didn’t cringe at news of a murdered gambler or drifter, but murder at the Bon Marché, the store that had become a beloved institution to Seattle residents, was different. Chief Sullivan would be facing intense scrutiny from all factions, from the mayor in city hall to the mothers who visited the Bon daily, taking advantage of the free child care provided to shoppers.
“I’ve seen the articles about the hunt for Daulton’s contraption,” the chief said. “And the ads.” He thumbed through the newspaper on his desk then flipped the paper around for Bradshaw and O’Brien to see. They were both familiar with the quarter-page advertisement:
“Wanted: Information about the inventor assassin Oscar Daulton. $5,000 reward offered to those who provide information that leads to a patentable invention. See J. D. Maddock, the Globe Building.”
The chief said, “You think someone killed Doyle over what he knew about the invention? Seems like a coincidence to me.”
O’Brien said, “Our professor doesn’t trust coincidences, assumptions, or presumptions.”
Chief Sullivan snorted. “I’d never close a case if I had to work like that. But I want the truth here, and speed. Vernon Doyle was a respected electrician working in an establishment women and children frequent. I want them to feel safe. I want them to be safe.”
Bradshaw said, “The chief electrician examined the lighting system throughout the store and found it sound. I examined the wiring in and around the show window, and there is no doubt that Vernon Doyle’s death could not have been accidental. It was deliberate. Someone intentionally energized a wire in Doyle’s hands, but the shoppers of the Bon Marché are safe. You can assure the press of that.”
“You may be right, but there will be many who say otherwise until Doyle’s killer is caught. O’Brien, Captain Tennant is in court today. Get back to the Bon, but report to Tennant first thing in the morning. And Professor, just so I can honestly say every single avenue is being explored, I’d appreciate you looking into the possibility of this being tied to Oscar Daulton. Usual terms, but the minute you decide there’s no connection, you let me know.”
“Agreed.”
***
When they were back on Third Avenue, the blustery morning stole hats and threatened umbrellas. Detective O’Brien jammed his Roosevelt hat low as Bradshaw clutched his own derby atop his head.
O’Brien said, “Do you want to talk to the boy, the assistant window dresser who found the body?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind, but the chief made it clear what my role was to be in this investigation.”
“How do we know the boy isn’t a closet inventor or treasure hunter?”
Bradshaw grinned. “We don’t. I have his address. Shall we meet up in an hour at the office of Edison’s representative?”
“Present a unified front to the good attorney? Yes, indeed.”
They discussed the case as they trekked to Pike Street. There they parted. O’Brien turned down to Second Avenue and the Bon Marché while Bradshaw headed up the newly regraded street to Sixth Avenue. The regrade had removed the steepest portions of Pike for several blocks, and most
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