a heavy, black-leather-bound edition from its shelf. The spine read, in gold inlay, Criminal Court Verdicts—1927.
The janitors treated the leather bindings of these books on a rotating basis to ward off any cracking or deterioration, so that the entire southeast corner smelled of leather and protective oils. Abramowitz had called this area the Stable. Puskis himself had never been in a stable, but assumed that Abramowitz had been correct in his association.
The first half of Criminal Court Verdicts—1927 was composed of indexes that organized the verdicts by last name of the defendant, last name of the judge, charge against the defendant, City district in which the crime took place, and so forth. The second half of the book was a chronological list of the verdicts, including the charge(s), names of prosecutors, defense lawyers, defendant, judge, courtroom, and any additional minutiae that could be of possible interest. The only pieces of information missing from the listings were the names of jurors, who were kept anonymous for their own protection.
Puskis quickly located DeGraffenreid’s case in the defendants’ index. The entry was unremarkable. An assistant DA had prosecuted, while DeGraffenreid’s attorney was a familiar name in trials involving criminals of this ilk. A senior judge, now deceased, had presided. The verdict was guilty of murder in the first degree. The courtroom notation, however, was unfamiliar: NC. He turned to the rear of the book, where the abbreviations were listed, but found no NC under the courtroom list. There was a BC (Banneker Wing, Room C), and Puskis considered the possibility that this was nothing more than a typographical error, B and N being adjacent on the typewriter keyboard. He decided he was willing to accept this explanation if his next inquiry produced unremarkable results.
Replacing Criminal Court Verdicts—1927, he then walked two rows down and found Incarcerated Persons, City and State Correctional Facilities—1927. A slimmer volume than the Verdicts records, Incarcerated Persons contained lists of all prisoners in jails and prisons, their institution, the terms of sentence, as well as their confinement and release dates, if they occurred during 1927. The search did not take long. He scanned the alphabetical list of prisoners, then the list of prisoners in each of the twenty-three facilities listed. DeGraffenreid’s name did not appear. Puskis placed the volume into his cart, then returned and collected Criminal Court Verdicts—1927.
Returning to his desk, he found that the courier had come and gone, taking the stack of files that Puskis had left for him and leaving a long list of new file requests. Puskis took the list and, before beginning his rounds, returned to the Stable to replace the two volumes. He had never been disturbed by anyone during his years in the Vaults, but understanding that these were becoming exceptional times, he did not want to be in possession of those books any longer than necessary.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“How you doing, Frankie?”
Frings shrugged. Reynolds, the cop in charge of the crime scene at Altabelli’s place, was an acquaintance of Frings’s. They used to drink at the same neighborhood bar uptown before Frings had become a celebrity and Reynolds had gone on the wagon.
“You still with Nora Aspen?”
Frings smiled, ready to shoot the shit. “Still am. Not sure why she keeps me around.”
Reynolds gave him a knowing look. The Theater District, usually so alive at night, was quiet this morning. The lights that attracted people to this or that theater were off, and where the usual throngs of tuxedos and furs milled around, waiting for the act 2 curtain, there were now merely a scattering of service people running errands, sweeping streets, stocking the bars with liquor. The streets here, impassable in the evening for all the theatergoers, were now impassable for the delivery trucks that stopped in the street, holding up traffic until their drop-offs were complete.
“You want to look around?” Reynolds asked.
Frings nodded.
“I’m going to have to walk with you. Word from the Chief says no one in the site without an escort.”
“Sure. We can talk.”
Some of the debris had already been cleared by the uniformed officers, about ten of whom were still sifting through fragments. Something was different about this site, Frings thought. Where Block’s building had been blown out into the street, this one seemed to be blown back into itself.
“This one,” Frings said. “The bomb was on the outside?” He was high. That was another problem with the migraines. He’d smoke a reefer to ease the headache, but then, when the headache was gone, he’d smoke because he