Chapter 236: Definitely Not An Epstein Island

The discussion continued through the afternoon. They considered the cost of a launch, the availability of trustworthy caretakers, the condition of the pier, and the possibility that local fishermen might notice unusual activity. They also discussed how records could be transported without creating a visible pattern.

No one suggested moving the organization’s most important papers immediately. The island would have to be inspected, repaired, and tested before it could be trusted.

By evening, Ricky had given Caldwell authority to begin discreet negotiations through an intermediary.

"Do not mention our organization," he instructed. "Do not mention the investigation. If the seller asks why we want the property, give him the ordinary answer."

"They may ask who is behind the purchase. What will I say then?" Caldwell asked.

"Tell him a private association is interested in a quiet retreat. That is true enough." Ricky said.

Meanwhile, back at Tammany Hall’s main base of operations. Charles Murphy listened while Larry Mulligan reported that questions had been asked about several municipal contracts.

"Who’s asking?" Murphy wanted to know.

"We don’t have a name yet. Someone has been reviewing records and speaking to former clerks. They haven’t approached the newspapers."

"Federal investigators?"

"Doesn’t look like it."

Murphy leaned back. "Then don’t behave as though it is. A few curious men with copies of public records are not a crisis."

Larry turned the cigar between his fingers. "Should we find the clerk and remind him to mind his business?"

"No. If he’s already talking, frightening him will only make his story more interesting. Find out who is paying for these inquiries and what they have uncovered. Quietly."

"You know they’re not gonna stop if they keep digging, right?" Larry asked with a concern in his voice.

"Then we’ll know whether there’s anything worth worrying about." Murphy’s expression hardened. "I won’t create a scandal to prevent someone from discovering one."

Larry accepted the instruction, though he disliked leaving a problem unresolved. He understood threats and intimidation. An investigation that moved through offices and records was harder to confront without exposing the very relationships it might be examining.

Murphy returned to his correspondence. Until he knew who was asking questions, he would make no unnecessary moves.

After Larry left, Murphy remained alone for several minutes. The reports on his desk concerned ordinary matters: appointments, contracts, ward disputes, and requests from men who believed their loyalty entitled them to favors. Nothing in the papers suggested an immediate danger.

Yet the mention of former clerks troubled him. Records could be explained. A clerk who had once handled them might remember the order in which events occurred, and order was often more revealing than any single document.

Murphy rang for an aide.

"Find out whether anyone has been making inquiries about the street-cleaning contract," he said. "No questions at the department. Ask people who hear things before they become official."

The aide waited.

"And do not let Mulligan know you are looking into his people. I want information, not a quarrel."

When the aide had gone, Murphy looked toward the darkened windows. The city was full of men who believed they could uncover a secret by following a paper trail. Most of them stopped when the trail became inconvenient. The dangerous ones were those who understood that missing records could be evidence too.

Early January 1913

The purchase took several weeks of negotiation and legal checks. Through intermediaries, Ricky’s representatives secured the neglected property at a price the Syndicate could afford. A modest private fishing and boating association provided a legitimate public purpose for its occasional visitors, though the arrangement offered no guarantee that its true use would remain secret forever.

The final agreement required more than money. The title had to be examined, outstanding taxes settled, and several old claims clarified. One former owner had left debts attached to the property, while another had retained a right to use part of the shoreline. The lawyers resolved the matters without drawing public attention, but the delays reminded Ricky that privacy did not eliminate complications.

Ricky crossed the gray waters of Long Island Sound with a small party: Caldwell, Evelyn, and Marek. The winter wind cut through their coats as the launch approached a weathered wooden pier. Low clouds pressed against the horizon, and the water rose and fell beneath the boat with a slow, heavy rhythm.

Calf Island was modest, with rocky shorelines, sparse cedar groves, and an aging timber lodge. Salt air had peeled much of the paint, and several boards along the pier looked ready to give way. A narrow path led from the landing to the lodge, though weeds and fallen branches had nearly swallowed it.

Caldwell stepped ashore first and tested the mooring posts. "The pier needs reinforcement before we can bring supplies here regularly. We’ll also need a reliable watchman and a way to track who comes and goes."

Evelyn inspected the lodge. "The main structure is usable, but the cellar is damp. Paper stored down there without repairs would be ruined."

Marek looked across the grounds. "Repairs, coal, food, transport, wages. Even a small operation will have recurring costs. We should decide exactly what this place needs before anyone starts spending money."

Ricky walked through the lodge, inspecting the rooms. The building had once been comfortable, perhaps even elegant, but years of neglect had left it cold and uneven. Several windows rattled in their frames. The kitchen stove was rusted, and the upstairs rooms smelled of mildew.

He stopped at a ground-floor chamber with thick walls and few windows.

"This will be the archive," he decided. "Repair the roof, improve ventilation, and fit the room with secure cabinets. Put a proper safe in the cellar once we’ve dealt with the damp. The adjoining room can serve for meetings."

Caldwell examined the walls. "The room is secure enough for ordinary storage, but not against fire. We should install a second means of escape and keep water nearby."

"Do it," Ricky said. "A locked door is not a security plan."

"And the rest of the island?" Caldwell asked.

"Leave it alone for now. We aren’t building a fortress, and we’re not moving the entire organization here. The estate remains our communications center. This property has one job: to give us a secure place for records and selected meetings."

Marek seemed satisfied. "That keeps the initial costs manageable."

"That’s the point. We expand when there’s a reason, not because an empty island makes us feel important." Ricky said.

They continued their inspection, noting repairs, possible storage space, and the easiest approach for supply boats. Evelyn measured the archive room and listed the materials required for shelves, cabinets, ventilation grates, and a fire-resistant lining. Caldwell marked the pier supports that would need replacement and identified a small outbuilding that could be converted into quarters for a caretaker.

At the edge of the property, they found evidence that the island had not been entirely unused. A stack of old fishing nets lay beneath a collapsed shed, and someone had recently cleared a narrow path toward the western shore.

"Could be fishermen," Caldwell said.

"Could be the former owners," Evelyn replied.

"Could be both," Ricky said. "Find out before we assume anything."

The island offered privacy, but it was not invisible. Boats would still need to arrive, workers would still need to be paid, and every additional person would create another potential leak. A caretaker might be necessary, but the wrong caretaker could become a liability. A supply schedule would make operations easier, but a predictable schedule could also be observed.

Ricky wanted the advantages without pretending the risks had disappeared.

Before they left, he stood on the pier and looked back at the lodge. The property was not impressive. It lacked the grandeur of the estate and the convenience of the city. Its value lay in separation: distance from curious visitors, distance from routine offices, and distance from anyone who believed that every important decision had to be made in a crowded room.

Marek joined him. "You look disappointed."

"I expected this place to be more private." Ricky sighed.

Marek glanced toward the lodge. "There is no such thing."

Ricky watched the launch crew prepare the lines. "No. But there are places that make certain problems easier to manage."

That was enough reason to keep the property.

By the end of January, the first repairs were underway at Calf Island. Caldwell’s department continued tracing the street-cleaning contract, comparing public records and arranging another conversation with the former clerk. The investigation had narrowed, but it had not yet established who had benefited from any improper arrangement—or whether Charles Murphy had known about it.

The island’s first expenses were higher than expected. The pier required more timber, the cellar needed drainage, and the launch could not make regular trips without additional maintenance. Marek presented the figures with visible concern.

"We are still within the amount you approved," he said, "but only because we have postponed work on the western outbuilding."

"Postpone it," Ricky replied. "The archive and the pier come first. We can live without another room."

"And the caretaker?" Marek asked.

"Find someone local with a reputation for reliability. Not someone eager to prove his loyalty. Someone who understands that the less he knows, the safer he is." Ricky said.

Marek nodded. "That may be harder to find than a carpenter."

"Then take the time to find him."

Caldwell brought Ricky the latest summary one evening. "We have a better picture of the companies involved, but the financial trail still breaks at the intermediary. We’ll keep looking."

"Good. Record where the trail ends. Don’t invent a connection just because it would fit our suspicions."

"There is another matter," Caldwell said. "The former clerk has remembered a second name connected to the island. He is not certain of the spelling, and he may have heard it from someone else."

"Then mark it as unconfirmed."

"I already have."

"Good. We are not building a case out of rumors."

Caldwell gathered his papers and left.

Ricky remained at his desk with two folders before him. One was labeled Municipal Contracts — Verification Required. The other read Calf Island — Initial Operations.

The first contained unanswered questions. The second represented a practical step toward protecting the organization he was building. Both required patience. Both could become dangerous if handled carelessly.

He thought of the former clerk, afraid that a conversation might cost him his position. He thought of Murphy, waiting to learn who was asking questions. He thought of the island’s damp cellar and the records that could be ruined by neglect as easily as they could be stolen by an enemy.

Security was not a locked door or a remote location. It was a chain of decisions, each one made with incomplete information. A weak link could be a careless clerk, an ambitious contractor, a curious caretaker, or a leader who mistook suspicion for proof.

Neither folder solved the problems waiting ahead.

He closed both folders and returned to work.