The Devil's Dime

Book 1 in the Samaritan Files Trilogy

PRAIRIE MUSE PLATINUM www.prairiemuse.com

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New York City’s Tenderloin District — 1876 — The dark-haired young man could scarcely believe his good fortune. He tried to slow his breathing, but the plush, deep carpet felt strange beneath his feet, keeping him off balance. Between holding his breath so as not to fall over and trying not to hyperventilate, he was a trembling mess. He had to steady himself. This was the reward everyone coveted, and it had come to him. He focused on the deep folds of the gold-fringed drapery that hung across the entrance. Intricate nets of transparent fabric laced the ceiling, muting the light and casting the place in an unearthly, beckoning dimness. Pale-faced boys in black silk knee britches, gold chains looped across their chests, glided slowly about the room, filling opium jars, retrieving spilled whisky glasses that had slipped from comatose hands and rolled beneath lush potted ferns.

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The rich fabrics of elegant women’s gowns draped haphazardly across the settees upon which their owners reclined—some still adorning their mistresses, others not. Here and there a man’s head reclined in the lap or upon the bosom of a sleeping female. It was as they had said. The riches were right here for the taking. He stepped forward, drawn by the pocket watch that hung from the vest of a man who would not be waking for some hours yet. Cautiously he reached down and palmed the watch, looking it over as if considering the time. He looked into the face of its owner. Nothing. He twisted the fob loose from its button hole and felt the weight of the expensive timepiece in his hand. It was his now. His reward. His heart swelled. He stepped toward the woman and relieved her of her rings. She would never report them missing. At least she’d never dare expose where and when she’d lost them. The woman twitched, and he jumped a bit, but she didn’t waken. Her earbobs followed her rings into his pocket. A beautiful girl walked toward him, her dress cut in a garish fashion with glittering stones pushing up the perfect orbs of her breasts. Her hair was a tumble of black curls that swept high, then cascaded down her neck. One lock rolled across the white delicate flesh of her bosom as she stepped into the soft light. He reached out to touch it but her eyes stopped him. She looked not so much at him as through him. The rich brown pupils were hugely dilated, floating in a light opium daze. It gave her a look of contentment, of euphoria, of acceptance. It was the kind of gaze that had never been shed upon him in his entire

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life. Acceptance. Welcome. Except by one person. Except by her, the perfect Julia. The one he wouldn’t let himself think about right now. “Are you for me?” he whispered. A semblance of a smile moved across her lips and she turned. Beckoned. And he followed. They were right. This was indeed Heaven.

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Twenty Years Later New York City – 1896 Jess Pepper was a people-watcher. If he thought about it, he most likely would not remember a time when he had not been. So the large windows in his new office constantly occupied a bit of his peripheral vision as he sought to square away his space. Vague images of people moving in the city beyond the walls of his building drew him mercilessly, tugging his attention away from the battered desk he was angling out from the corner where it had sat in dusty neglect. He gave it one more nudge, then checked the view. Almost perfect. His tall frame stretched easily across the dry leathered inset as he pulled the desk two inches further from the wall and felt the satisfying tug at his well-toned muscles. He smiled. A guy who pounded out as many words a week as he did on his trusty Blickensderfer No. 6 could waste away in a hurry—if it wasn’t such a good workout chasing

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down the bad guys to get the story. He lifted his typewriter off the floor and off-centered it on the desk just the way he liked it. It was a heavy cuss. A few minutes a day hoisting the Blick overhead while he waited for the words to come hadn’t hurt his muscle tone a bit. Some men felt naked without a sidearm. For Jess it was the Blick. Take away the typewriter where he could put words on paper as fast as he could think them and he was Samson after Delilah had absconded with his hair. Words and the way he put them together were not only his livelihood, they were his life. Exploring the human condition was his pastime. Recording what he found in ways that prompted readers to dance or weep was his passion. Jess re-positioned the piles of paper within reach and rolled a clean sheet of onionskin into the Blick. He always kept it at the ready for the moment of inspiration when the words began to flow. In a move he’d executed countless times, his right foot hit the top of the desk at nearly the same instant that his posterior slid into the well-worn captain-style rolling desk chair. He flicked his left ankle up and across and locked his hands behind his head. The chair fit his bony backside perfectly, which was why he’d brought it with him all the way from the Denver Post to the New York Times. Beyond his window crowds milled, strolled, and even stalked along the boardwalks of Park Row. There were many tempos here, and familiar tempos at that, Jess realized. The slowest paced—the window-shoppers— milled about in front of lavish store displays, and wandered

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in and out of shops with packages in tow. Their movements were erratic, meandering, their faces animated in lively conversation with companions. The faster paced seemed to be just passing through. Not interested in the shops, they just kept moving. Then there was the quiet, steady rhythm of those who were bent on completing their errands, and the still, shadowed presence of the hustlers who lurked in darkened doorways, doing the same thing Jess was doing now. Watching and waiting. The scene was new to Jess, the buildings finer, taller, but the pace, while somehow familiar, seemed unique to this city. There was no doubt about it. New York City had its own heartbeat. The question was, how well was his own pulse going to mesh with the beat of this new town. Getting his first column out and fielding the reaction it garnered would go a long way toward answering that question. Jess focused on the activity beyond his windows, searching for the inspiration that would lay down the opening words of that column for him. And he was not disappointed. In the space of five minutes, Jess saw three women fall victim to the confidence men who scavenged along the boardwalks, duping unsuspecting innocents into miserable bargains. Where were the constables who should be watching out for this kind of unsavory activity? Busy elsewhere? Or bribed to look the other way? Jess followed with his eyes the path of a well-dressed young woman in a feathered hat and fawn duster, her three young ones—little girls in sashed dresses and high-button shoes—skipping alongside. No meandering here. This woman walked with a purpose.

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Her posture and pace told Jess that her mission did not appear to be a frivolous one, but her step slowed infinitesimally as she passed an elegant hat shop. Her own jaunty hat suddenly dipped sharply away from the street, and Jess knew she was sneaking a peek at the array of plumed and jeweled millinery beyond the window glass. A pitchman who was sizing her up from a few paces away capitalized on her momentary distraction. He slicked back his greasy hair that curled over his loosened collar and descended upon her abruptly with his sales spiel. She stopped, startled to find the shabby pin-striped suit blocking her path. Walk away. Walk away. Jess sent his strongest mental urging in her direction, willing her to escape from the man bent on separating her from her husband’s earnings. The interloper’s commanding posture and obsequious politeness were carefully calculated, Jess knew, to seduce her confidence, to remind her that he—a man—knew what was best for her. What was he selling? A side of beef? Doctored water? Whatever it was, the sample would be delectable. The delivered product, if indeed anything ever arrived, would be suitable only for the dust bin. Jess dropped his feet to the floor and rested his elbows on his knees, as if leaning toward the window might lend strength to his mental urgings. The woman’s head inclined, and Jess smiled at the arrogant angle of her hat feathers as they caught the breeze. Good girl. She must have changed her tone, too, because Jess saw the children stop their playful gawking and fall into place

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in back of her skirts as the woman stepped away from the man. He began to close, to keep her in his circle of control, but her gloved hand came up stiffly into the space between them, stopping him cold. She swept the children to the outside, keeping herself between them and the stalker, and hurried on down the street. Jess’s fingers found the keys even before he pulled his gaze from the window. He was already spilling his thoughts onto the paper. This might very well do for a series of articles. A diatribe on women victims of the ‘confidence man’, perhaps, alternating with great examples like the commanding mistress he’d just witnessed, followed by a readers’ course in street defense. The auburn-haired woman was the perfect model of the female he wanted to convey, the woman who would not be managed or coerced, the woman who would fearlessly stand her ground. Jess catalogued the idea as he paused for another quick glance toward the window. A satisfied smile crept across his face as he watched the hawker make his way to the far end of the boulevard, his heels slamming a bit harder than necessary into the cobblestone. Your days on the streets are numbered, my friend. Jess Pepper knew well the power of his written word. After all, it had saved the lives of forty children who’d been spirited away from an orphan train and nearly shipped out of the country into the flesh trade. His investigative reporting had earned their freedom. And his ticket to New York City. But the power was not intoxicating. It was more shackling than anything. He’d made it his job to reveal,

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expose, defend. To modify the joys and assuage the fears of his fellow citizens through his newspaper articles. Now it seemed that a day without doing so was a day wasted. Yet he wouldn’t have it any other way. His window on the thoroughfare provided a compelling view of activity both saintly and seedy. Plenty of fodder for his first series of Times articles under the byline that had recently foisted him into the national spotlight. From the Salt Mines by Salty Pepper. The move to New York City had necessarily interrupted his investigative rhythm, and now that he was settled into his new office, his veins thrummed with a familiar adrenaline surge. Jess Pepper was impatient to get a story out. From the corner of his ever vigilant eye, Jess saw heads in the outer office turn in surprise toward the industrious sound coming from his windowed domain. He knew he was putting someone in the typing pool out of work, but never before had he entrusted his writing to a middle man. Or woman, as the case may be. And he certainly wasn’t going to start now. From the sounds of it, the typing pool had plenty to keep their pretty little fingers busy. The scenario for his new article hit the pages polished. No stopping and starting. Jess could think two paragraphs ahead while he punched out a perfectly paced story – already mentally edited – on the shiny Blick. The clacking stopped as words continued to race and tumble in his mind. The story needed facts. And facts meant research. Jess rolled the platen forward and read for the first time the words his furious fingers had planted on the page.

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It was good. And definitely worth an hour or two in the newspaper’s morgue to flesh it out.

... All too soon the young violin teacher delivered her three little charges into the hands of their nanny and headed toward the streetcar stop that she knew took her near her new rooming house. The afternoon had fairly flown. Her three little students had been thrilled with the entire excursion — the ride uptown to Carnegie Hall, the backstage tour, their skipping trek down the long ramp to the orchestra pit. Everything about it had their bright faces transformed with wonder and delight. She’d wanted to take them onstage, but the stage manager had taken one look at the three bobbing heads and denied permission. She’d hoped to cajole him into changing his mind, but not only would he not budge, he had a stagehand escort them to the door. She was offended, miffed, with no opportunity to express it, lest she embarrass herself in front of her students. But when that scroungy, mangy, cocksure confidence man had approached her on Park Row, she’d let him have it with both barrels. All her disappointment at being kept offstage at Carnegie Hall had come rushing out in clipped, terse words, and she’d delivered a tongue-lashing that had the man shrinking before her very eyes. Oh, it had felt so good. But cocksure? Where had that word come from? Was she even allowed to think it? The young woman felt the flush singe her cheeks. Adelaide Magee was no prude, but if anyone had been able at that instant to read her mind,

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she’d have to dye her hair, change her name, and move to Timbuktu. Cocksure, indeed. New York City was having a bad influence on her already.

... They were trying so hard not to stare at him that he almost laughed. The newly transplanted investigative reporter walked self-consciously through the typing pool to the main staircase. He felt eyes on his back, saw the whispering behind discreet hands, and realized he wasn’t as anonymous as he’d thought. Clicking typewriters seemed to lose their rhythm as he walked past. Women began furiously flipping through steno pads as he neared the longest bank of desks in the typing pool. How would they know if they’d found what they were looking for, when their eyes seemed bent on another task? The task of looking him over. Ogling him, if truth be told. “Well, I declare,” a chirpy southern voice suddenly erupted to his left. “Why, shugah, he looks like some kinda wild west sheriff to me. You shore he’s a—” An unnatural bevy of coughing sprang up suddenly, drowning the unguarded words. They could just get used to it. He was not going to cut his hair. Jess kept walking, wondering which he should be most grateful for—the southern belle’s outburst that made them all avert their eyes in embarrassment, or the fact that he was interesting enough to cause a ruckus. From the well-honed corner of his eye he assessed the voluptuous beauty who had modulated her tone but still

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managed to keep the focus on herself. She caught his eye, raised an eyebrow, and dropped a seductive wink that had Jess working hard not to break stride. She was a corker, all right. He supposed he’d have to find another route to and from his office. Running the gauntlet wasn’t altogether annoying, just annoyingly distracting. As Jess reached the foyer and began his descent, he worked hard to drag his mind back around the points he’d left his desk to research. He patted his pocket, checking for a handkerchief. He’d been warned he’d need it when he entered the dusty, moldridden basement of the Times. Adolph Ochs himself, the day he’d welcomed Jess onto the paper’s staff, had walked him to the stairwell that led to the cavernous basement. But at the top he’d stopped, turned, and admonished Jess to be wary. His tone seemed to portend of things much more sinister than mere dust and mold, but then it had been Jess’s first day, and he had been a mite nervous just being in the owner’s presence. Jess entered the poorly lit stairwell leading to the morgue that dated back to the newspaper’s founding in 1851. Handwritten news histories originally stored neatly in organized collections had been surrounded over the years by hodgepodge bins of hot-metal galleys and photo engravings. But there was still plenty of bookbinding and paper to supply the massive low-ceilinged room with a musty odor. He stepped noisily off the bottom stair and ignored the furtive looks from small groups of stringers huddled in dark corners among the stacks, intent on their games of craps. He’d forgotten it was payday, and stifled a grateful

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shudder that he was able to put things like payday out of his mind. It hadn’t been all that long since he himself had received the pittance paid to freelance news reporters who were paid by the column inch, the inches measured out on a string that always seemed to come up shorter than it looked. A dim glow from scattered gas lamps cast eerie shadows across signs scrawled below them on the basement’s bare brick walls. ‘1840 to 1861’ was written in four-inch letters at about eye level, with an arrow pointing left. The words ‘War Between the States’ with an arrow pointing right had been added in a different hand just below. Clearly, the history collected here predated the paper’s beginning. These crude signs were surprising. Most morgues he’d prowled had no organization at all. Perhaps it wouldn’t take as long as he’d thought to find what he was looking for. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and he saw just ahead of him the central kiosk, identifiable only by a small grill nearly hidden in the floor-to-ceiling clutter. The stern warning his editor had issued rose unbidden to his thoughts. “Don’t even think of working in the morgue without checking in with Twickenham.” While every possible justification for violating that rule tugged at him, Jess was determined to get off on the right foot and headed for the darkened grill behind which he hoped to find Twickenham’s desk. “Hello?” There was no echo in the damp hall, and his greeting fell dead, soaked up instantly by the tons of leather and parchment that surrounded him. He was about to speak

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again when a tablet was thrust through a slot in the grill, a crudely sharpened pencil dangling from it by a string. Apparently he was to register his request. As he wrote, Jess noted the times and dates and materials that had been sought most recently, according to entries further up on the page. The requests largely asked for information for obituaries. He scribbled his name, date, and interest in street crime reports for the last decade and slid the tablet back through the opening. It disappeared with the pencil into the dark cavern and Jess heard a chair scrape, followed by a shuffling. The tablet came flying back through the slot and fell neatly into his hands. “Wha-?” “Try again,” came the guttural prompt. “But-“ “And this time, use your full name.” Jess re-read his entry. April 19, 1896...J. Pepper...street crimes over last decade. He was anxious to get on with his research, and this fellow’s rules were holding things up. Biting back a grumble, he licked his thumb and rubbed it across the penciled name, then wrote in the smudged space the legal name he tried to use as little as possible. Jessiah Saltingham Pepper. It was the grandiose name with which his single mother had so proudly burdened him before she promptly up and died. He laid the tablet back on the slotted shelf, and with a tentative finger, pushed it through. Jess interpreted the silence from the other side of the cubicle as permission to continue. He turned away from

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the grill and was startled to come eye to eye with the keeper of the rules. He hadn’t heard the man leave his desk. But now a thin, cranky face peered around the stack nearest him and looked him sharply up and down. Jess stopped and extended his hand. “Twickenham?” The man’s scraggly eyebrows narrowed over a perilously perched pince-nez. A straight Roman nose pointed the way to a jutting chin over a scrawny neck and bobbing Adam’s apple. The encircling starched collar was impeccably white but badly frayed. “You truthin’ me?” He asked the question as he shook the tablet in Jess’s face. It seemed his social skills were as frayed as his collar. “Why would I not?” Jess was still uncertain what it was about his request that had set the old fellow off. “Are you Ollie Twickenham?” Jess held his smile but dropped his hand. Twickenham ignored him still. He wiggled his nose and cheek to dislodge his eyeglasses, and the pince-nez promptly tumbled from his face to dangle on a thin black ribbon attached to his vest pocket. He stepped down out of his nook and Jess realized for the first time just how short the man was. Jess stood his ground as the man studied him, looked down at the page, then fixed his eyes on Jess again. He was coatless, with muslin protectors covering the cuffs and forearms of his green-gartered white shirt. Streaks of old ink and other unrecognizable stains proved the muslin’s necessity. Twickenham drew himself up to his full height, which

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brought his beady eyes just above Jess Pepper’s elbow. “Hmmph. You’re far too young to be Salty Pepper,” he spat, “but then, you’re so wet behind the ears you wouldn’t know that!” Jess absorbed the accusation that had been delivered with an unnatural, gravelly bark that sounded like planks dragged across river rock. The damaged effect was most likely the result of years of forcing a high-pitched voice to a more authoritative register. “Ah, but I am. Salty Pepper, that is. But please, call me Jess.” A suspicious eyebrow launched itself halfway up to Twickenham’s receding hairline. “Of the Denver Post?” “One and the same, sir. Now of the New York Times for...” Jess checked his pocket watch and continued, “three days, four hours and twenty-two minutes, to be exact.” Twickenham’s jaw dropped and his eye began a rather alarming twitch. Jess drew a gold-embossed card from his pocket and turned it with a sheepish grin toward Twickenham who settled his spectacles back onto his nose and peered over them at it. He sputtered and choked and looked to be deciding if he should just stomp off or make a stand. A furious battle raged across his face and left the man heaving for breath before he finally seemed to capitulate. This fellow was not accustomed to being wrong. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? I thought you’d be older. Your reputation precedes you, sir.” Twickenham blustered, his voice soaring into its more comfortable range. “And yours, as well,” Jess offered magnanimously with a

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slight bow. If the rumors were true, Twickenham had been one of the best investigative reporters in the city, relegated years earlier to the morgue by a scandal of which he could not prove himself innocent. Twickenham tried unsuccessfully to hide his pride at the unexpected compliment. He all but swaggered as he reached up to take Jess by the elbow. “I’ve got just what you’re looking for right back here, son.” The little fellow stayed slightly in the lead and moved past a bank of books as if he were presenting a visiting lord to the gallery. Jess allowed himself to preen for just an instant, then followed. Whatever it was that had possessed him to actually follow the instructions this time had landed him squarely in the good graces of an icon of his profession. And it felt pretty fine. Twickenham led him deep into the maze, talking and gesticulating the whole way. “The basement’s much larger than you’d think. It’s connected to the basements of buildings on either side of us. Tunnels and dead ends all over the place. Runs clear over to City Hall. You want to know where something is, always ask.” He stopped in the middle of an aisle created by stacks of boxes labeled ‘Unsolved’ and turned to Jess. “One other thing you need to know. I keep a gun. You come prowling around here without checking in, you’re likely to get shot. Just a friendly warning, you know.” He resumed his tour and Jess followed, taken down a notch by the ominous statement the old man had just spoken as calmly as he might voice an invitation to dinner. A few paces further they stepped into an alcove created by shelves surrounding a battered desk and chair. From

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the layer of dust on the table, it was apparent the area was not much used. “I believe you might find what you’re looking for in here.” Twickenham pulled back the chair and used his own muslin cuff to banish the worst of the dirt collected there. He spent a few moments identifying the various piles as to what Jess might find in each, until he reached the far end of a cluttered shelf. He reached a hand toward a thick file bound with string and seemed to hesitate. Twickenham chewed his bottom lip, glanced sideways at Jess, took in a long, rattling breath and at last made up his mind. He tugged it from the shelf and plunked the tattered blue folder onto the table. “This is a bit outside the scope of what you asked for,” he began, his face crinkling into a clandestine grin, “but it’s some of our best stuff. All that,” he said, as he swept his short arms out toward the orderly piles on the surrounding shelves, “is mostly appetizers and the occasional main course. But this,” he beamed and plucked the frayed brown shoelace that held the bulging folder together, “is better than Christmas pie.”

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If there were mice, they knew enough to stay away when Deacon Trumbull took the back stairs to Heaven. The men who joined him might have profited from that wisdom. But it was greed and nothing more that had brought them to the table in the abandoned room above McGlory’s. And it was greed that kept bringing them back. “He won’t last long.” The hard voice and clipped words hushed the whining tones that had escalated around the crude table. Deacon Trumbull’s malignant self-assurance hovered about them, silencing any objection the three men might have offered. His crisp, pristine shirtsleeves rested on the scarred surface, diamonds glittering in the opulent studs of his cuffs. The cigar he nursed covered the room’s shabby mustiness with its rarefied aroma. Below the table, supple gray leather shoes bespoke the man’s wealth, their white linen summer-weight spats ornamented with understated elegance. They weren’t such a vast step above those of the other three men, but there could be no doubt that their Italian felted leather linings made them the finest to be had in New York City.

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The man they called Cash cleared his throat and flicked an ash from his own Havana Partido. “He completely shut down that Denver operation, Deac. He’s no slouch.” Trumbull glared, his blue eyes hooded. The nickname annoyed him, had ever since boarding school days when Cash had begun to shorten his name. It had been a power play, purely designed to make the pampered brat seem an equal with Deacon. As if that could ever happen. He waited a beat, and let his companions work equally to hide their nervous swallows. He would have laughed outright, if there had not been such a strong element of truth in Cash’s warning. He was absolutely correct. Jess Pepper was no slouch. But Deacon had already resolved that the man’s luck at uncovering a Denver syndicate that had been selling young, nubile boy-flesh to a hungry European market would be his own undoing. Jess Pepper might have brought a million-dollar enterprise to its knees in that cow town, but he was in New York City now, lured by the fame a byline in the Times offered. And not only was he in New York, but he’d planted himself right in the center of the cross hairs. The offices of the Times were, after all, in Chief Deacon Trumbull’s precinct. “You leave Pepper to me, gentlemen.” He swept his gaze around the table, pausing just long enough to see the subtle submission he required before changing the subject. As was his habit, he brought them back to the point of tonight’s emergency meeting before adjourning. “Tell that shyster at the Blue Blade that he can continue to deal for us or prepare to meet his Maker.” Trumbull stood, drawing the meeting to a close.

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“And if he says no?” The question came from the only one among them who had come up from the gaming hells to earn his place at the table. Deacon Trumbull speared him with his own questioning look. The man knew very well what to do if O’Hanlon balked again, but Deacon felt no compunction at spelling it out for him. “If he says no, my boys will tell his widow she has three days to get out of my tenement.” The three men nodded, rose, donned their hats and the suit coats they’d carefully laid across a spare chair earlier. Each one engaged in his own ritual of tidying his look before stepping out into the darkness of a Tenderloin back alley. Four men went four separate ways. But in each mind a brief yet fascinating game of running the odds was taking place. Just how long would Jess Pepper last?

... New York City was noisy, noisier than Denver in a million ways. Denver had cattle being herded to the stockyards down side streets, their bellows bouncing off nearby buildings, shuffling hooves muffled by hardpacked dirt. This city, on the other hand, had folks being herded into clanging trollies, their heels making clipped rhythms on the bricked causeways, their piercing voices sailing above the street ruckus as they hawked their wares or called for a hansom cab. All this escalated to carry above the sound of ferries trumpeting their departures from nearby piers. He reckoned he’d just have to get accustomed to it. Jess propped one leg on a footstool and rubbed at a

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kink in his neck. He’d resisted reading the information he’d collected until he was back in his apartment, knowing from painful experience what happened when he became absorbed in a project. Spending the night in that basement morgue wouldn’t have been the worst thing to ever happen to him, but it was certainly something he’d consciously avoid. For two hours he’d been so caught up in his reading he hadn’t moved. Now he dragged his eyes from the page and let his gaze roam the walls of his flat, blinking his bleariness away. He followed the pattern of faded wallpaper upward until it disappeared beneath simple cherry cornices that topped the windows on two sides of his parlor. The east and south exposures had been a big part of what had drawn him to the place. After all, a writer needed plenty of light. Jess had found the third floor furnished apartment at the corner of Broadway and East Fourth just a week earlier. He’d passed up a quieter second floor spot on the back of the building for these rooms overlooking the busy intersection. Three dollars a month more, but the light and the view were worth it. He didn’t mind that the curtains flanking the French doors that led to his balcony had seen a brighter day. What was important was the fact that the balcony existed, and Jess had already taken to sitting there for a half hour at the end of each day. People-watching. But not so today. Today, Jess sat in a cane-seated rocker he’d dragged

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away from the heavily manteled fireplace and into the late afternoon light that streamed through the window. Articles he’d already studied were piled up on the floor beside him. Many had provided tidbits of information that he could weave into his diatribe against the confidence riffraff, and his mind had followed a very lucid trail as he gleaned facts for the story in progress. He had the makings now of several fine columns and even allowed himself to feel a bit of enthusiasm. That is, until he opened the last folder — the tattered blue one with the knotted shoelace holding it together. Twickenham’s “Christmas pie”. It had sat there on the table, taunting him, daring him to find out why the old geezer had hesitated to trust him with it. Within seconds, the entire premise of his earlier work was forgotten as he absorbed the details of the reports he now held in his hands. The reports that had been tied into a bundle marked in large, faded letters, ‘Samaritan Files’. The pages revealed details on twenty cases. All unsolved. All having taken place two decades earlier. And all fascinating. The final article, printed more than a year after the last reported attack, when the city was beginning to feel safe again, encapsulated the crime history in chilling prose. The eloquent words stood out in harsh relief against the yellowed page upon which the column had been printed nearly twenty years earlier.

The Devil’s Dime

Samaritan Vanquishes Midnight Attacker Twelve maidens and six young matrons venture out onto the streets of New York City once again, each excursion inciting a bit less apprehension than the previous. More than a year has passed since the last of these women fell victim to a crime of the streets. A year to heal and mend. A year to find courage in their survival. And while they did survive, their lives must surely have been forever changed. Two who shared their experience, however, shall never again see the light of day, their hearts having given out over time, perhaps unable to shed the recollection of horrors that descended upon them in the dark of night. In truth, these two have perished of fright, and traded this earth for heaven’s safe haven. And yet the other eighteen victims might easily have perished as well, were it not for the heroic intervention of a man known to this city as The Samaritan. Tall, he is, and rugged of face, they say. But gentle of voice. His grip of steel wrenched fainting victims from the clutches of a fiend bent on killing. Or worse.

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“Fear not, darlin’,” reportedly the only words spoken by their rescuer who appeared out of the gloom at the very moment each broken victim thought she had breathed her last. And each, when coming out of her fainting stupor, was reported to have asked her medical attendant, “Where is the good man?” And that, dear reader, is the question that remains unanswered a full year later. Where, indeed, is the good man? Some say the good Samaritan was a traveling clergyman. Others insist he was the ghost of a Civil War soldier, bereft at having left his womenfolk as he went off to fight the war, unable to find them when he returned. If the sabered ghost could not save his own, perhaps he could save the daughters of someone else. Still others, like Deacon Trumbull, a flatfoot cop on the beat, maintain the Samaritan and the attacker are one and the same. Samaritan or Saint? Ghost or Angel? Perhaps we shall never know. Perhaps we can only be left to wonder. To wonder at the flicker of fear in a maiden’s eye as we, mere men, approach. To wonder if she might be one of the many who survived to fear another day,

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rescued by a good man with a gentle voice. Who saved her from death. Or worse. Then melted into the black night. It was eight o’clock by the time Jess had re-read the most gripping stories from the faded folder, and he’d stopped only once, to light the gas lamp on the wall. The scenarios were strikingly similar. Young women alone on the street after dark. Brown hair, small stature. Accosted and nearly beaten to death before being saved by a passing Samaritan. And many of the incidents had taken place not ten blocks from where he sat at this very moment. Jess focused on the random tapping of the crocheted shade pulls that danced at the ends of their strings in the light breeze. Was this the kind of place those young women had been coming home to when evil had waylaid them on the street? Perhaps. Jess closed his eyes and sifted through the detail he’d gleaned from the stories. The victims were surely terrified. He shuttered his mind, forcing it to take on the darkness of the street. He tried to cover himself with the panic and fear the victims must have known. To render himself helpless. But it was useless, sitting here in his sanctuary. How could he hope to describe a terror he’d never known himself? The answer was simple. He wouldn’t. After nearly twenty years, these were dead stories. Glimpses of happenings that had gone stale in memory. He

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should not dredge up the anguish for eighteen survivors who may never have fully forgotten their nightmare. He shouldn’t bring a fear of the streets back into the public mind. But Jess could not shake the feeling that from the newspaper morgue, from that repository of things long dead, had come this folder with one resonating voice that refused to die. The voice of a Samaritan never identified, a hero never thanked. Jess knotted the shoestring around the bulging folder and wondered idly if the man still lived. If saving the lives of twenty young women had changed his life in any way. Beyond the balcony the rumble of heavy-wheeled market wagons and trolleys had given way to the pleasant rhythm of carriage horses and the occasional sputtering vehicle motoring up Broadway. It was getting late. As the city sounds abated, the rumbling of his own stomach finally wrestled his attention away from the folder. Best attend to supper. Jess organized the files on the empty half of an already cluttered marble-topped chest. His fingers ran back and forth over the word ‘Samaritan’, and even as he backed away from the table, he felt the thickening air that hung between his hand and the musty pages. The story had him now. He knew that. He could no more disregard it than he could his empty stomach. Jess snatched his Stetson from the hook beside the door and descended the three floors of Sutton House. With garish images from the gruesome stories still tumbling in his mind, he strode out into the night looking for food.

...

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The tantalizing smell of pot roast kept Jess from walking further down the block to his new favorite sidewalk café. He followed the scent into the Warwick Hotel dining room and gave his name to the hovering maitre d’. His table for one was a bit near the kitchen, and the clattering of spoons and plates set up an annoying barrier between Jess and thoughts of the compelling files he’d just left behind. But even as he settled into his chair, Jess found himself drawn to yet another sound, a sound he was surprised his habit of a lifetime hadn’t managed to completely block out. Beneath a draperied arch at the far end of the dining room, the small women’s orchestra that had captured his ear accelerated into the finale of a catchy folk rhythm. Something unusual in the intensity of the chamber group kept Jess from assigning them his usual label. This group was, to his surprise, definitely not ‘ear clutter’. Jess looked for the limp-wristed, pale-faced mannequins that usually plodded through hotel dinner music and saw none of what he’d expected. These were young, intent, lively faces of women who must, he assumed, be playing technically well, because the sound was actually interesting. But it wasn’t their correctness that set his toe tapping. It was their spirit. Or perhaps more accurately, it was their athleticism. There they sat in their starched shirtwaists and gray gabardine over primly crossed ankles, playing with the spunk of a gang of hooligans. Jess doodled on a scrap of paper, trying to draw the costumes their music brought to mind. His first bold slashes of dancehall ruffles were entirely wrong. And that’s when he realized that his

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fountain pen wouldn’t be able to do justice to the design. Because the thing that was missing was color. This women’s orchestra made a demure picture in their muted dove grays, alright, but they played like they were gowned in scarlet and gold. Jess tucked the pen back into his pocket and studied the ensemble. He counted three cellists modestly hidden behind six violins, flanked by a majestic harp. A small group to be making such a robust sound. Amusement over the contradiction between sight and sound kept Jess interested, and he slid a glance over the trio of violins in the front row. Seated furthest from him was a black-haired wraith of a girl whose eyeglasses and excruciatingly thin face gave her a far greater seriousness than he’d seen elsewhere in the group. Next to her was as complete a contrast as one could conceive. Even from a distance the girl’s pug nose and riotous red curls announced her as a tomboy. Her peaches and cream complexion was flushed nearly orange with the exertion of playing. The girl bit her lip intently as she muscled her instrument through the score. And then a movement on her left drew his eye. Jess felt his breathing still as he took his first impression of the concert mistress, the girl who occupied the first chair of the first row of violins. He’d seen her before, that proud, swanlike neck below a high tumble of rich auburn curls. Could it really be her? The auburn-haired beauty with the spine of steel he’d seen from his office window, with three little girls in tow? He watched as she tumbled through the lively music, changing from woman to girl to goddess to imp. Yes. It had

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to be her. And in seconds he knew that she was the leader of this group. The signals she threw with a lift of the head or shoulder spoke as clearly as if she’d whispered some magical fairy language only the musicians could hear. Right on cue, the music swept upward into a gypsy ballad. The young lady’s thick piles of auburn curls began to bob as her shoulders swayed and leaned into the passionate, virile piece, and Jess could not have pulled his eyes away had he tried. As the orchestra continued to play, the girl slipped from her chair to stand in the center half circle created by the seated musicians. Her violin never left her chin as she moved into place, and now her intense notes soared over the Hungarian tune. She was taking a solo turn. Her over-sized amethyst ring seemed almost too heavy for the delicate fingers that flipped her violin bow with tantalizing speed and grace over the strings. The rich purple gem left ribbons of color hanging before his eyes as Jess watched her hand vault back and forth, up and down in furious swipes across the violin. Perhaps the colorful gem was her own small rebellion at their quiet attire. The music dipped into languid hollows and then taunted with a maddeningly slow progression toward the ripping tempo with which it raced toward its finale. Jess didn’t know which was more surprising. The realization that his heart was actually trying to keep pace with the primal tune, or the fact that he’d just spent the last few minutes drinking in the music rather than trying to shut it out. He watched the violinist’s fingers fly faster and faster up and down the fingerboard of her richly polished instrument.

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This girl seemed to know instinctively where and when to drop her fingers on the strings, just like he did with the Blick. He recognized the magnitude of her skill that made the mechanics so much second nature that she could give her whole attention to simply flirting with the music. The orchestra dived into the final eight chords and held the last one in a tremolo as the girl he watched zoomed through a mind-numbing flurry of notes and plucked the final stinger. Applause erupted from the room. Jess lifted his hands to join their eager approval and dragged his cuff through mashed potatoes and gravy. When had his meal arrived? He saw her taking her bows as he wiped clumsily with his napkin. Her eyes were black and piercing, her cheeks suddenly flushed. Her smile, he noted, was at an odd tilt, as if she were surprised to discover they liked what they’d just heard. No, as if she were surprised to discover they were even there. Her violin was tucked between her waist and left elbow now, and her violin bow dangled from the fingers of her left hand. She flung her free right arm in a half circle indicating her sister musicians, then swept it back out to the audience of diners. Her long fingers curved delicately as she brought the hand gracefully to her heart and dropped her head slightly. The amethyst glittered prettily against her high-necked white shirtwaist. Pride. Gratitude. Humility. Jess saw all three communicated in her stance and gestures. But her eyes were alive with fire and challenge. Like a warrior who’d just proven his worth on the battlefield.

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Jess tore his eyes away from her and caught a dollop of whipped potatoes that was about to slide off his cuff. He’d best repair the damage he’d done to his coat sleeve before he tried to meet the girl. But he would meet her. The passionate musician with the blazing eyes and piles of auburn twists had captivated him. He wanted to know her story. He dipped the linen napkin into his water goblet and took enough stabs at the most stubborn gravy spots to remove the worst. Satisfied that he could walk across the room without leaving a trail of mashed spuds in his wake, he stood, dropped the napkin on the table, and turned toward the orchestra. But he was too late. Even though the music still seemed to be bouncing off the walls, the players’ chairs were vacant. At the keyboard tucked into a corner of the room an old fellow was already slipping into a Viennese waltz.

... Adelaide Magee wasted no time getting from the hotel to her apartment. She was exhausted. Six hours at the bank and four hours playing at the hotel made for excruciatingly long days. Days that most young women her age wouldn’t put up with. But the smile that lingered on Addie’s face proved that it was just the kind of day she relished. Her Avalon Strings, the women’s orchestra she’d put together in a mere two months, had been more ardently received than she had dared dream. It was that plucky bunch of girls that had made it happen.

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“Look like St. Agnes and play like Beelzebub and we might get our foot in the door,” she’d said at their first rehearsal. And they’d taken it to heart. The hardest part had been finding a performance venue. But the manager of the Warwick Hotel who’d been so staunchly opposed to women entertainers was now begging her to extend their contract from three weeks to three months. Addie dropped her hair brush onto the vanity and checked her starched cuffs. Still clean. She’d wear them tomorrow. But the shirtwaist would have to be rinsed out. She hoped no one had seen the gauzy fabric sticking to her sweaty shoulders when she played the gypsy piece. Particularly not the handsome fellow who sat alone near the kitchen. She’d botched three full measures when he made visual contact with her, drilled her with his eyes that she’d decided were cobalt blue. Not that she could really tell from that distance, but what other color could have made them so piercing? Knowing a man watched her was nothing new. But his wasn’t the usual leer to which she’d become accustomed. This fellow’s gaze held intelligence. And surprise. Addie caught the look on her own face and laughed at the mirror. Well, it had been surprise on his face. And she liked that. Liked it very much. Addie twirled the cuffs on a lazy finger and realized she wanted to see him again. Not just because he filled out his western-cut suit coat so admirably. But because something tangible had lived in the space between them while their eyes were locked. Whatever it was, she wasn’t ready to name it just yet. It was just...something.

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She dropped the cuffs into the cuff box on top of her dresser and poured a pitcher of water into the white porcelain bowl. One quick chore and she could crawl into bed. Addie plucked an errant curl off her brow and vowed she’d find a better room with running water before summer. If the Warwick really wanted to keep her string group on contract, that might actually be possible. She rubbed a stubborn spot in the wet fabric and promised herself she’d double her wardrobe as well. In the two months she’d been here, she was certain everyone had figured out that she owned only two shirtwaists and three blouses—two ecru and one white. She hung the lightweight blouse over the wire she had strung from her bedpost to the top of the window casing. The light fabric would dry before morning. And it wouldn’t need pressing, so she wouldn’t have to warm up her little room by stoking the little coal stove to heat up the flatirons. Addie smoothed the wrinkles out of the sleeves and fingered the unique embroidery along the collar points. They were some of the last stitches her mother had sewn—another reason why it was the perfect thing to wear tomorrow. She’d wear it to work at the bank, and since the orchestra didn’t play on Thursdays, she’d have the evening free to attend to the one last errand she’d been putting off since moving back to New York City. She knew the shirtwaist showed off her long neck and slim waist and gave her the look of a modestly successful, independent woman. Exactly the way her mother had

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taught her. Exactly the way she wanted to appear when she met the father she hadn’t seen since she was four years old.

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Addie swung around the last street corner before reaching the bank and grabbed her hat brim as a gust of wind caught it. Morning in New York City was a far cry from morning on the smelly outskirts of Chicago. Windy, yes. And colorful. Though here, the color was merely painted onto the side panels of horse-drawn trucks. In Chicago, the streets were made bright by actual mounds of tomatoes and squash and every conceivable vegetable jouncing along in the backs of open wagons. New York City, it seemed, was much too civil to parade its produce through Battery Park, much less the middle of Manhattan. Everything here was concealed. The breeze died down for a moment and allowed the city smell to creep up once again from alleyways and gutters. She wrinkled her nose. Maybe that’s why goods traveled in enclosed panel wagons — to secure them from taking on the odor as they passed through. But she did love mornings here, in this city so purposefully striding into its day. She joined a cluster of women crossing the boulevard and stepped up onto the wide walk that would take her directly to the bank. It had

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been a good walk. Her shoes had stayed fairly clean and wouldn’t need to be buffed before she stepped into her cage. Chase National Bank occupied most of the block at Cedar and Greenwich. It was the bastion of financial authority in the city. And, for that matter, many parts of the world. Aristocratic to the core and provincial in the most minute detail, it was a hallowed place. Its fortressed walls told the people of the sprawling city that their money was safe. As it had each day for the past two months, the click of her heels on the granite steps signaled that it was time for Addie to switch roles. Check the independent impresario attitude at the door, and don the pleasant smile of subordinate to the men who actually ran the institution. Here women, like children, were to be seen and not heard. As Addie had learned the hard way, deviating from the prescribed procedure was not an option. Whether slow or cumbersome, or downright antiquated, the bank’s way was the only way. Once she became accustomed to the idea, she found it had one very nice benefit for her. She wasn’t required to think overmuch. Just do the job and follow the rules, and save all that creative energy for the other job to which she could truly give her heart and soul at the end of the day. The tails of her hair ribbon tickled her neck as the heavy doors closed with a rush of air behind her. The rhythm of shuffling papers and thumping hand stamps had already begun, and Addie welcomed its calming effect as the grandness of the place descended upon her. And so did Hamilton Jensen.

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The moment she saw him approaching, Addie veered to the left to put an additional rank of desks between herself and the fellow who was closing fast. Addie hoped her move looked as though she were simply attempting a more direct route to the women’s coat room. It was clumsy at best. Surely Hamilton had seen through it. But her maneuver worked. If he were to adjust his path to meet up with her now, it would be a most obvious and embarrassing display. She knew Hamilton would never pursue her so blatantly. A vicious bite to her tongue kept the smug smile from her face. It was satisfying to have escaped this most persistent fellow. She had precious little time for herself these days, but if Hamilton Jensen had his way, she’d have none at all. Addie walked as quickly as she could without swinging her arms or losing her composure and made it to safety beyond the louvered doors of the women’s “robing room”. It took just seconds to unpin her hat and hang her summery shoulder cape in the narrow cubby assigned to her. She checked the bow she’d pinned at the base of her curls and straightened her grandmother’s opal brooch at her neck. The efficiency of her movements, the routine, always helped cement her transformation as Addie began another day at Chase National. Addie slipped her tan sleeve protectors on over her forearms and stopped at the vault to pick up her morning tray for Teller Station No. 8. She moved easily into her teller stall, made her own count of the tray’s contents, and began to slide the drawer into place.

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As always, it stuck on the right side, and Addie had to bend down to watch the runner as she lightly jostled the temperamental tray to the exact angle it needed to achieve before rolling into place. “Here. Let me help you with that, Miss Magee.” Addie did her best not to groan at the solicitous tone coming at her over her left shoulder. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Jensen, but I’ve just got it now. Thank you.” She gave an angry little tap and the runner clicked into place and the drawer slid closed. “Well, then. Very good. But Ridley should really see to getting that repaired. I see you wrestling with it every morning.” “I hardly wrestle, Mr. Jensen.” His choice of words embarrassed her, and her tone bristled out cold and hard. Surely she hadn’t made a spectacle of herself as she teased the drawer into place. “Of course not, Miss Magee, I only meant...” “My apologies, Mr. Jensen, I know you meant to commiserate. Please forgive me. Now if you’ll excuse me...” “Ah! Certainly.” Hamilton’s voice dropped to a whisper and he moved further into her station. “I shall forgive you if you accompany me to hear Scott Joplin this evening, Adelaide.” Scott Joplin! Could it be possible? “Mr. Jensen,” she whispered, bent on refusing and trying to find a way to do it cordially. “I’ve seen nothing announcing Mr. Joplin’s presence in the city this week. Surely you’re mistaken.” “Ah, ah, ah,” he whispered, “Hamilton. It’s time you called me Hamilton. And it’s a private affair. By invitation

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only. Now, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Seven o’clock tonight. May I call for you at home?” Addie looked up into his square face. His handlebar mustache was perfectly waxed and his hair gleamed with just the right amount of pomade. Everything about his appearance was handsomely groomed. He’d mastered the look of successful, if a bit over-fed, bank officer. Scott Joplin. Was he really offering her an opportunity to hear this amazing fellow? She might never have another opportunity. He’d found the perfect carrot to dangle in front of her. She reached a hand to tidy her hair, stalling. Surely she could put up with him just one more time. But she’d intended to introduce herself to her father tonight, though her father knew nothing of her intentions. He had no idea she was even living in New York City. Probably didn’t even realize she was twenty-four by now and successful in her own right. Addie sighed, not so much in resignation but in anticipation. It wouldn’t hurt to wait another week to meet her father. She’d see him another night. Tonight she’d go with harmless Hamilton to hear the king of ragtime. “Well, I...” she blushed, wondering how she dared accept after her horrid treatment of him. “Then you’ll go?” His face was so pathetically hopeful she almost laughed. “Yes, Hamilton,” she whispered, “I would enjoy that very much. I’ll meet you at the Warwick at seven.” “But I would so much rather call for you at home.” The poor man simply couldn’t keep his emotions off his face and she nearly laughed again. “That’s so kind of you, Hamilton, but I have a bit of

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business to take care of with the hotel manager after work—for my orchestra, you understand—and it would be much simpler for you to meet me there. If you don’t mind, that is.” Now she was shamelessly peeking at him from beneath her lowered lids. Had she no pride? For their two previous afternoon outings, she’d managed to meet him away from her meager flat, though she had no doubt he could obtain her address from the bank if he had a mind to. This would be the last time she’d have to worry about it. She’d not be seeing Hamilton Jensen again. At least, not socially. If she promised herself that, she could manage to get through one more evening. Joplin was indeed worth the misery. “The Warwick, it is. At seven. I shall look forward to the evening with great anticipation.” He ducked his head in a surreptitious bow and strode down the teller line. “Likewise,” Addie answered, meaning, of course, that she would look forward to the entertainment. She didn’t mind Hamilton so very much, but he was so maddeningly flirtatious that she’d been forced to spend most of the outing countering his advances. Perhaps tonight she would just give up and let her silence speak for itself. Three bells signaled the start of the business day as two liveried attendants opened the massive front doors. Addie put the evening out of her mind as the first morning customers began to line up just beyond the bars of Teller Station No. 8.

... To say Jess had been restless like a schoolboy all day

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would have been an understatement. He was completely buffaloed by the unfamiliar anticipation that had plagued him without ceasing. As he left work that evening, Jess had the urge to deny his impulse and walk toward home instead of toward the Warwick Hotel. He would not be ruled by this untenable fancy for a slip of a girl. But while his brain mulled it over, his feet carried him unerringly to the majestic front doors of the popular hotel. Inside, he ducked into the washroom to get the black carbon graphite from the typewriter ribbon off his fingers. It was the one curse of the Blick. Its devilishly complex jumble of gears and levers through which to thread the ribbon when it needed to be replaced always left his hands a filthy mess. But he’d been a man on a mission tonight and hadn’t noticed his dirty hands until he was halfway to the hotel. By the time he’d washed up, the liveried attendant glowered at Jess from his station by the door of the marbletiled lavatory. It wasn’t terribly difficult to determine the source of the man’s irritation. The hotel crest, embroidered on a brushed linen hand towel in nearly invisible white stitches, had been a pristine white when the man had handed it to him moments earlier. Now, as Jess lobbed it into the bin at the man’s feet, he saw that it was blackened and nasty. He resisted the urge to shove the discarded hand towel beneath the others that stood out stark and white below it in the pile, and instead, doubled his tip, which hardly mollified the fellow. But at least he stopped blocking the door so Jess could make his escape. It seemed impossible that a full day had passed since he’d dined at the Warwick. Busy as the day had been, he’d

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found scenes and sounds from the night before constantly intruding on his concentration. At one point he’d even caught himself whistling the gypsy tune. Tonight he’d find out if the virtuoso violinist could sustain his first impression. He half expected to be disappointed. Nearly always, dinner was an afterthought for Jess, something his stomach would nag him about until he’d finally take to the streets in search of an open café or sandwich shop. So, finding himself at the Warwick Hotel dining room two nights in a row was so out of character that he very nearly turned on his heel and pointed his nose toward the door. “Will you be dining alone, sir?” The maitre d’ leaned expectantly toward the dining room’s tasseled colonnade and made the decision for Jess. He’d stay for dinner. Halfway across the room, Jess began to think he was being led to the same remote table by the kitchen he’d occupied the night before. But the chair that was held out for him was just two tables from the empty stage. It couldn’t have been better had he bribed the fellow. Jess stretched out his long legs beneath the crisp linen cloth and settled back to watch the meticulously trained staff at work. “Care for ice, sir?” A thin boy of perhaps ten or eleven held a crystal urn filled with gleaming cracked ice at the ready near Jess’s goblet. Jess chuckled at the boy’s blank expression. He concentrated just hard enough to be polite to his patrons, but his mind was a zillion miles away. “Ever drop one of those?”

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“Beg pardon, sir?” The boy jumped, startled at having been spoken to, and nearly dropped the heavy leaded crystal. He clutched it to his chest as the ice inside clattered to rest. ‘Yes’ and ‘no thank you’ were the words he would be most accustomed to hearing from patrons. To most diners, he and his kind were invisible. “Have you ever broken one of your ice buckets?” Jess winked and grinned, trying to reassure the lad who was clearly uncomfortable over being drawn into conversation. “No, sir.” The boy’s eyes grew huge, and he drew the words out as he contemplated how horrid it might feel if he’d had to answer ‘yes’. “What d’you think would happen?” Jess folded his hands in his lap, showing the child he had all the time in the world to hear the answer. “Mr. Tony’d whup me, sir.” “Ah.” Jess nodded soberly. “And then what?” “Then my pa’d whup me.” This answer took no thought at all and spilled out on an involuntary snort. “Well, of course. He’d have to, wouldn’t he.” “That’s what he’d say, anyway. You want ice or not?” The boy shifted the heavy crystal bucket. “In a minute. But what happens first?” “Huh?” “Tell me each thing that would happen if you were to drop something like this.” He gestured toward the gleaming glass. “Y’mean...” “Just picture it in your mind smashing to the floor and describe it to me second by second.” “Well...” the boy shifted again and focused his gaze on

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the cold cut glass he held. His eyes flicked briefly left and right, as if he worried that someone might see him talking overlong with this crazy man, and then he carefully set the crystal bucket on the tabletop. He flexed his wet hands, deeply reddened by the cold glass, and slid them along his pant legs to dry his palms. “First, my fingers feel slick, and the points of these here diamonds, these designs, start to drag down my shirt.” He looked to Jess for reassurance he was on the right track. Jess gloated silently. He’d been right about the boredom in the lad’s eyes. Behind those piercing brown eyes was a clever mind being wasted. The boy’s response was proving him right. “Go on,” he nodded. “Then my mind kicks in, knows I’m gonna drop the thing. But my hands don’t know it yet, so they just let the sweaty glass drag on through.” The pace of his words remained steady, thoughtful, as he continued to dissect the imagined catastrophe. “That’s when I know I can’t catch it, but my fingers try anyways, and knock it sideways while it goes down. My... my chest starts t’ pinch an’ my throat gets dry and I jump back. Some o’ the ice is already scatterin’ round, an’ then the glass hits the floor. An’ it breaks. An’ each one o’ them diamonds splits off and scatters an’ ya can’t tell the glass from the ice.” The boy dragged his eyes from the bucket and fixed his gaze on Jess. He was beginning to get comfortable with this game. “That there’s when I tells m’ feet they better skedaddle if they know what’s good for m’ butt.”

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Now Jess snorted. And the boy snorted. Jess pulled a silver coin from his pocket and flipped it onto the table, then helped himself to the silver tongs. “Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.” Jess was still chuckling as he filled his water goblet with ice. The boy was trying hard not to stare at the silver dollar. “Think you could write that down?” The boy stalled, thinking it over. “I ain’t too great at spellin’.” Jess hung the silver tongs back on the ice bucket and rapped a knuckle on the coin, then held it up to gleam in front of the boy’s eyes. “You bring me back that story printed out real nice...your own work, mind you...and I’ve got one of those for you.” The boy’s eyes grew huge, so aghast was he at the unlikelihood of his amazing good fortune. Then his brow crinkled. “But I gotta work, mister.” “Well, then, get goin’. Remember your story, though, boy. Write it down. You want your dollar, you’ll find me. Now git.” The boy smiled shyly and reached for his ice bucket. His hands hesitated. “Here.” Jess took his linen napkin from his lap and wrapped it around the cold wet crystal, gratified by the look of relief and thanks in the boy’s eyes before he stepped to the next table. Same boy, same scrawny legs, same crystal bucket. But the boy was different now. He watched and reacted. He was beginning to own the space he’d shuffled invisibly through just moments earlier.

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There was a huge bright spot in his immediate future, and he moved differently now. He moved forward. A kid with a mission. It felt good to chalk up another prospect. It would be nice to know some day if any of his silver dollar boys—and there had been several over the last four or five years— would grow up to be writers. The fresh ice rolled and clinked as it settled in his water goblet, and his waiter came and went with his order. He stared at the empty chairs that stood just a few paces away while he waited for his dinner to arrive. It was time to consider the opportunity that lay before him. If he played his cards right, he might actually make the acquaintance of the intriguing violinist tonight. He fingered the engraved calling card that had tumbled onto the table when he’d gone into his pocket after the boy’s silver dollar. The same card he’d flashed at Twickenham the day before. His name and office were grandly stamped on it in gold lettering, certainly the most elegant business card he’d ever possessed. He tapped it idly on the table as he contemplated how it might facilitate his first introduction to the young woman. He imagined her now as he’d seen her last night, flashing as much fire and passion from her eyes as she did through her instrument. What made him think he could interest the likes of her in getting to know him better? He could wait for her to take her final bow, and when she turned to leave he could stand and give his compliments and offer his card. Did he dare suggest coffee? Or escort her home? Did she have a husband who would meet her at the backstage door?

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The rules had become thoroughly muddled these days. How was a fellow to know what a woman expected? And how, for the love of Pete, had he arrived at the age of thirtytwo so blasted ignorant? Jess cut off his own questions and reminded himself these things didn’t truly concern him. He was simply going to interview the woman about her incident with the confidence man on Park Row, nothing more. His pork chop arrived, impeccably prepared, and while it provided no answers to his dilemma, it disappeared swiftly. Somehow he even managed not to repeat the gravy incident of the previous night. He was just savoring his first bite of apple brown betty when a fellow began rearranging the chairs on the low stage, readying the area for performers. An odd quickening of his pulse signaled his own readiness. A half dozen chairs disappeared, and minutes later the fellow hurried back with an easel that he placed to the left of the performer’s area. Jess dropped his spoon into the empty bowl and attempted a casual disinterest as he glanced toward the announcement. The Warwick Hotel is pleased to welcome The Worthington Brass. Jess wiped his chin and slumped back from the table. No Avalon Strings tonight. He sat a moment, adjusting to the disappointment that swooped over him. He wouldn’t be seeing the stunning violinist. He stood and dropped his gratuity on the table as four young men trooped onto the stage. He was not in the mood for brass tonight. He’d heard

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enough brass bands when he was attached to the Cavalry. Best to leave before they began. Jess threaded his way to the rear of the full dining room, all the while contemplating his sudden turn of mood. He’d been looking forward to the prospect of seeing, hearing, and possibly even getting to know the talented young woman. Now he realized he was actually disappointed. The cloak room was just steps from the dining room, and Jess swung through its red-tasseled opening to retrieve his topcoat and hat. “Ah! Mr. Pepper! Enjoyed your dinner, I trust?” The freckle-faced fellow behind the counter whipped through his low swinging brass gate and held out Jess’s black lambskin and Stetson. In a practiced move the young man deftly traded his soft-bristled brush for a chamoiscovered tool and made discreet sweeps across the leather shoulders and back as Jess adjusted to the familiar weight of the ancient coat. “That I did, sir. That I did.” “Rocky? Oh, there you are! Did you by any chance find my other glove last night? I can hardly appear at the Astors’ with only one—” Jess turned toward the colorful voice as he took his hat from the attendant and nearly dropped it as he came face to face with the dark dancing eyes of the violinist. “Oh,dear, I—” she stammered. “Please forgive me for interrupting.” Jess assessed the understated simplicity of her pale green and peach gown that made her as perfect a subject for an artistic masterpiece as it did an evening about town. Small gemmed butterflies glittered from their nesting

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places in the elaborate twists of her hair. She seemed younger than the driven female he’d watched the night before, as if the gown freed her movements as lavishly as her violin freed her spirit. This woman was not made for gabardine. She was made for gossamer. Her cheeks grew pink as his eyes dipped slightly to the ruching at her décolletage and then snapped back to capture her gaze once again. He took in the fair complexion and full lips set in a startled smile, and absorbed the detail of the face that had so recently captivated him. “If you frolic with half as much zest as you fiddle, the evening will be a success,” Jess quipped, deliberately stressing his gross understatement regarding her virtuosic violin. “You must be mistaken, sir.” Her eyebrows arched with humor as she quite prettily regained her composure. “I care not for the fiddle.” “Mr. Pepper, may I present Miss Adelaide Magee, our resident musical genius.” The attendant—Rocky, she’d called him—made the introductions with a grand flourish. “Miss Magee, Mr. Pepper writes for the New York Times.” Jess held his Stetson to his chest and took her offered hand. He regretted the fact that it was the gloved one as he dropped a kiss just short of the back of her kid-clad fingers. “An exceedingly great pleasure, Miss Magee.” Jess straightened, about to request permission to pay her a call when her escort poked his walking stick and top hat through the velvet drapery at the door. “Ready, my dear?” The man failed to hide his irritation at finding his young companion engaged in conversation with a stranger. He held the curtain aside with exaggerated

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courtesy, expecting her to join him. But Miss Magee held Jess’s fingers an instant longer as Jess began to draw away. Her eyes lingered as well, sending their own silent message across the space between them. The slight pressure she gave as she released his hand told Jess he had not misinterpreted her pleasure at making his acquaintance. A sudden thought dampened his enjoyment of the moment. Perhaps the mention of his connection to the newspaper was what interested her. She turned to slip her arm through the offered elbow of the elegant fellow who could have been her uncle. Or father. It was difficult to tell. His silver-tipped stick announced the fact that whether or not he was a man of importance, he was, at the very least, a man of exceptional means. “Addie! Your glove!” Rocky intercepted Miss Magee at the curtain. He restored the errant glove and was rewarded with a peck on the cheek. “Thank you, my friend,” she said softly, as she turned away and disappeared through the opening. But not before she’d cast a quick glance back toward Jess from beneath her ample lashes. Thank you for the glove? Or thank you for the introduction. An extraordinary heat scooted up the back of his neck as Jess stood in the coat room and contemplated her intent. Rooted to the spot where this most unexpected encounter had taken place, he found himself surprisingly hopeful that it was the latter.

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She had been so wrong, so terribly wrong. Nothing was worth the smarmy feel of Hamilton Jensen’s roaming fingers. Now she’d never hear Joplin again without squirming in her skin. By Sunday afternoon Addie had not yet calmed down from her silent fury of Thursday evening, when she had no recourse but to be polite to him through the horrid hours in the Astors’ elegant music room. He had introduced her to everyone as his discovery, the marvelous new violinist in town. And he hadn’t even heard her play. Half the people there were potential employers for one event or another, so Addie had no choice but to appear grateful to him. And a desperate need to keep her job at the bank had forced her to bite her tongue raw. She shuddered, remembering her fear when Hamilton had maneuvered her into a secluded hallway and pressed a disgusting kiss. She’d practically laughed in his face when that wonderful police chief had accidentally intruded. “Good evening, Mr. Jensen! I see you’re keeping lovely company this evening.” He’d swept an elegant bow, and his cape slipped off his shoulder in a rakish swirl. Hamilton

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stammered out an introduction, and Addie found herself drawing away from him as she offered Chief Trumbull her hand. The chief’s eyes had swept the length of her, and when they returned to her face, she saw interest. Not exactly fatherly, but much more debonair than the leer Hamilton usually shed upon her. And then the dear man had begged a ride home, saving her the horrors that a dark carriage might have presented, had she been alone with Hamilton. She could have kissed him. But today another man was the object of her interest. It was high time she faced that initial visit to her father, even if Hamilton had left her out of sorts. If she put it off once again, she might never face up to the task. So today was the day. It was too far to walk in the heat of the afternoon, but a ride on her pennyfarthing would get her there just fine. The antiquated three-wheeled, two-pedal women’s cycle was in sad shape, but it never failed to get her where she needed to go. And upon it, she could outrun anyone, even someone with ill intent. That is, if she left her corset at home and allowed her lungs the freedom they needed. Addie maneuvered her mechanical conveyance through Sunday afternoon traffic along the twenty-one block route to Sutton House and parked the pennyfarthing in the air shaft that served as an alley just east of the apartment building. The task of negotiating traffic had been cleansing in its own way, and as she mounted the stairs to her father’s fourth floor apartment, she actually smiled. He didn’t know that today was the day he was going to get his family back.

...

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Jess had worked through the weekend getting his Monday column ready, but by Sunday afternoon he’d found himself drawn back to his apartment, and deep into the Samaritan files, oblivious to the sounds of life beyond his window. But when he propped his front door open to draw a breeze through his sitting room, Jess couldn’t miss the tense tones coming from the floor above, tones that were rapidly escalating into an argument. “I’m sorry I interrupted your reading. I won’t bother you again!” A terse female voice that filtered down from the upper hallway teetered on the edge of control. She must be fairly shouting for her words to be heard so clearly, or perhaps the stairwell served to amplify the sound. Whatever it was, her voice came through clear as a bell. Jess looked up from the notes he was penning and tried to make sense of a mumbled response, but it was indistinguishable. “You’re quite mad, you know. Whatever possessed me to think—“ Her strained tone sounded very much as if it were being delivered through clenched teeth. Someone upstairs had worked up a temper. Jess cocked an ear toward his door as the voices grew louder, accompanied by several hesitant footsteps. One of the parties was leaving. End of drama. He stretched and re-read the list of locations he intended to scout out. If he’d plotted the addresses correctly, four of the Samaritan crime scenes lay on a direct line between his residential area and the dock laborer’s union hall. He’d check those out first, record the time it took to walk from the labor hall to each site. Based on what he found, he’d decide if it was worth following up his hunch.

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His list was shaping up nicely, but the argument overhead was rapidly deteriorating. He was a people watcher, not an eavesdropper, and it had obviously become time to close his door. Jess rose. “That’s perfectly fine with—” Suddenly the walls rattled as the door above slammed shut. In the next instant, a feminine shriek jolted him to action, and Jess tore on through his door and onto the landing. His feet seemed to assess the situation almost as instantly as his mind had. Jess grabbed the railing and vaulted up the first six steps just as a flurry of skirts careened off the fourth floor landing and into his arms. “Ow...” “...bloody hell...oo-oo-oo” “...dammit-ouch...” “...ow!” Jess held on fiercely to the female wildcat who was doing her best to throw the both of them down the stairs. If he let go, she’d fall. If he didn’t, they’d both fall. His left foot slid to the corner of the stair and he managed to brace it against the wall. In the same instant, he threw his own right shoulder into the woman’s flailing right arm. It was just enough to reverse the forward fall and send them both plunking into an undignified heap on the top step. “Good god, woman, you almost got us both killed.” Gallantry vanished as Jess looked through the railing of the fourth floor landing over which they had very nearly toppled. “Who the bloody hell are—” The young woman righted her Sunday hat, whipped her head around to get

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her first glimpse of her rescuer, and clamped both gloved hands over her mouth. “Oh!” The sound was muffled behind kid-clad fingers, and half her face was obscured. But the half that was not hidden bore reddening eyes brimming with tears. Red or not, Jess recognized them as the same eyes that had interrupted his sleep for the past two nights. They’d looked black from across the hotel dining room, dark and flashing as she’d sailed through the Hungarian rhapsody. But he’d discovered their hazel depths just the night before in the cloak room. And the smile that lit them. It, of course, was noticeably missing at the moment. Above their smouldering darkness, the auburn hair he’d imagined plunging his hands into had escaped its pins and hung in ragged tufts. “You?” “You!” He marveled at the change to her face as anger fled and embarrassment pounced. The flush turned to a blush. She moved her hands to set about repairing her hair and revealed the full lips that had tantalized Jess when he’d first met her at the Warwick. They were paler now, and quivering. Adelaide. Her name was Adelaide. “I just...tripped...I’m so sorry, I...” she winced. “Are you all right?” “Not really, but...” “Where are you hurt?” “I’ll be fine. Now if you’ll be so kind as to help me up...” Her voice was thick with threatening tears, and Jess took pity on her state as he helped her to her feet. Something

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more than tumbling into his arms had upset this woman. The altercation he’d overheard flooded his memory and he winced, perplexed at how or why the man had so adeptly angered her. “I’d be ever so...grateful...if we could just pretend this never, oo–” she gasped as she tried to take a step, “–never happened.” “Careful!” Jess moved closer and stretched an arm behind to steady her. “Take it slowly, Miss Magee.” She stiffened as he tightened his grip, and Jess was slow to realize why she shrank from his touch. What was he supposed to do? Stand back and watch her struggle to her feet? He moved his arm for a better grip around her slim waist and clamped a curtain over his thoughts as he grasped the meaning behind the very pleasant feel of her ribs beneath his hand. To say nothing of her soft bosom pressing into his side. He could feel no stays, no wires, none of the usual rigid barriers a gentleman associated with a lady. Just pliant fabric between himself and Addie Magee. Miss Magee, he’d discovered, wasn’t wearing a corset. “I’m fine! Really!” She pulled away and slipped quickly down two steps and away from his grasp. “Thank you so much.” “But...wait! Let me find a carriage for you.” “No, no! I have a ride.” She was on the lower landing now, each step steadier than the last, and she turned quickly onto the next flight. “Good day!” Her words echoed in the stairwell as her auburn twists disappeared from view. The sophisticated young woman he’d met in

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Rocky’s cloakroom was nowhere in sight today. This was a girl looking for a place to hide. The sound of her quick retreat drifted up to him and reassured Jess that she was not limping. But just for good measure, he loped back into his apartment and out onto the balcony. He needed to know she could get home on her own. His eyes swept the sidewalk below him, watching for the stylish figure he knew he’d recognize going or coming. No one emerged from the door. In fact, there were no unaccompanied women anywhere. The usual Sunday strollers ambled along both sides of the boulevard, but Miss Magee was not among them. Had her carriage already pulled away? Jess leaned slightly over the balustrade, concerned now that she’d not even left the building. He was just about to race downstairs to see if she’d collapsed somewhere between here and the front door when a female figure darted out of the alley. Pushing a dilapidated old three-wheeler. She wheeled it into the street, and, still standing on the higher boardwalk, sat herself prettily on the cycle’s broad leather saddle. A wayward curl on the back of her neck was the only sign of her recent tumble down the stairs. Jess gripped the railing and watched her auburn head bob in and out of traffic, her long skirts floating charmingly with her effort. In the two days since he’d first cast eyes upon the virtuoso violinist, he’d certainly never imagined her on a contraption like that. Or in his apartment building, for that matter. And certainly not in his arms. Well, not the way she’d landed there, at any rate.

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Jess watched as the figure alternately wobbled and plunged through the carriage traffic. What had she been doing in his building, anyway? Involved in an argument, to boot? A huff of curiosity escaped him as Jess reluctantly lost sight of the beautiful, talented, Miss Adelaide Magee wheeling furiously away. The cycle did explain one thing, though, he realized. It cleared up the mystery of the missing corset. Adelaide Magee was a wheeler. A thoroughly modern, independent and liberated free-wheeler. If he could just get her to stay in one place for longer than a moment he was going to enjoy becoming acquainted with this fascinating creature. Immensely.

... The old pennyfarthing rattled and clanked as Addie scooted it across the alley in back of her building and pushed it behind the tumble-down shed. Her apartment building wasn’t much to look at from the street, but at least the facade was kept in good repair. Not so the outbuildings by the alley. Still, the shed made a great place to conceal her ancient ride. “Rats!” She kicked the wobbling front wheel snugly against the shed’s rotted boards and fumed her way up the back stairs to her floor. Drat bicycles and drat libertine women who’d enticed her into leaving her corset at home when she went wheeling and drat her abominable female independence that had gotten her into this mortifying predicament. She’d left home intending to announce herself to her absent father and ended up blubbering and indecent in the arms of the

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first and only New Yorker she’d taken a shine to. Addie winced at the thought, then winced again in alarm at the pain that shot through her right arm when she turned the doorknob. Oh, bother. Her bowing arm. Tomorrow evening’s performance was going to hurt like the dickens. But then, that had been the story of her whole day. “Far as I’m concerned, I never had a daughter.” Her father’s words had rumbled from deep within his chest to tear at the fragile bond she’d held out to him. His heated indifference had frozen the breath in her lungs, and she had not even managed to effectively plead her case with him. Everything he said just fueled her resentment and she’d found herself doing the absolute opposite of making amends. She’d been shockingly unhinged by her humiliation when she’d flung herself away from his doorway and down the steps so quickly that she’d tromped on her own hem, tripped down two more steps, and catapulted herself right into Jess Pepper. Addie felt the heat in her cheeks all over again. Could he tell she’d worn no foundation beneath her summer muslin today? Perhaps, perhaps not. It had only been seconds that he’d held her so close. Hadn’t it? Even as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew he could tell. She knew, because she could still feel each place he’d touched her. The small of her back. The ribs in her left side. And the soft flesh at her waist. All still held a memory of the pressure of his fingers. In these liberating times, a modern woman had unheard of choices. She could be straight-laced, laced up in her overly tight corset so she could stand and sit straight as a

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steel rod and pass out if she tried to hurry up the stairs, much less ride a bicycle. Or she could abandon her binding stays, set her lungs loose, and be able to ride a bicycle without falling in a dead faint. Addie wanted both. Or rather, she wanted to be known as straight-laced. And live loose. As long as no one was the wiser. But she’d been caught. Addie flung her hat and bag on the bed and crept to her small writing desk. She probed her right shoulder delicately, and followed the strained tendon and shrieking nerve down across her collar bone. It wasn’t good. Jess Pepper had thrown his muscled physique into her like a bull on the loose. This was all his fault. She groaned, ashamed at her disregard for his quick thinking. If he hadn’t acted so swiftly, she might be on her way to a hospital right now, or dead with a broken neck. What else could she ruin today? In the last hour she’d managed to cause one man to put to rest any idea she’d ever had of having a father. And another man to reverse what she’d felt was a favorable first impression of her. How could he not be repulsed? Unless... Addie fingered the embroidered collar points that laid prettily at her throat and wished again her mother were here to talk things through with her. She’d certainly bungled things with her father. Had she bungled things beyond repair with Jess Pepper so that he would want nothing to do with her? Or perhaps, she blanched at the thought, she’d revealed the very thing that would make him want everything to do with her. And for all the wrong reasons. Lord have mercy. How did one explain that one was not that kind of a girl

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when one had already clearly demonstrated that one was? Addie groaned. What’s done is done. She dragged her violin case across the bed and retreated to the safety of her musical chores. At least here she knew all the answers. Why hadn’t she been content to stay in that world she knew so well? The one with her violin tucked under her chin and the music wrapping its safe buffer all around her. Addie opened the well-worn case and smiled at the new German strings she’d strung just the night before. They were the best in the world, the very first thing she’d bought with her payment from the hotel job. She switched the violin to her right hand, allowing her healthy left arm and shoulder to do the hard work of tuning the instrument rather than straining her injured side further. It was a shame she couldn’t play that way, and give her inflamed right shoulder a rest for a few days. Because it definitely was inflamed. The rolling burn that had taken up residence there told her so. Addie twisted the tuning pegs until the new strings were tuned several pitches too high, forcing them to stretch further than they needed to now so they’d cooperate sooner, hold an accurate pitch longer. Today she’d forced herself to stretch, too, perhaps tried to reach a little too high. To take a chance on the father she hoped to find. And it had gone sour. Addie rolled her shoulder, searching for a comfortable position. When there was none, she knew it was going to get worse before it got better. She was simply going to have to be more careful if she ever hoped to leave the bank and make her living with her violin. From now on, she’d stay with things she could be sure

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of, things that wouldn’t let her down. Or, for that matter, knock her down. She’d stay with things she understood. Judging from today’s experience, perhaps that ought not to include men.

... Ford Magee smashed his palms into his forehead and kicked the book he’d been reading across the room. His heart thumped brutally in his chest as alarming screeches in his eardrum signaled the blood rushing to his head. She had been right there at his very door! His daughter. Addie. There was no doubt it was her. His mind kept whipping back to the moment he’d opened the door and thought he’d gone crazy, thought he was seeing a younger, taller Julia standing before him. But it wasn’t Julia. It was Julia’s daughter. His daughter. Addie. Ford’s hands shook as he drew a glass of water from the cool crock he kept on the dry sink. It was her. The same hair. Same accusing hazel-green eyes. The same stricken expression he’d seen when Julia told him she was going away. And taking Addie with her. To her aunt’s place outside Chicago. Where stalkers didn’t lie in wait for brown-haired females on the street. In his mind’s eye Ford saw that day, saw Julia flinch, retreat, as he’d come toward her to reassure her again that she was safe. That the stalker would never hurt her. “How do you know that, Ford?” she’d whispered. “How do you know that?” He’d heard the fear rising in her, dulling the musical lilt that normally lived in her voice.

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Her suspicion had nearly buckled his knees. Who was she really afraid of? The stalker? Or him. His heart had bled, threatened to stop, each time he closed his mouth on the words that would explain it all to her. But the shame of it would have been too much. She’d never have survived it. The last thing he’d wanted to do was make his wife and daughter fearful. The last thing on his mind was to let the world encroach on his blissful home. And in keeping them safe, in keeping them ignorant of the truth, free of the shame, he’d lost them altogether. Now it felt as if he’d lost them all over again, and it was a stab to the gut. “I’ve moved to New York, Father.” Such an innocent statement. So simple. I’m here. He’d waited years to hear it. But Ford had stood silent, watching his daughter play with the brooch at her neck, his eyes fixed on the oversized amethyst ring, his gift to this girl’s mother the day Adelaide was born. Did she know what her mother had meant to him? She couldn’t possibly, or she’d have suspected what the sight of her might do to him. Instead, she’d just arrived at his door. Unannounced. Unexpected. And all grown up. His tongue that had guarded his words so carefully for so long simply couldn’t loose itself in her unexpected presence. Ford slumped into the overstuffed chair he kept near the window. “Damn fool.” In one breath he voiced the shocked realization that there was no little girl any more. That his four-year-old daughter was gone. He’d longed to see the child. But the

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woman she’d come to be was another thing entirely. So like Julia. His beautiful wife, Julia. He hadn’t even asked if the girl’s mother was still alive.

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The rest of the orchestra was just disappearing through the secluded offstage door when Addie heard her name spoken behind her. The deep, warm voice identified its owner even before she turned around, and Addie wondered at the little leap her pulse had taken upon simply hearing it. “Why, Miss Magee. Darned if playing like that doesn’t make me want a dish of ice cream.” She surreptitiously mopped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand and turned toward the familiar voice. She’d seen him there in the dining room, wanted more than anything to just plunk herself down and get acquainted. But after playing for an hour and a half with a bad shoulder she was dripping wet and faint with hunger. Utterly unpresentable and bent on slipping away. But he’d found her. “That is,” he continued with a slight bow, “if you’d care to join me.” “Well, Mr. Pepper—” “Jess.” “—Jess.” Addie looked squarely into the eyes of the man

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who’d just asked her to step out for ice cream. His informal approach sent a conflicting bevy of alerts. What did his familiarity mean? Did he just assume she was available? Or was he really interested in spending time with her? She loosened the frog of her violin bow and turned to clip it into the lid of the violin case. As she reached to snap the case shut, the pain in her right shoulder escalated to alarming new heights, and Addie knew the only place she should head was home for a medicinal poultice. “But I really must get home,” she insisted, settling the case into the crook of her left elbow. If ice cream had any medicinal value, she’d have taken him up on it and slathered the numbing cold mixture over her burning shoulder. But one look at the face of the man who’d injured it in the first place with his stairwell slam and she herself seemed bent on melting away. His riot of dark hair waved one direction and curled another and framed his face in the most endearing, roguish way. His lopsided grin tied her tongue in a knot and rooted her feet where she stood. “I’d think you’d be starved after that performance, Miss Magee. I’m sure—“ “Addie.” How quickly she adapted to this casual state of being. Perhaps she could blame it on the shoulder. “—Addie. I’m sure we can find a café between here and your home, now, can’t we?” “Yes, of course, but—” “Then it’s settled? Here, let me carry that.” Jess slipped Addie’s short cloak over her shoulders and in one move extracted the violin case from beneath her arm and steered her toward the door. There wasn’t much she could do but move along.

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The first time she’d seen him, Addie had wondered about this moment, what it would feel like if the blueeyed Jess Pepper asked her to step out with him. Then she’d made a fool of herself on Friday, flailing about on the staircase, and had been certain she’d not see him again. Or shouldn’t. Not if he was looking for a loose woman, anyway. But halfway through the opening Serenade, Addie had watched the maitre d’ escort the familiar broad shoulders to a table off to her left. Each time he dropped his gaze to attend to his food, she’d studied him. He was a powerful man, the rare type who could carry off a thick, dark head of hair like that, swept back into handsome chaos. Without the sideburns dignifying his broad face and square chin he might have looked like a prize fighter. Though watching his large, agile hands, Addie had known instinctively he was not a fighter. At least, not the sordid kind. His manners were natural, never practiced. Respectful in their simplicity, not polished, yet never seeming to diminish himself...or her. While he rather obviously admired her, it wasn’t the music he seemed most appreciative of, but her expertise in making it. And never once had his expression been anything but attentive. But what made her most comfortable with him was the simple fact that he was comfortable with himself. He was at ease in his skin, something Addie felt only with her violin tucked beneath her chin. They moved through the large glass-paneled side door and onto the street, and Addie found herself falling into rhythm with his easy stride. It felt good, walking in

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the company of this man. Perhaps she could put up with her burning shoulder long enough to enjoy some quiet conversation. At his quizzical look, she nodded her head to the right. Home was this way. Addie held her right arm close to her ribs, her hand at her waist. It was the only position that was comfortable. She longed to support it with her left hand, take the weight off the joint. But her left was tucked properly into Jess’s elbow. And that felt entirely too good to abandon. She fought for control of the small portion of her brain that was not focused on her shoulder and tried to carry on a conversation. He was witty and intelligent, ready with humor and unaware when he was being charming. To her horror, all she could manage were monosyllables. “I actually think it was quite a piece of marketing genius,” Jess was saying. “Genius?” “Oh, absolutely. Ten women clad in the most boring grays known to man playing music more full of color than a gaggle of peacocks.” Jess shifted her violin for a better grip beneath his outside arm. “Sheer genius.” “A gaggle of peacocks. That’s what we sound like to you?” “No, no, no. You sound like a gaggle of peacocks looks. You know what I mean? A tumult of color.” “Mmm. And we look like...?” “Hmmm.” Jess walked a couple of paces in silence. “Well, let me put it this way. If you sounded like you look, we’d find you playing in funeral parlors.” Addie chuckled. It was all too true. She’d told the girls

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to look like St. Agnes, after all. It was the best way she knew to achieve some sort of uniformity. “But,” he continued, “if you looked like you sound, they’d sell you to the circus.” Addie laughed and nearly choked on the pain it rendered in her shoulder. She was getting worse in a hurry. Dammit! Why now? Double damn. That was no mystery. She’d overdone it playing the Delibes Divertissement. It was a programming mistake she already regretted. She could easily have left it out and saved her bowing arm the added stress and toll the pizzicato passages always took. But she had to go and show off, for this very fellow who was treating her to iced cream. “So there you have it. Like I said. Sheer marketing genius. Now, which of these bistros offers the kind of thing a starving virtuoso feeds upon?” They were halfway down Second Avenue, and Addie had caught him eyeing the last couple of cafés they’d passed. She knew she had to beg off now before he got her into the café. Her grip on the pain seemed to be evaporating more with each step. “Jess, on second thought, I’m not up to chatting. Or ice cream. I really must be getting home. Please understand.” She watched his face, hoping he wouldn’t think she was brushing him off. The disappointment that fell across his eyes was oddly comforting. “Forgive me, Addie. I know you must be exhausted. Another time perhaps?” “Yes!” She answered too quickly and didn’t even blush. A little pain and her feminine tact had fled. “Yes, I’d like that.” “Is this your building?” Jess asked, and looked up at the

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gargoyles looming overhead. “No, I’m just over there,” she replied, indicating the gloomy brick monstrosity across the street. She felt none of the embarrassment that Hamilton had forced her to feel when he’d dropped her at home after the Joplin affair. She removed her hand from his elbow and reached for her violin, but Jess moved smoothly behind her, switched the violin case to his outside hand, and took her right elbow to escort her across the street. “Then I’ll just-“ “Ow! O-o-o!” Addie grabbed her right elbow and pulled it back to her side. “What? Did I—?” Jess looked stricken and Addie tried her best not to cry. The shoulder was shrieking now. “I just need to get home and put a poultice on my shoulder,” she gasped. “I’m sorry. I should have told you. It’s been hurting since...since yesterday.” She couldn’t tell him it had been hurting since he’d tossed her into the banister. “And then playing all evening has made it worse. I’ll be fine, really, once I get home.” Addie babbled as she began to back away from Jess, intent on getting home quickly. “Addie, let me—” He was following her, and that was the last thing she wanted. “Please! I’ll be fine. Good night!” She hurried across the street and into the dark alcove of the front door, pulling the key from her drawstring bag as she went. But when she tried working the key with her left hand it refused to turn in the lock.

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“Dash it all. Blasted key!” She was flushing hot and cold with the pain that had escalated dramatically since he’d jostled her arm, and then his large hand dropped over hers and in one twist he had the door opened. “Th-thank you, I—” Jess took the key and helped her through the door. “I’ve got your violin. You just look after yourself.” She looked at the violin, stunned to see that it was still tucked under his arm. She had never let her violin out of her sight before, but tonight she’d left it in Jess’s care and turned her back on it without another thought. It must be the pain. Addie chastised herself for her carelessness as she scuttled toward the elevator, trying to disturb her shoulder as little as possible. “G’d ev’nin’, Miz Magee,” the bellman tipped his cap and pulled back the cage door for her to enter. He threw a disapproving look at Jess when he followed her into the elevator. “I’m her doctor,” Jess lied easily. “Miss Magee has injured her shoulder.” The bellman raised his eyebrows, half accepting the explanation, and launched the snail-paced elevator toward the third floor. The relentless jarring of the simple pulleys made Addie long for the stairs, but just when she thought she couldn’t tolerate another bump, the cage screeched open and Jess helped her into the hallway. She led him to her door and leaned on the wall while Jess used her key. “Thank you for your trouble. I’m afraid I’d be sobbing in the gutter by now without your help.”

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“No trouble at all.” He swung the door open and she hurried in. “Can your roommate help you with the poultice?” “I don’t have a roommate.” Addie spoke without thinking, and realized too late she could have sent him on his way if she’d just let on she had someone to help her. “You should have told me you were in pain, Addie. I’d have brought you home directly.” Jess propped the violin against the wall inside the door and surveyed her tiny domain. She wished he hadn’t seen her wretched oneroom studio. Addie took a quick look about for any unmentionables in view and blanched. The chamber pot. Had she emptied it before leaving for the hotel that evening? “You’re going to need my help,” he said, lifting the cape from her shoulders. “Do you have the makings for a poultice?” “Jess, I can’t ask you to—” “I didn’t hear anyone asking, Addie. Now tell me where your medicinals are.” Addie relented in the face of his determination and pointed to the drawer and cupboard where he would find muslin, mullein leaf and comfrey root. First he found an empty cocoa tin and dampened the muslin by dipping it right into the pitcher. He folded and rolled the cloth and stuffed it into the tin. “What are you doing,” Addie asked. She was impatient for the poultice and couldn’t see this step as anything but a waste of time. “You’ll see,” he smiled, and glanced over his shoulder,

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sending her a compassionate smile that convinced her she could be patient for a few more minutes. Addie managed to remove her hat pin and hat with one hand and checked her condition in the vanity mirror. Woman in pain, she thought. Not very appealing. As she stowed the hat pin in her top drawer, her eye stopped on the small bottle of laudanum she’d kept after her mother’s final bout with pneumonia. With a glance over her shoulder at Jess who still had his back to her, she flicked the cork out of the bottle and sipped several drops. Just considering taking the laudanum revealed to her how bad the pain had become. By the time she’d stowed the hat and hung her cape on its peg, Jess had rigged a contraption to hold the cocoa tin over the base of a kerosene lamp. He had the flame turned full up beneath it, and was mixing the comfrey root and mullein leaf in a small, wide-mouthed pot he’d found sitting empty on the window sill. “Can you get undressed all right?” “What!” Addie sputtered. “I should say not! I mean...” “Suit yourself, but once this poultice is in place, I don’t think you’re going to want to move.” “But I—” “Trust me.” Jess stepped behind her and unhooked her skirt. Addie gasped and caught the skirt with her left hand before it slipped free of her hips. “That’s quite enough. I’ll manage quite nicely without your help, sir!” “Addie, we’re both adults here, are we not? Crawl into bed as soon as you’re finished. Just whistle when you’re

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ready.” Jess discreetly kept his back to her and resumed his work on the poultice. “I’ll do no such thing.” Addie gathered as much dignity as she could muster and turned to usher him out. She stepped forward and tromped on the bottom of her skirt, yanking her hand painfully down. “You— ow!” Her next breath disintegrated on a whimper, and she cradled her arm again. A tingling buzz flitted across her forehead and she lifted a slow hand to tap at it. The laudanum was working on her brain already. When in blue blazes was it going to reach her arm? “I’ve got all night, Addie. You can crawl in fully dressed or in your birthday suit. Makes no difference to me. But one way or another you need to get into bed so I can get this poultice on your shoulder. It’s just about ready.” He stood with his back to her, an easy pose with the weight slung on one hip. Addie considered his instruction, and knew there was a reason she shouldn’t crawl in bed. She fought the fuzz and concentrated hard to remember what it was, but nothing made sense. She took a deep breath and held it, slipped out of her skirt and laid it over the foot rail of the bed. She unbuttoned the high-necked blouse, let it fall to her wrists before she gently tugged it off and slid it clumsily over the back of her desk chair. The air filtering through her chemise began to dry her fevered sweat. She stood a moment, grateful for the feel of it. Shoes. Did she usually wear her shoes to bed? Addie studied the eight buttons that marched up the outside of each shoe and sighed. Tonight she’d wear her shoes to bed. But it hardly mattered. She doubted she’d sleep a wink, anyway.

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She plopped on the edge of the bed and swung her booted feet under the covers and began to lie down, but new pains ripped through her arm and pushed back the laudanum haze. She gasped and snatched the covers up to her chin with her left hand just as Jess turned around. “Here, let me help y—” “No, no! I’ve managed. Thank you anyway.” Keeping the covers around her as much as possible, Addie turned to her left and used her good left arm to support her as she dropped herself to the pillow. “There, now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jess was behind her now, rolling a pillow behind her back. She relaxed against it and found that it was just what she needed to take the stress off her shoulder and lessen the pain. She opened her mouth to thank him and snapped it shut. Would he smell the narcotic if she spoke? “Good. Ready, then?” Jess leaned toward her a bit, awaiting permission to begin administering the poultice. She nodded, relieved that for the first time in more than an hour the pain was almost tolerable. With a manner more gentle than most physicians she’d known, Jess slid her chemise off her right shoulder. He gently nudged the fabric down across the top of her breast and laid a small hand towel over her to protect the fabric. Addie winced and turned her head to the side. Not because he’d hurt her. Quite the opposite. Her response as his fingers flicked over her bare skin had been curiously unsettling. It’s the bugjuice, she decided. Her mother always said the bugjuice—that’s what she called laudanum—gave her curious sensations. Jess dipped three fingers into the tin cup and scooped

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up an ample portion of the pasty mess. She wrinkled her nose as he began to massage the smelly concoction into her shoulder, to the base of her neck, and to the very edges of her armpit. “I don’t see how you could play when you were in such pain.” His fingers rolled and pressed, soothed and smoothed as she searched for the word to answer him. “Adrimmnum...” The word refused to take shape on her tongue and she tried again. “Adren-ennnamum.” She sighed. It was just too much work to try again. “Adrenaline?” Ah! Yes! Adrenaline. She voiced her agreement with a noisy sigh. Addie closed her eyes, waiting for him to press in just the wrong spot and hoped she wouldn’t cry out too loudly. But the moment never came. He dipped and rubbed without saying a word, and Addie began to feel it was his fingers, not the mullein leaf and comfrey root that were working their magic. “Better?” he asked as he lifted the towel he’d placed across her. Addie knew she was exposed down to her cleavage, but the relief, the peace that had worked its way into her with the herbal remedy cast caring from her mind. “Mmm hmm,” she whispered. “One last thing, then you can get some sleep.” Jess disappeared for a moment and returned with the cocoa tin that had been warming over the kerosene flame. He pulled the damp, steamy muslin out, holding the hot tin with the other towel he’d just removed from her chest. He touched a small corner of the hot, moist fabric to her skin to prepare her for its heat, then laid it out,

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crisscrossing the area he’d worked the poultice into. His large, sure hands layered the muslin smoothly across her bare shoulder, pressing the heat into the smelly residue that stained her skin. “There now.” She heard his voice from far away, and felt the hot poultice glowing in stratas deep beneath the skin. “You’ve enough supplies for one more poultice. I’ll come back in the morning to apply it and you’ll be good as new. Guaranteed.” She tried to speak, but her head was already drifting. Even the pungent odor of the medicinal herbs couldn’t keep her awake. The last thing she heard before falling deep asleep was the soft click of the doorknob and a quiet voice as Jess Pepper slipped out into the hall and was gone. “Sleep gentle, fair lady.” Or maybe she just dreamed that.

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Moonlight does things to a street scene that no other natural or man-made phenomenon can effect. People walk slower, their smiles lingering on contented faces. Horses that usually move along fast enough to stir up the dust off the street plod lazily in the clear, cool night. And in dark corners where people forget to look, the goons come out. A part of his mind recognized each of these things as Jess strode along toward 41 Park Row. At first, his steps had been slow, reluctant. He’d wanted to stay with Addie, make sure she was all right. But the bellman knew that a man had seen Addie to her room. The last thing she needed was a do-gooder compromising her character by staying the night—and a nosy bellman blabbing it to the management. So Jess had left Grayburn Arms noisily, making certain he was seen—and smelled—by the elevator attendant. He even chatted idly about the poultice he’d just applied to drive home the reason for his attending to Miss Magee in her quarters. A final hint that any possible assistance in carrying things for the next few days would speed Miss

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Magee’s recovery had the bellman promising nothing short of heroic measures in the good lady’s behalf. He turned toward the offices of the New York Times on a whim, words tumbling madly in his head. Too poetic, he knew, for the daily news, but he and the Blick would work that out. He’d spent plenty of words on himself in the first few blocks, castigating his self-centeredness. He’d been so pleased at the prospect of spending time with Addie that he hadn’t picked up on the signals she’d tried to send. Not too clever for a self-proclaimed student of human nature. But once he knew she was suffering, he’d done the right thing. Uncle Dud would be proud. His poultice had already begun to heal her shoulder before he’d even left her room. That was due to Uncle Dud’s secret, he knew. Steaming the muslin. Jess grinned, imagining the slap on the back he would have gotten from the old bear of a man. Not really his uncle. Not really a doctor. But a better healer than most. Tonight it was his own fingers that had known instinctively where to apply the pungent salve. And that had nearly been his undoing. His chest tightened and his fingers flexed and fisted involuntarily at the memory of her softness. The fire, the passion, the determined independence of the fierce musician that inhabited that delicate, feminine frame seemed an impossible contradiction. Yet he’d seen it for himself. Bisque shoulders fading to palest white above the gauzy chemise. Long neck disappearing into that mass of auburn. Delicately corded

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musculature trailing down to the expected well-developed bicep. And the small butterfly birthmark just below her right ear. His stomach had curled at the lure of the thing. The temptation to kiss it. Jess stopped, suddenly disoriented. He’d nearly walked past the Times and not even known it. He dragged his mind back to his task and let himself in a side door, surprised to find it unlocked, and took the stairs to his mezzanine office. Perhaps he’d arrived just as the guard was making his rounds. The Blick was poised and ready for him, a fresh sheet rolled into the platen. But that page and several like it hit the waste basket before Jess could settle into the column that was taking shape in his mind. At first, Addie kept intruding. Or rather, his reaction to Addie intruded. He wrestled his senses into compliance and before long, he was well into a three-column masterpiece. If he set the metal type himself, he might even convince the night pressman to run this in place of the story he’d written for the morning edition. It was worth a try, anyway. Jess made a final proof of his typed copy and left his office for the press room. It was his good fortune that Jake Mallory was on duty, a crusty pressman who’d won a couple of hands in the back alley card game Jess had made it a point to sit in on. “Jake!” He could see the press manager laboring at one of the near presses, covered head to toe in grease. The grinding noise of twenty presses vibrated and amplified itself as it bounced off the steel plating of the massive machines.

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“Damn...forsaken...serpent o’ the divvil...” “Jake!” Jess hunkered down next to the man and shouted in his ear. “I want to run this in place of my morning column.” “If yer not jokin’ with me y’d better start runnin’.” Jake’s growl pierced with biting clarity over the clank of the machines. “I’ll set the type myself. Same exact length as the one I turned in.” Jake still shook his head and wiped sweat from his forehead with a red bandana. “Not on yer life, me boy-o.” “Jake, if I don’t have it in your hands before you’re ready to run, then go ahead. Just give me a chance, all right?” “Damn fool hotshot.” “Jake?” “All right, all right. Set the damn thing, but be quick about it.” Jess clapped Jake on the back and hustled to the type room. He was pleased with the way the words had come, and for him, getting to set the hot metal on a first rate column was almost as good as coffee over a campfire. “So that’s yer masterpiece, huh?” Jake scowled when Jess handed him the finished three-column plat a halfhour later. Jess put a hand on his shoulder and forced Jake to meet his gaze. “If it puts you out at all, then never mind. Deal?” “Whaddya talkin’ ’bout, kid? I ain’t the manager fer nuthin’.” Jake turned, curled his lips up under his teeth and let loose a shrill whistle. “Hey, Pete! Pull the Salt Mine and dump this’n here instead. An’ be quick about it, y’hear?”

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He turned and contradicted his sour face with a wink and reached for his wrench as Jess saluted. “You’re the best, Jake!” he called as he headed out of the print room toward the front of the building. He couldn’t wait to see Addie’s expression when he showed her his column.

... The mustardy scent of mullein leaf hovered about her as Addie walked briskly past Chase National and crossed to the far side of the street. The night before it had seemed impossible that she’d be able to work today. But morning found the excruciating pain gone and a minor ache residing in its place. Jess Pepper’s poultice had worked its cure. And the possibility that the smelly paste still had some punch left in it had kept her from washing the residue off before she gingerly dressed for work. A liberal splashing of lavender water served to make the scent that hung about her more tolerable or, perhaps, simply less medicinal. Accomplishing her tasks on the teller line today was something she felt she could manage. Playing a two-hour stint with Avalon Strings tonight was entirely another. She knew from painful experience that working the shoulder that hard while it was in the first stages of healing would just aggravate it all over again. Addie swung through the open door of Ballenger Baked Goods and saw the solution to her problem bobbing behind the counter straight ahead. “Cherise! Good morning!” Addie waved with her left hand and fell into line behind three schoolboys who were

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competing to see which of them could stuff a whole bear claw into his mouth in one bite. From the sputtering and drooling Addie knew she was wise to keep her distance. “Addie, have you seen it?” Cherise called over her shoulder as she tied off the string around a pastry box. “Seen what?” “Sit! Back there! I’ll bring it right out.” Addie did as she was bid and took a seat at the booth in a back corner. Men behind newspapers occupied the remaining booths and tables, while a scrawny boy scurried from table to table keeping their coffee cups full and steaming. Housemaids and the occasional nanny from Park Avenue brownstones whipped in and out picking up their standing orders. Only the most discriminating came all the way down here for morning pastry. “How did you manage this?” Cherise slid a tray of crullers and hot chocolate onto the table and pulled her clerking cap off as she collapsed into the booth. “What? Getting to work early? I–” “No! This!” The bubbly redhead moved a steaming cup of chocolate in front of Addie and set the other at her own place. With a theatrical flourish accompanied by a perfectly mimicked and completely indelicate trumpet fanfare, Cherise opened the newspaper that had lain folded beneath the china and held it in front of Addie. “All right. I see that you’re holding a copy of today’s Times.” Addie did her best to see what had Cherise so animated, but the poor girl couldn’t wait. “Page three, upper right. Read.” Addie swept her eyes to the upper right and dropped her jaw in amazement. Shedding her gloves as quickly as

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possible, she snatched the paper from the other girl’s grip. The headline, and the story beneath it, captured her attention. She read, ignoring her friend and the cocoa that cooled in the cup hidden by the newspaper she clutched. From the Salt Mines by Salty Pepper Return of Avalon

In a land so very civilized and modern as ours, it is unpopular to suggest that the mystical isle of Avalon ever truly existed. But I believe I have found proof of it right here in Manhattan. To understand my reasoning, you must recall first that enchanting tale of a mist enshrouded isle where medieval women—descended from the gods— spawned heroic men. Most notable among these was the young King Arthur. In their most secret confessions, these mystic heroes acknowledged Avalon, and particularly the music of its maidens, as the source of their power. Many a schoolboy has wept reading of Young King Arthur standing silent on the shore as the magical isle disappears from view, shrouded in mist. The boy longs as Arthur did to leap from the bank and pilot his canoe to the distant, singing atoll. To rejoin the

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nymphs who guard in the depths of their water caves the meaning of life. To feel again the power that burns within. But knowledge fades and memory dims, and schoolboys grow up. As the legend goes, the way became unknown to mortal man. Only woman could navigate the treacherous blanket of white that dipped and swirled at the surface of the water. And with its fading went also the music of the fabled isle. Harps and strings that heralded the dawn and incited robed maidens to dance evaporated into the mists of time, and silence ruled. Yet I tell you, Kind Reader, that the music of Avalon lives. The spirit that enchanted knights in chain mail long eons ago is reborn in our fair city, in our own small band of fair maids who tap that legendary spirit to make music as the Avalon Strings. Theirs is no common gift. Theirs is no ordinary sound. It is driven by a fire from within, borne on fingers bloodied by repetition. Minds tormented by a thirst for perfection. And most startling of all is the voice that rises above, the stunning virtuoso whose example leads her small company to higher planes.

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Could any other collection of musicians achieve the heights of this illustrious few? I think not. I believe, Friends of the City, that when we witness their performance, as we may almost nightly at the Warwick Hotel, we witness history’s gift to this moment in time. And for a few brief moments in the presence of these maids, we witness the fiery spirit that endured and escaped the obliterating mists of Avalon. Addie re-read the final paragraph. Her lips stopped moving and stretched into an incredulous smile. Jess Pepper had just given them free advertising that surpassed anything money could buy. This was better than an endorsement by the Mayor. Or the President. Or even the Pope. Everyone reads the Salt Mines. “Cherise. This is...this is astounding.” Addie could only shake her head and gaze unseeing at the page. “I know! I’ll bet they’ll be turning away diners tonight.” Cherise heaved a huge, satisfied sigh, but her smile held as Addie’s fell. “Oh, my lord.” “Don’t get nervous, Addie, just play like you always do.” “You don’t understand. I can’t play.” “Addie, don’t be ridiculous.” She leaned forward and wrinkled her nose, sniffing at the paper. “What’s that smell?”

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“That’s what I was trying to tell you. It’s me.” “Eeooo!” “I know. I’m sorry. Can you really smell it that much?” Cherise angled her shoulders sideways and slipped her fingers through the buttons of her starched white blouse. She handed the small vial she retrieved from her cleavage to Addie. “If that’s really you, then you need this. I use it when I leave the bakery to cover the smell of this place.” “But this place smells wonderful,” Addie objected as she unscrewed the stopper of the miniature flask of cologne. “Not when you’ve worked here all day.” Her nose was still working double time, trying to ferret out the origins of the smell. “It’s my shoulder, Cherise. I’ve hurt it and I had to put a poultice on it last night. Mullein leaf and comfrey root.” “Oh! Poor thing! How did you manage that?” Addie’s hand stilled as she dipped the tail of the cologne stopper behind an ear. Vague pictures of Jess Pepper in her apartment mixing the poultice floated in disjointed snatches through her memory. But that couldn’t possibly be. Addie shook her head. She was just confused. The narcotic must have made her dream. “The shoulder, I mean. How did you hurt it?” “I...tripped on the stairs and fell backwards into...into the railing.” Addie resumed daubing the perfume beneath her collar and at the back of her neck. “Just bruises, and maybe an inflamed tendon, I think, but that’s what I came to tell you. I can’t play tonight.”

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“What!” “You know I would if I could, but I need one more night of poultice before I dare try. You’ll have to lead tonight, Cherise.” “I’m not ready.” “Oh, Cherise, you can play everything standing on your head and you know it.” “The Hungarian Dance. I can’t do that one. That’s yours.” Addie studied her most talented member of the troupe, the spunky French-Irish violinist. Even the memory of her haunting audition piece still brought goose bumps. “Perhaps. But you’ve got something even better.” “I can’t imagine what.” “The Gaelic number, Cherise. Don’t you know everyone in the room weeps when you play it?” Cherise laughed a bit self-consciously and covered her awkwardness by using the moment to replace the small vial of perfume. “But, cushlamachree, girl, I can’t leave ‘em cryin’. The hotel would kill me!” “So, you open with the usual set, then do the Gaelic to get their attention, and then the ensemble picks up the pace.” “And a jig for encore, d’ya think?” “Perfect! It’s done.” Addie slipped out of the booth and looked down at her friend who was still contemplating the work cut out for her that evening. “You saved my life, Cherise. God bless you for it.” Addie squeezed the redhead’s hand, winked, and hurried to the door. She’d stayed longer than she’d intended. And she knew well what happened to tellers who were late to work at Chase National Bank.

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Jess read with some relief the note pinned to the door of Addie’s apartment. Last night it had seemed the most natural thing to mix the poultice and put the poor girl out of her misery. Today, it would have been just plain awkward. Jess took the stairs to the street and looked back up toward her window. He hoped she was telling the truth and was truly out and about. He’d brought the column to show her, and only now realized that he’d really jumped the gun. Raising a crowd for a performer with a lame arm was hardly clever. But now it looked like she was going to be all right. He’d come only because he’d promised to come, and was later than he’d expected getting to her place. Jess had gone first to the dockworkers’ union hall and collected the material that he’d requested earlier in the week. A hunch that had nagged at him for several days had led him to seek out archived records at the hall. The hall’s proximity to many of the attacks described in the tattered blue folder seemed somehow relevant. Jess was itching to dig into the copies of member lists and

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meeting timetables the union secretary had made for him, just those in a four-hour span of time surrounding each of the attacks. The smallest twinge of guilt rippled through his temple over his gratitude that Addie’s shoulder didn’t need tending as he backtracked the twenty or so blocks to his office on Park Row. He loped up the stairs two at a time, shedding his leather coat as he went, and almost didn’t see the city desk manager scurrying toward him. “Jess!” The man’s stage whisper got his attention. “Jess! Wait a second.” Jess turned and grinned at the fellow who’d already become a friend and mentor. “Mornin’, Gus.” “Morning, Jess.” Gus Callaway issued his greeting in a normal tone with a slap on the back and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Chief Trumbull’s in your office. Thought you’d want t’ know.” He clapped Jess again and began to move on, waving the morning edition in the air between them. “Didn’t know you were so fond of music, Pepper. I think I’ll let you review the opera for me next week.” Jess snatched the paper and laughed. “You do, and you’ll have a whole gang of angry Brunhilde’s on your doorstep.” Jess dropped his voice and leaned closer to Gus. “What’s he want?” “No clue, Jess. Sorry. I assume you haven’t broken too many laws in your brief tenure here. At any rate, he comes bearing gifts.” His envious glance toward Jess’s office was impossible to miss before he disappeared around the

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corner, leaving Jess to face the man about whom he’d heard a great deal and knew very little. Precinct Chief Deacon Trumbull.

... Jess stood at the door of his office, taken aback for a moment by the dapper man sitting behind his desk. He looked more fit for the ballroom than the crime scene. “Pepper! Jess Pepper, I presume!” The man swiveled to the left, then to the right, and patted the arms of the cowhide desk chair. “Just trying out your new chair, Pepper. I say,” he smiled a gleaming, envious grin, “this is one comfortable piece of furniture.” Jess stepped into the room, pulling the door closed behind him. His office had been transformed. Two heavy book cases lined the far wall, and a Turkish rug was laid out on an angle in front of his desk. Two handsome side chairs sat on it, ready for visitors to Jess’s domain. A huge portrait of a buffalo stampede took up the wall behind his desk, and a mirror-topped hall tree had been planted just beyond the door, awaiting his topcoat and hat. The desk chair he’d brought with him had been shoved to the side, and in its place was a monster of a chair, upholstered in soft, burnished leather. Studs marched up its sides and across the top just above Chief Trumbull’s head. It was a man’s chair, no doubt about it. But it was not his. None of this was his. Trumbull rose from the chair with easy grace for a man his size. He stood half a head taller than Jess, and evidence of a well-fed stomach filled out his expensive suit coat. Still, he was a handsome man. He rounded the desk with

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his hand out. “Pepper, I am just honored to shake your hand,” he said. “Chief,” Jess replied, “I honestly don’t know where all this came from,” he said, nodding toward the chair. “Oh! Just a little welcome to New York City for you, Pepper. Here, try it out.” In one smooth move, Trumbull stepped to the side and propelled Jess around the desk. Jess looked down at the tufted seat of a chair the likes of which he had never owned. He frowned, then knew he needed to try it out and pretend he liked it. After the Chief left he could swap it for his old favorite. “Well, Chief, this is just about the finest welcome a man could hope for,” he said, trusting he sounded sincere. He turned and grasped the arms as he settled down into the chair. And almost groaned in ecstasy. Now this was a chair. It hugged his backside and massaged his shoulders and hit the bend of his knee in exactly the right spot. He’d never, in any of the fine places he’d visited, sat in a more comfortable chair. He felt giddy. And he felt guilty. He’d never want to sit in his old wooden bucket again. This was heaven. And on wheels. Jess shook his head. If the tables were turned and he were gifting this to the Chief, it smacked of bribery. He couldn’t accept it. “Chief, I —” “Ah, I know what you’re going to say, Pepper. You don’t want to owe me any favors.” Trumbull winked. “And I promise you, you won’t. You’ve just done me a big favor by helping me empty out a storage barn. Saving the taxpayer some money.”

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“So, where—?” Jess opened his arms to indicate all the new furnishings. Trumbull laughed. “’Fraid we have more than our share of this kind of stuff, Jess. Half the folks in this city are on the take, you know, livin’ on the Devil’s dime. Sometimes we just get lucky and put some of them out of business. And when we do, we have to find a place for all the things their evil ways helped them acquire. Most of it we sell and use the funds. Turn bad money into good, so to speak.” He smiled, a theatrical sadness lighting his eyes. “Some of it we give to folks who need it. And Jess,” he looked around and cocked a sheepish grin, “from the looks of this place, you really needed it.” Jess stepped around the desk, and his boots sank into the thick, colorful Turkish carpet. It alone gave the room a welcome energy, and Jess was already feeling strangely at home. He put out his hand in thanks and Trumbull shook it, then dropped his other hand on Jess’s shoulder. His face transformed to a solemn, fatherly expression. “You are just what this city needs, Jess.” He shook his head slowly, and an odd despair fell across his face. “Wish there were more like you, men not afraid to tell the truth.” Suddenly the look vanished and the self-assured demeanor swung back into place with his wink. “Keep us on our toes, Pepper. You’re the voice of the people. You run into anything—anything at all—makes you the least bit concerned, you bring it to me. Hear?” Jess nodded, and Chief Trumbull turned to leave. “That’s what we do here, Jess. We keep the people safe.”

...

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Jess laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back into the welcoming cushion of his new chair. A partnership with the precinct chief was going to open lots of doors for him. This could be good, he mused, really good. Beyond his own open door the typing pool was falling back into its rhythm as the Chief exited the floor. Once again their postures mimicked one another. Backs straight, heads bowed and angled toward racks holding handwritten copy, wrists poised over the keys, and a blur of fingers. Easily a hundred typists, arranged in twelve rows of forty-foot tables, pumping out text to the collective tune of eight thousand words a minute. Or more. New York’s finest. Each of them intent on their work. Except for one. The blonde corker, who he knew now as Birdie Tabor, was surreptitiously watching Trumbull make his way to the stairs. Jess leaned forward, surprised to see Trumbull hesitate on the top step and raise one finger. It seemed like a signal. And it was. Jess watched as the buxom figure rose and broke the symmetry of the ranks of typists. She left her place and stopped to speak with the manager of the typing pool. Birdie sagged wearily and held a hand to her head as if complaining of a headache. The exchange was brief, and then she stepped away from the manager’s desk. As she turned toward the stair, Birdie looked back over her shoulder. It was a look Jess knew well. She hoped no one was watching. It was a tattletale move, a dead giveaway, the unmistakable mark of a novice sneak. This girl, the buxom blonde chatterbox with the southern lilt, had something to hide.

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Intrigued, Jess watched as Birdie crossed the open hall leading to the staircase. Two more furtive glances before she disappeared into the stairwell had Jess laughing right out loud and shaking his head. Amateur. He counted to thirty, the number of steps it would take a girl with her stride to cross the lower lobby. Three counts later, Jess pushed off from his desk and rolled, chair and all, to the window. Sure enough. There she was. Just stepping down off the last step of the main entrance. He was a count or two off, but close enough that he could gloat. She turned to her right, slipped a look back over her left shoulder, then began walking north toward the end of the building. Jess swept the sidewalk a few yards ahead of her and stopped grinning when he recognized the smartly tailored coat of the man who’d just left his office. If he’d waited two seconds longer to look up the street he would have missed the Chief entirely. But there was no mistaking the owner of the pristine white spats that marked the man’s progress away from the building. And at the same instant that Jess realized who he was watching, the Chief stepped off the sidewalk and into the alley. “Son of a gun,” Jess moved to the south edge of the window for a better angle and unconsciously counted steps as the corker moved up the street. At the corner of the building she slowed, cast another look over her shoulder, and without missing a beat, swung into the alley. “Son of a gun!” Jess repeated, as he stared unblinking at the empty shadows between his building and the next. Either he’d just witnessed a clandestine meeting between the Chief of Police and the blonde corker from the typing

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pool, or she’d had some reason to risk following him on her own. Jess had his answer a moment later when a sleek, enclosed gentleman’s brougham eased out of the alley behind a perfectly liveried dappled bay with braided mane and tail. Better even than the mayor’s personal conveyance, this carriage bore the official-looking trademark of Chief Deacon Trumbull on its leather siding. The clever modification that narrowed the undercarriage was hard not to admire. This devil could really slip through traffic. As it rolled onto the thoroughfare, the carriage window revealed exactly what Jess had expected. The blonde head that bobbed above animated hand gestures told him Birdie was already chattering the man’s ear off. And beyond her, in the darkened corner of the brougham, flashed the red and gold embers of a flaring cigar. Why, you old dog.

... The fact that a man — even if he was the precinct chief — had easy access to his office made Jess uneasy. There would, from time to time, be papers in his possession that he would not want anyone, even the Chief, to see, lest it reveal the name of someone who wished to remain anonymous. Before he left his office again, Jess stowed his files in the large bottom drawer and locked it. He found a small ledge on the backside of the buffalo painting’s frame to stow the key, then grabbed the union folder he’d brought with him and headed down to the stacks. “Twickenham?” He called out as he strolled the lane that passed for a

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main corridor into the newspaper’s morgue. “Ollie? You around?” “Out! Now! You goons want these files you better come with a warrant or I’ll—” “Shut up, old man.” The hackles on the back of Jess’s neck were still responding to the cold warning when a burly cop knocked past him and charged back up the aisle toting a box halffilled with morgue material. “Why, I’ll—” Ollie Twickenham came flying around the corner and collided with Jess. His fists pummeled with the vengeance of a much younger man until Jess caught his wrists and pushed him off. “Ollie! Hey, cut it out!” “Pepper?” Ollie stilled immediately, slid his hands down to clutch Jess’s, then slumped against the bookcase behind him. “Sorry, son, I thought you were one o’ them goons.” “Whose goons?” “One guess. And I gather he just paid you a visit.” Jess processed the thought but couldn’t buy into it. “Maybe they were cops, but I’m betting someone else sent them. What did they want?” Ollie gave him a quizzical look and shook his head. “It seems your initial column got somebody in a tizzy. They wanted everything I had on those old cases,” the angry librarian growled. “He had a box...was it anything important?” Ollie Twickenham looked at the floor and shuffled a chunk of loose mortar back into the brick with his toe. “All this stuff is important, Jess. You of all people oughta know that.”

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“You know I do, Ollie, but—” Ollie Twickenham snickered, raised his chin and signaled with his eyes for Jess to follow him around the corner. He paused beside an empty spot in the shelving and gestured toward it as if he were pointing to the empty seat of a favored child. “They have absconded with my brothel beauties,” he whispered. “Your what?” “My brothel beauties. Best collection of whorehouse tintypes in the city.” “What would they want with those?” “Hussy stuff? Oh, it won’t do them one iota of good. But it’ll for certain distract them from remembering what it was they were looking for in the first place!” Twickenham could no longer hold back a delighted chuckle. “And when the Chief asks them if they got any good information from the files they lifted from my morgue, you can bet your sweet self they are not going to fess up to this!” Twickenham spread his arms and rested his elbows on the highest perch his short stature would allow. He swung his hands down and patted some of the remaining boxes with a satisfied grin. “What I did, you see, was draw them off guard. I moved real surreptitious-like in front of the box of whores like I was protecting the box, you know. So naturally, that’s the box they wanted, heh, heh.” Ollie Twickenham was thoroughly pleased with himself. Jess felt his mouth go dry. “Ollie,” he choked, “were they looking for the file you gave me?” Ollie waved a dismissing hand. “Maybe so, maybe not.

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Most all of that was in the papers already.” Jess huffed in relief and clapped Ollie on the shoulder. “Well then, hang it all, Ollie,” he moved past Twickenham and fingered the edges of boxes and folders that remained. “What else do you have here that you were so willing to sacrifice the brothel beauties for? Hmm?” “What do I have here, he asks? What do I have here?” Twickenham’s cocky grin turned a bit sheepish. “Actually, I haven’t figured that out just yet.” He turned and ran his thumb across the dusty boxes. “But whatever it is, it’s here, Jess. I’m sure of it. And when I find it, you’ll be the first to know.” Jess had no doubt the little fellow would find what he was looking for. But he was taking a great risk deceiving a policeman like that. “You be careful, Ollie.” “I will, son. Believe me, I will. Now you find a place to lock up what I already gave you, and I’ll plant some decoys here, just to be on the safe side.” “Oh, that reminds me, Ollie.” Jess pulled the list of union dock workers from his file and held it out to Twickenham. “You recognize any of these names?” Ollie studied the list, mumbling as he read. He squinted, clucked, and finally shook his head. “Nope, can’t say as I do.” He handed the page back to Jess. “Now you remember what I said. Lock up your papers. Or hide ’em where the devil won’t find ’em.” Jess grinned and tucked the page back into the file. Ollie waved farewell and scurried about in a fit of industry, cackling over his choices as he pulled bogus documents from defunct files. Whatever Ollie was doing certainly

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tickled his funny bone. But Jess knew that anybody taken in by it was not going to react with similar good humor. The wheezy giggles echoed off the water pipes that traced the ceiling as Jess retraced his steps to the front of the morgue. The sound went a long way toward dispelling Jess’s anxiety over the troubling episode he’d witnessed when he entered the morgue. But the unease that prickled behind his ears refused to be banished quite so easily, and Jess decided to stop in the bundling room before continuing on his mission. He pulled an old newspaper from the surplus pile and laid the union folder out on the worn maple counter. Making certain no one was watching, he wrapped his folder and notes in the newsprint and tied the bundle well with twine. As he left the Times and headed for home, his bundle looked no different than those carried by half the men in Battery Park. An ordinary fellow carrying an ordinary item from an ordinary market which—like every other market on the square—wrapped inexpensive purchases in day-old newspaper.

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Addie ended the Sunday afternoon violin lesson for the hotel manager’s daughter and slipped into the hallway. The lesson had become part of her contractual obligation with the Warwick. But anticipation of an afternoon with Jess Pepper had wreaked havoc on her concentration. He’d shown up at the dining room minutes before the closing number again a few weeks ago and walked her home. Now she could practically count on him being there at least a couple of nights a week. And of course there were Sundays. She coveted these Sundays that had become a regular engagement after the little girl’s lesson. When Addie had casually mentioned her performance in the park set for this afternoon, Jess had wasted no time in wangling an invitation to accompany her. It seemed at first there was always something to thank him for—the poultice, the article that had brought hordes of diners to the hotel. But now she looked forward to time with Jess in a way no other friend had ever commanded in her. She actually craved every moment with him. She’d had ample opportunity to get past the shyness the article—and

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the mystery surrounding the poultice—had prompted in her. She had easily discerned his embarrassment at having administered the poultice unchaperoned in her private room. His discomfort had eased her mind completely, and allowed her to shower her thanks upon him for his heroic measures. And now they’d settled into the best possible arrangement. Neither needed a reason to be together. They just knew the other one wanted to be close. As she neared the front of the manager’s living quarters, she slowed, hearing familiar voices ahead. Quietly, Addie stepped around the corner and discovered just yards away two male figures sitting side by side on the top step of the entry to the manager’s private area. She recognized the small figure as the little chap who helped the bus boys in the hotel dining room. She saw him now in profile. He chewed his knuckle as he intently watched the bigger fellow mumbling while he read from a crumpled piece of paper. “Well my, my, Tad, this is excellent.” Jess ruffled the boy’s hair with one hand as he continued to read. “And I see you’ve been working on your signature, too. It’s looking very good, very...distinguished.” The boy beamed, and Addie smiled at the respectful tone she heard in the voice of the man she’d been waiting all weekend to see again. “Yes, sir. I practiced writing Tad Morton and Thaddeus Morton. But I decided on anything official I should write Thaddeus.” The boy blushed at his own pomposity. “Ma’s the onliest one that calls me Thaddeus.” “No such word as onliest, Tad.”

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Jess delivered the criticism with such a benign indifference that Tad accepted it gravely but with no visible embarrassment. “This is good, Tad, it’s quite good. You’ve got a feel for words, son. Was it hard work?” The boy dropped his gaze and studied his hands, and Addie sighed involuntarily at the child’s reaction. Tad didn’t hear, but Jess cast a look over his shoulder toward Addie and welcomed her with a wink. “Well, sir,” the boy finally spoke. “I will have to say it was work. Because the onliest...the only...one that has time to help me with the spelling lives next door to us. And I interrupted her three times before I got it right. So, for her, yup, I guess it was work, all right.” Jess and Addie laughed in unison. “For you, son! For you! Was it work for you?” Jess asked, raking a large hand through the boy’s longish hair. “Fer me? Heck, no. Most fun I had in a month o’ Sundays.” “Well, then.” Jess stood and carefully smoothed the crumpled paper against the wall. With deliberate moves he folded it into a tidy square and then dipped his free hand into his vest pocket. “It appears I owe you one silver dollar.” A shiny coin somersaulted out of Jess’s hand and the boy’s eyes followed every twist as Jess snatched it back and reached to drop it into the front pocket of the boy’s Sunday tweed. But just before Jess could drop the coin, the boy’s hand whipped out like lightening and covered the pocket opening. “What’s this? You can’t use a brand spankin’ new shiny

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silver dollar?” Something in Jess’s tone drew Addie’s ear, and she studied his face. She could see now that the silver dollar hadn’t been a bribe. It had been a test. “Aw, shucks, Mr. Pepper. It ain’t that. It’s just...” Tad looked at the paper Jess still held and began to scuff his toe into the lip of the step. “You want more?” Thaddeus Morton snapped his head around and leveled a look of shock on Jess. “No, sir! I mean, well, I’d like to keep it, sir, the paper, that is, if you don’t mind, that is.” “Hm.” Now it was Jess’s turn to stifle a satisfied smile. “I don’t see how I’d mind that a whole lot. You’ve been kind enough to let me read it, so I don’t really need it all that much any more.” Jess switched the paper to his right hand, and as he did so, he slid the silver dollar into a fold in the page. He stuffed the paper, coin and all, into the boy’s jacket pocket. “I’m paying you what I promised, Tad, because I don’t pay you for the paper, I pay you for the words. You write more good stuff like that and I’d be honored to read it, y’ hear?” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The boy patted his pocket and shook the hand Jess offered before he tore off down the step. He turned around and back-pedaled, his face full of excitement. “First thing tomorrow I’m going to buy me a box of those new yellow pencils!” Jess laughed. “And do you know why they’re yellow?” Tad stopped and his brow wrinkled in curiosity as Jess had known it would. “It’s because the best pencil lead in the world comes from China, Tad. And in China, yellow is a

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royal color. So when you see a yellow pencil, you know it’s got the best lead in it. Good choice, Tad!” “Wow, I didn’t know that!” Tad hollered as he scampered off. Jess turned, still grinning, and offered Addie his elbow. “Most fun I had in a month ’o Sundays, hm?” Addie quipped, greeting Jess with her own full grin. “How did you manage that?” “What? That?” Jess held the swinging door open and they both caught a glimpse of Tad Morton skipping backwards down the street and waving back at them. “Got lucky, I guess. Kid was just bored enough to try something new.” He paused, looking down at Addie. “If that kid just happens to have the gift of words, like I think Tad does, the whole world will know it one day.” Jess looked away, toward Tad’s bounding figure, and lost himself for a moment in following the boy’s progress down the street. “Careful there, Mr. Jess Pepper,” Addie crooned, watching his satisfied look as they stepped out onto the walkway. “You’ll have me thinking you’re a soft touch.” “Hmm. Well, now, that depends, Miss Magee, on whether or not that would stand me higher in your regard.” He took Addie’s violin from her and cradled the case in his right elbow as he slipped to her outside now that they had reached the street. “I would want to know if in your opinion this ‘soft touch’ you refer to would be a good thing...” he offered her his left elbow, “...or a bad thing.” The play of words and sassy glances progressed spontaneously throughout the simple choreography of moving from the building and onto the street. And for the

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first time in her life, Addie played the coquette. “That would depend...” she paused, casting a most indiscreet glance at him from beneath her lashes, “upon the circumstances, I should imagine.” “Yes,” Jess agreed, and drew her elbow tighter to his side. “I do suppose it would.” Jess and Addie strolled easily along the mile and a half walk to Gramercy Park. With each block, his arm and shoulder nudged Addie with casual familiarity, and Addie worked constantly to keep herself from leaning unabashedly into Jess as they walked. By the time they’d passed into the residential area where wisteria baskets overpowered every stoop, the two had shared a great deal of themselves. Whatever cosmic attraction had drawn them to one another in the first place was beginning to fill in with the chinks and mortar of very real, very likeable human traits. The two passed easily through light-hearted subjects and moved with some small reservation to those more closely held. “So, your mother never got to hear your graduation recital?” Addie’s exhaling breath carried with it the unmistakable pang of regret. “No. I went right to the hospital the moment I left the stage, but she was gone.” Addie watched her feet as they walked and slowly shook her head. “She made me go. She promised me, promised me, that she’d hear all about it when I got back.” Addie sighed heavily. “I thought I’d never hurt so badly over anything again in my life.” She continued her silence as they rounded a corner. “But?” Jess asked, having sensed there was more. “Well. You were there. The afternoon I...the day I went

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to see my father and he...” Addie’s hand grappled in front of her as she walked, as if her hand could communicate the sentiment her tongue was unable to find. “Your father?” After the incident in the stairwell Jess had instantly connected the last names. But he’d suspected his upstairs neighbor was a crusty uncle, never her father. “I hadn’t seen him for twenty years, and that afternoon I went to introduce myself and tell him I was living in New York City, and I ran into you...literally...and...well...let’s just say he was not interested in meeting his daughter.” “That’s your father that lives upstairs from me?” “Mm-hm. Ford Magee. Night watchman for the Burlington. Retired. And definitely not interested in knowing his daughter.” “Maybe you just caught him off guard,” Jess offered, “no pun intended.” “Oh, ho, ho, I don’t think so. There was very little doubt.” Addie drew this phase of the conversation to a close with her change to a brighter tone as she spotted the gingerbread bandstand where her afternoon concert was to take place. “Oh, look, I believe that’s where I’ll be playing. Just there, across the street.” Jess and Addie crossed to the far side of the boulevard at Gramercy and found themselves on the edge of Gramercy Park. White walks laid of gravel crushed to the consistency of slivered egg shells crisscrossed the pristine green of the neighborhood park. Pockets of park benches were occupied by Sunday dreamers enjoying the shade of

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the oak canopy. In moments, Addie had checked in with the concert organizer and found a bench nearby for Jess. “Will this do?” Addie indicated the bench, smiling. Jess hooked his hands behind his back and studied the bench. He stepped forward as if to speak casually to Addie while examining the bench. “Actually, it’s farther away than I prefer,” he said in a hushed tone. He glanced at her and angled his step so that the next one began to take him past her, and he began to circle her slowly while he spoke. “Yes, a bit far to my liking. I’d prefer to stand close, like this, and feel those vibrations pelting out of you when you play. Feel the heat radiating from your shoulders and the rhythm tapping from your heel.” Had his tone of voice echoed his words, Addie would have been done for. But his tantalizing words were delivered in a completely scholarly tone, like a stuffy old professor simply making a point. Addie swallowed hard and felt the widest reaches of her smile begin to tremble. With much determination she pulled her mouth into what she hoped would suffice for her mockingly prim retort. “Were you to stand even half that close, sir, I assure you that you’d be in constant danger of losing an eye.” Jess stopped circling and fixed her with a resolute stare. “That dangerous, you think?” He kept his face still. “Put a violin bow in my hand and I’m absolutely not to be trusted, sir.” Addie dropped her eyes and slipped a half step back. The pull was becoming much too strong, and if she did not find some distance from this man immediately she was in great danger of abandoning her performance to sit here until half past Wednesday on his lap. In Gramercy

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Park. In front of God and Sunday society. “Then I shall keep my distance, Miss Magee. You run along and play now. I’ll hold our shady spot here until you’re done...fiddling.” His eyes winked wickedly as he stressed the most demeaning word a virtuoso violinist could hear. Addie flashed him a look of surprise that melted immediately into comprehension. He was playing with her as well, finding his own way to prepare for the distance the stage would place between them. “And a fiddle-dee-dee to you, too, Mr. Pepper.” Addie smoothly executed the prima donna’s exit, maintaining eye contact with Jess as she began to turn away, and at only the last moment gave a saucy toss of her curls and lifted her skirt slightly to step onto the path. She felt his eyes on her back and was determined to give him a great deal more than he’d anticipated by drawing back her shoulders and allowing the bow atop her backside drape to bob slightly more than usual as she moved out of view behind the pavilion. Addie reached the staging area behind the bandstand just as the concertmaster swept into an opening march. She sagged onto the first available chair. “Get your mind around this, Adelaide Magee.” She spoke out loud to herself, and concentrated harshly on the mechanics of opening her violin case and tuning her instrument. Her fingers trembled at first, then settled into their sure confidence of her pre-concert preparation. While the small orchestra she was guesting with for the afternoon worked its way through an admirable set of Slavic dances, Addie paced the area in back of

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the gingerbread pavilion and fingered the pieces she would perform just moments from now. Three times she had to begin an awkward section over when she lost concentration going into it. And each time, she had known exactly what...or rather, who...it was that had turned her mind to putty.

... Jess watched Addie sweep confidently onto the stage and take her place near the concertmaster. “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present Mistress Adelaide Magee of New York City’s own Avalon Strings!” Addie nodded, then bowed with a winning smile at the polite applause coming from the park benches that were now nearly full. Jess was just filling his eyes with the sight of her when the orchestra struck a dramatic tremolo. With a dancer’s grace, Addie tucked her violin beneath her chin, closed her eyes, and swept her bowing arm in a wide arc to hover an instant over the strings. The tension built for another half second, and then Addie lifted the tip of her instrument, almost as if taking a breath, and plunged into a mesmerizing cadenza. Up and down it went, soaring higher and dipping back. Just as Jess felt she was going to surge into the climactic notes, she dipped again, added more fever to the ripening scales, and then dropped to a sustained note. Addie rocked the strings in a slow easy vibrato, and Jess found himself dreading the moment the sound would stop. But when the moment came, she sent it on its way with a quickening of the vibrato that spun the cadenza’s final note out into the treetops. And with infinite delicacy, she

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tiptoed into the dancing dirge that was the meat of the piece. If the cadenza was its gemstone, this dirge was its heart, and Addie’s eyes remained closed as she played. But her eyebrows danced their own expressive motif as she leaned and stretched her upper body through the haunting rigors of the piece. It was impossible to just sit there like some Sunday passerby with a mere fleeting interest. Jess schooled his face, but he knew if anyone looked his way, they’d see his state of agitation. But of course they wouldn’t look. How could they? Surely they were as bound up in her music as he was. Surely they felt the same energy he felt, drawing him out of himself and into a world he’d never suspected held half the charm he was experiencing. He wanted to run to the foot of the stage like some little boy, to plant himself within that mesmerizing aura of energy she radiated. Jess searched madly for a diversion, forced himself to count the number of instrumentalists, the number of birds perched on the trellis, the number of feet tapping amid the orchestra, anything to ward off the sensual images that persisted each time he looked at her, or focused on the music she was making. He even pulled his pen and scratchbook from his pocket and tried to sketch the bandstand, but his hands trembled. Somehow, though, he survived it, and when Addie’s three numbers and solo encore were finished and she stepped off the bandstand, Jess went to join her behind the ivy-covered trellis while the crowd roared and clapped and the orchestra sailed into its next number.

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As he approached, Addie laid her violin in its case and arranged a soft paisley scarf over the instrument before snapping the lid shut. She must have sensed someone behind her, because she turned, her expression brightening at the sight of him. But a moment later it turned puzzled. “What?” Jess simply stood there grinning and shrugging his shoulders. “Jess Pepper, you’re going to have to do better than that. I’m not a mind reader, you know.” Jess took a step closer and shrugged again. His mouth moved and he took a breath to speak, but no words came. Suddenly, Addie seemed to comprehend, and her hands flew to her cheeks. “You didn’t like it!” Jess stepped forward to take her arms in reassurance, her fear instantly loosening his tongue. “Oh, Addie! No, absolutely not!” Couldn’t she see what her music had done to him? How it had robbed him of his voice? “I mean, you were wonderful. Magnificent. Incomparable. Unparalleled. Incredible.” “Oh, stop it!” Addie grinned and blushed, and backed a step with each word, as Jess advanced toward her with each accolade. But on the third step, her back made contact with the wall of ivy, and Jess kept moving toward her until he’d pressed her into its soft, green embrace. Then he moved another inch until his Sunday boots straddled her Sunday pumps. Addie put her hands up to stop his advance, and they rested light and trembling on his black vest. The adrenaline haze still inhabited her sparkling eyes. He covered her hands with his and let his thumbs stroke the fingers that

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made the music that had nearly driven him out of his skull. Now he spoke, softly, wanting only Addie to hear. “I don’t have the words, Addie. There aren’t any words grand enough to...to say what your music does to a person. What it does to me. What you do to me. You’re just going to have to see it in my eyes.” Addie dropped her head, embarrassed, but he knew she understood what he was trying to say. He lifted a finger to her chin and tilted her head upward. “Addie?” Her eyelids fluttered open and a beatific smile parted her full lips. “Thank you, Jess. You don’t know what that means to me.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, worried, he knew, that she might seem immodest, even as she leaned imperceptibly closer. But modesty be damned, he was going to kiss her. There was no saving her now. That innocent lower lip had drawn him over the edge. And as his lips touched hers he felt instantly vindicated when she didn’t draw away. He pressed, gently, and she answered in kind. He knew no word to describe the softness, the chasteness, the restrained eagerness. But there was one thing he did know. There was no saving him now.

... Somehow she had known it could be like this, but in her most farflung imagination Addie had never supposed it would be like this. He had taken her into his arms, and she had let him, willed him to, leaned toward him as if to beckon. She moved as a wanton maid might, and yet nothing about his embrace made her feel wanton. Her bristling nerves were charged as never before, still

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crashing about in the jangled flurry that always flooded her nervous system after a performance. But he drew his hand down her quivering cheek and the discordant frenzy fell away, swept anew into a pool of lush content. Strangely, she was glad she hadn’t had a moment to put on her gloves. Her bare hands rose and fell along the broad span of his back. Gently, slowly, she returned the pressures she felt from his hands on her own waist. And that was the moment she faltered and broke the kiss. If he should happen to touch her sweat-soaked blouse she would be mortified. Jess stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. He looked about him as if stunned that the trees still stood in the same places they’d occupied moments ago. “Jess, I—” How could she tell him she’d have stayed in his arms past nightfall had it not been for her embarrassing state of disarray. It seemed desperately important for him to know that it wasn’t the kiss that had been found wanting. “No, Addie, I’m sorry, I don’t know what—” He looked so flustered, embarrassed, that she knew it was up to her to save the beauty of the moment. “Jess Pepper,” she said softly, as she reached a hand to his cheek and made him look at her. She let a coy smile play about her mouth, but stopped short of outright coquetry. “I’ve heard of singing for my supper, but fiddling for a kiss puts an altogether new twist on things.” He breathed, relaxed, and his eyes lost the momentary confusion that had filled them until her hand touched his face. “In that case, Miss Magee,” he winked and cleared his throat, “I believe I shall endeavor to take every opportunity

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to put your theory to the test!” She took his hand in a formal handshake just as the orchestra finished their final number and the crowd began to disperse. Some were already finding their way behind the bandstand and were headed her way, seeking her out. As if by an arranged signal they each took a slight step back and fixed their faces in cordial smiles. “Why, of course, Mr. Pepper, I’ll be happy to let you know when I’m to play next. You are so kind to take an interest–” Addie froze mid-word, and her hand clamped down hard on Jess’s hand. Her eyes that had felt so playful a moment ago were now riveted on the man who waited not far beyond Jess’s right shoulder. She felt her heart crashing against her ribs. “Addie, what is it?” She swallowed, and managed a trembling whisper. “It’s him!”

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Addie’s voice shook with emotion. She swallowed and spoke as she gasped for air. “I don’t believe it!” Jess turned in the direction she was staring. A lone man in an old brown suit stood uneasily next to a massive white oak beyond the path. Jess recognized his upstairs neighbor. Any other man would have been dwarfed by the tree, but this man was tall, thick, and stood his ground even though he seemed unsure of his welcome. “My father.” Jess stepped to the side and dropped Addie’s hand. “He came to hear me play. How did he know...?” “Go on, Addie. Talk to him. I’ll wait.” Jess moved a step further away. “But, I...” “Go on. You’ll know what to say.” Jess began to back away, and as the man by the tree took a step toward Addie, she began to move toward her father. Ford Magee’s long stride covered more territory than Addie’s cautious step, and they met not far from the back of the garlanded stage and paused for a moment. He held out a hand and they both sat on the nearest bench, an

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awkwardness still hanging between them. Her father was first to break the silence. “You play prettier than your mama sings.” Addie caught her breath. Two months earlier she’d hardly recognized the harsh voice that flung words at her from his fourth floor doorway to send her on the run. But this was the rumbly voice she remembered, the comfortable sound she’d carried in memory’s ear for twenty years. “And no one sings prettier than your mama.” Addie pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to have at the ready. Tears seemed perilously close to the surface. “Thank you.” “Adelaide.” Ford looked at her a long moment, then looked away. He leaned forward and rested his threadbare elbows on his knees. He spoke to the trees, but his words were for her. “I’m sixty-three years old. I was almost forty when I married Julia...when I married your mother. And for five years, I knew...” Ford leaned down and scooped up an acorn that plopped from the tree and rolled near his feet. “...I knew what it meant to be whole.” Addie watched him play with the acorn. His crooked third finger jutted off at its own angle. His compass finger, he’d called it. Always pointing toward the North Pole. Or so he’d made her believe as a child. “She wasn’t as old as you when we married. Maybe that was the problem.” Her father tossed away the husk of the hollow acorn. “But I loved her. And I loved...love...you. Never forget that. Even if I go and do something stupid like I did the day you came knockin’ at my door.”

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For the first time, Ford sat up straight and looked at Addie. His eyes were the same as she’d remembered. Warm as a hazelnut, and usually merry, if only around the edges. “Can you forgive me?” He spoke the words like a man awaiting a death sentence. Addie choked and took his hand. Her eyes brimmed with tears that for a moment robbed her of her own words. “You came to hear me play.” She squeezed his hand and willed him to understand how much that meant to her. That she could forgive him anything now. But Ford reared back, a stunned look on his face. “You knew?” His voice rose on an incredulous note. Now Addie was flustered. “Well, I mean, you’re here, I assumed you came early enough to hear my numbers. I thought you came to hear me play.” “Oh. Yes, of course I did. Yes. But I knew before I came you’d be spectacular. You see–” “How could you possibly know a thing like that? And don’t tell me a parent just...knows.” Addie stood and moved an agitated step away from the park bench. He could know nothing of her violin. Or who she’d grown to be, for that matter. She knew her mother had refused to write him until the day she died. “Don’t you know an empty compliment is worse than no compliment at all?” Why was she railing at her father? Addie forced a smile and turned. “I mean, all in all, I’m very glad you came this afternoon and I...I truly hope you enjoyed my...my part in the program.” Ford stood and took Addie’s hand. He was about to speak when he felt the amethyst ring pressing into his

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palm and looked down. Addie saw his eyes go liquid as he touched the ring with his large, calloused thumb. “You’re wearing her ring.” “Yes. Yes, I am.” “Then your Mother is really...” Her father was watching her, searching her eyes for an answer, and she realized that he either hadn’t known or hadn’t accepted that her mother was gone. She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed. “Two years next month. May 16th. Pneumonia. Neither of us expected it.” She felt his hand tremble in hers, and before she knew what was happening, her father engulfed her in a wrenching hug. She heard nothing, but the fierce lurches of his chest against her shoulders told her he was sobbing. She hugged him fiercely back, and when at last he was able, he pulled away. “I always thought...” The fragile tether that bound her father’s emotions would have snapped had he completed the sentence. But Addie knew the words he couldn’t say. He’d always thought he’d see his Julia again. “If it helps, Father, I’ve come to think that Mother loved you too much, rather than not enough. So much so that she couldn’t bring herself to speak of you. But often I’d find her gazing out the window, and then she’d be melancholy the rest of the day. I believe her thoughts were more with you than with me on those occasions.” Her father suddenly turned his head and Addie watched as he struggled to control a monstrous, strangling cough. She dropped her eyes to the path until at last he

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quieted and turned to her. “I’ve gone and ruined your Sunday afternoon.” Addie lifted her head and looked into the sorrowful eyes of the father she’d always known she loved. She placed a hand on each of his arms and rose on tiptoe to plant a soft kiss on his jaw. “Quite the contrary,” she said, settling back on her heels. “It’s not every day a girl gets her heart unbroken.” Long seconds passed as father and daughter stood on the lush green lawn of Gramercy Park. Reluctant to part. Three little girls in white organdy pinafores with pink satin bows screamed past them unheard. But the little boy chasing them dashed between Addie and her father, and they stepped away startled, and laughed. Ford Magee watched his grown daughter laughing at the children who still circled them screaming in delight. He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope with her name written across it in a strong, masculine script and placed it in her hand. “There are things you don’t know, Adelaide. This is as much as I can tell you. For now, anyway. The rest...well, I hope the rest doesn’t matter any more. Read it. And when you have, I’m hopin’ you’ll come see me.” Ford Magee pressed his daughter’s hands between his own one last time and turned to go. “Papa?” The word still felt awkward but welcome on her tongue. He paused, half turned toward Addie. “Is next Sunday too soon for you?” She clutched the letter to her chest and waited for his answer. She knew she wanted to see him no matter what he’d said in the letter.

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His woeful expression gave way to a slow, fatherly smile. And as he turned to leave he delivered his parting words with a hitch of his cheek that almost resembled a wink. “Fear not, darlin’. I’ve waited twenty years. I imagine I can wait one more Sunday.”

... Addie looked at the envelope that she still clutched, and then cast a look around the park for Jess. He was helping a fellow carry orchestra equipment to the horse cart. She slipped a fingernail under the flap of the envelope and tore it gently open. The letter covered two pages, front and back. Addie took a deep breath and settled herself on the bench. The screaming children reversed their game and the three little girls sped off in close pursuit of the boy. Waiting to read what her father had to say would have been as impossible as watching ice cream melt in the dish and not picking up the spoon. And so Addie read. Dearest Daughter, Sometimes life gives us something so good we only get to keep it a short time. That’s the way it was with you and your mother. There are things I can’t tell you, but always know that this one thing is true. I loved you and your mother like nothing I’d known before or since. After she took you to Chicago in the summer of ’76, Julia wouldn’t write to me. I think something frightened her too badly to see past it to the truth. To me. But your

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Aunt Lucille kept in touch. Each time I sent her money, she’d send me a long letter about your school and the funny stories you liked to tell. I wish I’d been there, Adelaide, to hear your funny stories. Her hand flew to her mouth and Addie looked in the direction her father had disappeared. He’d kept in touch! And sent money to Aunt Lucy for her. The shock of it set her lips trembling. But inside she felt a spreading warmth at the knowledge of his continuing care. Addie returned to the letter, and the very next words revealed something even more stunning. But I did hear two of your recitals. Your aunt made sure I knew about the big ones. The first time I went to Chicago, you’d been playing the violin about four years. It was when the Governor had that big to-do on the lawn of the governor’s mansion and you played that polka tune in his honor. I swear, little darlin’, you were the funniest thing I ever saw. You didn’t once crack a smile. There were probably a thousand Sunday strollers milling round the lawn, and they all stopped and gawked when the governor said this little bitty miss was going to play them a tune. You stepped up on the platform so serious in your braids with big white ribbons. And then you started playing. And your hands were flying back and forth

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and up and down that instrument so fast and people were stomping and cheering and I knew right then and there you had a gift. Then there was your graduation recital from the Conservatory. You were fourteen, and the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. And oh, you played so sweet. They gave the graduation medal to that Russian boy who played the piano and I thought I’d come up on that stage and raise a ruckus I was so angry. But you put that violin under your scrawny little arm and turned to that little pipsqueak and you held out your hand to congratulate him. I couldn’t believe it. I’d watched you play your little heart out. And perfectly, too. And I knew everyone in the audience felt the very same way I did because they were saying so all around me. But you didn’t hesitate for a second. You shook his hand and then led the applause. Addie, sweet daughter, I had never known a more proud moment in my life. Not long after that, your good Aunt Lucille passed on. I knew because her solicitor notified me that she’d left some unpaid bills. I took care of them and set up a regular transfer of funds to your mother from what we called the Estate. I don’t know if your mother ever knew, but I don’t think she did, or I figure I’d have seen that

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money tore to bits and stuffed in my post box. Now girl, I’m not telling you this for any other reason but to let you know that I never forgot about you. I always made sure you were all right. If Julia didn’t want me around, I couldn’t see a way to change that. But I had to know you were doing all right. And until that sweet aunt of yours parted this world, I had that small comfort. It’s been ten years now, and every day I prayed that I’d see you one more time before I die. And now the good Lord’s brought you to New York City. Right here to this very place. I’m shamed that I turned you away, sweet girl. You have no idea what it did to me to open the door and see you standing there, looking just like Julia did when she left, only a little younger. My chest was pounding so fierce I was sure I’d just died and Julia was there to take me Home. But it was you. And I treated you so bad, mostly because I was afraid. But that’s another story for another day. If I could erase that moment, I would. But I can’t. Just know, dear daughter, that in twenty-four years of loving you, I lost my head for a few seconds. It will never happen again. And if you will just give me one more chance, I’d like to show you the man your father is.

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I leave it to you, Adelaide, and if you cannot or do not wish to see me, I swear to you that I will understand. I wish you all God’s blessings now and always. Your father, Ford Magee

... “That’s what he meant.” Addie breathed the words as Jess settled onto the bench beside her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and the ends of the decorative ribbons that dropped from her waistband were soaked. Addie took the handkerchief Jess held out to her. Her own was sodden and useless by now. She looked up at Jess as she re-folded the letter. “He came to hear me play.” “And you played beautifully,” Jess offered quietly. “No.” Addie waved the letter in the air between them. “In Chicago. He came to hear me play in Chicago.” A little laughing cry bubbled out of her. “Twice!” “Sounds like the kind of father who cared a lot about his little girl,” Jess said as he stood and flagged down a strolling vendor. “Cherry or lime?” “Yes, thank you,” Addie replied absently as she dabbed at her tears. Jess chuckled and purchased one of each, and held both cone-shaped paper cups of Italian ice out to Addie to choose. “Oh!” she said, startled out of her distraction. “Thank you.” She selected the cup of cherry ice and began to poke at it with its little flat wooden scoop. “I’d forgotten so much about him.”

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Jess sucked the tart lime juice out of a mouthful of ice. “Like what?” “Oh, like his rumbly voice that sounds like a favorite old grandpa teddy bear. And his eyes. They always crinkle at the corners like he’s about to tell a funny story.” Addie slipped another chip of ice into her mouth. “And his crooked finger! How could I have forgotten that?” “How did it get broken?” “Oh, lands, I don’t know. I never thought about it. But it was the one I always held whenever we walked out on the street or went anywhere at all. He called it his compass finger.” “His compass finger?” Addie smiled and turned to explain. “Mm hm. He said it always pointed to the North Pole. His little joke on me, I guess.” “You seem surprised to remember good things about him.” “Not surprised, really, but we never spoke of him over the years. And I got over the feeling of missing him. Until Mother died. Then I had this incredible urge to be papa’s little girl again.” “Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Magee,” Jess said as he took the wilting paper cup from Addie and tossed it into the trash bin, “but at twenty-four you’re hardly daddy’s little darlin’ anymore.” “What did you say?” Addie took the hand Jess offered and rose from the bench. “Sorry to disappoint you?” “No, no. Darlin’. You said darlin’.” “Darlin’. Yes, I guess I did. But what—”

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“You said it just like he does. When he left today, I asked if next Sunday was soon enough for us to get together again and he said ‘fear not, darlin’. Just like you said ‘darlin’ just now.” Her spreading smile pushed the last vestiges of the tears from her face as she beamed up at Jess. His movements stilled and Jess turned his head sharply to watch her expression. “Fear not? You’re positive that’s what he said?” Addie sighed. “That’s precisely what he said. It made me feel so certain. So safe. ‘Fear not, darlin’”. “Well, I’ll be.”

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Jess strolled around the small parlor that sat to one side of the lobby of the Grayburn Arms. He studied the ancient portraits of New York’s founding fathers while he waited for Addie to return from stowing her violin in her room. The afternoon’s events had taken an emotional toll on her, but she wanted to fill in pieces of her story for Jess. Pieces she felt could best be demonstrated by showing him notations her mother had made in an old diary. Jess wondered if she knew how strongly the afternoon’s events had impacted him as well. Those three words she’d spoken, attributed to her father, had sent him into all kinds of speculation. Fear not, darlin’. It was the very phrase he’d read in a twenty-year-old newspaper article. The exact three words spoken to each of twenty victims by their rescuer. “Here we are. Sorry to keep you waiting, Jess.” Addie carried a small wooden tray painted in bright Bohemian colors to the tea table that sat between two worn leather chairs. In the brief moments she’d been gone, she’d managed

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to prepare the tray and, astonishing as it seemed, find ice for the tea glasses. They settled themselves on the leather chairs and Addie proceeded to pour. Jess watched her lift the heavy pitcher easily. The shoulder seemed completely back to normal. And stronger than those of most of the females he’d encountered in other parlors. His gaze moved up her sleeve, remembering the firm, defined muscle beneath. “I’ve brought Mama’s diary,” she began, then halted. She sat running her fingers over the binding and gave a self-conscious laugh. “She was so happy here.” Jess picked up his tea glass and the napkin she’d placed on the edge of the table for him. Ice chimed against glass as he swirled his tea and considered her words. “Well, then. I guess I don’t understand.” “Hm? Oh. Why she took us to Chicago?” “If she was so happy, why would she leave?” Addie fidgeted in the chair. “It seems she...she came to believe that my father was...well, was seeing other women.” Addie coughed, and Jess couldn’t miss her profound embarrassment at this admission. “But I don’t believe it. Not for a minute.” She opened the book and thumbed randomly through it, nodding absently as she recognized familiar passages. “It’s all peaches and cream until the last three entries, and they are very out of character with the others. Like this one.” Addie flipped easily to the page to which she’d just made reference. “You see, before this page, she’d always referred to my father as ‘my sweet F.M.’. But on these last three pages, it becomes simply ‘F.M.’ Listen to this. ‘April 10, 1876. F.M.

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home late again. He insists a breakdown on the roundhouse track kept him at the station. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, explain rouge marks on his shirt. Sat up half the night by the window while I lay awake in bed. His open heart is guarded tonight.’” Jess watched as Addie silently re-read the page. “She sounds hurt,” he said. “As though she’d suspected something before this, but this is the first time she’s let herself contemplate it.” Quietness settled in the room as Jess waited for Addie to speak. When at last she did, her voice carried a fragile tremble. “Yes.” Addie turned her face to Jess and he watched her struggle to draw her expression out of its brooding mask. “Then a few days lapse, and she enters this.” Addie turned the page slowly and began to read. “‘April 16, 1876. Was on my way with my sewing basket to make emergency repairs to Miss Winthrop’s wedding trousseau. Saw F.M. on the opposite street heading home from his shift. Decided to wait at the corner and let him know the nature of my errand. But at the opposite corner he turned and went toward Channing Street. F.M. never saw me. I don’t know how I got through the fitting with Miss Winthrop. All I could think of was him heading toward that infamous street.’” Addie gave a nervous laugh and folded her hands atop the open book. “I thought Channing Street would turn out to be lined with saloons or something. But it was worse. It...” Addie ducked her chin and squeezed her hands. “Everyone knows of the famous Madame of Channing House,” Jess said quietly. “But Addie, just turning the corner toward that street doesn’t incriminate him. He may have been headed to a favorite tobacconist, or picking up

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a newspaper, or any number of things. Just turning that corner doesn’t imply that he was headed to the bordello.” “I know that.” Addie flicked her eyes up at him and took a long breath as she straightened her sagging shoulders. “Really, I do. But I think Mama was convinced otherwise.” Addie turned the page, and Jess saw for the first time a blank page facing it. This was the last entry. “‘April 24, 1876. F.M. has come home directly from the station every night since Thursday last. Until tonight. I watched from Addie’s bedroom window where I could see both street corners. When at last he appeared, it was from the corner furthest from the station. He had been somewhere else. I hurried into the parlor and sat with my sewing basket, as if I were working. But my hands couldn’t move. I heard the door open but couldn’t look. F.M. came to my rocker and bent to kiss my forehead. I turned my head slightly toward him and saw it. Long strands of chestnut hair caught on the button of his coat. What followed was a horrid scene. I thought F.M. might cry. But he had no explanation. Addie and I will leave for Aunt Lucille’s in Chicago at dawn.’” Jess suddenly straightened in his chair. Something had nagged at him as Addie read the three passages, but he hadn’t known until this moment what it was. Now the dates of her mother’s entries marched past his mind’s eye like miniature regiments of hot metal type. It could not possibly be coincidence that he’d heard these exact dates recently, could it? Addie suddenly closed the book with a loud clap. “So. There you have it. Feeble evidence, at best. I think Mama jumped to a conclusion she should never have made. And changed all of our lives.” She rose and moved

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behind her chair, the diary clutched to her bosom like a favorite book. “But I can make it up to him.” Jess had risen when she stood, and now he put his tea glass on the tray and moved to join her in back of the chairs. He raked his mind for a humorous quip to ease the tension he saw on her face. “It is a shame, isn’t it? Why, if you’d stayed in New York you could be happily married by now to some young dandy who plays the tuba. Or perhaps you’d be teaching the fiddle in a squalid studio in the Italian Quarter. Why—” Addie laughed. “Heaven forbid!” “However you got here, I for one am grateful for it.” “Are you?” Crinkles of uncertainty still rimmed her upturned face. Her afternoon confession following the unexpected visit from her father had turned the edges of her independent confidence to mush. Jess looked a long moment into Addie’s gold-flecked chocolate eyes and knew if there were a way to wash away her uncertainty he would pay a fool’s ransom to know it. “I think you know that.” Her slow smile tickled the corners of his own grin. “And if you’ll give me a few days, I think I may have some answers that will help you sort this all out.” Addie charmed him with a quizzical look. “What could you possibly—“ “Ah-ah. Let me check out some things first. I could be whistling up the wrong tree.” “Is that so.” Addie cocked her head in mock disbelief. “Given your dislike of all things musical I’m surprised to hear you can whistle at all.”

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“Miss Magee, I’ll have you know I can whistle up a coon dog faster than you can grease that fiddling stick of yours.” Addie chuckled and began to shed more of the tautness that had built up in her over the afternoon. “Violin bow, dear boy. It’s not a stick, it’s a bow. And we use resin, not grease.” “Yes. Well. I stand corrected.” Jess suddenly wanted to step into her space and take her in his arms. But instead he cleared his throat rather sharply and began to turn away. “I’d best be on my way. Lovely afternoon. I—oh! I was going to ask if you’d mind if I pay your father a visit. Us living in the same building and all?” “Mind? Not at all. But please don’t say anything about—“ she held the diary between them. “You have my promise.” “Thank you.” Addie’s relief washed over her face, and Jess hitched his breath at the beauty that settled upon her in its place. He stepped toward her and tenderly gripped both her forearms. The muscle he’d imagined earlier trembled now beneath his touch. Jess stepped closer, attempting to fill his eyes with her and push the dreary parlor to the periphery where it belonged. She seemed as out of place here as a priceless gem stored in a cobbler’s box. Somewhere down the block a church’s carillon began its six o’clock medley. Each beat encouraged him to leave. But he found he couldn’t move. Addie’s trusting eyes held his, and there was nothing he could do but bend to find her lips. She met him with a softness that sent his unpracticed

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mouth into a long, languid search, and Jess pushed aside any impulse that he should pull away. Her hand moved slowly up his chest as he drew her closer. “You were beautiful today,” he whispered between kisses. And when she responded with a little sigh, her trembling took on a new rhythm. The drumbeat in his own temple warned him that distance was the only thing that was safe for her, and sane for him, and so he drew away. Her hand trailed down his shirt and caught his arm as he turned to retrieve his Stetson from the chair’s corner post. “Do you have to go?” A lusty leer threatened to overtake the gentlemanly grin that Jess had planted on his face, and all he could do was nod. “Will you...miss me?” she asked, and her eyes glittered with a need Jess knew he wanted to answer. Damn. Could she make this any harder? “How could I not?” He backed toward the door, unwilling to take his eyes off her, but she remained behind the chair. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company this afternoon, Miss Magee,” he said, drawing out the words in teasing flirtation. Addie’s lips moved, but her reply was lost in a sudden, self-conscious, delicate cough. When he reached the parlor door he simply stood for a long moment. And when her face broke into a wide, joyful smile and she turned away in an attempt to hide it, Jess turned and strode out of Grayburn Arms and into the late afternoon sun.

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Chief Deacon Trumbull tossed a spent toothpick into the street and bellowed to his driver to slow up, hardly believing his good fortune. Talk about the devil, he thought. He’d just seen Jess Pepper leaving an apartment building where he knew he didn’t live. He wanted to dump the blonde chatterbox into the street and follow Pepper, but an even better idea began to form. “—so now he’s locked it all—“ “Shhhhttt!” Trumbull waved an angry hand at Birdie Tabor. But in his attempt to shut her up, his large ring caught her ear. She yelped and he turned from the window and saw her dabbing at her ear with a gaudy handkerchief. “You bastard!” Birdie continued to dab at the trickle of blood coming from the jagged hole where her earring pierced her ear. He watched a small drop escape and land on the pleats that stretched about her ample bosom. His eyes followed the pattern as it soaked into the fabric and sent spidery red fingers across the summer white. It wasn’t much of a drop, but he imagined it sliding through the gauzy layers to stain the peaches and cream beneath. And he certainly knew first hand that it was

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peaches and cream. The first time he’d seen her soft Georgia flesh, it had taken his breath away. It was nothing at all like the leathery skin of the whores who frequented his private quarters. Occasionally he’d take a fat one to bed. Fat had a way of softening up the flesh. Even on the old broads. But the resulting frolic was always disappointing. This creature, however, had it all. The plump softness of a pampered upbringing and the savagery of a seasoned harlot. The fact that she worked just yards from a particular newspaperman he wanted to keep an eye on was frosting on the cake. He grabbed her chin with his large, fleshy palm and crushed her lips to his wet mouth, holding her captive with his other hand behind her head. He held her there as she struggled, until her hand grabbed his lapel and she began moaning as he knew she would. “Pull around to the ally at the Grayburn Arms,” he yelled to his driver, and leered as Birdie flinched from the impact of his voice just inches from her face. “Then take Miss Tabor to that little French dressmaker she likes so well.” He lowered his voice as he continued. “I seem to have...” his fingers wandered over the red stain on her bosom, “... ruined her dress.” Birdie’s sensuous lips spread into a delighted smile. “Oh, Sugar, you needn’t bother.” She planted a lingering kiss on the Chief. “And perhaps a hat,” he smiled, remembering the wild night she’d given him the first time he bought her a whole ensemble.

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She sighed and nipped his lips again. “And shoes. Definitely shoes.” But as she leaned across his belly for another peck, the carriage came to a halt behind the Grayburn Arms and he shoved her rudely to the corner of the seat. “Don’t get greedy, my little pigeon.” He slid out of the carriage that had been modified so that he could step down and straighten up before taking a final step out of the carriage. It made his exits more dramatic. Birdie Tabor leaned from the window and blew a kiss as the carriage rolled away, then dropped her fingers to wander lightly across her bosom. His loins sent an impatient signal, but he turned his thoughts toward his present mission. The back of the property was ill kept, and Chief Trumbull kicked at an old bucket that stood beside an ancient pennyfarthing that blocked the rude path to the back door. He easily found the manager’s apartment and brought the old man running to answer his pounding at the door. The man’s face swirled from irritation to alarm as he recognized who it was that filled his doorway. “You’re the manager here?” The old fellow gulped and nodded. “Singleterry. Jacob Singleterry. Can I help you with something?” Trumbull watched his face quiver and decided to go easy. “Why, yes, I believe you can, Mr. Singleterry. If you’d be so kind.” The Chief’s pleasant voice reassured the shriveled man, who grew nearly three inches as he squared his stooped shoulders.

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“I merely need a list of your tenants, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble?” “Trouble? Not at all, sir, er, Chief, er, Chief Trumbull. Not at all. Just one moment!” The old fellow disappeared into his dusty confines and reappeared minutes later with a carefully copied list of tenants. “Anything else, sir?” The fellow seemed so anxious to oblige that Deacon Trumbull pursued the question he was most eager to have answered. “Oh, just one small thing. Do you happen to know who it is that Jess Pepper might know in this building?” The old man was crestfallen. He had no idea who Jess Pepper was, and no idea if the man had even been in his building. Trumbull left the man standing in his hallway, blabbering offers to help, and made his way to the front of the building. Jess Pepper had been here, all right. He’d seen him stroll out the door just minutes earlier. And he wanted to know who the nosy reporter had visited. The lobby was as dismal as the rest of the building, and the only human he saw before passing through the front door was a woman who stood at the far end of the parlor with her hand on the window pane. Chief Trumbull moved slowly up the street, not wanting to sweat through his Sunday coat. It took him five minutes to stroll the block and a half to the area precinct where he could commandeer transportation. He read through the list of names, then started to work his way back up from the bottom. Nothing jumped out at him and he was beginning to question his hunch. There was probably nothing more here than some stupid source

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for another of Pepper’s articles. When he reached the top of the page, he slid his finger to the second column listing apartment numbers and the next of kin for each. And here a name jumped out at him that had him heaving to a stop and beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. Halfway down was a name that came shrieking out of his past. A name that had cost a careless beat cop a promotion twenty years earlier. A man who had eluded him for nearly two decades. The next of kin listed for the tenant in 4H was none other than Ford Magee.

... Jess slammed the typewriter roll hard to the left and winced at the clanging of its raucous bell. That very sound was the reason he’d bought the Blickensderfer years ago for work and retired this annoying Remington to his home. It finally clanged at him one too many times and he grabbed the little bell and clapper spring-loaded mechanism and ripped it off the machine. He blew a long, settling breath and tried to come to a decision on the direction this story would take. Two hours earlier the article had come tumbling out faster than he could type. But then he’d gone upstairs to visit Ford Magee, and now he was having second thoughts about publishing the story at all. He knew now that Magee was his Samaritan. The man’s language and the incriminating dates in his wife’s diary were too convincing to ignore. But even as he formed the thought, his stomach churned at the preposterous theory.

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He liked Magee. And his feelings for the man’s daughter had obviously gone farther than he’d ever ventured with another female. They were good people, whose lives had been derailed by questions a husband and wife were afraid to ask and answer for one another. How fiercely they had both protected Addie. Wouldn’t people want to know that this honorable man had sacrificed his own family for the safety of their daughters? Wouldn’t they want an opportunity to thank him? Still, there was no question of naming Magee. He would never do that. The man had let his family move to Chicago without him rather than reveal even to them who he was. A man wouldn’t do that without good reason. A very good reason. A reason backed by fear. Jess pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. What was the reason? That was now the focus of his investigation. And if he managed to answer that question, Ford Magee might be able to breathe freely for the first time in over twenty years. For the moment, Ford was off the hook. Jess would give him a couple more days, a week at the most, and then he was going to lay it all out for him. One way or the other he’d help Ford and Addie bring this shadowed fear into the light. Jess dug through his waste basket for a discarded version of the article, and contemplated merging his present page with ideas from the page he’d rejected just minutes earlier. A passionate thread began to emerge, and as he rolled a clean sheet into the typewriter, Jess let his fingers have their way with the Remington. In half an hour, his final take on the article had tumbled onto the page.

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From the Salt Mines A Tale of Two People by Salty Pepper The inclination to protect one’s own is as natural as any instinct shared by man and beast. To stand at the gate and thwart the attack. To send the scavenger fleeing. Picture books are full of majestic lions protecting their den. Or soaring eagles screeching down on hawks that threaten their nests on the cliffs. The lion paces before the cleft in the rock where he has harbored his young, mouth stretching in a fearsome roar. Tail twitching. The wild boar that dares to threaten his cubs finds himself suddenly shredded by the swift, killing claws of the lion. The eagle swoops from the sky and plucks a hawk before it can land in her nest, her talons ripping and beak stabbing at the hated intruder. The man who stands on his doorstep and single-handedly fights off a marauding bandit has much in common with his brother Lion and sister Eagle. But what about the other nests on the cliff? Or the pride of lions that lives in

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the grove beyond? Does the lion rush to their aid when they come under attack? Does the eagle swoop to keep the hawks away from the unwary rabbit or innocent prairie dog? No, my friend. Here is where man and beast part ways. For it is only man who will don a uniform and sacrifice his life for the good of a nation. Only man who will run into a burning house to save the child of a stranger. Only man who will throw himself between a killer and a defenseless girl. What manner of man is this, I ask you? Does he fear nothing? Does he have no family to whom he feels a greater duty than to this stranger? Imagine if you will, two very different people. One, the solid patriarch, responsible and loving, cautious in business, and safeguard of the welfare of his family. The other, a vigilante. Who casts aside his own obligations in order to safeguard the welfare of anonymous strangers. The risk-taker. The man willing to face down death. It is as impossible to imagine the patriarch rushing out to join another’s fight and leave his children vulnerable

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as it is to imagine the vigilante playing cat’s cradle with an infant. And yet they do. Now imagine that the patriarch and the vigilante are one and the same. He guards his family and cares for them with as much love and concern as he is capable. His gentle hands wipe his daughter’s tears and teach his young son to tie his shoes. And when he is at last content that all is well, some hunch, some instinct, some clue that comes from who knows where, leads him to a dark street to save a girl he’s never seen from death at the hands of a lunatic. How can he throw himself between? Is he bigger? Is he stronger? Does he know the attacker? Does he know for certain that he can save the girl and not lose his own life in the process? In this teeming city there is no shortage of men who put aside their fears and leave behind their families to stand between good and evil. Were they born courageous? Or were they emboldened by the examples of other men. Men like our own Samaritan, who has gone these twenty years unthanked for his courageous deeds. A man who may have left his own wife and child time after time and searched the streets in order to save

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some other fathers’ daughters. We can only wonder if this man feels the gratitude of a city. If we passed him on the street, would we know it was him? Would we see something in him we don’t see in others? Would we stop to thank him? Or hurry on by. Ponder this, Dear Reader. You may have ridden the trolley with this brave man. You may worship in the same church, shop at the same market, visit the same barber. He might be your tailor. The conductor on your train. The man who shovels coal into your coal chute. Or your banker. Or, Gentle Reader, he might even be the man who lives upstairs. When you see him, will you know him?

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Jess loitered on the steps of the Chase National Bank, grateful for the shade from the afternoon’s heat. He had more papers to hide in the safe deposit box, but he wanted to complete his task closer to closing time so he could walk Addie home. At ten minutes to four he strode into the foyer and checked the teller lines. Addie and one other teller were busy, but the rest were available. Several nodded for him to come to their window and he waved them off, content to stay in Addie’s line and wait. After the third offer was rejected, the women began passing knowing looks back and forth along the line and nodding in his direction. Awkward as it was, Jess managed to wait until Addie had finished with the crabby old fellow who insisted she count his withdrawal a third time. “And Mr. Pepper, what may I do for you today?” She’d seen him waiting in her line and her smile said she was more than pleased he hadn’t gone elsewhere. “A visit to my safe deposit box, Miss Magee, if you’ve the time?” “All the time in the world, Mr. Pepper. I’ll meet you at the gate.”

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Addie slid the leather thong of keys onto her wrist and placed the wooden block in front of her window. She glided to the gate, seemingly unaware of her coworkers’ giggles. Without breaking stride she pushed open the low gate and indicated for him to follow her into the vault. Jess watched her insert her key, then he inserted his and they turned both keys nearly in unison. He heard the soft click and Addie slid the box from its shelf and carried it to the high center table. “I’ll leave you alone, sir.” “If you do, I’ll be forced to come pester you at your counter, Miss Magee.” She stopped and turned back toward him, smiling. “If I don’t, the ladies will never stop pestering me, Mr. Pepper. Just let me know when you’re finished.” Jess flipped up the lid, dropped in the papers, and let the lid fall with a clank. “Finished.” “Oh! Well, then, let’s just put this back and you can be on your way.” Addie slid the box back into its place and reached to retrieve her key. Jess reached at the same time, but instead of reaching for his key, he reached for hers and covered her hand. “I’ve come to walk you home.” “Oh! How nice! But...I’m not going home.” Addie looked truly dismayed. “I’m going to see my father. I stopped at Ballenger’s this morning and Cherise gave me some day-old’s. I thought my father might like them.” “I’m sure he will. And since I live there, too, I’ll walk you anyway. What do you say?”

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Addie began to smile, then blushed. “To your building? Wouldn’t that be...I don’t know, a bit compromising?” “I’ll tell you what. We’ll walk together until the last block and then I’ll cross the street the other direction. No one will see us together entering my darkly mysterious bachelor’s lair. I’ll wait a full five minutes before I come in. Would that suit you?” Before Addie could answer, Hamilton Jensen swung into the vault and startled the two. Jess quickly turned his key and said loudly, “Thank you, Miss...um, Magee, is it? You’ve been very helpful.” He moved behind her to pick up his Stetson from the center table and whispered as he passed, “Front step. I’ll wait.” And with a courteous nod first to Addie and then to Jensen, he left the vault. It was a full fifteen minutes before Addie emerged from the giant doors. Jess had waited, leaning against a cool marble column, then wandered over to the window of the music store next door and watched the demonstrator play new sheet music for the customers. He turned from the storefront just in time to see Addie swing off the bottom step onto the sidewalk. The miniature decorative birds nested in her hat were colored an unlikely blue-green, and bobbed cheerfully as she looked discreetly about for Jess. She carried her father’s bakery goods with a finger hooked beneath the string that tied the box closed. He was getting accustomed to the possessive feeling that rose as he walked toward her, and suppressed a grin at Addie’s unsuccessful attempt to stifle her own grin. The result left her looking like the cat who ate the canary. As he came close, he could simply have pivoted and joined her to walk alongside. Instead, he greeted her with

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a huge smile as he caught her elbow and turned them both in an abrupt square corner and ushered her into the side alley. Once past the edges of the buildings, he backed her behind a massive hedge of lilac and trapped her against the wall, a hand planted on the cool bricks above each of her shoulders. Addie was so taken by surprise she merely looked questioningly up at him, but had not hesitated for a moment to let him steer her off the sidewalk. “I believe, Miss Adelaide Magee, that I am going to kiss you.” “Is that so?” Both her hands clutched the bakery box and she held it chest high between them. He could see the fabric of her bodice trembling, but her voice was cool, playing along. “Yes, that is so.” Jess had moved his face closer to hers with each word, and now, if he hadn’t been so very preoccupied, he could have felt her breath on his chin. “May I remind you that a proper young lady would be obliged to...well, at the very least...scream?” Her words came out slow, hushed. “Well, then, Mistress Magee. May I suggest that you commence...” Jess lowered his face until their lips nearly brushed. “...screaming.” Her eyelids fluttered and her eyes bobbed from his eyes to his mouth and back again. Jess enjoyed his devilish taunt. She moistened her lips and took a breath as if she were about to speak and Jess closed gently. All the restraint he could muster kept his kiss from seeking the exhilarating

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planes to which his mind had already sailed. He was just commanding himself to pull away when a door slammed nearby and steps echoed in the brick alley then stopped abruptly. Jess stepped away from Addie, and she, slow to shake off her euphoria, turned at last to see what or who had caught them. In the half light of the shady alley, Hamilton Jensen glared at them with a venom that seemed capable of blistering from a distance. “Oh, Hamilton, I...” “Addie.” Jess took her elbow and drew her close to his side. “You don’t owe him an explanation.” She looked up at Jess, uncertain what to do. Jess felt if he merely stomped his foot on the pavement, Jensen would shriek and run. But he would not humiliate the fellow further. With a gentlemanly tip of his hat, Jess propelled Addie out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. He hurried her to the next corner, and as they stood waiting for a break in the traffic, he risked a look at her. At the same moment, Addie tipped her head a quarter turn and peeked at him beneath the brim of her hat. Her eyes were huge saucers, and she crinkled her forehead as her eyes rolled up in huge relief. An officer on horseback whistled for the pedestrians to cross, and as the two stepped into the street, they simultaneously burst into laughter. On the far curb, Jess plucked the bakery box from her hands and smoothly changed course toward his building. “May I suggest, Mr. Pepper, that we assiduously avoid such opportunities for embarrassment in the future?”

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“You may, Miss Magee,” he replied with a wink. Her tone bore little rebuke, for which Jess was grateful. “Good. Then I presume there will be no further incidents?” “Well, I didn’t say that.” “You most certainly did!” “Actually, I didn’t.” “But I heard you very clearly—“ “No. You said ‘may I suggest’ that we not kiss in alleys in the future.” “And you agreed!” “Well, technically I only agreed that you could suggest it. I never agreed not to kiss you in alleys.” Addie stopped and snatched her box of baked goods from Jess. “Jess Pepper, you are impossible.” Jess watched her struggle with the impropriety of their impulsive tryst and her giddy memory of it. He knew now she was more unsettled by his impulsive move than she had at first let on. They stood a long moment in the middle of the sidewalk. Pedestrians parted to pass on either side of them, and merged again on the other side like water around rocks in the stream. “Addie. I apologize. I got carried away. Forgive me?” A mischievous twinkle overtook her serious expression, and she slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow. “I may, Mr. Pepper.” They began to move again. “In time.” Jess darted a look toward her, and was relieved to see more humor than chastisement. He’d had it coming. It

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was, after all, a stolen kiss. Like any proper girl, she would have felt compelled to scold. But she did not. Just one more thing to like about her. They stopped only twice as they made their way toward his building. Once for Addie to purchase a basket and a bottle of cider to make her gift complete. And once for Jess to pick up his bundle of clean shirts from the laundry. Addie saw so many bizarre and interesting characters at the bank that she had plenty of stories to share as they walked the last few blocks. Jess half listened and half marveled at how comfortable it was, walking alongside her. Usually he was too impatient to stroll and chat. But with Addie it was different. They could walk a block without saying a word and it was comfortable. And then hold each other up through the next block as they laughed over something she’d said or he’d done. And so it happened that they were both laughing as they rounded the last corner and nearly ran into the crowd that blocked the sidewalk. A paddy wagon waited in the street, and a cordon of uniformed police kept traffic back from both sides. Jess was just turning to ask the closest officer what was going on when the doors to his building were thrust open. A single officer rushed down the steps and ran to unlock the back doors of the waiting wagon. An instant later, two higher ranking officers came through the doors, half dragging an older man. His head was bent, concentrating on the steps that were coming too fast for him to manage with his hands cuffed behind his back. On the last step he looked up to see where they were

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taking him and Addie gasped. “Papa!” She turned a horrified face toward Jess. “What are they doing? Where are they taking him?” “Addie, stay calm. Hold these and I’ll find out.” Jess thrust the basket and bundle of laundry at Addie and broke through the onlookers. He stopped right in front of Ford Magee who had just lurched off the bottom step. “Here now. Out of the way,” the older officer bellowed. Jess drew his credentials from a pocket and waved them in front of the two. “Jess Pepper. New York Times. Where are you taking Mr. Magee?” “Downtown Precinct. Now get out of the way.” “Ford.” Jess looked at his upstairs neighbor and put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asked quietly. Ford Magee shook his head, a look of resignation already planted on his face. “It’s a mistake, Pepper. It’s all a mistake.” The officers jerked him past Jess and he nearly stumbled as he stepped off the curb. They stopped a moment for him to regain his balance just as Addie managed to squeeze through the crowd. “Papa?” He turned as much toward her as he could with a man still gripping each of his arms and gave her a reassuring grin. “Fear not, Addie girl. I’ll be fine.” The two husky guards practically lifted him onto the box step they’d placed in back of the paddy wagon, and in one move they shoved him inside the wagon and closed

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the doors. “Jess! What’s happening! What are they doing?” Addie had grabbed his coat and hung on fiercely as she watched her father disappear into the police wagon. The basket swung crazily on one arm, his bundle of laundry stashed in it now, as well. “Officer? This is his daughter. She has a right to know what’s going on.” The fellow who was just finishing a note on his small pad looked up at Jess and then eyeballed Addie from head to toe. “She’s his daughter?” “Yes,” Jess repeated, gritting his teeth to suppress the rising anger at the man’s diffidence. “Why are they taking Ford Magee to the Downtown Precinct?” “He’s under arrest.” “Under arrest?” Addie’s face drained of color and Jess felt her sag a bit against his side. “Whatever for?” “He got away with it for twenty years, but we got him now.” The cocky policeman raised his voice and turned toward the crowd. He raised his right arm high, waving a newspaper crushed in his fist. “You folks recollect those girls that almost got killed around here about twenty years ago?” The crowd was quick to answer that they did. “Well, that’s him.” He jabbed the newspaper toward the departing police wagon. “That’s the one. He’s the guy that almost killed all them girls.” The crowd erupted in angry chatter and rude comments. They pushed and jostled, and a hand reached out and grabbed Addie’s arm. Another fumbled for her basket and

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spat into it. At the same instant, Jess saw the light go out in Addie’s eyes, and he whisked her up the steps and away from the howling mob.

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Jess helped Addie into the carriage beside Cherise and paid the driver. “Thank you for staying with her, Cherise. I tried to explain as much as I know, but...” “Don’t worry yerself ’bout this one. I’ll take good care.” Jess put his hand over Addie’s hands that were clenched and cold in her lap. “I’m going to city hall now and I’ll have your father back here before breakfast. I promise.” Addie slowly raised her eyes to Jess. “He’s not a criminal, Jess. They have to see that.” “They will, Addie. Don’t worry.” He was about to signal the driver when she caught his hand and spoke again, urgency and fear pouring from her dark eyes. “Bring him back to me, Jess.” Her hand slipped from his as the carriage rolled forward and Jess stood rooted on the sidewalk while the carriage pulled away. He’d hurried her into the building to escape the crowd, and it hadn’t been easy convincing her she shouldn’t go to the precinct herself. As soon as she was safely in his apartment, Jess had commandeered a headset from a switchboard operator at

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the corner exchange and called Ballenger’s with an urgent message for Cherise to bring a carriage to the back of the building. By the time she arrived, he’d convinced Addie that with his contacts he’d stand a better chance of getting information than she would. Now that he turned his attention toward the precinct, he wasn’t so sure. Why had they arrested Ford Magee today of all days? The very day his article came out in the newspaper. His reference to a man upstairs was too obscure. Who would have thought he was referring to someone in his own building? It simply wasn’t enough on which to arrest a man. There had to be something else. Or perhaps his conscience just needed to know there was some other reason for Ford’s arrest. Jess hailed a cab and rode to the precinct lost in his own debate. But by the time he reached the police station, he’d lost the battle with his conscience. His article may have had a great deal to do with Ford’s arrest after all. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Guilt stood poised behind every thought as he waited at the desk for permission to see Ford Magee. He should have told Addie about the article. But in her agitated state it might have made it easy for her to blame him for her father’s arrest. And perhaps she would have been right.

... The downtown jail was as dismal as any he’d ever seen. Several women and a dozen men flung insults at one another and at Jess as he passed their holding cell. Each long hall he and the bailiff passed through had cells—filled

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equally with degenerates and bewildered souls—on each side and ended with a couple of steps leading downward. Jess shook off a chill and realized the temperature had dropped as they descended below the windowed floors. Along each corridor he watched for the familiar face of Ford Magee. But it wasn’t until the bailiff finally stopped before a heavy door with a six inch opening at eye level that Jess realized they’d put Addie’s father in the most secure cell they had. The one they reserved for men kept in solitary confinement. The bailiff drew his gun and pointed it through the barred hole while he unlocked the door. “That is absolutely not necessary,” Jess bristled. “Ten minutes,” the jailer growled, and elbowed Jess into the cell and shoved the door closed. Jess let his eyes adjust to the gloom and realized Ford Magee was sitting on the stone floor to his right. There was no furniture in the cell. No bed or stool. What was left of a mattress lay rotting on the floor, the smell of old urine so strong he thought he might gag. “Ford?” Ford raised his head and struggled to stand. “No, no, don’t get up.” Jess hunkered down and saw for the first time the black eye and raw, bleeding skin on his neighbor’s left cheek. “They did this to you?” Ford touched a hand to his face and winced. “Didn’t do it to m’self.” “Ford, what the hell is going on?” Jess pulled a clean handkerchief from his vest and handed it to Ford. It was a long moment before the man spoke.

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“You think I’m the guy they call the Samaritan, don’t you.” His voice was flat, defeated. “Are you?” Ford looked at Jess a long time, but when he spoke, it wasn’t with the answer. “These idiots think I’m the other one. The guy who tried to kill those girls.” Jess shifted his knees until he could look Ford directly in the eye. “Are you?” Ford slid down and laid his brutalized cheek on the cold stone floor. “What do you think?” “C’mon, Ford, I’m trying to help you. Tell me what you know.” “Can’t do it, Pepper. Now leave me be.” Jess fumed and rose from his crouching position. He walked four paces to the adjoining wall and slapped his open palms on the damp stone. Frustrated, he whirled away from the wall and strode one giant step toward the old man on the floor. Jess was ready to shout at the man but clenched his teeth and stifled the raw words. He inhaled the putrid air and bent again, saw defeat on the man’s closed face. “Do it for your daughter, then.” Ford lay with his swelling cheek on the floor and showed no indication that he’d heard Jess. “Time’s up,” the jailer barked from outside the door. The quiet cell echoed with the clatter of keys, and Jess knew he had to leave. He reached a hand to Ford’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. And just as he was about to rise, he saw a single tear slip from Ford Magee’s eye onto the bridge of his nose.

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His mouth barely moved as he whispered words only Jess could hear. “Tell her I...” He swallowed, tried to speak, then just rocked his head in a defeated ‘no’.” Jess put out his hand and squeezed Ford’s shoulder. He’d go straight to Trumbull. There was no way in hell he was going to leave this good man in this hellhole overnight.

... “I’m telling you, he didn’t do it!” Jess leaned both fists on the gargantuan ebony desk and pressed his case with Deacon Trumbull. “I know you believe that, Jess, but we just got some new information and it’s...well, it’s all the proof we need,” Chief Trumbull shook his head in sympathy as he rolled an unlit cigar in his fingers. “I find that hard to believe” Jess straightened and worked to face down his rising panic. He’d promised he’d have Addie’s father home for breakfast. But the Precinct Chief planned a long and very public trial. With no bail. “What possible piece of evidence could you have after twenty years?” He tried to tamp down his desperation. “Pieces, son. We have several pieces of evidence. Plenty to convict the bastard.” “Such as?” Deacon Trumbull’s face darkened as he brushed off Jess’s probe. “All in due time, son.” He came around the desk and put an arm around Jess’s shoulder. “Meanwhile, I’ll do everything I can, leave no stone unturned, until I can refute this damning evidence. I give you my promise, Pepper.” Jess stared down the Chief who finally stepped away

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and began shuffling papers on his desk. The precinct chatter quieted as Jess strode angrily past hordes of men sporting copper badges. But before he made it to the door, the Chief called almost cheerfully, “I can recommend a good lawyer when you’re ready.”

... Deacon Trumbull trimmed his cigar with the silverplated snippers he kept in the drawer, then took his time lighting it. He rolled it lazily between thumb and forefinger as he tossed the cylinder of matches back into the desk drawer. Before he closed the drawer, he let his fingers wander across the leather binding of the book that had come into his possession just that afternoon. It was a gold mine. The real piece of evidence that would hang his prisoner. Trumbull didn’t speculate on how the information came to be in the book. But with it, he could tie the author and the dates together in a way that would be compelling enough for any judge. Whether or not it was the truth. This was going to turn the tide for him. If he could break this notorious case, the brass would have to rectify the injustice they’d done to him twenty years earlier, delaying his promotion and costing him a small fortune. His tobacco-etched lips parted in a sneer. Twenty years he’d looked for this bastard. He’d long ago decided the man had left the city. Now Deacon itched to make him disappear again. Tonight. Still, with a public trial and quick conviction the people would cry for a hanging. It was tempting. Very tempting. One way or the other, though,

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Magee needed to disappear. He had it coming. Deacon would enjoy playing this one out, playing it just right to get the most mileage out of it. Hell, this time next year he could even be New York City’s Chief of Police. The precinct chief leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the first calm he’d felt in weeks. After all, he had everything he needed now to put an end to the Samaritan myth once and for all. And put the final nail in Ford Magee’s coffin. Now that he’d finally found him.

... Jess raked his hands through his hair, frustrated, but somehow not surprised by the news that awaited him at Addie’s apartment. “They were waiting for us when we got back. Four policemen,” Cherise said. “They wouldn’t even let us in the room until they’d searched it.” “Look at this, Jess! My music is dumped every which way. They knocked my violin off the desk. My personal things—” Addie sat on the floor, trying to reunite scattered pages of music with their rightful covers. “Is anything missing?” Jess asked. “How can I tell? I—I think everything’s here. It’s just such a mess that I can’t even think str—” Addie broke her thought and scrambled up from the floor. In three steps she was at her dresser fingering the things that were scattered there. Combs, hat pins, the lid to her powder dish. It was clear she was taking swift inventory. Suddenly she began to open drawers and paw through them.

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“Addie, what—” “Jess! I think it’s gone! Why would they—” Jess moved behind her and stilled her fluttering hands with his. “What’s gone, Addie?” Addie turned slowly, a monstrous sadness in her eyes. She brought her hands to his chest and swallowed several times, trying to form the words. Jess put a hand on each side of her face and caressed her temples with his thumbs, trying his best to calm her. “Tell me, Addie. What do you think is missing? What did they take?” She weaved her head slowly from side to side and opened her mouth with a small sob. “They took...my mother’s diary.”

... Ollie Twickenham had just settled back in his office after having chased another gang of crapshooters out of his domain. If these stringers were too stupid to take their paycheck to the bank they could at least keep their noise out of his sanctuary. He was still grumbling over the fact when a shadow fell across his work and he heard a sound behind him. Irritated, he tapped the spine he’d just glued into place and hoped it would hold until he could get back to it. The pasting brush slopped messily back into the jar of glue as he turned to see who was standing in his doorway. He settled his spectacles back onto his nose and barely had time to stand as a female form swept in and began to chatter. “Why, you mus’ be the famous Mistuh Olivuh Twickenham! Am I right?”

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Ollie recognized the sassy Southern blonde from the typing pool and became flustered to have been caught with sticky glue all over his hands. “Why, yes, Miss Tabor, that would be me.” He grabbed an old towel he kept handy for just this purpose and began to swipe at his hands, making more of a mess than he’d started with. “Oh heah now, shugah, lemme hep you wi’ that.” She lifted the towel out of his hands and began to wipe slowly across his palms, running her fingers provocatively over each spot as if to check her progress. Ollie stood eye level with her most impressive bosom and fought for control of his speech. And his eyes. “What is it that I can do for you, Miss Tabor?” “It’s jus’ lil’ ol’ me, Ollie dahlin’, you c’n jus’ call me Birdie. All right?” “All right then...Birdie...what can I do for you?” “Oh, it’s not for me, dahlin’, it’s for that gorgeous Mistuh Salty Peppuh. He said y’all left a message and he sent me t’get whatever it is y’all were holdin’ for ‘im. Ah’ll jus’ run it right up to him, quick as a bunny.” Birdie fluttered her fingers over his palm and Ollie cleared his throat harshly. Ollie had indeed left a message for Jess. On his desk, earlier that morning. He was stunned that Jess would regard his urgent message so lightly that he would send this flighty female to fetch it. “I was just about to take it to him myself, Miss T— er, Birdie.” Birdie pulled her hands to her bosom as if in shock, and drew his hand with them. “Oh, I couldn’t bear fer you t’

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trouble y’sef like that, Ollie dahlin’. You have much more... important... things to do. I’m on my way right now. So where is it, shugah?” His hand rose and fell as her bosom heaved with each dramatically delivered word. Ollie flicked his eyes to the desk, and pulled his hand from her grasp. He was no fool. But Birdie saw his darting glance and grabbed at a page that was protruding from beneath the blotter. “Is this it, dahlin’?” Ollie tried to hide the truth from his eyes, but she saw it, and a taunting laugh cascaded from her full lips. “Bye-bye now, dahlin’!” She whirled toward the door and Ollie leaped after her to grab the paper and came away with just a torn scrap. Her other hand darted back and knocked him just enough to lose his balance and he found himself on the floor scrambling after his spectacles. “Ooops! Clumsy me!” Her backhanded apology was insulting, though it was her laughter that rankled the most. Ollie was furious as he got to his feet, but when he heard Birdie speaking to someone just around the corner, he strained an ear to catch what she said. “You can tell that big ‘ol dandy I’m finished. He can do his own dirty work from now on and then he can go to hell.” “He ain’t gonna like that, Miss Tabor. Chief Trumbull wants whatever it was the old man dug up. Did ya get it?” “Oh, I got it all right. I’ll take it to him t’night. Just b’fore I tell Mistuh Bigshot his honeypot done dried—Hey! Take y’ hands offa me, ya big galoot!” Ollie’s heart began to hammer in his chest. He’d let the

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floozy distract him and now Deacon Trumbull was going to get his hands on the best information they’d come across yet. He wouldn’t let Jess down. He had to stop them before the paper disappeared in the wrong hands. The morgue librarian drew his heavy pistol from its hiding place, its aged steel still unfamiliar to his hand even after all these years. Ollie held the gun up to the dim bulb and wished he’d taken care to clean it more often. He spun the revolving cylinder shut and slapped it once for luck. It was still loaded. Already in motion, Ollie hollered to Birdie to stop, then stepped out of his office brandishing his gun. He felt tall. He felt brave. He felt ready to ride with the Cavalry. And he never felt the bullet that killed him instantly.

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Jess and Addie paused at the front steps of Chase National Bank and made arrangements to meet at the end of the day. All around them, businessmen hurried past, bumping and jostling for space on the sidewalk, as though it were just another ordinary day. Boys on each street corner waved the morning edition in the faces of the foolish who attempted to pass without buying a copy. Addie stood in a pool of sunlight and shivered. The rays warmed her shoulders, but it was the water that dripped from the axle of the ice wagon at the curb that mirrored the puddle of doubt in Addie’s own stomach. She turned slowly, resigned to the prospect of getting through the workday before she could meet with her father to try and unravel the catastrophe that had landed him behind bars. “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Samaritan attacker arrested after hiding out fer twenty years. Getcher copy here!” “Jess, I don’t know if I can do this—” Her pale face lost the small bloom of color that had risen in her cheeks during their brief walk from the Grayburn Arms. “Look, Addie, when you tell them it’s all a misunder-

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standing they’ll believe you. Don’t worry, now.” Jess watched her face and hoped his own concerns weren’t plastered all over his. Addie cast a nervous glance toward the massive doors. She pinched bits of skirt between her gloved fingers and turned to mount the steps. Jess watched her square her shoulders with a long, worried sigh, and he bounded up the two steps to join her. His hand on her elbow was the best he could do to send her courage. “It’ll be just like any other day, Addie. If anyone looks at you cross-eyed, just pretend they’re worried you caught them taking a nip in the board room.” Addie made a small huffing sound, as if she’d tried to laugh. “We’re going to go in the door like you always do and then where do you go?” Jess worked to get her past the moment and into the future. “I go to the women’s closet and leave my hat and get my cuffs.” They were on the top step now. “And then what?” Jess pushed the heavy door open and stepped aside for Addie to enter. “Then I get my cash tray from the vault and—” “Not this morning, Miss Magee.” Jess and Addie stopped abruptly as Hamilton Jensen and his secretary stepped in front of them. “What—why Hamilton. G-good morning.” Addie looked from the bank officer to his secretary and back again. She’d been so worried about her father she’d completely

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forgotten about the embarrassing incident in the alley the day before. Of course Hamilton would still be angry, but she’d never expected him to meet her at the door. “Not for you, Miss Magee. You’re late.” Addie looked at the giant clock that hung over the arch beneath the curved staircase. Nine-o-three. “I’ll make up the three minutes, Hamilton, you needn’t worry. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Addie side-stepped to pass the stiff couple, but Hamilton moved in front of her again. She flicked her eyes toward the teller line, hoping they were busy with customers, and caught half a dozen coworkers ducking their heads rather than make eye contact with her. “I need to get to work, Hamilton. Please excuse me.” She leveled a look at him intended to cause him to step out of the way. “You no longer work here, Miss Magee.” His voice was cold and malicious. It carried none of the simpering charm she’d heard from him in recent weeks. “I’m so sorry, Addie.” His homely secretary handed her an envelope with a little shake of her head that expressed profound regret. But when Hamilton glared at the woman, she dropped her hands and fled. “Look here, Jensen, if you want to be angry with someone, take it out on me.” Jess drew Hamilton’s eyes off Addie. “What happened in the alley was entirely my fault.” Jensen flared red, his nostrils billowing angrily at the mention of the incident. He cocked his head twice, and with great effort he spoke. “This has nothing to do with Miss Magee’s...indiscretion.” He dragged his focus back to Addie and sneered. “Chase

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National has a longstanding policy against employing individuals who consort with criminals. Bank security, you understand.” Jess dropped Addie’s elbow and stepped forward, his fists clenching. “Why you little—” But Addie stopped him with a hand on his arm, and eyes that pleaded with him not to make a scene. “You’ll find your earnings through today in the envelope. Minus the fee we’ll have to pay for the advertisement for your replacement. And a deduction for the daily newspaper you’ve pilfered from the board room for a month.” Hamilton reacted to her gasp with a smug expression. “Hamilton Jensen! You know very well I only pull the previous day’s paper out of the dust bin! You can’t charge me for taking what you’ve already thrown away!” Addie was aghast, and people turned to see why she was raising such a commotion. “Oh, but I can. And I have. Good day, Miss Magee.” With a dismissing click of his heels Jensen turned and strutted toward the staircase. Addie stood gasping in the great hall, looking back and forth between the envelope in her hand and Jensen’s receding back. “We’re going, Addie.” Jess took her elbow to turn her toward the door and had to give it a little shake before she became unrooted from the marble tile. He hurried her through the door and across the street, out of sight of anyone watching from the windows. “Just like any other day?” Addie muttered through gritted teeth. “You seem to be wrong about a lot of things lately, Jess Pepper.”

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“All right, I underestimated a couple of times—” “Underestimated? Underestimated, you say?” Addie walked faster than he’d ever known her to, her heels clicking madly on the stone walk. “My father would be out of jail by breakfast, you said, but instead he’s there indefinitely. I’d go to work and it would turn out like any other day, you said. But instead I was fired. Well, excuse me for living, Mr. Pepper, but I’ll think twice before I listen to you again.” She hurried along in silence, her mouth pursed in irritation. Jess gathered it was her way of holding back the tears, and he kept quiet all the way to her building. Just inside the door she slowed and bowed her head, then turned to Jess, apology in her eyes. “Jess, forgive me, I don’t know what—” “Addie, don’t apologize. It was just too much to take, all at once like that.” He should say he had it coming. He should say he deserved it. But his tongue wouldn’t form the words. He stood on the step below the door jamb and held both her hands in his. “You try to rest, and I’ll meet you like we planned for dinner.” He squeezed her hands and leaned in to kiss her cheek. At the last moment she stepped back and he found himself straightening awkwardly from her rebuff. “Well, then. Until dinner.” He touched the brim of his Stetson and backed the two steps to the street and turned toward the Times. She’d feel better after she had some time to rest and think things through. At least he hoped she would. Most of all, he hoped she’d show up for dinner.

...

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Addie headed for the elevator. The events of the previous evening and the disastrous morning whirled in her head like a carousel gone berserk. The noise was so real that she didn’t hear the resident manager calling to her until he was almost in her face. “I’m so sorry, Miss Magee, so sorry. There was nothing I could do.” The manager put down a cracked pitcher he’d been using to water the lobby plants that were barely surviving the long, hot summer and wrung his hands. He shook his head in what Addie thought crazily was a figure eight, and had a great deal of trouble controlling his rapid blink. “Whatever for, Mr. Singleterry?” Addie hardly had the emotional energy to be civil and listen. Perhaps he was apologizing for letting the police into her apartment the night before. “If it were up to me you could certainly stay here until you get another job, but—” “You knew?” Addie’s voice rang in the high-ceilinged vestibule and the manager fluttered his hands in front of her to quiet her down. “You knew I was being fired this morning?” “Not until you’d already left with your gentleman friend, Miss Magee. It’s the truth!” He nearly stuttered as he hopped from foot to foot, uncomfortable in handling a crisis. “The bank owns our mortgage, so we had no choice. They say you can’t stay here.” Addie stared at the man. She doubted very much that the “bank” had anything to do with it. But since Hamilton was the bank’s representative, she supposed his demand carried enough authority on its own.

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She’d seen his wheedling nature often enough, as well as plenty of evidence that he was obsessed with power. But to throw a girl into the streets in a fit of jealousy was infinitely more than she’d ever suspected of him. “I shall leave by the end of the week, then, or sooner if I find a suitable place.” “I’m sorry, Miss, but—” “All right, all right! Just let me pack my things and—” She made a move toward the elevator, but the manager stepped between her and the elevator cage. He glanced pointedly toward the corner of the hall and Addie followed his gaze. Her steamer trunks and portmanteau stood waiting between a rotting potted plant and the gaudy cupid statue from which she’d always tried to avert her eyes. “Mr. Singleterry, don’t do this. I can pay you. I have some money still.” Addie knew she sounded desperate. But then, she was. “I’ll be needing your key, Miss. All your things are there. My Missus packed them just like they were her own.” He stood with his hand out, waiting. Addie stood blinking, and began to realize that she had no recourse. Hamilton Jensen had made certain her humiliation was complete. “I’ve paid for the month, Mr. Singleterry. Might I at least—” He shook his head. “The bank says there are some, shall we say, damages to the room that must be repaired, and that the remainder of the month’s rent should just about cover them.” He looked embarrassed. He knew it was a bald-faced lie.

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Dazed, she pulled the key from her handbag and dropped it into Mr. Singleterry’s palm. “Your things will be safe here ‘til you find lodging, Miss.” Addie turned toward the pile. Trunks, traveling bag, hat box, music satchel, violin. It all seemed to be there. She squared her shoulders and stepped to the corner. With all the dignity she could muster, she picked up the one precious thing she could not leave untended. Her violin. But instead of walking straight for the door, she stepped to the side of the hall and raise a gloved finger to the belly of the indecent cupid statue. “I know how much ‘the bank’ dislikes obscenity, Mr. Singleterry, so please do inform ‘the bank’ that I have taken the liberty of removing this abomination in their behalf.” She spread her palm against the gilded tummy and gave a slight push. The three-foot cupid fell to the floor with a satisfying crunch and sent a hundred chunks of cupid skittering across the dingy foyer. Without so much as a ‘good day’, Addie turned her back on her astonished house manager and retraced her steps to the street. It didn’t matter which way she turned, Addie decided. As long as it took her away from here.

... Hamilton Jensen sent his secretary on a task away from his office, then shut the outer door and sat down at her telephone console. He spun the crank in one clockwise rotation and waited for the operator. “City Hall,” he barked, and when the telephone terminal at City Hall responded, he asked to be connected

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with the precinct chief. “Trumbull, it’s done. She has no job, no home, her father is in jail, and her boyfriend put him there. She won’t be a problem to us any longer.” “You seem awfully certain of that, Cash.” Hamilton felt a nervous shudder, like a goose walking over his grave, at hearing his college nickname muttered right into his earpiece. “Give her twenty-four hours, Deac. She’ll leave town. Go back to Chicago. I’m sure of it.” Hamilton’s knee jiggled nervously when the silence on the other end of the line lasted a moment longer than necessary. “See that she does, Cash. Because one way or another, I want that woman out of this town. She’ll only draw sympathy for Magee and that won’t do.”

... Fool! Ten blocks away, Jess had reached the Times Building, fuming the whole way. If Hamilton Jensen thought they believed him, he had another think coming. This was pure vengeance. And that’s what made it even worse. Hamilton was punishing Addie for Jess’s own rash impulse. A hot fist of anger rose to an explosive edge and began to throb behind his forehead. If his article had landed her father in jail and his whimsical kiss in the alley had cost Addie her job, then he himself was to blame for every ounce of misery he’d seen on her face minutes earlier. No wonder when he attempted a second not-so-private

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kiss in less than two days she’d recoiled. He took the front steps two at a time, determined to get his column out and get back to Addie. Any one of the several rejects he’d laid aside over the last few days would have to do. At least until he could pull together enough information to write a story that would clear Ford of suspicion. But that was going to take time, and Jess didn’t want Addie alone all day. He grabbed the door before it closed behind the person who’d entered a moment earlier and nearly trampled the man as he strode through it. In the cool, dark interior, he hadn’t seen the congestion just inside the door. A half dozen women with baskets were handing black armbands to Times employees as they arrived for work. “Ruth!” Jess stepped aside to get the attention of one of the few women he knew by name. She was just tugging an armband into place for a fellow whose bicep could really have accommodated a band twice the size of this one. “Ruth, what’s going on?” As he asked the question, Jess looked across the wide foyer and saw that all the ‘regulars’ at the Times had a black band on their sleeve. “Oh, Mr. Pepper, the saddest thing. It’s Mr. Twickenham.” “Ollie?” An unfamiliar jangle of alarm coursed down his neck and sent warnings to the far reaches of his fingers. “What’s happened?” Ruth leaned close and lowered her voice, as if what she were about to say wasn’t common knowledge. “Gus Calloway found him in the basement this morning. In the...in the morgue, God help us. Shot dead. By his own

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hand.” Her hand was a blur as she crossed herself, then slipped a band onto Jess’s sleeve. He stood motionless, unbelieving, questioning the idea that there was anything remotely suicidal about his crusty friend. “Suicide?” Jess asked and Ruth nodded. “That’s not possible.” “Oh, but they found him with a gun!” she hissed. Jess knew all about the gun Ollie kept for protection. He excused himself and hurried to find Gus. It didn’t take long, since everyone knew by now that it was Gus who’d found Ollie, and he was still in the basement finishing up with the detectives. If it weren’t for Gus, Jess would have been the morgue’s most frequent visitor. But Gus shared Jess’s penchant for research, and often hit the morgue to check out facts his reporters on the city desk tried to foist onto an unsuspecting public as news. So he had been on a mission for historical data when he discovered Ollie in the early morning hours. The basement was quiet except for a bit of activity near the central kiosk. The sulfur smell of a spent flash pot lingered in the air, and Jess wondered for a moment if he’d have to look at photographs of his murdered friend one day soon. He’d spent half his life studying crime pictures, but never those of someone he’d been so fond of. Jess spotted Gus standing some distance away by himself. He approached from behind and Gus jumped at his quiet greeting. “I’m sorry, Gus. I just heard.” Gus turned and raised an eyebrow at Jess. His cheeks

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were flushed, and his expression seemed more perplexed than sorrowful. “They don’t believe me, Jess.” Jess knitted his forehead and cocked his head, communicating an unspoken question. Gus shoved one hand in his pocket and with the other steered Jess to a point out of earshot from the police detail. He rubbed a palm across his bald spot three times before he finally exhaled a long breath and began to explain. “All I wanted to do was check out some old statutes, so I came down here first thing this morning. I whistled for Ollie like I always do, but he didn’t answer, so I was just going to go on and get my work done when I stepped in something. I turned to see what it was because it was... because I almost fell.” Gus swallowed and looked at Jess, then looked away. “It was blood, Jess. A river of it. And there was Ollie, lying there soaked in it.” Jess put a hand on Gus’s shoulder. The man had gone white just recounting the tale. “I was going to run for help and then I saw the gun. He always told me he had a gun down here. And it was there in his hand. So, I don’t know why, but I picked it up. And it was heavy. And I had this crazy thought that maybe the bullets made it heavy, so I opened the cylinder and...you know...spun it around. All the slots had a bullet.” “All six? Gus, you’re sure about that?” “Yeah. All six. So I figured he was trying to frighten someone off and they killed him. I ran to get the police and they came in poking all around and wouldn’t let us near ‘til they were done.”

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Jess felt a curious wave of anger and relief when Gus confirmed what he knew had to be true. Ollie hadn’t killed himself. “Then they started asking me questions. And I told how I’d found him. And they asked if Ollie had been upset or worried about something. Or if he’d been acting strange lately. And, well, I laughed, ‘cuz you know Ollie. He’s always acting strange.” Jess smiled his agreement. “So I asked if they knew who killed him, and they said he did it himself. Suicide. And I said that can’t be, because I’d found all six bullets in his gun.” “You told the detectives that?” Jess could tell Gus was giving an accurate account, but he needed to be sure. “Mm-hm. Then they said I must have been scared or shocked or something, because there were only five bullets in the gun. I argued but they showed me the gun. There were only five.” Gus shifted and straightened his shoulders. “Jess, I swear there were six. But then they showed me five, and I—” “Whoa, there, Gus. If you say you saw six, then I know there were six. I think...I think they were bending the story to suit their purpose.” “But why?” “Who knows, Gus. But for now, let’s keep it under our hat, ok?” Gus agreed. “Do you...can you give me the names of the investigators or police, whoever might have been here first?” Gus nodded. “Three of them, Jess. Got here right away. Maupin, Conroy and Trumbull.”

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“Trumbull was here? You’re sure?” Again Gus nodded. It made no sense. No sense at all. Why would the Chief want folks to think it was suicide, not murder? Although it grieved him to have Ollie’s name sullied with the suggestion of suicide, Jess knew he’d keep quiet about it. He needed evidence before he could claim otherwise. But his time belonged to the living, not to the dead. He needed to get to his office and make some notes, then focus on Ford’s situation. The quiet murmurs of the investigating team faded behind him as he reached the stair top. It might be a while before he could return to the morgue. But when he did, he knew he would come to avenge Ollie Twickenham’s murder.

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“Papa?” Addie squinted through the small barred opening of the cell door and tried to make out the form of her father. “Ford Magee?” A slow drip worked its weary rhythm somewhere behind her, its sound echoing from the stone walls and dying away just before the next drop fell. Something on the other side of the door moved. “Papa, please say something.” Addie punctuated her plea with a soft tap on the heavy door. But even as she begged him to speak, she was afraid of what he might say. Or what he might not say. Just being near to him, though, brought the first calm she’d felt since she’d watched the paddy wagon door close behind her father the night before. When he was ready to speak, she’d be ready to listen. Addie welcomed the silence of the deserted hall, with its cold, fortressed stone that stood between her and the city. Here was a place she found she could think for the first time today. Her legs were weary from walking the streets and

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climbing stairs to look at sixth floor rat infested rooms. How had she managed to find the Grayburn Arms so easily less than two months ago? There was nothing remotely close to it available now. Be careful what you wish for. Her mother’s words had tumbled in her head all afternoon. Even this week she had contemplated the earliest possible moment that she could afford to leave her dismal room behind and find something better. Something with running water. Now that desperate circumstances had befallen her, she knew how wrong she was not to have appreciated her clean, safe haven. Addie dropped her weight onto a low stool and stretched her legs in front of her. She lifted her violin case into her lap and sat with both hands clasping it as she rocked her head against the wall to work out the kinks in her neck. Images of the squalid neighborhoods she’d passed through earlier in the day blurred into scenes from a childhood tale of horror she’d once read. As her mind began to lose the boundary between truth and fiction, her agitated fingers worked the latches on her case open. Addie responded out of instinct to the sweet resin smell that wafted from the case, and before she realized it, the violin was tucked beneath her chin. She drew the bow across the strings and let her fingers wander until they fell into a familiar tune. Her mother’s favorite hymn. The Old Rugged Cross melted into It is Well With My Soul. The sounds bounced back to her, delayed, like a

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choir at the back of the church that couldn’t quite keep up with the organ at the front. The long echoes should have been disconcerting, but they were not. And by the time she modulated into Nearer My God to Thee Addie was off the stool and pacing the narrow hall, as was her nature when she fell into the music. The final notes spun out, rich, warm, comforting, and Addie rocked to a stop and lifted her bow from the strings. Eyes closed, she felt the haunting overtones recede into the quiet darkness. And with them went some of her sadness. She opened her eyes a languid crack, and sensed her father’s nearness. With the violin clasped to her chest, Addie leaned her shoulder against the door to his cell and rested her head against the iron grill. Minutes passed before she became aware that her father’s hand had quietly grasped another of the iron bars. And just as he had when she was a child, the backs of his rough fingers began to stroke her cheek, and Addie wept. Her music had spoken to him, too.

... Tad Morton and his father had carried the last of Addie’s belongings into her father’s apartment and were moving things around to make space for her two steamer trunks. Addie stood by the door, at odds with making herself at home. But her father had insisted, and when she realized the comfort it gave him to provide a place for her, she’d accepted and loved him for it. “I’ve wondered why I kept the place. Too nice for the likes of me m’self. But now I know, Addie girl. I kept it for this. For you.”

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Even with the heavy door between them Addie had felt overwhelmingly soothed by his voice and presence. But when their conversation had run its course and silence fell in the bleak stone hallway, Addie found it nearly unbearable to leave him. Now, gleeful sounds from the far corner of the apartment brought her sharply back to the moment at hand. “Golly, Miss Magee. You got runnin’ water!” Tad ran out of the curtained alcove where a large iron tub and commode could be used in private. “Did you know that?” Addie smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair. “No, Tad, I didn’t know. But it’s a most pleasant surprise.” “There ya be, Miss. All set now.” Tad’s father walked past her and moved his son toward the door. “You need any help at all, you just give us a holler, ma’am.” The two smiled and turned to leave just as Addie remembered she’d promised Tad a quarter. “Oh! Wait a moment, please, just one minute, I—” Addie turned a full circle looking for the desk her father had described. Seeing it, she opened the hinged top and found the metal box he’d insisted belonged to her now. The key was right where he’d said it would be, and though Addie knew the box contained cash, she was in no way prepared for what she saw when she opened the lid. Neat stacks of cash were evenly bundled and tied with string and layered several bundles deep around the sides of the box. In the center was a pile of silver dollars as deep as her longest finger. Addie sucked in her surprise and selected two silver

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coins from the pile. “Here, now. You two have saved my life tonight.” Addie took first the son and then the father’s hands and laid a shiny dollar in each palm. “Miss Magee, we can’t—” Tad’s father began to protest and took Addie’s hand to return the coin. “No! Please! I want to thank you.” “Pa’s right, Miss Magee. It wouldn’t be right to take money for helpin’ out a friend.” With a solemn air, Tad took his father’s coin and walked to the desk and placed both coins on the corner. “You’ll be safe here, Miss,” his father said, and tipped his hat as he swung it onto his head. “Let’s go, boy.” “’Night, Miss Magee!” Tad darted from the desk toward the door, and at the last moment he stopped and turned toward Addie. “Your cycle is behind the hollyhocks by the alley. No one’ll see it there. I rode it all the way up here, followin’ my pa.” He turned to go, then stopped again and looked back at Addie. “D’ya think...” “Tad.” His father’s voice carried a kind but unmistakable reprimand. “Sorry.” Tad hung his head and moved to his father’s side. Suddenly, Addie realized what he was going to ask. “Tad! You have my permission to ride the pennyfarthing any time you want, so long as you let me know first, all right?” The boy’s eager smile proved to Addie she’d guessed correctly. “Some day, ma’am, some day I’m gonna have a real bicycle.” Addie chuckled. A real cycle, as opposed to a mere women’s three-wheeler.

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“I’m sure you will, Tad.” Tad plowed out the door and his father threw Addie a grateful grin and hurried after him. “Keep that door bolted, now,” he called back to her as the two disappeared down the stairs. Addie waved and slowly closed the door. The long talk with her father and the kindness of this good father and son had succeeded in pulling her out of the dark state she’d been mired in all day. She turned and surveyed the comfortable apartment. Today she’d been forced from her home only to find a better one. She’d been forced from her job only to find a nest egg her father had prepared for her. Nest and nest egg. With those two worries taken care of she was free to put her mind to solving her father’s dilemma. This night and the next were her two nights off from Avalon Strings. She’d make the most of them, and by the time she was to play again she’d have her life back in order. But something nagged at her as she carried her small satchel into the bathing room. Addie went through a mental list of her belongings and, with the exception of the diary the police had confiscated, she was certain she had everything. So what was it that she was forgetting? Addie arranged her combs on the side of the vanity opposite her father’s razor and brush. In the mirror she saw behind her the large iron tub. It had been ages since she’d indulged in a long, luxurious bath. One without neighboring tenants pounding on the door to hurry her along. Without hesitation, Addie stepped to the tub and

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turned the porcelain knobs. She undressed as the tub filled, never taking her eyes off the rising surface. Her clothes lay where they fell and she stepped into the welcoming waters. The moment she sank into the warm depths, her eyelids closed heavily, and Addie let her worries drift away with the steam. This day had turned out far better than she’d ever expected.

... Nothing had gone right today. Jess left the small delicatessen where he and Addie had agreed to meet for an early supper and tried to reason away his worry. She hadn’t come. He covered the few blocks to the Grayburn Arms, trying to convince himself she wasn’t angry with him, but her failure to appear seemed to tell him otherwise. The lobby doors were still unlocked and Jess strode through without stopping until he reached the elevator. He pushed impatiently on the button and was about to search for a staircase to the fourth floor when the pulleys began to whine and he heard the elevator lurch to a stop on the first floor. The bellman pulled the cage open and turned a disinterested eye toward Jess before recognition dawned. “G’d evenin’, Doc.” Jess recovered his confusion quickly and nodded. The only other time the night bellman had seen him was the night he’d masqueraded as Addie’s doctor. “If yer lookin’ fer Miss Magee, she ain’t here,” he offered

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with a scowl. “Oh...well, thanks. Perhaps I’ll wait in the parlor.” “Suit yerself, Doc. But she won’t be comin’.” “May I ask why not?” An angry vein began to throb in Jess’s temple. His temper was on a short fuse tonight, and this man was doing his best to be obtuse. “Moved out, I hear.” Of all the things Jess might have expected, this was not one of them. “You must be mistaken,” he said, and shoved his way past the bellman and into the small cage. “Take me to the fourth floor.” The old fellow stood with his hands in his pockets. “Now!” Jess hadn’t meant to make the man jump, but at least it got some action. The bellman shoved the door shut and moved the lever to the fourth slot. Within minutes Jess was pounding on Addie’s door. He dropped his hand to the door knob and called her name, and realized the knob turned freely in his hand. “Addie?” Jess opened the door a crack and knew immediately the room would be empty. The small floral mat she kept just inside the door was gone. And at least one of her cloaks should still be hanging on the peg. She couldn’t wear both at the same time. He pushed the door open and stood staring at the empty room. The small cheerful touches she’d added to make it her home were gone. And so was she. Jess backtracked to the elevator and ignored the snide remarks of the gloating bellman. Where could she be?

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If she intended to move, why hadn’t she said something? Or at least sent him a note. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d spent the day looking for a job, but moving from her apartment made no sense. No sense at all. Jess stood on the street looking up and down, wondering what had taken her away from here. And where she might be at this moment. Even if she’d moved, she could still have met him for dinner. But she hadn’t. Guilt rose as Jess contemplated her actions. She’d moved without telling him where he could find her. She’d failed to meet him for dinner without sending a message. She was either in trouble. Or she didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to see him. The lead weight of realization sat uncomfortably on his chest as he turned toward home. It was bad enough that he’d wasted the day on a wild goose chase for clues that seemed to vanish the moment he got near. Yes, he’d been nervous about seeing Addie, worried that she wouldn’t understand why he didn’t have any answers yet, that it was all a part of tracking down the right clues. But he’d rather face her with bad news than not face her at all. She’d taken that choice away from him with that first kiss. Jess climbed the stairs to his apartment. The rush of warm air that greeted him when he opened the door made his homecoming even more desolate. He crossed the stuffy room to the balcony doors and propped them open, letting the evening breeze calm his mind and flush

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the stale air from the room. Jess took the notes from his pocket and dropped his coat over the arm chair. The pages were wilted and worn from having been handled all day. Their corners rolled tiredly back. He’d purposely encrypted the notes he’d combined from the pages Ollie had given him and the tidbits he’d gleaned from the Union Hall and Julia’s diary. The originals were still safe in the bank box. Except, of course, for the diary. Anyone reading his notes might think they were the rantings of a senile old man. But Jess knew what each symbol and abbreviation meant. As he studied the page, the logical connection between two of his scribblings began to form in his mind, and he stepped out onto the moonlit balcony to see the words more clearly. The Union Hall was a critical piece of the puzzle, he was sure of that. The times of the attacks all coincided with the ends of meetings and shifts. Most of them, anyway. And the dots on the map that marked the scenes of the attacks could all be reached on foot from the Union Hall in less than twenty minutes. It wasn’t much, but perhaps it was enough to get Ford talking. He’d get the list of union workers’ names out of the safety deposit box tomorrow and confront Ford with it. If Ford thought it was just a matter of time before Jess figured out which name to pursue, perhaps he’d spill what he knew. Jess turned around and tucked the page into his shirt pocket. He leaned back against the corner post and shoved his hands into his hair. He had to do better than this. He

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had to work his clues more effectively if he was ever going to get Ford out of... Jess had just rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and was blinking them clear when he registered what it was that had caught his eye a moment earlier. A light glimmered in the window next to the balcony opposite his, just one floor higher. Ford’s apartment. Was he out of jail? Or had Deacon Trumbull sent his goons on a midnight search. Jess covered the distance to his door in four leaping strides and cracked the door open to listen. No voices floated down from the floor above. He opened the third drawer of the highboy and slid his revolver from its holster. With an unconscious stealth he’d perfected over the years, Jess slipped out onto the landing. He flattened himself against the wall and looked for shadows above. No bodies. No footsteps. His own light steps carried him around the switchback and he raised his head just far enough to peer through the railing and down the deserted fourth floor hallway. Satisfied, he whipped up the last steps and around the corner and flattened himself to the wall next to Ford Magee’s apartment door. Two soft taps of his knuckles would bring whoever was inside to the door. Jess tapped and waited for the sound of movement, but none came. He wrapped his hand around the door knob and gave a testing twist. It turned. If Ford was in there, he’d forgive him once he knew Jess was just looking out after his

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interests. If it was someone else, he’d have the element of surprise on his side. Jess readied his pistol, turned the knob, and pushed the door silently open with his toe. The room was dark, with just the flickering glow of a lamp beyond a curtain at the far corner of the room. His boots made no sound on the tattered Persian rug that covered most of the room, and Jess moved steadily toward the dim light. With his left arm he pushed back the curtain, then pivoted into the opening and crouched ready to fire.

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Jess felt his mouth go suddenly dry, and he froze at the sight before him. Women’s clothing lay helter skelter on the floor around a huge iron bathtub. Small clumps of soap bubbles floated on the surface of the tub water, not nearly enough to conceal the form of the woman who’d fallen asleep there. Jess swallowed, knowing he should look away. But his eyes traveled the length of her body. The beauty he’d imagined countless times was nothing like the stunning perfection immersed before him now. The bisque of her shoulders blended into the white opal of her breasts and descended across ribs so clear he could count them. Her flat stomach rose and fell slightly with each breath, and what lay below took his breath away. Jess whirled and fumbled his way back into the main room. The beads that ran along the top of the curtain pole clacked noisily and woke the sleeping mermaid. “What? Who’s there!” Jess tried to speak, but breathing seemed more important at the moment. Beyond the curtain he heard Addie scrambling out of the water.

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“I...I have a gun,” she stammered. “And I’m not a...afraid to use it.” “Addie! It’s me! Jess! Please, I’m sorry, I...I thought someone was robbing your father’s apartment. I’m sorry!” Jess shoved his gun into a pocket and moved further from the curtain. “Jess?” “Yes. I’m sorry. Really.” “Just...just a minute. I was...I was just changing. I’ll be right out.” Jess dropped his hands and straightened out of his defensive posture. She didn’t know he’d seen her, didn’t know he could still see her perfect form silhouetted on the curtain. Relief carried him across the room to sag into Ford’s easy chair. “Need any help?” Now that he’d escaped embarrassing her he couldn’t help but tease. “May I remind you that I have a gun in here?” She was hurrying into her clothes, and he bit his lip not to laugh when she dropped her chemise three times before managing to step into it. “Ah, yes. What kind of a gun is it?” Jess heard her pull the plug and water began to gurgle down the drain. “Ummmm, well, it’s...it’s a big gun, Jess. A very big gun.” “Well, that’s good, Addie. Big guns are good. What kind of big gun is it?” Addie swept through the curtain and stopped with her hands on her hips. “All right. So you caught me.” She tossed whatever it was in her hands toward Jess and he

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snagged it just before it hit the floor. “This?” he laughed. “This was your gun?” He waved her hairbrush between them. “I suppose you were going to sneak up on your intruder and bristle him to death.” “I’ll have you know that if I did, he’d think twice about tangling with me again.” “I’ll just bet he would, Addie Magee.” Jess watched her finish tucking her hair into a twist, wishing he could enjoy it more. But he still wondered why she’d worked so hard to avoid him today. She smoothed the damp hair off her forehead and then planted both hands on her stomach. “Goodness, I didn’t realize I was so hungry.” She moved to the small kitchen galley and found half a cinnamon roll in the bread box. “Want some?” Addie was quickly devouring the sticky bun and Jess knew her offer was less genuine than it sounded and shook his head. “I had dinner.” “Mm.” She nodded. “Earlier.” “Mm hm.” Addie lifted her brows and kept chewing. “By myself.” Addie stopped chewing. “At the Captain’s Corner.” Addie lifted a napkin to her lips and Jess saw understanding flood her face. She’d forgotten entirely. “Oh, Jess.” A furious blush rose in her cheeks as she forced down the last bite. “I can’t believe I...well, I...how could I have forgotten? You must have been worried.” “To put it mildly.”

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“I’ve no excuse except that...that it was just the most horrid day. You can’t imagine!” Addie had crossed the room and now stood nervously near him. Jess reached out for her hand and pulled her to sit on the arm of his easy chair. “Want to tell me about it?” He held her hand and stroked it with the back of his thumb as she settled onto the overstuffed arm. As her story unfolded, Jess watched the expressions cascade across her face. Confusion and anger at Hamilton’s betrayal gave way to fear and despair, and finally relief as she explained how her father had solved all her problems. “And then my legs were so tired from walking all over looking for apartments that I just couldn’t resist soaking in a hot bathtub.” Addie looked at the ceiling and shook her head slowly back and forth. “My father came to my rescue,” she sighed, and turned her hopeful face toward Jess. “I just wish I could rescue him.” “We will, Addie.” A shadow of doubt flitted across her face, and Jess reached with both arms to pull her into his lap. “We will. You have to trust me.” He pushed the curling wisps off her forehead and she laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m trying, Jess. Really. Just tell me what to do.” She brought her arms around his neck and Jess hugged her to him. The full weight of her in his arms had a rightness to it that suddenly stunned him and he squeezed her tighter. She must have felt it too, returning the pressure with a fierceness he’d not expected.

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When he spoke it was barely more than a whisper near her ear. “We keep our heads, Addie. We follow every clue.” His hand stroked her temple as he spoke. “We get your father to help us if he will, and...” Jess lifted her head from his shoulder and put a hand on either side of her face. “And what?” she whispered, her dark eyes penetrating his. “We work together.” Addie held his gaze and slowly brought her own hands to his face. Jess closed his eyes as she began to stroke his temples with her thumbs, the way he had done to her. Her lips pressed a long, tender kiss to his forehead, then to each cheek just below his eyes. When she nestled into the crook of his arm and brought his mouth to hers, Jess answered with every ounce of promise his kiss could hold. Whatever he’d felt in their first impulsive embraces was suddenly replaced with an urgency, a wanting, a future he’d not known possible. Addie tucked her knees into the chair beside him and pressed even closer. Occasionally they’d pull apart, just to look at one another, or speak some tender word. But neither wanted to leave the safe harbor they’d found in the old overstuffed easy chair. Elsewhere in the city, the line between dark and dawn eventually began to form. But in the small room on the fourth floor of Sutton House, the line between two lives had begun at last to blur.

... Not so many blocks away, Birdie Tabor fingered the bruises that were still visible from Deacon’s overzealous

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pinching the previous night. Enough was enough. She’d do this one last favor and then dump the bastard. Birdie sighed and dragged her heavy trunk to the center of the room. One thing was for sure. The minute she told the cocky pervert she was through with him she’d have to leave town. One by one she laid the expensive negligees Trumbull had bought her into the trunk. Cincinnati sounded nice. Yes. Trumbull would expect her to run home. To run back to Georgia. But she’d fool him and go west instead. To Cincinnati. Birdie picked up the gabardine skirt that lay on the floor right where she’d stepped out of it. She’d never have to wear working girl’s clothes again, if things went well tonight. She reached into the skirt pocket and felt around for the paper she’d stolen from the disgusting little morgue rat just that morning. It wasn’t there. She turned the skirt and felt in the other pocket. Nothing there either. Panic began to set in as she checked the folds and looked on the floor of her apartment. The paper had been in her pocket all day until—. Birdie blanched. She’d hidden it in the back of her steno book when she’d gone for lunch, just to make sure it didn’t fall out. Had she forgotten to put it back in her pocket when she left for the day? Idiot! She sagged onto the corner of the trunk and realized she’d have to spend one more day in hell. Deacon wouldn’t

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like it, but she’d go to work tomorrow as usual and bring the page home and hide it like she’d planned. Then she wouldn’t tell Deacon where it was until he paid her the five hundred dollars she’d decided it was worth. It was a pittance to him, but for her it meant freedom. And the kind of wardrobe that would attract a real man. Birdie laid the gabardine skirt on the bed and smoothed a wrinkle out of the white shirtwaist. At least it would be the last time she’d have to wear the little highnecked puritan blouse. She smiled at the thought and crawled into bed. She had time for a nap before she had to meet Deacon. Cincinnati is good. Deacon would never find her there.

... Chief Deacon Trumbull weighed the sandbag the henchman was about to use to test the gallows. “Before long we’ll have the big guy himself down here. I’m counting on you to be ready, boy.” The henchman stared back with a blank face. “That so-called Samaritan, idiot. Magee!” Recognition lit his face and the henchman showed his mouthful of cracked and missing teeth. “Count on me, boss.” He dragged the sandbag to the trapdoor and dropped the hook attached to it over the noose. With the confidence of a man who knows his job well, the henchman deftly adjusted the height of the noose just enough to press on the condemned sandbag’s ‘neck’ without lifting it clear off its ‘feet’.

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“Whenever you’re ready.” Deacon lit a fresh cigar and strolled across the platform. He looked the sandbag up and down, but saved his usual puff of smoke until a flesh and blood face stood before him. Things had become too dicey to put the old man on trial. Deacon saw that now. That’s why he was here. Arranging the suicide of a depressed man who’d been shamed in front of his daughter. He chuckled at the taunting last words he would fling at Magee before he dropped the trapdoor. “Fear not, Magee. I know where your daughter is!” Trumbull stuck the cigar between his gold-capped teeth and tripped the lever. The trapdoor slammed against the supporting planks with a blood-chilling ‘thwop’, something the Chief had purposely engineered years earlier. It meant little to the victim dangling from the end of the rope, but it made the horrific sound of a midnight execution echo up through the cell blocks and terrorize the inmates out of a sound sleep. He watched the sandbag sway on the end of its rope and tossed a half-dollar to the henchman who managed to snatch it from the air in spite of his crossed eyes. “You’ll get another when Magee’s done and back in his cell.” He paused and pointed a finger. “And make it look natural.” Deacon adjusted his white tie and checked to see that he still had both gloves. Wouldn’t do to show up at the opera half dressed...or leave one behind here. He moved with a powerful stride toward the door, aware of the greedy man’s eyes on him all the way. That ghoul knew too much. One day soon his mouth would have to be sealed, too.

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Jess and Addie sat at a small table near the east window in Ford Magee’s apartment. Jess had gone early to the bank and returned with a bundle of papers wrapped in newsprint, eager to explain their meaning to her. Addie watched him slide the strings off the bundle and reached a hand up to draw it across the stubble on his chin. He stopped and caught her hand, turned it over, and planted a kiss in her palm. “Now that tastes like breakfast,” he said with a wicked glance. There was a beat of silence, and Jess relished the trance that began to fall across Addie’s eyes. But then she twitched. “Oh!” Addie jumped up from the table and brought two coffee cups and a plate of warm muffins from the little kitchen. She’d not wasted any time while Jess was off on his errand. Warm muffins. Straight from the oven. The first made just for him in this high stepping city. Jess took a huge bite and chewed while he laid the pages out in an order that seemed logical. Addie watched him and noted with some surprise the change that fell over him. He became cool, detached, methodical, totally

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absorbed in the detail of the documents before him. His sentences became short, clipped snatches of intelligence. She had not yet shaken off the peaceful cloak that had descended on her in the night, and at first she found him impossible to follow. “So what Trumbull has to go on, so far,” he said, looking up at her for the first time in five minutes, “is a deformed right hand, dates in a diary, and some other piece he won’t spill yet. Follow?” Addie nodded. The police reports of the Samaritan crimes had been very consistent in describing the assailant with a deformed right hand. Although how they could leap to the conclusion that her father’s compass finger qualified as a deformed hand seemed like an awfully big stretch. But that and the dates in the diary were the two things they knew for sure had incriminated her father. Just two things, if they didn’t count Jess’s article. Addie squirmed a bit and nodded again. “Here’s the most recent list of addresses on the victims.” Jess plucked a page from the table and handed it to Addie. “You try to find some of these women. Ask if there was anything unusual about the attacker’s hands. Don’t give any more than that. Let them tell you. Not the other way around. And if they do, ask them if they told that to the police.” Addie took the page and swallowed. These were all women who would be just a little younger than her mother would be if she were still living. Addie would not have wanted to broach such a painful subject with her own mother. How would she manage it with these? “I...I don’t know, Jess.” She took the paper, not wanting

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to disappoint him, but feeling totally out of her element. Jess opened his mouth to explain his next move when some delayed recall in his brain replayed her words. He looked up at her, startled at her hesitation. “Well, Jess, I mean, what do I do? Just knock on their door and say ‘excuse me, but would you mind if I interrogate you about a man who almost killed you twenty years ago’?” Jess laughed as if she were making a joke and turned back to his papers. “I mean it, Jess. I can’t imagine anyone will even let me in the door.” Now Jess stopped shuffling papers and really looked at her. In seconds his prowling eyes softened and he covered her hand with his. “Addie, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You don’t have to do this if it worries you. I’ll take care of it.” Addie realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled. She must have imagined it. He hadn’t changed altogether. This was her Jess. That other must be a mode he fell into when an investigation grabbed hold of him. No wonder he’d been able to save all those children in Denver. Such focus, such intensity of purpose couldn’t help but achieve great things. Now if he could just do the same for her father... If Jess had confidence that she could do this, then she would do her best to get the answers he needed. She latched onto the page he was about to slip out of her hand and gave him her most challenging look. “Not so fast, Mr. Investigative Reporter. If I can talk the Warwick Hotel into hiring an all-girl orchestra, I think I can get some information out of a few matronly ladies.”

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She arched her eyebrows and looked down her nose at him until he laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Now that’s my girl,” he said, and Addie felt the compliment all the way to her toes. “Meanwhile, I’ll post my article and poke around the morgue a bit.” “The morgue!” Addie’s eyes flew wide at the word. “Whatever for?” Jess stood and collected his papers. “The newspaper morgue, O innocent one. The place where we keep past issues and research and so on. I promise not to use anything sharper than a pair of shears. Feel better now?” Addie tried to laugh at her own ignorance. Why couldn’t they just call it the library, or the archives? Naming a place ‘the morgue’ was just downright creepy. “I suppose,” she muttered sheepishly, “but you will be here for dinner, won’t you? I’ll stop at the market on my way home from...from these.” She waved her sheet of addresses in the air between them. Addie stood and pushed her chair up to the table. Jess secured his bundle of documents, tied the newspaper around them once again, and plunked them on the table. “Do you think you could hide these? Just until I can get them to a new bank box?” Addie looked at the bundle wrapped in newsprint, just like fresh fish from the market only not soaked with oil. She snatched it up and sashayed into the kitchen, and made one full turn before deciding her first instinct was the best. With a great dramatic flare, Addie pulled open the door of the small ice box and dropped the bundle onto a cool

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rack. She was just straightening up when she felt Jess’s hands on her waist. She closed the door and caught her breath when he spoke close to her ear. “Now you’re thinking like a criminal, darlin’.”

... The smooth, cold bricks of the morgue floor sent their penetrating chill through Jess’s cotton shirt within seconds after he lay down. He rocked his head from side to side and then looked straight up at the maze of pipes that hung from the ceiling. “So this is where you found him?” Gus looked back and forth from Jess to the bookcases that formed the ‘walls’ of Ollie Twickenham’s office and shook his head. “Close.” Jess was grateful — for Gus’s sake — that someone had done a thorough job of scrubbing away the blood. But now there wasn’t even a trace to help him recreate the scene. He had to rely on Gus for that. “That’s not good enough, Gus. I need to know exactly where he was.” “Okay, okay. Umm. His right foot was caught right here and his knee was twisted back.” “Like this?” Jess scooted down the cold floor and arranged his leg as Gus had described, with his foot caught in the corner of the lowest shelf next to the office entrance. “Yes, yes, that’s it. Only his whole foot fit in there.” “You casting aspersions about the size of my boots, pal?” Jess laughed as he sat up and pulled off his right boot. Even without the boot his foot barely fit into the space.

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Gus was still uneasy returning to the scene and ignored Jess’s attempt at humor. “It still doesn’t look right, though, I mean, something’s still different.” Gus was nervously stroking his bald spot again. Jess closed his eyes and pictured what the scene might have looked like based on Gus’s description. “Of course, his head would have ended right about here.” Jess put both his hands on the third button down from his collar. “That’s it!” Gus snapped to attention, clarity suddenly descending on him with Jess’s observation. “And his arms weren’t clear up there. They were down here.” He pointed to a place just beyond the butted feet of the two bookcases facing Ollie’s cubbyhole. Gus rubbed his forehead, feverish now as he recalled the scene. “His left hand was clear under the case.” Jess bent his knees and slid his torso closer to his feet. “Here?” he asked as he slipped his left hand beneath the bottom shelf of the bookcase. “So then...” Jess was about to ask about the position of the right hand when he felt something beneath the back of his hand. Arranged as he was, it was physically impossible to turn his hand over, so he carefully pulled his left arm back and rolled over to reach under with his right. What he withdrew was a scrap of paper that looked like it had been torn off a larger sheet. He brushed it off and looked for the traces of age he’d expect to see on paper that had sat for a while beneath the shelf. But while the scrap showed normal yellowing along its two straight sides, the torn side did not.

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This was a fresh tear. The word ‘bridge’, trailed onto the scrap from the torn edge, followed by a flowery company monogram. “That’s probably been there for decades, Jess.” Jess rocked himself up to one knee and held the scrap up to the dim light. “Nope. Don’t think so, Gus. Look here.” On the bottom corner, printed lightly in pencil were the initials O.T.T. followed by a slash and a second set of initials. J.S.P. There was no mistaking it. Gus and Jess both recognized Ollie’s precise hand. And there was no doubt in either of their minds that Ollie had intended for Jess to see whatever was on the page this scrap belonged to. He’d branded it with both their initials. Jess tore a clean page from the small notepad he carried in his pocket. He folded the page around the scrap and slipped it into the small pocket that held his pocket watch. He was just pulling on his boot when Gus pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. It was chilly here in the basement morgue, but Gus had broken a sweat. The whole ordeal of recreating the scene was getting to him. “You know, Gus, I think we’ve done as much as we can here today. Shall we head on up?” He clapped a hand on Gus’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. Gus pocketed his handkerchief and cast a grateful look to Jess and they headed for the staircase. Walking two abreast, they filled the narrow aisle, and just as they emerged from the end of the aisle, Jess stepped

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on something hard that didn’t crumble, even under his heavy boot. Jess bent to toss aside the offending lump and was surprised to find a shiny white cube peppered with black dots. Half of a pair of dice. He chuckled. “Hope losin’ this didn’t break someone’s lucky streak.” Gus started up the steps and said casually, “Old Ben and the boys were raising a ruckus down here on payday and Twick chased them out. They were hoppin’ mad.” Jess caught the cube he’d been flipping and stopped on the bottom step. “Gus.” Gus stopped and turned. “Payday was yesterday.” “Well, yeah, I guess it was.” “Crap shooters were down here yesterday?” “Right after paycall. Twick was fuming. Last thing I heard him say was—God, Jess, last thing he said was ‘over my dead body.’” Gus turned and leaned on the stair wall. “You don’t think—” “No, Gus, I don’t. It’s too easy to find a place to shoot craps. The morgue was close. But nothing to kill over. But—” Jess moved on up the stairs and Gus followed. “But what, Jess?” “It gives me an idea.”

... Everyone knew Old Ben. He was seventy if he was a day, and still lugged heavier loads than half the young bucks that worked for him. Jess found him loading bundles of a

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special edition onto pallets in the bundling room. “Ben! Got a second?” “Sure ’nuf, Pepper. Give me a minute, here.” The overalled laborer pulled at a red bandana that hung from his back pocket and mopped his face. “Whew. It’s a hot one.” Jess leaned casually on a support pillar and tossed the orphaned die to Ben. “Found something o’ yours.” Ben caught it easily, with the sure reflexes of a man who’s shot craps all his life. “Hah! I knew she’d show up. Thanks, Pepper.” He rolled the white cube through his pop-knuckled fingers and stuffed it into the center front pocket of his bibbed overalls. “Ol’ Twick didn’t give you time to collect your things, huh?” Ben laughed. “He was on a rampage, all right. Chased me outta the morgue more times than I can count.” “Just yesterday, was it? Payday?” Ben shook his head, remembering the tragedy that had followed. “Yup. Don’t think I’ll ever go down there again. Won’t be the same.” “You didn’t mind him chasing you out all the time?” “Heck, no. That was half the fun.” “So, you skeedaddled right outta there when Twick started hollerin’?” Jess kept a casual pose and idly knotted a piece of twine he’d found on the floor. But he watched Ben closely. “Naw. We come up to the landing and tried to agree where we was gonna go, but it was hard yellin’ over the noise from the presses.” Ben put his hands on his lower

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back and flexed and stretched his shoulders. “That’s why we like the morgue, y’know. If we get a little too excited they don’t hear us squawkin’ over that racket.” “I s’pose not. So, you were on the landing decidin’ where t’ go?” It was habit to fall into a lazy drawl when he wanted to put people at ease. And it was working with Ben. “Yup. But those hunyocks kept gawkin’ at the hussy, an’ by the time they was ready to talk, I had to hustle on back t’ work.” He shook his head slowly in disgust. “Aw, Ben, I think you were seein’ things.” “Naw. It was her all right. The hussy from Georgia. Works up there in the typin’ pool. Guys got stupid on me the minute she started swingin’ her hips down the stairway.” “You’re sure it was her?” “They was fallin’ all over theyselves cuz she had her skirt hiked halfway up to ’er knees goin’ down those steps. It was her, all right.” “If that don’t beat all.” Jess tossed the knotted string in the trash bin and winked at Ben. “Take care o’ that little gal now, y’ hear?” Ben patted his front pocket. “You bet I will.” Jess waved and sauntered out into the lobby. A quick thumb check of his own front pocket reassured him the paper scrap was still there. His morning had turned out quite profitably and his stomach was shouting for lunch. But first he had some questions for a certain Miss Birdie Tabor.

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Addie paced around the small living room, anxious to share what she’d discovered. By three o’clock she’d found five of the women still living in the homes they’d occupied twenty years earlier. She’d been trembling so badly with the first woman she called on that the sweet woman brought tea and toast and fussed over her until she blurted out what she’d come for. After a tense moment of silence, the woman sat and closed her eyes. “I’ve not spoken of it for twenty years,” she’d said quietly. “And after today I shall never speak of it again.” And then she’d proceeded to tell Addie everything she remembered about the night she’d nearly been killed. “I was only sixteen, you know, and very independent for my years. Mother always told me nothing good would come of it, and she was partially correct. “It was just a month before graduation, and I was to give the valedictory speech. I wanted a new dress so badly and I was furious with Mother when she said my Easter dress would do just fine. “I cried and cried to my best friend, and she decided

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the two of us could make the Easter dress into something completely new. “So, for three nights I sneaked out after my parents went to bed and walked the three blocks to her house. The late evenings were so beautiful and still, and I would practice my speech all the way to her house and again on the way home. “By the third night we had the dress nearly finished. And, oh my, it was...well, it was everything I wanted. That last night I tried it on and the neckline made my shoulders feel slim and pretty, and the skirt! It just floated when I walked. I was so happy. “We worked as late as we could, but we still had several yards of hem left to finish. You see, even though it was a few weeks until graduation, we still had exams to study for. My friend and I always made sure we received top marks. “So we agreed to put the dress aside and we’d finish it after exams. “I just floated out the door that night. I felt so pretty and grown up, and I used this silly, dramatic voice to practice my speech on the way home.” “Halfway between our houses there was a small garden next to the church, and I was so carried away with how well my speech was going that I hopped up onto a bench and pretended I was speaking to a crowd. “I was just giving a pretty little curtsy and blowing kisses to the imaginary crowd when I was thrown onto the ground from behind. I broke my ankle when I fell off the bench and I nearly passed out with the pain. “Someone was grabbing me up off the ground and I thought at first he was trying to help, but he kept

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muttering, ‘Pretty one, eh? Such a pretty one’. He was dragging me along and I was screaming because it hurt my ankle so. I was begging him to put me down. Then he pulled me around and sort of slung me over his left hip and something metal on his belt was smashing into my hip. “I was screaming in pain and so confused and I remember being embarrassed because my skirt was clear up and I could feel the cool air through my pantalettes. “He brought his other arm around to cover my mouth with the back of his hand, but he was clumsy and I couldn’t stop screaming. “Then he flung me off his hip and grabbed my hair. But my hair bow came off in his hand, and I tried to run, but I just fell to my knees. “He grabbed my hair up like a horse’s tail and sliced it off and threw it in my face. I was crawling away and crying and he kept saying, ‘Pretty one, eh? Pretty one?’. “Finally he grabbed me by the top of my hair and yanked me up to my knees. He waved his knife right in front of my eyes and I saw why he was so clumsy with it before. He had the knife lashed to his palm, like it was part of his hand. Because his hand didn’t work right by itself. “It got very quiet and I could tell I wasn’t screaming any more. And I could tell that...that he was going to kill me. Right then. “I thought I was going to faint, but all of the sudden I heard this whistle blowing down the street and feet were pounding toward us. “He threw me to the ground and disappeared into the park. The feet went running past, but in a few seconds came back. It was a big, tall man, and he turned me over

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very gently and carried me to the park bench. He said he was going to leave me for just a minute to send for the police. “I begged him not to leave me and he took my hand and said in the kindest, most reverent voice I’d ever heard, ‘Fear not, darlin’’. “Well, I knew right then that he was an angel. God had sent his angel to save me. I could feel him watching until the police came, and then he was just...gone.” The woman was quiet for a long moment, and when she opened her eyes, Addie was weeping. “I’m so sorry, dear heart. I should have spared you the details.” “Oh, no, I’m grateful that you could...that you would tell me so much. I wonder, though, is there any possibility in your mind that...that the man who attacked you and the man who saved you were one and the same?” The woman looked at Addie, startled. “But that’s impossible.” “What makes you certain of that?” “Why, he was taller, broader, his hair was shorter, his eyes were...oh my goodness. I’d completely forgotten.” Addie leaned toward the woman. “What? What had you forgotten?” “Why, his eyes were dark. Brown like a hazelnut. And the other...his eyes were gray. Like a snake.”

... Jess stuck his pocketknife into the apple he’d brought for Ford and handed it to him. Addie’s father seemed weak, clumsy, and dropped the knife twice before he

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settled into a rhythm and soon had the apple peeled in one long, spiraling strip. He ate the peel as they talked, and then the apple. “How’s Addie?” “She’s fine, Ford. She’s grateful to have a place to stay.” Jess watched him nod as he munched the apple. “She’s worried, though.” Ford shook the knife toward Jess and spoke with more energy than he’d heard yet today. “You tell that girl I’ll be fine. Hear?” “I will, Ford, I will. But...you have to help us. Chief Trumbull seems to think he’s got enough to trump up charges on you, and we can’t let that happen.” “Trumbull’s a sick bastard,” Ford growled. “I’m...I’m beginning to agree,” Jess nodded, “and we need to stay one jump ahead. So...” Jess pulled the small scrap from his watch pocket and held it up to Ford. “We need to know if this means anything to you.” Ford looked at the scrap and stopped chewing. He continued to stare at it as he swallowed and took another bite before answering. “Where’d you get that.” Jess turned it around and studied the monogram, and the letters that trailed onto the scrap from its torn edge. ‘bridge’. “Friend o’ mine was awfully anxious to get something to me, but this seems to be all that’s left. I have a hunch Trumbull has the rest.” Ford harrumphed. “Lotta good it’ll do ’im.” “Point is, what good can it do us? Does it mean something, Ford?” “Oh, I’m sure it does mean somethin’. To somebody.”

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“On your feet, old man.” Jess retrieved his pocketknife and hauled Ford to his feet. He was not as heavy as he looked, and stumbled a bit once he was standing. “What’re ya gonna do, beat me ’til I tell you what you wanna know?” Ford sneered in challenge, as if that’s exactly what he wanted Jess to do. “No, my friend. We’re going to walk.” ”What?” “Walk. Now. And don’t stop ’til I tell you.” Jess stared him down until Ford finally turned and shuffled toward the end of the cell. “Now back.” Ford coughed with a wracking wheeze as he turned, but he shuffled back. Jess kept count as he kept Magee moving and soon Addie’s father was walking in smooth circles around Jess. “Addie will be happy to know you’ve decided not to shrivel up and die here, old man.” “Stop calling me old man.” “All right, old goat. You keep exercising like this while I’m gone. I want to see you fit when we haul you outta here.” “Don’t you worry ’bout me bein’ fit. I’ve survived worse than this,” Ford growled, but now he was panting just a bit with the tempo he’d accelerated to on his own. “Good to know, Ford. You keep it up while I go check this out and—” Jess waved the scrap of paper at Ford and turned toward the door to summon the guard. The old man charged him from behind and pinned him to the wall with unexpected strength.

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“Don’t you go anywhere near Wil—” He stopped himself and cursed, and fell off Jess to lean winded in the corner. “Don’t go anywhere near what?” Jess turned slowly toward Ford, but the old man kept his face turned away. “Guard!” “Don’t do it, Jess. For pity’s sake, don’t do it,” Ford whispered. Jess pulled the scrap up to the opening in the door and looked again at the printing. “Wil-bridge? Is that it, Ford? Wil-something-bridge?” Suddenly the name formed itself clearly behind his eyes. A village on the outskirts of the city. “Williamsbridge. That’s it, isn’t it.” The footsteps of the guard stopped in front of the door and they both heard the key turning in the heavy lock. Jess put his hand on Ford’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. But it was Ford’s turn now to issue the orders. “Get out.”

... Jess paced his office waiting for Birdie Tabor to come back to her desk. The newspaper’s morgue had offered little information about the village of Williamsbridge. While he was anxious to find out more, he wanted to quiz Birdie before he left the building again. When a half hour passed and she still hadn’t shown up, Jess gave up on her and decided to ride to Williamsbridge yet this afternoon. It was a small enough place that he imagined he could probably get at least some tidbit of

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information from the local barber. He was overdue for a haircut anyway. And a good ride. He took the shortcut toward the stairs and was halfway up the row of typists when the bell sounded and a hundred chairs scraped back from the desks almost in unison. Jess weaved his way through the noisy end-of-the-day chaos, excusing himself here and there. He was nearly at the end of the row before the young woman who worked next to Birdie Tabor stood to leave. Not seeing him, she swung around to say goodnight to a girlfriend behind her and knocked into Jess. Embarrassed, she swung back around and apologized all over herself, blushing furiously at having practically run him over. Jess helped her out of the aisle and was about to excuse himself when he saw that her steno pad had tumbled onto the floor. He picked it up and offered it to her with a slight bow. She recoiled, holding her hands in front of her as if he’d offered her his pet cockroach. “Oh, no, no, no Mr. Pepper, good gracious no. Upon my soul, I would never be seen with a red notebook. Heavens. Why, that belongs to, a-hem, Miss Tabor, I do believe. Who-o-o-o, by the way, did not bother to show up for work today.” She’d rolled her r’s on the word ‘red’ as if the color itself were poison. Heaven forbid that he could have insulted her so gravely. Jess chuckled and turned to put the steno pad on Birdie’s desk. But his fingers wouldn’t let go of it. This was Birdie’s steno pad. He tapped the side of the pad on the desk top as if to jostle the loose papers that were stuffed in the back of the pad into place, all the while nodding his

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“Good evenings” and “Take care, nows” to the passing ladies. If the page he was looking for was in here, then it wasn’t really stealing. It had been meant for him in the first place. Jess waited thirty seconds for the exodus to clear, then walked back to his office. He shut the door, too impatient to sit. He opened both ends of the pad and let the loose papers drop onto his desk, and he did not even have to sort through them. There were only a half dozen papers, and the one on top was yellowed, dated 1878, and had a piece torn off the corner. He dropped the notebook to the side and let out a low whistle. As his hands smoothed out the folds, his breathing stilled, and he knew without seeing it that the scrap would fit. But indulging his need to see each clue in its proper place, Jess retrieved the scrap from his pocket and slid it slowly into place. The completed line along the bottom of the page read: Hostel for the Mentally Infirm – 211 Red Hill Road – Williamsbridge. Higher on the page were two columns of names. On the left seemed to be names of patients. And on the right, the names of doctors assigned to their care. “What does this mean to us, Ollie?” Jess read the list three times and kept coming back to one name. Jeremiah Leviticus Carnello. Like tumblers on a safe, the name suddenly fell in line with a name on the other list. Jess grabbed his file and pulled out the names of the union dockworkers who’d been scheduled to work in the four hours preceding or following each attack. And on every one, there it was. Big as life. Jemmy Carnello.

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His hands shook as he returned the pages to his pocket and grabbed his Stetson. He had a name. My God, he had a name. It was too soon to know what it meant, but it was a piece of the puzzle. He knew it was. Just as he knew it was past time to get home to that meal Addie had promised him.

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Addie slid the biscuits into the oven and turned down the flame. Cooking a meal had heated up the small apartment, but she’d been grateful for the distraction. She’d been over and over the details she’d gleaned from the five women she’d interviewed and knew that everything they said confirmed her father’s innocence. Now she was impatient for Jess to reveal his plan, to tell her how he intended to go about clearing her father’s good name. And most important, bring him home. Addie brushed the flour from her hands and looked around the pleasant room. It was far from feminine, but not nearly the tatty clutter one might expect from a longtime bachelor. It was somehow soothing to get acquainted with her father’s things, and she roamed the room, fingering odd knickknacks and running her hands across the pitted woods of his simple furniture. She came back again and again to a picture on the mantel. The stiff husband and wife stared expressionless, and the small boy on the right glowered, one hand planted stiffly behind his back like a territorial judge. The little girl

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smiled, her big brown eyes drawing the focal point of the picture to her sweet face. The mother’s hand lay to the side, resting on the edge of an infant’s cradle. The baby inside was obviously a newborn, nearly invisible beneath the blankets. A family of five. Perhaps she’d take it with her when she visited her father next. He would tell her who they were. The tintype that sat opposite this family portrait was clearly her father, impossibly handsome in his Yankee uniform. He stood stiffly beside a woman she supposed to have been his mother, one hand on her shoulder, the other resting on his sabre. Addie put the picture gently back into place and wandered to the sideboard where she’d taken to leaving her violin case open and ready. She plucked the strings to check the tune and began to stroll the small living room. Jess would be here shortly, but she could make use of the time. If she could just work out a troublesome passage in the new piece she’d been working on, she might try it out at the hotel tomorrow night. Section by section, Addie broke the passage down until she’d exercised it in its most elemental form. Then, measure by measure, she layered the complexities of harmonics and double-stops back in. Again and again she repeated the passage, increasing the tempo a bit each time. It was going far better than she’d expected when a cough interrupted her concentration. The moment her focus was off the violin, she realized that her throat was burning, because the apartment was filling with smoke.

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She’d burned the biscuits! Addie stowed her violin safely on the sideboard and rushed to the kitchen. She grabbed a towel and folded it over and over, then threw the oven door open and grabbed at the tin tray. Smoke that had filled the oven billowed past her into the small galley, and she could hardly see the trash bin to dump the charred lumps of petrified biscuit. Addie fled to the balcony doors and threw them wide open. And then in turn she opened each of the windows on the two outside walls of the apartment. The smoke dissipated quickly, but she was mortified that Jess might walk in on the disaster. Or perhaps he was coming down the street right now and would see the smoke and bring the fire department up here with him. Oh, glory, she’d made a fine mess of things. Addie glanced at the corner clock to see how much time she had to repair things before Jess arrived. Seven fifteen. That couldn’t be right. Jess was due home at half after five. Almost two hours ago.

... When Jess stepped out of his office, he expected to be home in fifteen minutes, spilling his story to Addie in twenty, and plotting her father’s release before the hour was up. And on a full stomach, to boot. But having been told that Birdie Tabor hadn’t come to work at all that day, he was startled to see her at the end of the row of deserted typewriters, staring blankly at her

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workstation as he came out of his office. He walked slowly toward her, but she was unaware. Her hand suddenly flew to her mouth and Jess heard a stifled sob. “Good evening, Miss Tabor.” The usually snappy blonde seemed unable to speak and fumbled in her handbag for a hanky. Her glove had smeared her lipstick to places other than her mouth, and she looked completely pitiful. “Are we starting a night shift here at the Times?” She shook her head and worked furiously with a small hand mirror to correct the damage. “Forgive me, Miss Tabor, but you...seem upset.” Birdie sniffed loudly and dabbed again at her nose. “Is there anything I can do?” Jess had worked his way beyond her, and sat on the edge of the table. He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, careful not to dislodge her red steno pad from inside his vest, and pulled her hands away from her face. “Let me.” He began to work on the worst of the smear, then held the hanky just in front of her mouth and instructed her as he would a small child. “Now lick.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she moistened the hanky with her tongue. The damp cloth made better headway on the damage, but he pretended to continue working as he chatted. “Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed, does it?” Birdie sniffed and whined, “Mm-hm.” “Everything’s going just perfectly, and then some idiot comes along and messes things up. Right?”

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Another sniff. “Mm-hm.” “It seems a crime that something could upset a pretty little thing like you so badly.” He stopped working on her face and grimaced at the deep bruise he’d revealed beneath the layers of powder and rouge. “Birdie.” He tipped her face up and forced her to look at him. “Is this why you didn’t come to work today?” Birdie just rolled her eyes. Her lips trembled too much to speak, and she handed him the small compact she’d been holding. Jess dropped the smeared hanky into her hand and used her compact powder to cover the bruise as best he could. “I’m wondering, Birdie, if you’re upset because something’s gone missing.” Her eyes widened and she blinked nervously. “Perhaps, something that belonged to someone else.” Her blinking stopped and Jess was almost convinced her breathing had, too. “Have you by any chance...been a bad girl, Miss Tabor?” She watched as he pulled her red steno pad from inside his vest and tapped an idle finger on the cover. Her shoulders collapsed further and she hiccupped through a long, shuddering breath. “Maybe,” she squeaked. “Look, Birdie. You probably thought it was just a piece of paper. How could it be that important, and all.” “Yeah.” This one came out on a small whining sigh. “The important thing is, it was meant for me, and now I have it back.” Her eyelids had drooped, and now they flew wide and

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she turned a shocked face toward Jess. “The tragedy is that it got a good man killed.” Her gasp was the most genuine thing Jess had ever heard come from the little minx. “You didn’t know, did you?” She hadn’t even breathed yet, and shook her head in slow, confused denial. “After you left with the paper, the paper Ollie wanted me to have, that’s when they — when someone — killed Ollie Twickenham.” Birdie Tabor came unglued. “Oh, Mistuh Peppuh, I’m in big trouble.” The dam had finally broken. “If D— if this person finds out you’ve got that papuh, why I don’t know what he might do! I was just goin’ t’ give it to ’im and head outta town on the first train. But now—” She threw her hands wide and Jess caught them and told her to breathe just to keep her from passing out. “Birdie, Birdie, Birdie. You know, I think that’s a very smart thing to do.” “Y-you do?” She looked at him as if no one had ever called her smart before. And that was probably true. But if she’d already figured out that she needed to skip town before some bastard found out she’d let him down, perhaps she wasn’t so dumb after all. “Yes, I do. And I think it’s my duty to escort you to the train myself. How quickly can you be ready?” He dropped her arms and stepped to her side, a hand on her elbow for encouragement. “Well, um, it takes a girl a while to pack, y’know.” Birdie was stalling, taken aback by his offer.

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“I can wait.” Jess donned his Stetson and offered her his arm. Birdie blew a long blubbery breath and came to a decision. “Oh, hell, I already sent m’ things to the station. I ain’t nobody’s fool,” she said as she hooked her arm through his. “Attagirl.” He screwed his face into a look of reassurance. “I have to ask you one question, though, Birdie.” She looked up at him from beneath her glistening lashes. Nothing on her face told him she would tell the truth. The whole truth, anyway. But he still had to try. “Would you prefer to go to Chief Trumbull? To get his protection? That way you wouldn’t have to leave—” “No!” She grabbed the front of his jacket, her panic stricken response all he needed to hear. “ He lifted her hands from their death grip on his lapels. “So it was him.” She looked away. “Birdie? It was Trumbull who did this to you?” She was still as a statue, neither confirming or denying. “And you were to take this paper to him?” Nothing. “And when you didn’t have it, he had to teach you a little lesson.” Her only response was to square her shoulders a bit, relieved, perhaps, at the unburdening. And he had his answers. Jess had little sympathy for a two-timing trollop whose misguided conniving had gotten her caught between a rock and a hard place, but he wasn’t about to throw Birdie to the wolves. She may have done all the wrong things

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for all the wrong reasons, but nobody deserved bruises like that. And he knew now just who had delivered those purple beauties. The best solution was to help this woman get out of town and out of the mess she’d managed to land square in the middle of. Jess hurried her along and kept her talking, all the while keeping an eye out for trouble. But it was the supper hour, and they left the building virtually unnoticed. He signalled for an enclosed hansom cab just to be on the safe side, and had her wait a few minutes while he checked out the train station when they arrived. But Birdie had for once in her life managed to remain anonymous, and soon Jess had her on a train to Cincinnati in a private car with the curtains drawn. He watched until the train left, and no unsavory sorts boarded after Birdie. Perhaps she was going to make it to her new start after all. One thing was certain, though. He’d already missed his new start with Addie. How was he going to explain this one?

... Addie stood fanning the last of the smoke toward the window and didn’t hear the door open behind her. “What in God’s name happened here?” She whirled and felt the painful rush of relief and guilt and failure all at once. “Well, where in bloody hell were you? It’s your fault the biscuits burned, I’ll have you know.” Addie commenced slamming dishes onto the table, then plopped into a chair and glared at him until he joined

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her. She served up the shepherd’s pie and nearly spit out her first bite. She’d forgotten to reheat it, and it had been cooling on the counter for over two hours. Addie fumed silently through the entire meal and swore to herself if he said a word, she’d kill him on the spot. But he didn’t. The dreadful meal didn’t last long, fortunately, and Addie reached for his plate. “Ah, ah, ah. You cooked, I’ll clear.” “But—” “No buts, young lady.” Addie watched as Jess cleared the table, scraped the scraps into an old newspaper — and the remains of the shepherd’s pie, she noticed — and washed up the dishes by the time Addie had finished a second cup of coffee. “Better?” Jess lifted Addie’s chin with his forefinger and looked her closely in the eye. “Better.” She darted up and kissed him on the nose before he drew away. “But you scared me to death, Jess Pepper. What on earth kept you so late?” “Late? Addie, I was only two hours late.” There were times he’d been missing in action for weeks at a time and no one had made a fuss like this. “Only two hours? I was frantic!” “Now, c’mon, Addie, you can’t go getting hysterical every time I come ’round a little late.” “But I thought you were in trouble.” Now she was pouting. “I promise if I’m ever in trouble I’ll find a way to get a message to you. How’s that?” “Well, what if you can’t?”

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“Jess Pepper never breaks a promise, Addie girl.” “Well, what if you’re dead!” “Now, bite your tongue, little lady.” Jess grabbed the salt shaker and tossed a sprinkle over his right shoulder. Addie snorted. “What was that for?” “T’ break the curse you just put on me.” “Throwing salt over your shoulder breaks the curse?” “If you’re Irish it does. I think.” “You’re full of hot air. You only throw salt over your shoulder if you spilled the salt in the first place. Then you get good luck. Not broken curses.” “Well....fie on you.” Jess and Addie sat ill at ease at the table. The levity helped. But they’d both been startled by their first quarrel. When Addie didn’t speak, Jess broke the silence. “I’m sorry you were worried, Addie. I should have sent a message ’round so you wouldn’t be pacing the floor frantic with worry.” The image he drew made Addie flush with guilt. “Well, I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. And I was hardly frantic, Jess Pepper. I’m not some weak ninny, you know. I was merely...concerned.” She had just yelled at him that she’d been frantic, but he thanked whatever gods had kept him from pointing that out when she revised her worry downward. “Ah. Concerned.” “Jess.” She turned and fixed him with a level gaze. “Let me tell you how concerned I was. I was so concerned that I picked up my violin and practiced for two hours straight and would have kept going if the smoke hadn’t smothered me. I was embarrassed that I’d burned the biscuits and

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that’s why I yelled at you. I’m sorry.” They’d made a small tower of their hands, one atop the other, and sat touching foreheads as they made their confessions. “I see. So you weren’t worried about me.” “Well, I was, of course, but not for as long as I let on.” “I see. And what did you do with the biscuits?” “What?” “Where are the biscuits now?” “In the trash bin.” “Ah. Then I’m safe.” “What do you mean? I wouldn’t serve them to you. They were practically petrified.” “I wasn’t worried about eating them. I just didn’t want you throwing them at me when I tell you where I was. Could break my nose. Or worse!” “So,” she attempted a pouty look, “where were you? With another woman?” He smiled. “Actually, yes.” Addie jumped from her chair at his admission and took a swat at his shoulder. He intercepted her arm and pulled her off balance and right into his lap. “And after I got her safely on a train out of town, I came straight here, hungry as a bear for some petrified biscuits.” Now she swatted him in earnest. “Jess Pepper, you just remember one very important thing.” He grinned and kissed her nose. “What would that be, little cook?” “I know where those biscuits are.” She had him chuckling now, and in one smooth motion he lifted her, stepped across to the large upholstered easy

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chair and dropped into it with his precious cargo. She held tightly to him, and her first kiss was a hungry frenzy of relief and pent-up worry. He answered her as tenderly as his own emotion would allow. “Oh, Jess,” she groaned, “you’re ruining me.” “I’m what?” “Ruining me. For furniture. I’ll never appreciate sitting solitary on a piece of furniture ever again, and that’s very, very sad.” Her hand came to his cheek as she kissed his nose, and the twinkle in her eye expressed anything but sadness. Jess pulled her more snugly into his lap and began to unlace her hightops while she plied kisses along his ear and neck. “I, on the other hand, have discovered a new appreciation for these overstuffed chairs,” Jess countered, his words tumbling out slow, measured, belying the hitch in his breathing. “They afford much more room for things like...toes, and...” He dropped her shoe over the side of the chair and massaged her foot, then let his fingers slide along her slim instep and upward to encircle her ankle. She shivered, and her hand lost interest in the waves at the nape of his neck and slid lightly to his bare chest. The fingers that had made short work of his shirt buttons now sent lush, warm sensations along his collar bone. Her breath matched his, but skimming across his ear as it did, it was driving him mad. “Addie...” he tried, but her breathy “yes” undid him further, and nothing in this world could keep his hand from sliding up her supple calf to the warm haven of her thigh. “Addie...” He shifted his shoulder, dropping it

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slightly to pull her face away from his ear. “What?” “That does things to me, darlin’, things you probably don’t want to know,” he managed. “It ...what does?” “Blowing,” he whispered, and her brows lifted with the most innocent guile. “In my ear,” he finished. She cocked her head a bit, as if the idea had never occurred to her. “It does? That...that seems unlikely, Jess.” He chuckled. Unlikely. No, not at all unlikely. He pulled her in to him and brought his hand from the lush nest of her thighs to lift her brown curls and expose her ear. He nibbled, and smiled at her small intake of breath. He ran his tongue lightly around the delicate rim of her earlobe, and relished her discreet gasp. And then with devilish delight, he blew a long, gentle breath into her ear. She shuddered, and her fingers darted upward to grasp his shoulder. “Oh!” It was a good long while before Addie and Jess settled down to report the results of their day’s sleuthing.

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Jess let Addie move away from the easy chair they’d occupied together since supper, although allowing space between them after such tender intimacies just seemed so wrong. It was clearly as much a surprise to him as it was to her that a person could covet another’s touch like they seemed to crave one another now. Their hands hadn’t parted since they’d risen from the table, and the nuzzles and touches continued as they sifted through the puzzle pieces. “It’s just a hodge-podge of information, Jess. How in creation do we make any sense out of it?” She leaned a hand on the fireplace mantel and dropped her forehead to rest on her fingers. Words raced to his tongue, but he knew he couldn’t whitewash things for Addie. She was right. They didn’t have a path to follow yet. Just a handful of stepping stones that meandered off in vague directions. He knew it was always that way. But then, he’d been here before. Every sinister event had a trail of discovery, an illusory sequence that remained just beyond the fringes of his logical grasp until he got the clues in order.

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Addie reached a hand toward a portrait on the mantel and ran a graceful finger over the face of the Civil War soldier. “He’s a good man, Jess. A really good man.” Jess rose from the chair and came to stand behind her. His arms went around her waist and he rested his cheek against her hair. “You’ll have your family back soon, Addie. Your father wants that, too.” Addie turned in his arms. “He did help you today, didn’t he, Jess. That’s such a good sign. Maybe it seemed like an accident, but I think deep down he wants us to know, and that’s why the word started to slip out.” “You could be right about that.” “I’m going to bake cookies in the morning and take them to him. They’ll let him have cookies, won’t they?” “He made short work of the apple I took him today.” “You took him an apple?” Jess was jolted by the awed approval he saw in her eyes, heard even more clearly in her voice. “When you go, try to get him up walking around the cell. He’ll get sick if he doesn’t move around and keep his lungs strong.” “Oh.” The thought of her father getting sick in jail hadn’t occurred to her, and Jess regretted bringing it up. “He’ll love the cookies,” Jess said, and tapped her nose with the end of his finger. “Oh!” Addie turned to the mantel and picked up the portrait of the family of five. “I was thinking about taking this, too. So he can tell me who they are.” Jess took the frame from her. “You must have looked like this when you were a little girl.”

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Addie smiled. “You know, I really do think this is my mother. I don’t remember seeing pictures of her at this age, but there was a picture of me that looks a lot like this. At my aunt’s estate in Chicago. What are you doing!” Addie grabbed the frame back from Jess just as he peeled back a corner of the black paper that sealed the portrait into the frame. “Seein’ if someone did what my Aunt Bethsheba always did.” Addie was still in the dark, and pressed the frame protectively to her bosom. “Writing people’s names on the backs of the tintypes, silly,” he chided. “Oh! Yes, silly me! Jess, I never thought of that!” Addie looked from Jess to the frame and back again. “Well, go on! Look!” She thrust the frame back into his hands. Jess shook his head and chuckled while he carefully peeled the backing from the frame and shook the photograph out into his hand. He lifted the loose heavy paper that protected it and Jess and Addie stared together at the handwriting inked in white. “Jeremiah and Josephine Carnello, August 1862.” And below it, “Julia Lillabeth Carnello, age 8; Jeremiah Leviticus Carnello, age 8; Sarah Josephine, age 2 months.” “My stars! Jess! It is my mother’s family. But...” Jess tapped the back of the photograph, and drew his finger across the boy’s name. Recognition loomed and for the first time in the investigation, one small piece fell into place. “I didn’t know you had an uncle, Addie.” Jess looked at her for some answers. “Or was this your Chicago aunt?”

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“No, no, that was my mother’s Aunt Lucille, my great aunt, Josephine’s younger sister. Jeremiah senior and Josephine are my mother’s parents. And this is without a doubt my mother.” Addie tapped the name of the woman in the portrait. “But Jess, my mother didn’t have a brother. Or a sister. Maybe these were cousins or, or...” “Addie, look at the ages of these two.” He stabbed a finger at the names of her mother and the boy. “Look at their initials. What are the chances cousins would have identical initials?” “But why wouldn’t she have told me? If she had a brother...a twin brother... you’d think I would have heard stories...” Addie suddenly brought her hand to her throat, and the surprise of realization traveled across her face. “What?” “There were times in Mother’s diary that she mentioned childhood things, and being angry at JLC. I thought it was her funny way of saying she was angry at herself. Because I thought they were her initials.” She drew her finger lovingly over the boy’s name. “But they were his, too. I wonder what happened to him.” Jess raked a hand through his hair. Waiting wasn’t going to make his revelation any kinder. He took her hand and moved with her to the table. “Sit down, Addie. I have something to show you.”

... The explanation was a lot harder than Jess had realized it would be. Ollie had been murdered trying to get this piece of paper to him, and Birdie was frightened enough to leave town when she’d failed to provide the same paper

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to Chief Trumbull. Everything he told her was disturbing and simply increased her worries. With each new revelation she realized more fully that her father was locked up and at the mercy of a man she’d had no idea was so evil. There was no way to tell his story without revealing Deacon Trumbull’s dark nature, or laying the responsibility for Ollie’s murder at Trumbull’s door. By the time he’d explained Birdie’s abuse at Trumbull’s hands, and Jess’s last-minute effort to escort her to safety, Jess was twenty minutes into his tale before he’d even shown Addie the page everyone had wanted so badly. At last, he pulled the folded paper from his pocket. “This is the corner scrap I found where Ollie...where Ollie had fallen in the...in the basement.” Jess was running out of ways to tell the story without using words like murder and morgue over and over. He laid the scrap on the table and unfolded the page. Before he continued, he laid a hand across the middle of the page and held it in place to match up with the corner scrap. Now she could read the text across the bottom. Hostel for the Mentally Infirm 211 Red Hill Road – Williamsbridge. “I don’t understand, Jess. What does this hostel for the mentally ill have to do with anything? How could this paper possibly be important enough for anyone to kill over it?” Jess kept Addie’s eyes locked on his as he moved the page directly in front of her. Without looking, he planted his forefinger like a stake about a third of the way down the list of names.

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“This is why, Addie.” Addie swallowed. Her face lost its color, and he could see that she dreaded turning her eyes to the page. But when he broke her stare and began to turn toward the page, she turned also. As one voice they read the name. “Jeremiah Leviticus Carnello.” J.L.C.

... “Addie, this has nothing to do with you.” Jess was frustrated. He’d been arguing with her for twenty minutes. “How can you say that! You point at a picture of a boy who’s supposed to be my mother’s twin and see his name on a paper from a mental hostel and you leap by some magical intuition to the conclusion that he’s the criminal!” Jess grabbed the photograph from the table and pointed to the boy. “Look at the boy, Addie. Where’s his right arm? Hm? Why is he hiding it?” “He’s not hiding it! My god, Jess, are you so suspicious of everyone? You look. He’s just trying to imitate a grown up pose. There’s nothing sinister. He’s not hiding anything.” “Addie, for cryin’ out loud, you of all people know I’m not suspicious. Look at your father. I’m doing everything I can to get him out of jail!” “Well, if it hadn’t been for your damn article he wouldn’t even be—” Addie stopped pacing. Her hands flew to her mouth and her eyes darted to see what damage she’d done. “Jess, I—” Jess put up a hand to stop her. So that’s how she truly

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felt. It was his fault. All his fault. “Nevermind, Addie. I’ll take my magical intuition and leave you in peace. Good night.” Jess headed for the stairs and heard her rushing to the door he’d left standing open behind him. “Please, Jess, I was upset, I—” In the hollow well of the switchback staircase, his parting words sounded harsh even to him. “Good night, Addie.” He closed his own door quietly and stood in the still darkness. The silence was deafening after the angry debate they’d just been through. So that was where she stood. At the core of it all, she blamed him for her father’s arrest. And she was right. That was the very reason why he’d fled. Jess walked in circles to work off the steam. Think, man! Get her out of your head and put the pieces together. Madly he wrestled with the recurring drum beats of her accusations. Just one thing, he thought. Concentrate on one problem at a time. Jess moved slowly through the double doors to the balcony. The humid air curled the damp strands on his forehead and did little to lighten his mood. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so baffled. So distracted. Jess turned and raised his eyes to the balcony above. Her doors were open but she stood inside. Perhaps she’d seen him below. Moonlight was too kind for the state of mind Jess was in, and he stepped back into the darkened room. Darkness

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was a comfortable place for him. Keeping company with women seemed otherwise. Perhaps that was the answer. The darkness. Going undercover. It had never failed before. Jess pulled a weathered buckskin pouch from its drawer in the highboy and contemplated it for a long while. Everything he needed was here. With this, he could simply stay on the streets until he had some answers. Calmly, Jess stripped off his white linen shirt and pinstripes and pulled on faded muslin and dungarees. He counted the cash in the tobacco tin and shoved it into his pocket. His tattered black cavalry boots still sat in the closet where he’d tossed them six weeks earlier. He could hike the mountains for a week in these boots and not feel a thing. How they’d do for him on cobblestone and brick he had no idea. It felt good to get his feet back into them, though. Jess sat at his corner table and pulled out all the notes he had. He read and re-read them, made mental priorities, committed every minute detail to memory. When he was satisfied, Jess killed the gas lamps and secured his apartment. He hid the pages deep in the umbrella stand that stood by the door. And in the darkest hour of the night, with a fire in his belly that wouldn’t be silenced, Jess Pepper slipped down the dark hallways and out into the night.

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In a window on the top floor of a noisy dance hall, a lamp guttered and went out. With darkness for a backdrop, a red glow moving past the window was the only thing to be seen from the street. A moment later, the lamp flickered back on, brighter, adjusted by some human hand. Inside, the talk was gruffly impatient, enlivened by the occasional growl. It was risky meeting like this, but they’d both agreed too much was at stake not to. “He can’t possibly know anything. We cleaned it up twenty years ago.” The voice was low, cultivated, on the keen edge of disdain. “I’m telling you, Pepper is on to something.” The red glow arched out, lost some of itself to the floor, and flared again. “Perhaps he could be persuaded.” “The bastard’s got a conscience. And a public. Crusaders like him make me sick.” Another flicking of embers. “Then get rid of him.” The flaring embers dropped to the floor and died under the broad shoe of the man who paced the storeroom loft. He fancied shoes, the kind that drew envious stares when

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he nonchalantly crossed a foot over his knee at his favorite drinking establishment, a blind tiger on the upscale side of the Tenderloin. They paid him good money to keep their “permission” to serve alcohol, though no license had ever changed hands. He was always sure of a good time there. And the girls at the Palladium were sure to notice when he sported new footwear. It had always been that way. Deacon Trumbull took pride in his boyish good looks, his devil-may-care swagger, and his top drawer shoes. It was a deadly combination, sure to draw the prettiest of the pretty to sit on his knee. When he’d made his first run at getting a promotion to sergeant, he’d had too much confidence in the devilish good looks. They’d bought him entrance to every venue he’d ever sought. But not in the police force. It was sewed up tight as a drum by the commissioners. And they’d gotten greedy with him. It still rankled, even after all these years. The Samaritan mess had almost gotten him dumped in the East River, he’d fumbled it so badly. So royally, in fact, that when he put in his first bid for promotion, they’d laughed. The bribe they’d set to overlook the bungling of his beat duties was stiff, and he refused to pay. Twice he’d threatened to expose their graft if he didn’t get the promotion, and twice he’d just about taken a final dip in that filthy river. But he’d done too many favors for too many swanks and politicians by then, and they came through for him. Still, when he went for the third time to his commissioner, meekly with the bribe in hand, the squeeze had suddenly quadrupled. His backers—the ones who needed him in the chief’s office to keep their own

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necks out of the noose—had nearly balked. But they’d paid. And the favors he’d had to render in return had been endless. Now, in his twisted logic, Ford Magee owed him that $20,000. That was the last time the hotheaded swaggerer had swallowed his rage, and it had been the best choice he’d ever made. Within a day of making sergeant, his pockets were lined with the kind of “contributions” he could never have imagined. And it had only gotten better. “I mean it, Deac,” his companion repeated, “just get rid of him.” “It’s too late. He may have talked to someone already.” A chair scraped back from the table and soft Italian Barracudas moved quietly to the window. Deacon’s partner was well-soled as well, but unlike Deacon he’d been born that way. “Then discredit his voice. Ruin him. Make his audience hate him.” The two looked out the window in silence, then turned in unison toward the door. “Don’t wait too long with Magee, either.” “How does tonight sound, Cash?” The hollow laugh of two men who knew not to turn their back on one another died away in the rafters. They scuffed along carefully over tattered satins that had fallen from padded hangers. Mice scurried away from their nest in the springs of a half-buried chaise lounge as the two passed to the door. “I miss what we had here.” The cultivated voice stopped to drag the door open. “You know I had to shut it down. That damn Magee had already cost me a promotion.” He took a long draw

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on his cigar. “I couldn’t take the chance of him connecting the part he knew to the burglaries. If he knew about them, chances were he’d find out about the ‘rewards’ our boys took off those Madison Avenue dames right here. Hell, half the wives and daughters from those hoitytoity mansions lost a bauble of some sort here. It would’ve been holy hell for me if their names went public. I’d have been dead before their spit could hit the floor. It had to stop cold.” He shook his head and kicked at a dusty scrap of wood. “I cannot fathom how Magee’s lived this long, you know? I really thought he must be dead by now. Nobody, I mean nobody could find a trace of him. He left his job, his place, just kicked me in the balls with that letter he wrote to the paper and disappeared, the goddamn, two-bit—” Cash put a careful hand on his shoulder, lightly, in case it was not welcomed. “You’d be Chief of Police right now,” he commiserated, if it hadn’t been for that damned Samaritan.” His sympathetic tone carried more than a hint of remorse. Deacon gritted his teeth. He’d get rid of Magee tonight. And then partner or no, one day he was going to sink his fist into this patsy’s jowl. But not yet. Not just yet.

... The hollyhocks in back of Sutton House pitched and waved as Tad Morton shoved the old pennyfarthing back where it belonged. He stepped out of the flower patch and rubbed his behind. The scrapes on his elbow and knees were almost healed now, and he’d become so good at riding the three-wheeler

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that he’d kept it out way too long this time. But he was hooked. Once he’d figured out how to move the thing onto and off of walkways without tipping it over he’d been able to ride nearly anywhere he pleased. With the night wind in his hair he felt he could ride to the end of the world. The streets were his, and he could leave in the dust any beat cop who thought he ought to be home in bed. But tonight his sore bottom told him he’d have to cut it a little shorter next time. “Ack!” Tad yelped as a hand caught him from behind and jerked him off the path. “What’re you doin’ here, kid?” “I-I-I-nothin’, sir.” “Nothin’?” “J-JJJust practicin’ m’wheelin’, mister.” “Your wheeling?” “No, sir, but she said I—” “Siddown an’ shuddup, kid.” Tad was shoved to the ground and he scrambled a few feet away before turning toward his captor. The fellow hunkered down and removed his hat. “Whaddya got t’ say fer yersef, Tad?” The boy’s chin dropped to his chest and he leaned further away from the dark fellow. “How do you know m—” The squatting man chuckled and Tad’s eyes flew open wide, then squinted hard. “Jess?” “Shhhttt! Keep yer trap shut and git on over here.” Tad scrambled over to Jess and they both crawled into the space between the hollyhocks and Addie’s bicycle.

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“You scared me t’ death!” Tad was grinning from ear to ear, but his eyes were still big as saucers. “Listen, Tad. I didn’t mean to scare you. Pretty good disguise, huh?” “Scared the liverin’ lights outta me. What’re you doin’?” “Listen up, now, Tad. I really need someone to scout for me, and you’re the best man I know to do it.” Tad puffed his chest out and dropped a grownup sober expression across his face. But the corner of his mouth kept twitching up in a proud grin. “Is it dangerous?” “Well, I can’t say it is. And I can’t say it isn’t. We’ll just have to see how things work out. But some fool kids would go playin’ hero or cops and robbers when they should be paying attention. I’ve got no use for a kid like that. What I need is a kid who keeps his eyes open, does what I tell him, knows how to blend in a crowd. Know what I mean?” Jess leveled a serious look at Tad and watched him absorb every word. Tad nodded slowly. “And then, some other kids think the little things are too boring and they won’t do the little things. Even when the littlest thing might be what saves people the most. Understand?” Tad nodded. “I’ve got three things I need you to do. Are you with me?” “Three things, yessir.” “First, I want you to see Miss Magee tomorrow night at the hotel and tell her all about your late-night cycling.” Tad swallowed hard. “Yessir. I been meanin’ to do that.” “Second, tell her you have a message from me, and that

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I won’t be around for a few days, but that you know how to get a message to me if she needs something. Got that?” “Yessir.” “Third, you find some excuse to hang around here as much as you can the next two days. If anyone goes to her apartment, you go up these back stairs and try to hear what they want. I mean anybody, now, Tad, y’hear?” “Yessir.” “Then you bring me a message and tell me everything I need to know. Don’t leave out a single detail. All right?” “Yes, but how—” “Yeah, I know. How are you gonna get a message to me. I was thinking about that. Did you know there’s a little hole behind those loose bricks at the base of the front stoop?” “No, I never did.” “Well, I was thinking it’s about the size you could fit a cocoa tin into. You got a cocoa tin?” “Golly, Ma keeps all o’ hers. She’d yell bloody murder if I took one. But I’ll find one, Jess, don’t you worry.” “That’s m’boy. Now tell me what you’re gonna do.” Jess listened with pride as Tad recited in perfect detail each of his instructions. When he was finished, they stood and saluted one another. “Make me proud, son.” “I will, Jess. You’ll see!” “Now skedaddle on outta here.” “Yessir! Bye!” “Shhhht!” “Bye.” Tad corralled his exuberance to a whisper and trotted off down the alley. So far, things were working out just fine.

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... Bundles of gray-green occupied most of the top of the small writing desk in Ford Magee’s living room by the time Addie had emptied the tin box. Startled, she checked her method a second time, certain that she must have miscounted. Twice she flipped through each bundle to make sure there weren’t different denominations of bills mixed into any one stack. But they were all the same. A hundred dollars in each bundle. And fifty bundles total. Each tied with a piece of brown yarn. How had her father managed to save five thousand dollars on a night watchman’s salary? She could understand the pile of silver dollars. She hadn’t counted them, but since working at the bank, her eye for estimating silver was fine tuned. The pile that occupied the center of the tin box probably amounted to a little over four hundred dollars. Addie tapped her pencil on the desk. Could he have had bonds? It didn’t seem likely, just knowing her father’s cautious nature. He hadn’t even put his funds in a bank, so it didn’t seem likely that he would otherwise do business with a financial institution. Maybe he owned land. Addie brightened at the thought. Perhaps he owned land and sold it when the city grew out close to it and made himself rich. Or maybe he’d taken bribes. Stop it, Addie. After all, he was a night watchman. Ungrateful daughter.

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Addie pulled her hands away from the stacks of worn currency. He’d told her he sent money to Aunt Lucille. How could he live here himself, save a small fortune, and still send money on his pitiful wage? Addie looked past the currency to the cubbyholes in the back of the drop-leaf desk. Odds and ends of string and postage and old receipts filled most of the slots, but a small bound book was slid into the slot at the far end. It felt very much like cheating, but Addie pulled the book out and began to flip through it. As she’d expected, it was a ledger. On the first page there were a half dozen entries marked ‘JLCMA-C’. She ran the letters through her head, but didn’t come up with the answer until she spoke the initials out loud. Then it all made perfect sense. Julia Lillabeth Carnello Magee Adelaide – Chicago. This was his code for recording funds sent to Addie and her mother in Chicago. Then, some lines below, a second entry began to appear. ‘JLC-W’. If she was correct about the first set of initials, then this had to be Jeremiah Leviticus Carnello – Williamsbridge. Addie stared at the entry. Her father had paid for his wife’s twin brother’s care at the institution. And handsomely, from the looks of it. Next to each entry was a dollar figure. Modest at first, and then increasing for Addie and her mother. Enough to make Addie squirm. But the entry for JLC-W was always the same. Addie paged on through the book, but each month the same two entries appeared. Until June of 1879, when the

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JLC-W entries stopped. Perhaps her father had grown tired of paying for his brother-in-law. Or his brother-in-law was able to come out of the institution. Or...his brother-in-law, the uncle she’d never known she had, Jeremiah Leviticus Carnello, had died. Addie dropped her head into her hands and propped her elbows on the desk. There had to be an honest answer for where this money had come from. She refused to doubt her father. But once the word ‘bribe’ had crept into her mind, it seemed the most obvious way for her father to have acquired such ample funds over the years. Addie leaned back and covered her face with her hands. This was all Jess’s fault. He was the one who suspected everyone of wrongdoing, and now he had her doing it. “Dammit, Jess!” Her fists came down hard on the little dropped-leaf. The top-heavy desk wobbled toward her, about to fall over. She slammed a hand on each side to stop it from tipping, but the tin box that had been perilously perched on top tumbled to the floor. Silver dollars scattered everywhere, rolling along the floor and under furniture and even out onto the balcony. “No-no-no-no-no!” Addie ran after them and caught with the toe of her shoes the ones that were in greatest danger of disappearing. When the clattering stopped, she began sweeping them back toward the desk into one pile. The ones that had rolled under furniture would have to wait until morning. But these she could get back into the

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box without too much effort. Addie knelt and began sweeping the pile of silver dollars back into the box with her forearm. It was the perfect opportunity to count them, but she was simply too tired. First the biscuits, now this. She hadn’t been this clumsy since she was— On the third sweep, the corner of an envelope snagged her arm. Addie hadn’t noticed an envelope on the desk, but perhaps it had fallen off with the box. She pulled the envelope from the pile of silver and read the address. Daniel Scoburn, Ventura, California. The postmark was barely readable, but Addie made out what she thought to be 1888. The fragile sheet of onionskin took some gentle poking to remove it from the envelope. But once it was free, Addie spread it on the floor and began to read. My dear Ford, You have probably wondered these long years since we two ghosts limped away from Andersonville what has become of me. I could write a volume of my experiences, but I shall forego that for another time. My purpose in writing you today is to direct you to a package that awaits you at the New York City post office. When you forced me to take your discharge stipend before I began my trek westward, I swore to you that one day you would see it

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returned to you ten-fold. Little did I know that I would not only keep that promise, but that I would instead return to you two hundred-fold the ten five-dollar gold pieces you laid in my palm that day. There were a thousand ways you could have used that fifty dollars, Ford, and I knew it. Why you made me take it, I have not yet reckoned. God has been good to me, though, and I pray he has been so to you. My oil venture near the western coast of California has amassed a veritable fortune for me and my dear Elizabeth. And we can think of nothing that makes us happier than to share with you a tiny portion of our prosperity. It was your faith in me that sent me West, my friend. May God reward you richly for it. With every kind regard, Jacob Sanborn Andersonville! Her father had been a prisoner in that horrid Confederate prison camp. Where so many had died. Addie looked to the small portrait on the mantel. No wonder he looked so thin, so sober, so haunted. Tears dropped on the backs of her hands as Addie refolded the letter. It had been hidden under the pile of coins the whole time she’d been doubting her father. But she would never doubt him again. And tomorrow she’d let

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him know just how very much she treasured – and trusted – the father she was just coming to know. She didn’t deserve him. Tonight had proven that. But from this moment forward she would do everything in her power to change that. Addie arranged the desk as tidily as it had been before she started. But the box was not going back in, she decided. The desk was too obvious. Within minutes she’d spotted the perfect hiding place. The foot-warming bricks her father used through the winter months stood ignored on the floor by the bed during the summer. Addie slipped the bricks out of their flannel covering and slid the box inside. It fit perfectly. She separated the bricks and placed them in random spots about the room that wouldn’t call attention. One as a door stop, one holding down a pile of old newspapers, one beneath the little kitchen stove. And one to occupy the empty cubbyhole in the desk. Now you’re thinkin’ like a criminal, Addie girl. The words loomed out of nowhere, and Addie tried to close her mind to the voice of the man who’d angered her so. A huge yawn marked her satisfaction with her solution. And at last, emotionally exhausted from the ordeals and revelations of the day, Addie fell into bed.

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Patches of morning light from high barred windows brightened the upper regions of the jailhouse walls, but did little to dispel the gloom in the quiet cell block. A uniformed guard stood resolute in front of Ford’s door and refused to open it for Addie. “Now really, officer, I fail to see why Mr. Pepper was allowed to visit freely with Mr. Magee and I am not.” Her fingernail tapped angrily on the bottom of the plate of cookies, but she kept her voice sweet and matter-of-fact. “Well, ma’am, that freak in there tried to kill a couple hundred little gals just like yerself. It jus’ wouldn’t be safe.” A couple hundred!— Addie took a slow breath to temper her seething anger. “That freak, as you call him, is my father. Now I’d like to speak with him, if you don’t mind.” She fixed him with the determined look every mother’s son knows all too well, and he began to shift from foot to foot. It seemed to Addie that he might just be on the verge of changing his mind. “I’ll tell you what. You take this plate of cookies and sit right over there on that stool and let me chat with my father. I assure you I’ll be perfectly fine.”

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The guard eyed the cookies and Addie knew she had him when he began to reach for the plate. “Oh, here. I’ll just hold the plate while you unlock the door.” She gave him her most winning smile and he reluctantly turned and unlocked the door and swung it open. Addie thrust the plate toward him as she moved through the cell door, but before the officer could grab it, she let go of the plate and gasped. Shards of breaking china and cookie were still scattering and rebounding off the floor as she darted back through the door and grabbed the startled officer by the front of his shirt. “Where is he? Where’s my father!”

... Williamsbridge was just waking up when Jess hopped off the back of a farm wagon as it rolled past the gates of a massive property. He touched the brim of the battered slouch hat he’d traded the farmer’s son for, and the two waved back as the wagon rolled on down the road. If anyone had noticed him, they would have seen just another local farmer. Jess stepped through the gate and walked up the carriage path to the front door. He’d assumed a slumped posture the minute he’d left the wagon. Just in case anyone was already watching. Through second floor windows he saw women in white nursing hats move from window to window throwing up the shades. But no one seemed to take any great interest in him. The veranda was empty. There were not even any

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empty chairs arranged about, as if no one ever sat outside. But just off to the left, beyond the veranda, an old woman who was busy clipping roses looked up and waved. “Mornin’,” Jess called, taking care not to sound too bright. Jess moved with his hangdog gait across the planked porch to the large main entrance and read the sign tacked beside the door in huge block letters. Private institution. Ring bell. Jess reached a hand out and knocked on the door. He waited for a minute, but no one came. He knocked again, louder and longer this time. “Ring the bell,” the old lady called from the yard. “Pardon?” Jess gave her his classic confused look. “Ring the bell,” she called again, and nodded her head toward the door. Jess cocked his head as if he didn’t understand, then looked up and shuffled in a circle as if he were looking for the bell. “Here, just a minute, young man. I’ll show you.” The old lady carefully laid her basket of roses on the low wall of the veranda and came around to the steps. She scuffled to the door in her floppy gardening shoes, smiling sweetly at Jess. “Ring the bell, boy. Like this.” She reached out a wrinkled hand and grasped the figure eight knob that stuck out a bit from the center of the large door. As Jess knew she would, she turned it once to demonstrate and then put her hand to her ear and raised her eyebrows to indicate she heard the bell ringing in the interior.

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“Oooooh!” Jess beamed with childish delight and reached for the knob and twisted it over and over, making the bell chime steadily for a good five seconds. “That’s enough, boy. They hear you.” She turned as the door opened and spoke to the matron who was already glaring angrily at him. “Good morning, Lenora. I was just helping this young man with the bell.” She leaned toward Lenora and said in a loud whisper, “I think he’s slow.” “All right, thank you, Lizzie. You can go on back to your roses.” She dismissed Lizzie and turned to Jess. “What can I do for you?” “I, um, I, uhhh.” Jess shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Out with it, boy. I don’t have all day.” “I wanna see Doc Haberman.” “Doctor Haberman?” Lenora narrowed her eyes. “He’s no longer here. Why do you want to see him?” “C’n I come in?” Jess put a touch of whine into his voice. “Ma says I gotta see Doc Haberman.” “And I told you he’s no longer here. Now good day.” Lenora began to close the door but Jess moved his boot a bit to stop it and tried again. “Ma says Doc Haberman takes care o’ her brother an’ I’m s’posed t’ aks is her brother doin’ good.” “But I told you—” “Ma’s real sick and she don’t wanna die ‘thout knowin’ her brother’s okay.” Lenora let out an exasperated sigh. “What is your uncle’s name?” Jess looked perplexed and let a couple of seconds pass. “My uncle? I don’t—”

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“Oh, for pity’s sake! Your uncle, your mother’s brother, the one you want to know about. What’s his name?” “Oh! Ma’s brother! Well, why didn’t ya say so?” Jess puffed up his chest and spouted the name as if he’d taken months to memorize it. “Jeremiah Leviticus Carnello. Ain’t that a grand name?” Jess watched the woman recoil at the name. She put a protective hand to her throat and her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “The patient by that name died fifteen years ago.” Jess gave a monumentally crestfallen look, even though this information came as no surprise to him. “And so did Doctor Haberman.” Lenora began to close the door and pushed Jess’s boot out of the way with it, and just before it clicked shut she dropped her eyes and said, “Tell your mother I’m sorry.”

... Addie’s pale fists beat the dark ebony of Chief Deacon Trumbull’s mammoth desk as she repeated her demand. He sat behind it, a sincerely compassionate look on his surprised face, immensely dignified in his wide lapels. She pulled her hands back swiftly. His pristine, crisp white cuffs made her own look absolutely dowdy. “I want to know where you’ve taken my father.” Chief Trumbull affected a look of regret and answered her for a second time. “I don’t personally keep track of all our prisoners, Miss Magee. Surely you can understand that.” Addie swallowed, desperate to modulate her icy tone. The chief had displayed his earlier gallantry to her until

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she’d begun to challenge him. With her vehemence, his kindness seemed to peel away, revealing a man best not to be bullied. Not by a mere woman, at any rate. “Then of course you will be able to find me someone who does.” That was better. Allude to his power over the situation. Trumbull stepped from behind his desk to face Addie. She turned and backed a step involuntarily, uncertain she could maintain her poise this close to a man capable of doing the things Jess had related to her the night before. Of course, she hadn’t quite believed him. How could she believe that this man could have beaten a woman with his own fists? Still, why had she thought she could run to this man who’d charmed her so thoroughly that night at the Astors and he would magically restore her father and make all her problems go away? Addie suddenly felt as if she’d stepped across some kind of invisible line. She had to control her temper if she was to garner any kind of help from the precinct chief. “Miss Magee, I didn’t want to alarm you, but your father had a bit of a cough and is in the infirmary.” Addie blinked, unsure whether to trust the man. “I’ll go see him right now if you’ll have someone show me the way.” “I’m sorry, dear, that’s simply not allowed.” His patronizing tone made her stomach pinch as he put a comforting hand on her shoulder. It brought no relief, only revulsion. Every instinct said run and run now, but instead Addie slid to her left and dropped into the nearest side chair. “Oh. I see. Then if you would be so kind, I should like to meet with him here, in your office.” She

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looked up at him with what she hoped was less challenge and greater meekness than she’d managed up to now. “It would feel so much safer here,” she lied. She forced her eyes to stay fixed on his face, though she saw sliding across it a mixture of calculations that unnerved her. “Miss Magee, I find this extremely regrettable, since I feel a...a fatherly concern for you, my dear.” He moved behind her chair, his tone solicitous and sanguine, his hands dropping with unwelcome familiarity onto her shoulders. “I can surely understand how very much you would like to believe that your father is the good man you hoped for.” The sweet, cloying smell of his cigar smothered her as he leaned close to her ear. “But I assure you, he is the most dangerous, the most deceptive kind of criminal.” A fearful tremble began in her diaphragm and threatened to shake her whole body, but she clasped her hands firmly in her lap and refused to jump from the chair, as every nerve seemed to be demanding. “Chief Trumbull, I... “There now, my dear, you’re getting all worked up.” He slid into the chair opposite her and took her hands. “I’ll tell you what. You tell me where you’re staying, and as soon as I have an opportunity to arrange a meeting, I will send for you.” She turned to thank him, saw something cold and calculating in his eye that stopped her words. If she lied, and missed an opportunity to see her father, she’d never forgive herself. But the hungry look in this man’s eye, the way he leaned in, shouted danger. She knew now what to say.

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“Well, you see...I’m leaving town, Mr. Trumbull. Today, in fact.” She stood, drawing on her gloves roughly, eager to wipe away the trace of his touch. “I only wanted to see my father to...to tell him...to say that I never wanted to see him again.” She moved toward the door, sick at the sound of the lie she’d felt compelled to speak, sick at the knowledge that Jess was right about this man, sick at the possibility that if this man had his way, she might truly never see her father again. Ever.

... “Don’t worry, lad, I won’t give you away.” The rose lady put a hand on Jess’s shoulder and settled herself on the step next to him. He’d carried on with his act while he sat on the step to ponder where he might wait until he could slip back after dark and check out the hostel’s files. “Pardon me, ma’am?” Her hand came up under his chin as she leaned close. “You can drop the act,” she whispered. “I won’t give you away.” Jess looked over both shoulders. If they kept their voices low, no one would overhear. “How did you know?” “Oh, laddie, maybe these people are just too used to seeing the lights turned out behind blank eyes to recognize intelligence when it’s staring them in the face.” She chuckled and shook her head. “I hate to disappoint you, but you’ve got smarts comin’ out your pores!” Jess straightened and gave her a disparaging look.

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“Now blow your nose like you’re cryin’ so I can pat you on the back.” Jess pulled out a blue plaid handkerchief and did as Lizzie had instructed. She put a grandmotherly arm around his shoulders and patted his arm with her other hand so she could lean close again. “I heard you ask for Doc Haberman.” Jess wiped his shirt sleeve across his eyes as if he were still bawling and nodded. Lizzie stood up and took his hand like she would a child and said clearly, “You come on home with me, sweet boy. I have some cookies and milk that will make you feel better in nothin’ flat.” Jess stood up and, still holding her hand like a lost little boy, walked with her down the carriage path, through the gates, and across the road to a small bungalow set back behind a double row of mulberry trees. Once safely inside, Jess straightened up and dropped his act. “Now then, I’ll just get those cookies.” “Please don’t go to any trouble on my account, Mrs. –” Lizzie turned a beatific smile on him. “Such lovely manners,” she sighed. “It’s Chalmers, laddie. Lizzie Chalmers.” Without waiting for him to complete the introduction she disappeared into the kitchen. Jess dropped his hat on the hall bench and moved into the parlor to find a seat. He had just retied the leather strap around his hair that seemed to be getting longer by the minute when Lizzie came back from the kitchen. A plate of cookies in one hand. And a double-barreled shotgun in the other. “Now, then, laddie. Tell me who you really are.”

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Lizzie slid the plate of cookies across the small birdseye maple table tucked between the chair and loveseat and sat back with the barrel of the gun resting comfortably between her knees. Jess smiled, awed and humbled at the act she herself had carried out flawlessly. “You’re good, Lizzie Chalmers. You’re very, very good.” “Years of practice, Mr.—” “Pepper. Jess Pepper, ma’am.” He nodded toward the gun. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me.” “Lizzie?” A soft male voice called to her from a room beyond the parlor. Wobbly and slow, it lacked body but still carried with a cheerful ring. “We got company?” “That we do, Clarence,” she called. “That’s Clarence,” she said, as if Jess were still slow to figure things out. “Be in in a minute, Sweetie.” “Take y’ time, take y’time.” Jess heard bedcovers rustle and settle before he turned his attention back to Lizzie. “Your husband?” “My sweetie.” Jess wasn’t certain she’d answered his question. Maybe he was really getting slow after all. “Mrs. Chalmers, I—” “Miss.” “Oh, sorry. Miss Chalmers, I want you to know that my presence here is completely honorable.” “I see. You just like to play dress-up.” Jess chuckled. “Actually, I needed information, and I didn’t know if the Williamsbridge Hostel was an honest institution.”

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“What made you think that it might not be?” “Well, I know nothing about the hostel, but the information that led me to the hostel came from characters of a very unsavory sort, and I felt subterfuge—” “You mean, lyin’.” Jess cleared his throat. “ I felt...pretending to be someone other than myself would...” “Would make them more sympathetic to you, is that it?” Jess dropped his head, wondering if this was what intimidation felt like. “Yes. That’s what I thought.” “Why did you want to see Doc Haberman?” Jess looked a long moment at Lizzie, measuring her. The corner of his mind that was not engaged in conversation had already decided that while she was a character, she was honest at heart. “Miss Chalmers, Doc Haberman cared for a patient here about twenty years back. The fellow may have been here three or four years. He was, or at least I think he must have been, terribly disturbed. He was in his early twenties when he would have been here, and the only thing I know, or suspect, about him is that he had a deformed or damaged right arm.” Lizzie’s head reared back and her eyes widened, but she said nothing. “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you.” Lizzie answered, but her voice had lost its lilt. “Dark hair, grey eyes that could pierce right through you, misshapen right hand that he always carried behind his back?” “I would say that’s him.” Jess watched and waited for her

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to continue. But before she did, she dropped the shotgun to the floor beside her and stood up with a heaviness she hadn’t displayed earlier. “Come with me, Mr. Pepper. I want you to meet someone.” Jess rose and followed Lizzie through the door into the little room off the parlor. Propped on pillows in a daybed angled near the windows of a sunny enclosed porch was a bald man of sixty or seventy. His eyes opened when the two entered and his face lit up as Lizzie moved around the bed and took his hand. “Clarence, dear, there’s someone here to see you.” She turned to indicate Jess who’d moved to the other side of the bed. “This is Mr. Jess Pepper. He’s come to talk to you about Jeremiah.” Jess looked at Lizzie and she winked at him and patted Clarence’s hand. “I’ll just leave you two alone,” she said quietly as she carefully laid Clarence’s hand back onto the covers. Jess wondered if she were as clever as he’d thought or merely senile. But if her houseguest had information about Jeremiah Leviticus Carnello, he was ready to listen. He reached across the bed to shake hands with Clarence when Lizzie suddenly stopped and turned back toward them. “Oh! How silly. I nearly forgot. Mr. Pepper, meet Dr. Clarence Haberman.”

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Addie’s knees were screaming by the time she’d recovered the rest of the missing coins from beneath the furniture. As she’d crawled around the floor she’d had to stop twice to slow her breathing when scenes from her morning run-in with Chief Trumbull flooded her mind. She’d really cooked her goose, now. She couldn’t play with the orchestra, probably couldn’t even be seen outside the building, or Trumbull would know she’d lied to him. She was in a fine mess, all right. Somehow she’d have to work it to her advantage. Somehow she’d have to find a way to get her father out of jail, then they could both get out of town. What in heaven’s name had made her go to his office in the first place? Waving a red flag in front of a crazy bull was something even she knew not to do. Now she’d called attention to herself, and barely escaped without pommeling the Precinct Chief . She’d been so angry at Jess the night before, for the ugly picture he’d painted of everyone involved. But now she knew that Trumbull in particular had earned Jess’s low opinion. She’d railed at Jess, while he was simply trying to

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protect her from the sordid side of their dilemma. What would he do when he found out what she’d done? And what should she do until she could talk it over with him? The idea of getting a hotel room further out in the city crossed her mind. Perhaps Trumbull would figure out she was living in her father’s apartment and—. Addie’s thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Just a minute.” She scrambled up from her knees and checked her hair in the bathing room mirror. “Jess?” She hurried to the door and pulled it open. “Oh, Jess, I—” Addie stopped babbling and stared at the man who filled her doorway. She’d seen him just that morning outside Deacon Trumbull’s office. Leering at her. Eyeing her in a way that sent shivers down her spine again just recalling it. This time she would honor her instinct to run. She slammed the door and headed for the balcony. But his foot stopped the door and he had her by the arm before she was halfway across the living room. He brought his other arm around and pressed a knife to her throat and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “You’re coming with me, Miss Magee. Quietly, understand?” Carefully, Addie gave a small nod. The coins she’d just retrieved from the floor jingled softly in her pockets as he dragged her rudely to the door. He dropped the knife from her neck and let her straighten up as they moved into the hall. “Make a fuss and I’ll kill you. Understand?”

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... His plan had seemed good at the time, but now as Tad swept the air shaft between Sutton House and Talmage’s for the fourth time, he was wishing he’d thought of some other way to keep an eye on Addie. He’d already found a cocoa tin and stowed a worn down pencil and paper in it ready to leave his first message for Jess. So far, there wasn’t much to report. She’d left on an errand this morning and had come back hopping mad. He could tell from the way she stomped up the stairs. Now he’d just have to wait until time to go to work at the hotel, and then get the message to Addie after she played. He could have given her the message from Jess anytime during the day, but Jess must have had a reason to wait until after her performance. Maybe that was it. Maybe he thought she’d worry about him and ruin her playing. Tad decided Jess shouldn’t have worried about that. Miss Addie was too good to mess up over something like that. At any rate, Tad wasn’t in any hurry to confess he’d used her three-wheeler without permission. Tonight would be plenty soon to face the music. Tad looked up at the windows he’d opened on each landing so he could hear anyone going up or down the stairs. He checked each one, and just as his eyes moved to the window of the fourth floor landing, a man and woman passed it on their way downstairs. He turned back to his broom and then paused. There weren’t any couples on fourth floor. He’d checked it out.

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Maybe someone had been visiting old Mrs. Blake. Tad swept slower and slower, an uneasy feeling nagging at his stomach. Finally, he dropped the broom and ran around to the front and up the steps and was halfway to the second floor when the couple rounded the corner. It was Miss Addie. With some fellow. Tad stopped and looked back and forth at the two. “Oh! Hello, Tad.” Miss Addie was speaking to him. “Hi, Miss Addie. I—” But Miss Addie interrupted him. “Now, Tad, you’ve missed your violin lesson again.” Tad scratched his head. He’d never taken violin lessons. Or even thought about taking violin lessons. “No use thinking up another excuse, Tad. We’ll just postpone your violin lesson until tomorrow.” This time Tad caught her lifting her eyebrows, asking him to play along. She was trying to hide it, but she was nervous as a cat in a water barrel. “I’m sorry, Miss Addie. I’ll try to remember next time.” “Well, your Uncle Jess is going to be very disappointed. Do you hear me? Now run along and tell him what a bad boy you’ve been.” The two started walking downstairs and Tad backpedaled to the first floor landing and swung around the corner. He flattened himself against the wall and peeked back around as Addie and the man headed out the front door. From this angle he could see that the man was holding Miss Addie’s hand behind her back, and just as they passed through the door Tad saw the unmistakable glint of sunlight on steel in the man’s right hand.

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Tad knew what he had to do. He raced out the back door and trampled the hollyhocks as he dragged Addie’s pennyfarthing into the alley. He jumped on and zipped round the corner and pulled up in front of the building next to Sutton House just in time to see Addie and the man disappear into a hansom cab. The horse moved away from the curb, drawing the carriage out into the traffic, and Tad eased his bike through the pedestrians and onto the street. It wasn’t hard at all keeping up with them, since he’d had so much nighttime practice on deserted streets. This was almost boring they were going so slow. The further they went, Tad began to wonder if he’d been wrong. Maybe Miss Addie was just joking with him. But she’d called Jess his uncle. And told him to run along and talk to Jess. She was trying to tell him to get word to Jess, he was sure of it. But what if...what if she actually thought Jess was his uncle? There was only one thing he was absolutely sure of. If something happened to Miss Addie while he was supposed to be watching her, Jess would never forgive him. That and the thought of a knife pointed at her back was all it took to keep Tad moving.

... The man in the bed lifted his hand slowly and Jess clasped it in a warm greeting. “Doctor Haberman. I had no idea I’d actually find you.” Haberman laughed quietly and gestured for Jess to take a chair beside him. “I’ve been waiting for you twenty years.”

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“How do you mean?” Clarence Haberman shifted so he could look more directly at Jess. “I knew eventually someone would come looking for answers to what went on over there. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Most of the time that place has been a godsend for families who needed a place for their...special ones. But when Jeremiah was there, it went to hell in a handbasket.” “That would have been around ’76?” “The second time, yes.” “What do you mean, the second time.” Lizzie Chalmers slipped into the sunny sleeping porch and brought two glasses of lemonade and a pitcher to the bedside table. On the tray was the plate of cookies. “Mmmm. My favorite, dear girl.” Lizzie leaned over and kissed Clarence’s forehead and helped him sip the lemonade, then left as quietly as she’d come. Clarence watched tenderly as she disappeared into the house and then continued. “Yes, the second time. How much do you know about Jeremiah?” Jess lifted his hands and shook his head. “Nothing, really, except he had a deformed right hand and he was institutionalized here.” “Yes, well, that hand was the crux of it all. You see, Jeremiah was a twin.” “Actually, that I knew. That’s how I found out about him in the first place. A picture of them that his twin’s daughter showed me.” “His twin has a daughter?” Haberman raised his eyebrows.

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“A very beautiful daughter. And talented. A violinist.” “Ah, wonderful. Wonderful. Isn’t it grand when nature gives back so bountifully after it’s taken away so harshly?” “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes, it is wonderful.” “Ah, Jeremiah. His was a dark soul. You see, he never adjusted to the sight of his damaged hand. He was obsessed with perfection, and even as a small boy he could never attain it in the ways he wanted to because his hand just wouldn’t work.” “Excuse me, Dr. Haberman, but the picture I saw had the little girl and little boy about...about age eight...with their parents and a baby girl, about two months. Was that the entire family?” “Yes, yes, sadly it was. And that’s how Jeremiah ended up in our care. You see, his jealously was rampant. He was wicked and violent toward his twin in ways you can’t imagine, and she would always defend him when his parents caught him. That just made it worse. He hated her because in his eyes she was perfect, and he wanted to hurt her, misshape her, so she’d be like him.” “I had no idea.” Jess wondered how Addie would react to this kind of revelation. “Go on.” “There were a number of episodes, things that seemed to be accidents, a near drowning, one thing after another, until his parents brought him for consultations. By that time he was lost to his demons. “I only saw his little twin once, but she was more of a little mother to him than his own mother. I believe she loved him in spite of what he did. She had the most wonderful brown eyes, not gray, like his.” Jess could not have told eye color from the sepia

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portrait, but gray eyes confirmed what the women had told Addie about their attacker. That fact alone would get Ford one step closer to freedom. “Then, when the baby died, and the circumstances were just too peculiar to comprehend, his mother went wild with grief and tried to kill Jeremiah herself. She was convinced the devil was in him. “So, Jeremiah Leviticus Carnello took up residence at Williamsbridge Hostel at the age of eight and a half. For the next ten years he spent much of his time tethered.” “Tethered?” “Yes. I regret to say that we’d tried everything. Shock treatments. Everything. We knew the signs when he was heading toward an episode and tethered him. He could walk around, but only as far as the rope would reach. He hated it.” “I can imagine.” “But each time, it got longer between episodes, and we thought something was being triggered in his mind that he could control the episodes. That perhaps he was actually learning to manage his behavior. And then Callie arrived.” Haberman sighed and shook his head. “Callie?” “Callie was a, well, how shall I say it, the clinical term is nymphomaniac.” “Ah.” Jess understood. “Callie was a free spirit, a delightful patient. Had the run of the place and took such a shine to Jeremiah that for a while we thought they were actually having a normal relationship. But as it turns out, when Callie made her, um, demands, Jeremiah was unable to perform, if you get my meaning.”

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“Yes, of course. How do you know all this?” “Oh, Jeremiah told me. In our sessions when he came back. He told me...everything. I have his files, you know.” “You have his files? This is more than I’d hoped.” “As I said, I’ve been waiting a good long time to hand them to someone. Anyway, Jeremiah convinced Callie that it was being here, at the hostel, that kept him from, um, participating fully in their relationship. So one night he and Callie just left.” “They just walked out?” “Oh, they planned it all out. And no one saw them leave. I saw Callie years later in a catatonic state at Bellevue, but Jeremiah swore she’d been fine when they parted ways a month or two after they left here. “Now, here’s the part that is truly dreadful. Jeremiah fell in with a group of ne’er-do-wells who sold stolen goods for a police officer who set up the robberies for them.” “A police officer? You’re sure about that?” All of a sudden a link was beginning to form that had not been there before. “Yes, definitely. It was quite organized, and there was another, very wealthy fellow working with them. Jeremiah just called him Mr. Cash. Oh, and he called the policeman The Preacher. I don’t think he knew them by any other names. “As Jeremiah told it, Preacher would set up the robberies, and if they were really successful, Mr. Cash showed up with a bonus in addition to their cut. The bonus was a visit to a private brothel and opium den he’d set up somewhere below Greene Street.” Jess dropped an eyebrow and shook his head slowly. “Is

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that in the Bowery proper?” “Den o’ thieves and gyp joints, just beyond the Bowery. Folks call it the Gut.” “Do you know which building?” “You know, I don’t think Jeremiah ever named the building. It was hard to get much out of him about those nights, you see. He got agitated just thinking about it. He would do really risky things on their capers so he’d be sure to get a bonus visit to Heaven, he called it. “Do you know why he called it Heaven?” “Oh, yes, actually I do! Jeremiah said that the window over the alley-side door, the one they used, was painted with stars and clouds. So he just called it Heaven. “Each time he’d get euphoric thinking this would be the time his little problem would go away. This time he’d be a man.” “And of course, that never happened.” “Sadly, no. It wasn’t long before his failure would plummet him from his high euphoric state to maniacal depths again, and that’s when he began leaving the brothel and finding young women on the streets.” Jess sat back in his chair, stunned that all the pieces were falling into place. The answers had been right here all along. “Don’t tell me. Twenty young women attacked in the space of a year. Nearly murdered. Until a good Samaritan shows up and chases the attacker off. Every time.” “Right you are, Mr. Pepper.” “But, the attacks, they happened quite a distance from the Bowery, much less from a place even beyond it. Why wouldn’t he have done his deeds behind the flop houses

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on Greene Street? Somewhere closer to where his rage started.” Doc Haberman smiled at Jess, and simply raised an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘I think you know’. Jess spun the story through his mind, wanting to find the reason for himself. Doc was about to speak when Jess suddenly sat forward on his chair. He knew. “You said his anger had its source in the deformed arm. Anger at his perfect twin, and maybe at the baby sister she mothered. So, just any female wouldn’t do.” Doc Haberman smiled and nodded like a teacher whose student had just made him proud, and Jess continued. “So, he had to go north to the more affluent part of town. To find sweeter prey. But, how did the Samaritan figure out what was happening? Manage to stop him?” “Oh, ho, ho. That very question was worse than a festering boil for Jeremiah. You can be sure he never knew, or he would have changed his method. “As it was, he tried all sorts of things. Varying his route, passing up quarry and doubling back. But the Samaritan somehow showed up. Every time. Like a ghost. “You know, it wasn’t just an accidental Samaritan, Mr. Pepper. It was his very own brother-in-law. The husband of the twin he’d tried to maim and perhaps even kill as a child.” “He told you that?” “He didn’t have to, though that fact made him outraged. It was his brother-in-law who brought him back here. It was his brother-in-law who paid for his treatment here for the next three years until Jeremiah, um, died.” “Ford Magee did that?” Jess could believe it, but the

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stunning impact of hearing it with his own ears still left him reeling. “Was that his name? He never said. And I must admit I never tried to find out.” Both men sat for a moment, each resolving questions in his own mind. “I suppose you’ll want to know how Jeremiah died.” Jess nodded. Doctor Haberman closed his eyes and ran a hand over his forehead. He exhaled a long sigh and then began. “Jeremiah had lucid moments when he returned, and that’s how he was able to tell me so much about the year and a half that he was on the streets. On those occasions he seemed to view his sessions with me almost as a confessional. “One evening he saw a man coming up the front walk of the hostel, a man he recognized. Someone from the streets. No one should have known Jeremiah was here. But this man did. He was tough-looking. Long face, dressed all in black, string tie. A man the likes of which you don’t easily forget. “We didn’t have many patients then and I was the only one here on duty. I tried to make him leave. But he had a gun, and he ran through the wards until he found Jeremiah hiding in a closet. I tried to pull him off but he was too strong. “He tried to convince Jeremiah that he was taking him back to the ‘job’, said Preacher wanted his best boy back. But I think Jeremiah knew the same thing I could see, that the man was lying. “They struggled and Jeremiah ran toward the balcony

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over the second floor sunroom. This meant he was actually up as high as the third floor, you see. I thought he was going to jump. It drops quite severely on that side of the building and I thought the jump would kill him, so I tried to bar the door. But he got through. We were both on the roof and the man came out with his gun. “I stepped in front of Jeremiah and waved my hands at the man not to shoot, but he raised his gun ready to fire. “Jeremiah pushed me away and jumped in front just as the man shot, and the bullet hit him in the head. The force knocked him into me and we both went over the balcony. “I broke my back and the shooter thought I was dead, too. He finally got down to the ground floor and was going to dig a hole right then and bury us. But just then all the patients set up this wailing and racket, and he was afraid someone would come investigate, I suppose, and he just dropped the shovel and ran. “My sweet Lizzie came running across the street and she thought I was dead, too, but when she saw that I was alive, she got her brother to help her. They put me on a board and carried me here. I haven’t left this house since.” “But, doctor, surely they know...” Jess waved a hand in the direction of Williamsbridge hostel and the village. He just smiled and shook his head. “Lizzie swore her brother to secrecy. Of course, he was the local undertaker, so it was a simple matter for him to fake my burial. I even have a nice tombstone over there in Fairview.” “But surely when things calmed down...” “I know. We thought of it from time to time. But, you know, it was almost three years before that hired gun showed up to silence Jeremiah. They must have had

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something pretty huge going on by then if they persisted for three years to track him down. Lizzie and I figured it was just best that everyone thought I was dead.” “But you’re right across the road!” Jess was incredulous at the magnitude of the deception the two had carried out. “That we are. But then, you don’t know my Lizzie. She’s one of the finest actresses you’ll ever hope to meet.” “Well, now, that I can believe. I surely can.” He’d had quite a fine taste of her acting ability. And at the wrong end of the barrel, too. Jess looked at the former doctor, who’d been tucked into the daybed and tended by his sweet Lizzie for twenty years. Had it been Jess, he was certain he’d have looked for a way out, a way to end it all. “The answer is yes.” “What?” “You were wondering why I didn’t kill myself rather than stay in this bed for twenty years.” “I...yes, I suppose I wondered how a person could do it.” “A person can’t. Not alone. I begged Lizzie time after time to end it for me. But she wouldn’t hear of it. And after a year or so, I realized my days with Lizzie here in this little bungalow were more fun than any days I could remember in my whole life. And so I’m still here.” Jess had the answers to the greater part of his questions now, and thanks to this good man who’d waited twenty years to tell his story, Jess had what he needed to clear Ford. “Doctor Haberman, you said you felt the brother-inlaw was a good man, that he did what he could to help Jeremiah.”

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“Oh, absolutely. I’ve wished many times I could meet him again, tell him how Jeremiah saved my life.” “Well, it looks like you’ll get a chance. To save his, I mean.” “But how—” “Ford’s been falsely accused of having committed those crimes, and while you and I know he was the one who actually saved those women, the Precinct Chief in Battery Park is anxious to hang him. And I think I know why.” Haberman’s eyes grew wide. “You mean...” Jess nodded. “I think our Chief Deacon Trumbull and your Preacher are one and the same.” “But that’s monstrous! Then, how will you get around the authorities?” “I’m quite sure the State’s Attorney General will be very interested in what you’ve revealed to me today. And with the files to back it up...?” “Say no more. Lizzie? Lizzie dear? Would you bring those files, sweeting?” The loving tone that passed between the two as they called to one another was not lost on Jess. If not for Jeremiah, these two might have spent the rest of their lives on opposite sides of the road. There was a great deal of risk ahead, but with the files that Jess had tucked inside his shirt as he stepped out into the afternoon sun, the end of Addie’s nightmare seemed very, very near.

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Addie woke in stages, coughing, the smell of ether in her hair and clothes. Her arms and legs felt heavy, and her mind kept approaching and retreating from a wakeful state. Piles of once-bright fabric lay all around her, and a loose spring poking through frayed upholstery not far from her shoulder told her she was on some sort of discarded furniture. She struggled to focus on the wall that kept moving before her, and realized at last that it was a low-hanging curtain. It seemed to be all that separated her from the rest of the room, and the voices that echoed in it. At first she thought that she was to answer when they spoke. But her words came out as yips and moans. Soon, though, she realized they didn’t hear her. It was two men. And they were talking in low tones. She knew the voice of one. The one that belonged to the shiny patent leathers. It set her shaking, knowing how she’d taunted him just that morning. In his own office. But the other she couldn’t place. “Look. She knows me. I can’t take the chance.” The man with the hushed uptown tone sounded worried. He

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began to pace, his expensive shoes hardly making a sound though he was just on the other side of the curtain. “I’m leaving. And don’t get me up here again.” “Well, someone’s got to find out what she knows.” “Get the bastard who brought her up here. He looked plenty eager to me.” The man with the quiet shoes walked past the curtain and seemed to leave. But then his voice came again from farther away. “Did you take care of Magee?” “Tonight, Cash. Taking care of him tonight.”

... Much of the jailhouse was already deserted as Sergeant Coombs made his way up the labyrinth of halls to the death row cell where Ford Magee had been moved to the previous night. “Evenin’, Rogers,” he said to the guard at the check point. “Evenin’, Coombs.” He knew Rogers crossed himself when Coombs passed. They all did. He’d gotten used to it. And he’d gotten used to doing the dirty work no one else would touch. Most henchmen did, he supposed. But he wouldn’t do it tonight. “Gonna have t’ let me into the cell, Rogers.” “What for?” Coombs pulled a long knotted string out of his pocket and showed it to Rogers. It was the one he used to measure a man for a coffin. Rogers recoiled, and tossed his key ring hard enough

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that Coombs had to walk a few feet ahead to bend and pick it up. He walked on into the block and stopped at the heavy door behind which he knew he’d find Ford Magee. It took minutes to locate the right key, but eventually he dragged the heavy door open and entered the cell. “Magee.” He touched the sleeping form with his foot. “Magee. Wake up.” Ford struggled awake and looked at the man who hunkered near his face. “Who are you.” His voice sounded disinterested, defeated, and he had fresh splits around his lips and eyebrows. “I’m the man who’s takin’ you home tonight.” “What?” “Wake up, Magee. You got ta play along if this thing is gonna work.” Coombs heard steps in the hall and put his fingers to his lips for Ford to stay quiet. “Hey, Rogers, you sure this fella ain’t dead already? I cain’t hardly get ‘im t’ move.” “Magee!” Rogers bellowed through the grill in the door. “Do what the man says.” He lowered his voice and growled at Coombs. “And you. Be quick about it.” Technically, Coombs and Rogers held the same rank in the police department, and Coombs gritted his teeth at the insolence Rogers showed him. As Rogers walked away, Coombs reached across Ford and picked up his left hand. He felt along the bones of the palm, and then isolated Ford’s stiff, second finger, his compass finger. He ran his own fingers along it, testing its deformity, and a slow smile crept across his face. By now, Ford had come to full alert and tried to draw his hand away, but Coombs held fast.

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“Listen, Magee. Trumbull has given orders for a midnight hangin’.” Ford’s eyes flew wide and he tried to sit up. “Take it easy, now, Magee. Hear me out. I rigged the scaffold so you can fake it. But you gotta do it right. When that trapdoor goes, don’t squirm, don’t wiggle, don’t bat so much as an eyelash. There will be planks under your feet within thirty seconds. All you have to do is hold yer breath thirty seconds. I’ll take care o’ the rest. You can do that, cain’t ya?” Ford nodded slowly. “Good. Remember now. No squirmin’.” Coombs stood to go, but Ford stopped him with a hand. “Why?” “What now?” “Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?” Coombs pushed a skinny strand of hair out of his face and checked the hall for Rogers. Slowly, he turned and squatted again. “February 12th, 1876. I think you know the date. A young girl was attacked, ’bout t’ be kilt, but some fella come outta nowhere and saved her life. You remember that? That first one when the guy they call the Samaritan showed up?” Ford nodded cautiously. Coombs turned and spit out into the hall, then turned back. “That pretty little thing, she was m’ baby sister.” “Mariah Elanore Coombs.” “Eye fer an eye. You’re the man with the funny finger. She told me all about it, every detail. You saved her. I return the favor.” He stood and moved to the door. “You gotta help, though, y’hear?”

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Again Ford nodded, and Coombs tipped a finger to his forehead in salute before locking the door on the last man on earth who deserved to be in jail.

... Plain old earth felt good beneath his cavalry boots as Jess traipsed back through town. The files Doc Haberman had waited twenty years to pass along jostled inside his shirt with each step he took. And each step brought him closer to Addie, and the difficult things he was going to have to tell her. The end of the day in Williamsbridge was unlike any Jess had seen in years. Folks walked home from shops they’d just closed up, stopping on porches for a chat along the way. Around the block a childish hand worked the piano keys. It sounded like a lesson. Every yard spilled flowers into the next, and the only things fenced were the vegetable gardens. No one knew him, yet he got a smile, a lifted finger, or a tip of the head from nearly everyone he passed. He wasn’t usually drawn to tranquil things, but the village had charmed him, made it somehow hard to leave behind. Maybe it was simply the calm he felt now that the questions had been answered. Jess picked up the pace once he realized no one was going his way. People were coming home to Williamsbridge rather than heading into the city. If he wanted a ride, he clearly was going the wrong direction. Jess accepted the fact that he’d have to walk quite a distance before he found transportation. More and more pieces of the puzzle revealed

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themselves in small bursts of clarity as Jess logically pursued the information he had so far. He still wanted to know how Ford had known what nights Jeremiah would go on his murderous sprees. And he wanted to find out who this man Cash was. And where he’d hidden his seedy heaven. Three miles disappeared behind him as Jess mulled over the information he’d gleaned from Dr. Haberman, and meshed it with what he’d already known. He’d been so certain that the union hall played into the scheme. Now it looked like he’d been whistling up the wrong tree on that one. Unless. The name Jemmy Carnello had definitely appeared on the union rosters on every date when an attack occurred. He’d verified that to his satisfaction. But did the name appear any other time? He hadn’t checked that out. If not, it could have been just a cover, an alibi for Jeremiah if he were ever suspected. The rosters would show he couldn’t have been the burglar because he was at work at the time. It made sense. It’s how he would have done it. Now you’re thinkin’ like a criminal, Pepper. Jess looked up to gauge how far he had yet to go, and grinned a little when he spied the towers on the trolley barn in the distance. Just beyond it lay the track that would roll him straight home to Addie. In ten minutes he’d reached the barn at the end of the trolley line. He sped up as he rounded the barn, and groaned when he discovered he’d have to wait for one of the redroofed, open-air cars to arrive, make the round-house turn, and be readied for the return trip to the heart of the city.

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But it was the quickest way home. And so he waited. By the time he stepped off the trolley six blocks from Sutton House, he’d begun to get accustomed to the stares of people who didn’t expect to see a farmer ride the trolley through mid-town. Jess reached for his pocket watch, then remembered he was in disguise and didn’t have it. It had to be after six, he reasoned. Addie would be in the middle of her performance at the hotel. It was no use checking the stoop, because if Tad followed the plan, he wouldn’t be leaving a message ’til after she was done at the hotel. Even though the weight of resolving what remained of Ford’s dilemma was ever-present in his mind, Jess found himself smiling as his plan for the next few hours took shape. “Ma’am! Wait a second if you would, please.” Jess hurried toward a middle-aged woman who was just wheeling her barrow of flowers back into the store. She turned at his voice, and when she saw a disheveled bum coming toward her, she seemed alarmed. Jess held his five dollar bill up and smiled his most innocent smile. He pointed at the nosegay on the top of her load. “Flowers, ma’am. I’d like to buy those flowers.” The woman eyed him, then the five dollar bill, then eyed him again. “And those chocolates,” he added. She looked him over, as if considering his worthiness, then pulled the box of chocolates from the back of her pile. Having been deemed worthy of her flowers and chocolates, Jess completed the transaction. With the chocolates under one arm and the flowers curled into the

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other, Jess turned toward home. The silly grin on his face was a far cry from the sober lines that had creased his brow when he’d slipped out of the city less than twenty-four hours earlier. But then, this time, he was headed home with treats for his lady.

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“Psst. Miss Addie.” Tad laid a hand on Addie’s shoulder, and she opened her eyes with a start. She’d been crying. “Mmph!” “Miss Addie! It’s me! Tad Morton! Don’t be scared.” Carefully he pulled the gag from her mouth and she looked up at him with both relief and fear. “Tad, you shouldn’t be here! What are you doing?” She struggled to sit up, but Tad saw that her hands and feet were tied. He slipped her feet to the floor and braced her as she raised to a sitting position. “Miss Addie, I could see that man was making you leave with him, so I got on your cycle and I followed you here. Those two men were here until just now, so I been hidin’ behind those trunks.” Addie looked in the direction he’d nodded and shivered. He’d been that close when Deacon Trumbull had been just on the other side of the curtain? It was too frightening to think what Trumbull would have done if he’d found the boy. Not too far away a door scraped open.

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Addie and Tad froze. “Tad,” Addie whispered. “Get out of here now. Hide quickly. Then get out of the building. You hear me? Out of the building!” Tad was already scrambling across the piles of fabric. But before he pulled the cover over his head, the man in black stepped through the curtain. His big hand flashed past Addie’s face as he grabbed Tad by the scruff of his collar. Tad hollered, squirmed, flailed at the man, until the man cuffed him. Hard. Addie saw the whites of his eyes as the brave boy lost consciousness. She screamed, lurching about in her ropes to take a swipe at him, anything to draw his attention away from Tad. But she failed. The man threw Tad across the floor, then turned on her, and in two menacing strides he reached her with a backhand that sent her into a whirling, sinking world of black.

... A man never pays much attention to his shadow, until it’s the only friend walking ahead of him into the unknown. Tonight, his long shadow that stretched across the floor and up the wall, taking every step with him, was a comfort to Ford. He could not even comprehend what this would feel like if he hadn’t been warned. It seemed an insult to require his shadow to shuffle along with him, keeping the chains just far enough apart that he wouldn’t trip. And as if his shadow felt the same way, it left him when Ford stepped awkwardly down into the chamber of horrors.

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“Ah, there you are.” Deacon Trumbull stepped out of the darkness and watched Ford from the other side of the room. The noose hung between them, threatening in its stillness. One of the two guards that had brought him this far gave him a shove and Ford stumbled onto the planked deck. The trapdoor was clearly visible just a yard away, and Ford felt his knees tremble at the thought of what lay ahead. “Get going, boys,” Trumbull called to the guards. They wasted no time heading back where they had come from. Trumbull strutted slowly around the stone perimeter. “I’ve waited a long time for this, Magee. A long time.” “Get it over with.” Trumbull laughed, and his taunting jeers seemed to do battle with his own echo. “All in good time, Magee.” Sergeant Coombs climbed up from the pit below the deck and moved behind his victim, as if to hurry things along. He took Ford’s arm and looked at Trumbull for the signal to continue. It was the same way every time. Trumbull taunted the victim, pulled the lever, then left Coombs to do the rest. He hoped tonight would follow the same ritual. “So be it.” Ford’s voice was husky from a week in the damp cell, but his presence was strong. “Nothin’ like watchin’ a brave man die. Ain’t that right, Coombs?” Sergeant Coombs let his face churn into a ghoulish expression he knew Trumbull would appreciate.

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“Right as usual, boss.” Suddenly, Trumbull’s face fell and he paced the perimeter behind them. “What the hell is that?” “What?” “That...thing down there?” He was pointing with his unlit cigar into the pit below the trapdoor. “Oh, that! My new improvement, boss. See, the casket sits down there, and then the poor bugger drops right in when I flip this thing here.” He pointed to a release lever on a pulley mechanism. “Casket close by makes it easier on this old back. These here pulleys lift it right outta the pit and I’m on my way home. Slick as a whistle.” Trumbull cackled once, then howled with delight. “Coombs, you never stop thinkin’, do ya?” “Reckon I will some day, boss.” Coombs looked back over his shoulder and lifted his eyebrows, asking for a signal to proceed. Trumbull took a few more steps until he was next to the lever that would drop the trapdoor. “Let’s get to it, Coombs.” Ford’s world seemed to move in slowed motion as Coombs set about readying the device. Somehow, the knowledge that Coombs had fixed things was supposed to make this easier. But as Ford stepped onto the trapdoor and felt the noose slip around his neck, fear overtook his reasoning. Coombs might be playing with him. Making him think he’d walk away. Just a way of making him cooperate. And here he stood. Letting the scrawny henchman slip the knot down behind his neck. This isn’t right. This isn’t right. There were things he needed to tell Addie. He needed to give her time with a father. He needed to tell Addie he’d had to let her go.

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Telling her mother the horrors her twin brother had committed out of simple hate for her would have killed her. She was the only person in the world who loved that boy. Part of her would have died with him. Trumbull stepped close enough that Ford could smell his cigar. Sweet, earthy. He drew a deep breath, savoring the unexpected smell. His lungs felt full, strong, he felt a power in his shoulders and a peace down his spine, and for a moment he knew he would make it. And then Trumbull spoke, right into his ear. “We have her, you know.” Addie? He’d taken Addie? The air flew from Ford’s lungs and panic closed his throat from taking another full, deep breath. Addie— The sharp snick of a flipped lever seemed suspended in the air for a moment, and then the trapdoor went out from under his feet and he went down, down, and gasped a horrid, wrenching breath as his weight snapped at the end of the rope. Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds. His eyes began to bulge and his chest felt like it would burst before he heard someone scrambling down into the pit. The world began to roar and he let his mind hide in it. Suddenly, something hard and rough smashed past his feet, ripping off one shoe. Somewhere above, the taut rope was freed, and he felt himself fall stupidly into what he somehow knew was his coffin. He tried to breathe, but the rope was still knotted tight. His ribs shrieked, begging for a way to release his bursting lungs. Ford let his body fall as it wanted, and blocked the pain

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of his dead weight pressing on his hands that were still tied behind his back. The fringes of his mind went gray, and sound took on an echo, like hushed tones in a long tunnel. “What’s takin’ so long, Coombs?” Through a red haze Ford understood the words that filtered down from above. “Just about ready t’ hoist away.” Ford felt frantic fingers around his neck and suddenly the rope slackened, and was pulled roughly over his head. He drew a ragged breath and tried desperately not to heave, but his body jolted wickedly. Coombs began to whistle, covering the sound of his breathing. The next moment, the thud of a plank falling across the opening interrupted Coombs’ whistling. He grunted as he shoved something in place. Three whacks in four locations happened in quick succession, and Ford heard Coombs scuffle away. His breath was coming in noisy gasps now, and he was powerless to stop it. Soon, the casket began to ascend, rocking a bit as it rose. With each sway he felt his breathing quiet a bit. Not enough, though, not enough for Trumbull not to hear him once the casket reached the top. And suddenly he was there. The pulleys stopped, and the box that carried him began to move horizontally. He was jolted as the casket sat down roughly on the stone walkway, and it was heaven in hellish proportions for him. Every second in the pit had been a nightmare. “Lemme see ’im, Coombs.” Ford froze. Trumbull’s voice had come from directly above him.

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“Aw, hell, Chief, I’d have to take it all apart and—oh, hell, I’ll do it.” Ford heard Coombs pull one of the pulley ropes slowly from beneath the casket. He was going to do it. He was going to let Trumbull have a look. His quieted breathing began to escalate, and his eyelids fluttered like a two-penny doxy. “Y’ do good work, Coombs.” The sounds of rope scraping beneath his coffin stopped abruptly, and after a mumbled thank you, Coombs began to curse. “C’mon, ya rusty son of a whore. Ack!” Ford could hear Coombs struggling dramatically with something. “Shit! Gonna have to redesign this thingamajiggy here,” he complained. “It’s...Sorry, Chief, sorry! Just a sec! Ow! Dang it!” Trumbull huffed, irritated at the delay. “Never mind, Coombs. I gotta go.” “But Chief, it works great, really! I tested it three times!” “I’m sure it does, Coombs. Sure it does.” A single shot rang out, and Coombs’ body fell onto the casket, then slid slowly to the floor. The only word Ford heard as Trumbull’s footsteps receded down the passageway was from the man on the other side of the pine box who was about to die. “Mariah...a..a...a..”

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Jess kept looking over at the flowers while he shaved off two days’ worth of stubble. He was counting on them to smooth the way with Addie. He still couldn’t get over his luck. If anyone had told him he’d visit a village just out of the city and sit at the wrong end of a sixty-year-old woman’s shotgun who just happened to have saved the one man with all the answers twenty years ago, why Jess would have laughed himself silly. But then, stranger things had happened. Jess yelped when he nicked his jaw. A sobering reminder, he decided, of the difficult things he would have to explain to Addie. He checked his pocket watch and was relieved to see that right about now she’d be sailing into the last number. The girls always got at least one encore, so that would put him in front of the hotel at exactly the right time. If his blasted jaw would stop bleeding. He looked around for something to blot it with, and tore a corner off the midweek newspaper that for some reason had been shoved under his door. He didn’t

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subscribe, and it wasn’t the Times. It was the New York Mind, a rather literary newspaper known for its academic bent. He flipped it over to see the date and his eye was drawn like a dagger to his own name, in large caps, in the headline of a story just above the fold. Times Reporter JESS PEPPER Named in DENVER Scam The lowest form of humankind is the one who turns on his own. But it seems that perhaps a new low has been reached, by one who has recently found fame in our own city. Once his history becomes known, his notoriety will surely turn to shameful infamy. A source close to the investigation has revealed that Jess Pepper, known to our citizenry through his byline in the Times as Salty Pepper, did not discover by mere good sleuthing the perpetrators of the Denver scheme which he recently exposed. No, quite the contrary. He was one of the perpetrators, one of the despicable human beings who sold mere children into lives of obscene slavery. And when he saw discovery, and hence, prison, on the horizon, he used his pen to try and rewrite history, painting himself the hero. This paper does not participate in rumor-mongoring, but feels the

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necessity to warn our readers who may also, on occasion, read the Times, that this man’s words are not to be believed. Further, we call upon the Times to disavow their relationship with such a vile individual. Jess reeled, stunned, blindsided by this charge that had come out of nowhere, and had no resemblance whatsoever to the truth. He’d nearly been killed when he got too close to exposing that evil den of child killers. And that’s what they were. More than half the children they stole and sold into sexual debauchery were dead within the year. The idea that he...that anyone could think... He stumbled to the bowl atop the dry sink, his stomach heaving, clenching. They could accuse him of almost anything but this. Not this. Slowly his breathing began to settle from its painful shallow shuddering as his mind trampled through the “why’s”. And in a flash of understanding his pulse calmed, his breathing restored itself, his stomach settled. It was a smear. They wanted to discredit him, to make sure nobody believed another word he wrote. And who better to discreetly leak such information to a scholarly newspaper than the golden boy himself. Deacon Trumbull. He had to print a rebuttal, and he had to do it fast. No time to get to the Times. He’d call it in from the corner exchange. Jess grabbed his coat and flew down the steps, across the street and sped to the glass-doored entrance of the New York City Telephone and Telegraph’s Park Row Exchange. He hurled himself through the doors and skidded to a halt in front of the low railing that separated

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him from ten operator cubicles. Eight were empty, and only two operators were hard at work routing calls at this time of the evening. Jess whirled in a circle, and spied the bank of telephone cubicles lining a wall just around the corner. Four of them. All occupied. He paced for what seemed like an hour, but in just under three minutes a young woman hung her earpiece back on the telephone box to disconnect her call, slowly and methodically collected her things, and exited the booth. “PARK459,” Jess yelled into the mouthpiece when he’d snatched the earpiece from its hook. “Park Row Exchange. What number are you calling, sir?” Jess gritted his teeth and repeated. “PARK459, please!” The seconds plodded by, and Jess kept the running words of his rebuttal circling in his head. He had just the right wording, and wanted to dictate it to someone in the typing pool exactly the way it had come to mind. "New York Times here. To whom do you wish to speak?” “Manager’s desk at the typing pool, please. Tell them—” “Who’s calling please?” “Tell them it’s Jess Pepper.” There seemed to be a moment’s hesitation before the pleasant voice came back on the line. “Connecting your call, sir.” He wondered who would be on duty this late in the day. But it didn’t matter, as long as they did exactly as he

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instructed and got his story to the press room and into Jake Mallory’s hands. Jake wouldn’t let him down. “Jess?” “What—who’s this?” “It’s Gus. Jess, where are you?” “I’m sorry, Gus, I asked for the typing pool. I have to get a story in fast. Could you—” “Jess, hold on. You can’t...you can’t put a story in right now.” “I have to, Gus, and Jake Mallory will switch it out for you, I know he will. He’ll pull what I submitted for tomorrow and substitute what I dictate to—” “It’s already been switched out, Jess.” “I don’t—what do you mean, already switched.” A slow cold dread inched down his spine. He knew what Gus was going to say before he spoke it. That was why the operator had put him through to his manager instead of to the typing pool. He’d already been muzzled.

... Ford listened a long moment, until the roaring in his ears from the gunshot so close finally diminished. Until it did, he couldn’t be sure if it was just part of the roar or if there really were footsteps circling his coffin. His coffin. The word pushed his heart to a sudden extreme that he was quite sure it could not survive. Long, trembling breaths became harder and harder, and shorter and shorter, and he knew again he was going to die. And with the thought, his heart began to quiet.

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As the panic left, the thunder in his ears began to dim, and Ford could almost feel the silence of the chamber. At last he let his mind sink to a place he’d learned to escape to during those long months at Andersonville. Hunger and hopelessness could make a prisoner give up, unless he had a place like this to go. When at last the clarity of silence began to restore him, he knew they were alone. He and Coombs. “Coombs?” His voice came out a hoarse whisper. The simple act of whispering burned his throat worse than two-day-old moonshine. “Coombs?” Ford tried again, but feared the worst. Coombs was dead. Trumbull would be back to clean up his mess, or send his goons to do it for him. There wasn’t much time. Ford’s hands were still tied behind his back. Loosely, he thought, but they were numb from his weight on them. The heavy chains bit viciously into his ankles. With the pine lid slowly smothering him, Ford knew he had to get out of the death box while he still had air enough to function. His feet would have to punch the lid off. He lifted his feet, one with a shoe and one without, and poked at the lid. The foot without the shoe slid easily out of the chains, though there was no room to shake it off completely. He pushed his toes into the lid, but there was too little space to get a really effective upward force. And the lid was nailed shut. He needed to get the coffin on its side. Ford had heard Coombs drop when Trumbull fired.

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His body had fallen forward onto the coffin, then slumped to the right, and probably lay alongside him now. Ford began to slowly shift his weight from side to side, rocking longer toward the left than toward the right. As he picked up momentum, the coffin began to tip up on its left edge. The tiniest bit at first, then more and more. After a dozen rocks to the left, the coffin teetered on its edge, about to roll on its side. Ford shifted his weight the smallest bit, encouraging the coffin to land on its side. And it did. But his shifting body in the tipping coffin sent it rolling on over onto its top. Now Ford lay face down in the coffin, his body pinning the lid to the floor. He could play that rocking game all night, and he might manage to land on his side at some point. But now that Ford lay face down, he realized he had another option. Slowly, painfully, he lifted his backside and brought his knees forward and out, wedging them against the sides of the casket. Like a giant inchworm. With each gargantuan heave, he got his rear end higher, pressing against the bottom of the casket, which now had become its top. He heard the nails screeching as they began to slip their hold. At last he’d worked his knees as far as he could, and his head was bent as far as it could bend against the boards at the casket’s head. This was it. Ford rested, curled into himself, regaining strength for his final surge. If this didn’t work, he was sure he’d run out of time. They’d find him like this, trapped in his wooden womb.

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He felt the rage of Methuselah burning in his gut, and as the fire spread through his body and set every nerve tingling on a raw edge, Ford took a mighty breath and arched his back up against the bottom of the coffin. The first splintery cracks gave him courage and he strained, willing his hamstrings to push harder, harder. He gave one last, furious surge, bellowing like a wounded grizzly bear with the effort. The nails groaned and squealed, a noise so loud it alone could wake the dead. And then the coffin box popped away from the lid and bounced like a child’s toy into the pit. Ford gulped for air, kneeling on the floor of the room that had been his death chamber. The rage was slow to abate, and he bent his face to the cool stone, willing himself to think like a man again. His cheek absorbed the cool, welcomed it, as it traveled quickly to calm his fevered mind. When he opened his eyes, he was inches from Coombs. Ford looked at the man who’d saved his life, and began to grieve. And then he saw Coombs move.

... Jess left the Exchange office and crossed the street. He had to have a plan, and it had to be good. It had to get Ford Magee out of jail, clear his own name, and dethrone the charlatan once and for all. It would be a cold day in hell before Deacon Trumbull would be looking at anything but prison bars. But first, he had to get Addie away to some place safe, and he knew exactly where he’d take her.

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He cut across the avenue, headed back toward the stoop in front of his building, to check the hiding place where he’d told Tad to leave messages. He was just a couple of paces away when he saw a lone female figure darting across the street at the opposite corner, a violin tucked beneath her left arm. Addie! He straightened and took a step toward her, confused at her angry stride, her swinging arm with its gloved fist. But then she stepped into the yellow glow of the streetlamp, and her mass of red curls lit up like hot coals. It wasn’t Addie, it was Cherise! He ran toward her, catching her off balance just as she swung toward his front door. “Cherise, what are you doing here?” Cherise bolted back a step, startled out of her fury for a second as she recognized Jess. But then the anger returned to spread across her face. “Where’s Addie.” She was angry, her voice tight, her lips pursed. Her statement was more an indictment than a question. “Where’s Addie?” Jess echoed, now more confused than ever. “That’s just exactly what I’d like to know. You tell that missy that I did not hire on to be the leader o’ the band, you hear?” “Wh—you mean, she didn’t play tonight?” “No sir, she did not. We waited and she didn’t come. We all figured she was—” Cherise stopped, her eyes seeming to take in his face for the first time. “Och, oh heav’n help us, we all but know’d she was with you! Now I feel awful!

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We were fit t’ be tied with her!” “Have you seen her at all today?” “Saints alive, Jess, I haven’t seen her since we played three days ago.” Cherise’s red cheeks drained of color. “I was with her just last evening, Cherise. I’m sure she’s all right.” He had nothing upon which to base that assertion, and his gut told him he was dead wrong. But it wouldn’t do to get Cherise all upset. “I’ll send a message ’round when I locate her.” He turned and walked her back to the corner, then hailed a cab for her. The hike from the hotel to his place would mean she’d have twice the distance to cover to get back home. The least he could do was get her transportation. He paid the driver and handed her up into the cab, wishing he hadn’t been responsible for the look on her face, but glad that her Irish temper was no longer directed toward Addie. “Don’t worry, Cherise. I’ll find her.” But as the cab pulled away, the tear that slipped down her cheek tore at his gut. Whether it was a tear of worry or guilt, he didn’t know. His over-creative mind threw all kinds of awful scenarios at him as he ran back to the stoop. “Please let there be a note from Tad. Please let there be a note from—” Jess tore open the tin and felt the bottom drop out of his world. There was nothing there but a stubby pencil and a blank piece of paper. Now Addie was missing and there was no sign of Tad. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. He turned, heading for a stable where he could find a horse, but a strong, filthy arm shot out from the dark recesses, silencing him in one swift, urgent motion.

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... Addie watched the little girl in the pink frock rub the tears from her eyes. She sat alone in a darkened room, sobbing because she couldn’t keep time with the music. She’d always been able to find the beat. Music was her gift. Auntie had said so. But little girls who were careless with their gifts got coal in their stockings for Christmas. No, that wasn’t right. Addie tried to move toward the little girl, but each step she took sent the little girl farther away. It isn’t your fault, little girl, it’s those people. They’re talking too loud. They’ll go away, little girl, and then you can hear the music. But the little girl just cried harder. At last, Addie realized that perhaps she could make the people go away, and then the little girl would be happy. But first, she had to find the people and tell them to shush. Inch by inch she forced her mind away from the dark safe place and back to the place that smelled like someone had spilled the spirits of ammonia. And inch by inch, the droning voices she was intent upon sending away became more clear. And closer. She quelled a shiver. They were just a few feet from where she lay! “My God, you’ve gone and killed her!” The hoitytoity voice was back. Even with the sharp hiss of surprise and anger, Addie knew the voice belonged to Mr. Uptown. Or so she’d named him. There was something familiar about the timbre of his voice, something that made her skin crawl. The words came out crunched between gritted teeth, but the voice. There was something—

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A cold hand burrowed beneath her chin and felt her pulse. “She’s alive. Whatever did you do to her?” “She was screamin’ bloody murder. Went berserk on me. I had to shut ‘er up.” “Well, you didn’t have to club her within an inch of her life! I was going to...I was going to...Good god, man! Now we’ll have to finish it.” Finish it! Addie pressed her face to the pile of mildewed fabric she lay on. It took a monumental effort not to twitch, not to breathe heavier, not to give away the fact that she was no longer unconscious. Her arms and shoulders ached from having been secured behind her back for so long, and she desperately needed to wiggle, to move any way she could to relieve the pain. “I c’n take care o’ her just fine. Why’d you come back, anyway, Cash? Thought you was stayin’ away from here.” “That was my intention, idiot. But I was afraid something just like this would happen. And now with this kid we have an even bigger problem.” Cash. Cash. She had to remember that his name was Cash. Addie heard a rustling of fabric as Mr. Uptown handed something over to the man in black. “Put this on her. I can’t carry her out of here the way she’s dressed. The place is packed downstairs. I’ve parked my Runabout at the side door. As soon as you have her dressed, we’ll get her out of here.” “Why move her? Nobody’ll find her here.” “Maybe not. But I’ll get rid of her, you get rid of the kid.” “What shall I...”

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“Do I have to spell it out for you? Christ Almighty! First the little bitch’s father escapes from jail and now this—.” Addie wanted to scream. Her father was out of jail. How had he managed? Where would he hide? Oh God, what if he went home? They’d get him again! And where was Tad? Her heart soared at her father’s victory and plummeted with fear for Tad. But in moments, something equally cruel began to develop. The lack of oxygen, the residue of ether in her bloodstream, and the carbon dioxide she’d been breathing with her face stuck in the pillow of old clothing suddenly conspired against Addie. The first hint of a charlie horse in her right calf suddenly caught her attention. And before she could think what to do, it ratcheted up into a vicious, twisting, tearing spasm. She gasped, and her right leg set up a violent trembling. The two men whirled at the sudden sound behind them, and at the same time Addie’s eyes flew open. “She mustn’t see me!” Mr. Uptown whirled instantly away, and the man in black charged forward. But before his vicious back hand sent her back into the blackness, Addie realized something that shocked her more thoroughly than anything about this entire terrifying experience. She knew who Mr. Uptown really was.

... “Shut up and follow me. Not too close.” Jess whirled the moment the man let him go, but his accoster had already moved away and was lumbering down the street. He stopped just beyond a large elm that

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graced the curb, his broad shoulders rounded, his head a bit tucked, like a turtle taking cover. “Ford?” Jess almost heard the man shushing him as he, too, moved away from the stoop. He ambled down the walkway, looked up at the moon, and leaned against the tree. In one more casual move he stepped around to the back side of the tree, and came face to face with Ford Magee. “My God, Ford, they let you go?” Ford turned sideways, up close to the tree, and peered back toward Sutton House. “In a matter of speaking,” he grunted. Jess’s eyes adjusted to the lack of light beneath the tree, and with only the moon filtering through the dense branches, he could see the damage that had been done to this good man. The wicked rope burn around his neck sickened Jess, and the deep-seated bruises that still bloomed in deep purple and violet behind festering angry cuts on his cheek ignited a fury in Jess. His fingertips thrummed with the need to avenge what was done to this man. He was past sixty, for God’s sake. How had his heart stood up to all this? Yet here he was. He’d somehow escaped. And now it was time he came clean with Jess, bared his soul, spilled all the gory details. He had to do it now, before some other unknown detail ballocksed up yet another plan. “Ford, listen up. I know about Jeremiah, I know about Williamsbridge, I just spent six hours with Dr. Haberman, I know about Deacon surviving the big cleanup twenty years ago, I know you paid for Jeremiah’s hospital care, I know you are the Samaritan, I—” Jess faltered, quelled by

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the pained look in Ford’s eye as he turned to face him. Ford shifted, ran a tentative finger across his red, raw neck and winced, then sighed. “You go that way,” he nodded to the west, “I’ll go this way. Meet me in the alley behind the Exchange.” Now Jess sighed. “Ford, I don’t know what you’re thinking but there’s no time. Come upstairs with me and we’ll figure out what to do.” “What, to your place?” Jess nodded. “’Twon’t be quite as private as you’d like.” Ford nodded toward Sutton House and Jess followed his gaze. His balcony windows were dark, and he could see the curtains flapping a bit in the breeze. They were closed. He never closed his curtains. And he definitely didn’t recognize the silhouette of the man he could just make out standing behind them. “Why that—” He jerked his eyes up, searching the next story for Ford’s window and saw another shadowed figure, and the unexpected glow of a cigarette. “Addie,” he choked and started to move, but Ford stopped him. “She’s not there. I already checked.” Jess seethed. “Now get going and meet me behind the Exchange.” Ford didn’t wait any longer, but took off in the shadows, skirting the light until he crossed the street well out of sight. Jess clenched his fists. It was painful to leave the goons on his turf, but Ford was right. And he needed Ford to be right about a lot of other things tonight, if they were

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going to find Addie. Jess eased himself to the outer edge of the sheltering tree then walked with a leisurely pace across the street. Every nerve in his body worked to keep him from casting another glance toward his darkened window, but he resisted. And soon he was trotting down the alley behind the Exchange, to meet Addie’s father, who was sitting pretty as you please on the driver’s bench of the most recognizable carriage in all of Battery Park.

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His head hurt worse than the time he tried to fly by jumping off the Lowen’s carriage house roof. But he moved. He had to. Tad rolled onto his right side and watched the man in black disappear with Addie over his shoulder, following the dressy fellow into the stairwell. If he was going to move, he had to do it now. But hell’s bells, it hurt! He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and then in one brutal move, lurched to his feet. He wobbled, dazed, trying to remember why it had been so important to get up. Addie. That was what was so important. He had to find Jess before...before... Wait. They wouldn’t just leave him here. He’d tattle. He’d tell somebody what they’d done to Addie, he’d bring the police back. They’d be just plain dumb to let that happen. Tad shivered at the knowledge that struck him right in the pit of his stomach. They were coming back for him.

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Tad whirled in a circle, his eyes still tracking slower than his head, and then he saw just what he needed. A stout brass rod lay on the floor near the pile of old draperies he’d landed on when the man in black clouted him. The rod ended in a large brass knob. Tad grabbed the pole and slipped it free of the rings that secured the draperies to it. It was heavier than it looked. He’d have to use both hands to swing it. It might work, but only if he caught the guy by surprise. He’d never clobbered a man on the head before, but instinct told him he was only going to get one chance at it. Tad dragged the brass pole to the door, then levered it into his hands when it made too much noise bumping across the uneven floor. An empty crate near the door gave him the stepping stool he needed. Quietly, he propped the rod against the wall, then dragged two more crates over to the door. Anyone who wasn’t stone deaf would hear, but he had to do it. He needed height. He put the lighter crate on top of the heavier one, then slid the other next to it to step up on. Just as he shoved the last crate into place, he heard heavy steps on the stairs. Someone was coming back! He grabbed the brass pole and scrambled up onto the crate, clear to the top. He propped himself against the wall and lifted the heavy pole out over the door, holding the solid brass ball as high overhead as he could get it and still make contact with his target. The jagged end of the pole dug into his hip like a claw as he struggled to keep the heavy end slanted aloft. The steps neared. Tad gulped. He had one swing, and he had to get it

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right. If he did, God forgive him, he might just kill a man tonight.

... Jess fell into the cushioned back bench of the plush brougham as Ford took off for the Gut. The story had spilled out in half sentences, Jess telling what had happened while Ford was in jail, Ford tromping on his words with rushed questions. Between them there wasn’t a single clue as to where they might have taken Addie. “I’m going back and wring it out of that sonofabitch!” Jess had growled minutes earlier, about to jump from the buggy and tear back to Sutton House. But Ford had argued. “Hold on, now! They’d be hiding her somewhere out of sight, right? Someplace nobody goes?” Jess agreed. “So she’s not at the bank, not someplace where there are servants, not someplace public. They’ll have taken her someplace deserted. Someplace nobody’d wander into. Someplace...abandoned.” Jess turned to Ford. “There are a half million people in every square mile of this godforsaken city, Ford. Where there hell do you think there could possibly be an abandoned square foot?” Ford’s brows lifted and his eyes grew hugely white. “One place, one place I made sure stayed abandoned,” he choked. Jess grabbed Ford’s lapels. “Where!” “Heaven. I made sure nobody ever stepped foot in Heaven, ever again.”

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Now the brougham’s wheels groaned as they sped toward McGlory’s. Ford dangled the buggy whip across the withers of the light footed horse to keep him moving at an insane clip through the late evening traffic, careening around corners and slipping between vehicles where it seemed there was no space. But Ford found every inch. In minutes they had covered the length of the Bowery and were headed into the Gut, the ugliest, most crime-ridden neighborhood in the city. Block after block they dodged drunken blokes tossed out the front door of bars and bawdy houses. He knew if the poor saps were lucky, they would only be robbed of their valuables and clothing and live to tell about it. Bare breasted women hollered their invitations from second-story windows. Men with bloodied faces staggered out of dark alleys. Young men and old women lay tangled with one another in drunken stupors, right there in the gutter where just feet away others relieved themselves. This was where the worst of the worst came to do their ugliest deeds. And Trumbull had brought Addie here. Jess was seeing it for the first time, this place that would have normally drawn him like a taunting jewel. This was the kind of place where he’d normally lose himself for days, ferreting out his stories. These were the smells that were spawned by the depravity and neglect, poverty and abuse that he felt such a need to expose and banish. This was the doorstep of hell. But in his early weeks in New York City he’d not felt the pull of this place even once. For the first time in years he’d been distracted from this dark side, he’d been drawn to the sun, to the bright circles that surrounded Addie.

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And now, the thought of Addie in the hands of warped degenerates who’d spent decades encouraging hell holes like this made him ready to kill. As they careened into the lower end of Greene Street, the neighborhood deteriorated even further. Both sides of the street were lined with low-stooped shacks, each garishly lit with red lanterns lighting the entrance to yet another brothel. The Lizzie. The Gem. The Forget-Me-Not. And then there it was, a building so out of character with the rest, a former grand lady, now just shabbily gaudy, like everything around it. McGlory’s Cork and Dance. Raucous laughter and a pumping piano told him it was still a dance hall, and silhouetted in the windows of the second floor were half a dozen couples engaged in lewd frolic. The windows on the top floor were dark. His stomach tightened at the thought of Addie up there, alone in the filthy blackness, or terrorized by some of Trumbull’s goons. Or worse. Jess pulled his Stetson low over his brow and leaned back into the dark corner of the buggy as Ford drew the team down a side street and started into the alley. The buggy stopped. Just yards away the alley was partially blocked by a motor car, a Duryea Runabout, parked at a crazy angle. The building towered beside it, its roof higher than the surrounding buildings. A single lantern cast its glow across a recessed window set above a stained and peeling door, and caught the automobile’s

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curving chrome in an otherworldly light. Jess squinted, bringing into focus the window’s faded painting. And there they were. Moons and stars and wispy clouds cascading across the painted glass that was streaked with aging grime. Jeremiah’s Heaven. Beneath it, half in darkness, a man struggled along the far side of the automobile, trying to stuff an unwieldy bundle on the floor behind the driver’s bench. He passed the beam of his headlamp as he hurried to the other side to pull the bundle further aboard. The pale beam lit his frowning features, framed his usually perfectly oiled hair and his white, crisp shirt collar above the perfectly tailored coat, and Jess knew with a start who he was looking at. “My God,” Jess breathed. “It’s him. He’s Cash.” Ford dipped his head to the side, his question obvious though unspoken. “It’s Hamilton Jensen. Chase National Bank. Addie’s boss.” Jess drew back into the shadows and searched the buggy’s interior for a weapon. He flipped open a leatherbound box secured to the sidewall and discovered the Chief’s cigars, but no weapon. He was about to slide out of the buggy and make do with his fists when he realized Hamilton had seen them, but hadn’t stopped what he was doing. Of course. He’d recognized the gold seal emblazoned on the side of the brougham. He’d thought Deacon Trumbull was there to help him. And so he would. Jess pulled a box of matches from the leather case and reached past Ford to light the two carriage lanterns that

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had blown out in their wild ride. The light in front of him would keep him hidden, impossible to see behind the glare. “Don’t move,” he cautioned Ford. “He thinks I’m Trumbull.” “Deac!” Hamilton hollered and waved, and a foot fell free to dangle out of the side of his vehicle. A dainty, female foot. Ford saw it at the same moment and lurched as if he would jump down from the seat. “No!” Jess hissed. “Don’t move! We’ll get her, Ford, we’ll get her! Just sit. Now. Please!” “Deac! Some help here!” Hamilton called. Screams and music and laughter from blocks away converged in a decadent echo that danced up the alley walls and distorted the sound of Jensen’s voice. He prayed it would do the same for his own. Jess struck another match and lit a cigar, pulling on it until the embers glowed red. He let the memory of Chief Trumbull’s voice echo in his ear, and then, with the cigar still clamped between his teeth, he took the chance. “What’s going on....Cash?” This had to be Cash, the man with the money, but if it wasn’t, Jess was prepared to leap from the buggy, fists at the ready. Adrenaline surged in every limb, pressing him past the verge of action, but he stayed in the shadows. Then the man answered to his name, and sealed his fate. “Damn Runabout won’t start...got to get rid of her, Deac, she saw me!” Hamilton paced toward the buggy as he spoke, wiping his hands nervously with a pristine handkerchief.

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“We can’t have that, Cash, can’t have her knowing who you are.” Hamilton shook his head, his eyes wild in the glow of the buggy’s lamps. “Deac, I think they’re on to us.” Hamilton looked back toward his automobile, and Jess drew hard on the cigar. As Hamilton turned back, Jess let the embers flare. “We better move the stash, then,” Jess growled, trying hard not to say too much, but suddenly realizing he was poised to lead Hamilton into a trap. If he could keep up the deceit long enough to get Addie out of here, and then bring the authorities...somebody clean...to wherever Hamilton was with the incriminating funds, or contraband, or whatever it was, he could bring them all down. A man like Jensen was sure to sing once they had him cornered. Jess felt his pulse even out from its erratic pumping. It was a plan. And it could very well work. If he managed to get Addie without being recognized, then he could lure Deacon to the same place where he’d expose Jensen. It could work. It had to. “Y-you mean the vault?” Attaboy, Jensen. “What else?” he snarled. Hamilton’s motions were jerky now, and he ran his hands through his hair every few seconds as he darted looks over his shoulder toward his vehicle. “I, um, I can get to the bank by midnight, Deac, but I have to...I have to...I think she might be dead, Deac.” His heart slid into oblivion, and after a moment of black darker than anything he’d ever felt, rage overtook

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him. His hands shook, “Give her to me, Cash,” Jess growled. “I’ll dump her. Meet me at the bank. Midnight.” Ford bolted off the bench and loped past Hamilton. Jess’s stomach heaved with the impotence of sitting there in the dark, hiding. But in seconds Ford was handing Addie’s limp form into the buggy, into Jess’s arms. Jess could barely see her for the tears that swam in his eyes. “Midnight,” he yelled, his voice breaking with fear and fury as Ford backed the buggy out of the alley and took off down the side street. Jess pulled Addie into his lap and cradled her, hugging her hard against the lurching roll of the speeding buggy. He ran his fingers over her bruised face and clutched her unresponsive hand, desperate to see her brown eyes again, to feel the joy she took in folding herself into his arms, to talk about nothing and everything with her, just one more time. “Addie. Sweetheart. Open your eyes.” Jess laid his forehead on Addie’s and traced her cheek with his finger, careful to avoid the deepening bruises that broke his heart. “It’s no fun here without you.” Over and over Jess whispered his plea as Addie lay still in his arms. She’d been beaten violently. Even in the dark he could see the horrible evidence. She’d been so angry with him when he was two hours late for dinner. And in his callous way, he’d made light of her fear for his safety. He’d been so thickheaded that it wasn’t until Addie was in horrible danger that he understood the need to guard, to protect, to hold someone to yourself against the dark.

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Letting go of her hand was so unfathomable to him now, that he wondered if his heart would shatter if she were really gone. For the first time in his life, Jess understood courage. And it had nothing to do with running headlong into peril. It had everything to do with letting a precious love out of your sight. How would he ever have the courage to do that? How had she? His tears slowed as he murmured over and over in Addie’s ear. When he leaned back to look on her face, a tear rolled from beneath her lash and onto her cheek. Startled, he looked closer, and at that moment, his tear fell to join hers, and rolled across the fearsome bruise to the corner of her mouth. Jess bent slowly and touched his lips to hers. In the same instant, Addie’s lips parted. As lightly as he knew how, Jess kissed her awake. “J-hessss?” Her eyelids fluttered weakly, and Jess choked back the huge stone of gratitude that welled in his throat. “Yes. Addie. It’s me. It’s Jess. Open your eyes, sweetheart. You’re safe now.” The horses had found their stride, and as they left the worst of the Gut behind, the ride smoothed out. Still, Ford drove them as fast as he dared, and every few seconds his head whipped to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of his daughter. “She’s coming ’round, Ford!” Jess hollered, sending reassurance, and saw a flicker of relief before Ford’s head whipped back around.

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But he’d been a second too late, and didn’t see disaster approaching. Just as the horses charged into the intersection, a three-wheeled contraption careened out of the side street and raced crazily toward them. In the same instant the horses shied, the boy pedaling the contraption looked up and saw that he was about to clobber into the precinct chief’s buggy, and that realization sent his face into a paroxysm of fear. His hands came up as if to ward off the devil, and his rickety contraption rocked crazily to the side, spilling him into the street. He rolled, narrowly missing being crushed by the chief’s buggy wheel. “Tad?” Jess blinked as the near miss set his heart pumping hard. “Ford, stop, pull over!” “What the hell?—” But Ford obeyed. The moment the buggy lurched to a stop, Jess propped Addie gently in the corner of the seat. Her hand came to her forehead, and he kissed her cheek before leaping out of the carriage. “Tad!” He hollered as he ran back toward the small figure just getting to his knees in the street. “Tad!” The kid darted a glance as he began to scramble now. His feet scuffled hard, trying to get traction so he could run from what he knew to be danger. “Tad, it’s me! Jess!” Jess scooped him up just as he got his footing and battled his flailing arms. “It’s me! Jess!” Tad suddenly stopped flailing and slumped in Jess’s arms. “Jess? We got to...she’s back there...they hurt her...” “Tad, Tad! Stop now, it’s all right. I got her.” “Wh- what?”

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“I got Addie. She’s right here. He swung around and threw Tad up into the buggy. “She’s right here, Tad. It’s all right now.” Jess tossed the mangled three-wheeler to the curb and jumped in behind him, just as Tad sank to his knees and laid his head in Addie’s lap. “Jesus Mary ’n Joseph, I thought you were dead,” was all the boy could whisper.

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“What we have, folks, is two hours and twelve minutes to lure Deacon Trumbull over to the bank, find ourselves a squeaky clean witness to come along, and manage to get ourselves into Chase National Bank to spring a trap on Trumbull and Jensen. Two hours and twelve minutes. What was I thinking.” Jess looked up at the stars and dug the fingers of both hands into his temples. They stood a bit apart from one another, Addie—who’d refused doctoring—pacing between her father and Jess, still working the last dregs of the ether out of her lungs. Her face was finally taking on some color above the faded dancehall ruffles she still wore. But it wasn’t the ruffles that distracted Jess. It was those delicate bubbles of flesh that lifted so provocatively from the neckline of Addie’s garish costume. The first thing he’d done when they arrived at Tad’s house was to borrow a shawl for her. But Addie just plain wasn’t used to being indecent, so she kept forgetting to cover up. Keeping his distance from that alluring sight was just plain hell. Ford and Jess were at an impasse. Each had lobbed a couple of plans already that the other had easily shot down.

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No use to risk their lives if they couldn’t prove anything in court down the road. This was brutal. He was no gunslinger. He didn’t ride into the nest of the bad guys with guns blazing. He pulled the trigger with his words, exposed their actions with his eloquent and dire phrases. But this, this was more than brutal. He was going to take Addie’s father right back into the inferno, and he couldn’t guarantee any of them would come out unscathed. What they needed was a miracle. What they needed was a witness. Someone honorable, monumentally clean, who could attest to what Hamilton and Trumbull were about to do. Tad sat on the stoop of his house, trying to pretend he wasn’t hugging his Ma, and failing dismally. Tad’s father kept taking a step toward the little group that had brought his only son safely home, safely out of the clutches of two very dangerous men, but each time Jess thought he would say something, he would back away, uncertain whether he should offer help. Ford was quiet, repeatedly throwing his small pocket knife to slice into the dirt between the toes of his boots, then retrieving it and throwing it again. His feet were splayed less than six inches apart, yet each time the blade landed dead center. Thuck. Moonlight glinted off the hilt as it sank once again into the dirt. Thuck. Thuck. “Dammit, Ford, can you just—?” The rhythmic slapping of steel into dirt was driving Jess mad. “Just passin’ the time until you finally figure somethin’

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out,” he drawled. “Hey, I’m the one—” “Jess! Papa! This isn’t—” Addie’s voice cut the darkness with shrill urgency. “Folks?” Tad’s father stepped between them, his hands spread in a placating gesture. “Folks, listen here. I don’t know what you have going on, but I thank you for bringing my boy home.” Jess began to dismiss his thanks, but Joel Morton forged ahead. “You need some way to get the precinct chief over to the bank. I happen to know that right now he is supposed to be at the Vanderbilts.” All three turned and stared at him. “And you know this how?” Jess asked, not ready to believe it was worth his time to even bother asking. “Well, sir, I drive for the Vanderbilts. Took their snippy secretary all over town last week hand delivering those invites. Some High Lord Somethin’ or other from Scotland Yard is here.” He scratched his head. “Silly woman got all worked up deciding whether to deliver the chief’s invitation to him at home or at the precinct. Decided on home and she was miffed, boy howdy, she was miffed when he wasn’t home. Guess she—” “Okay, Morton, that’s great. We’ll just get a message to him at the Vanderbilts, um, somehow, let me think—” “Well, that’s what I’m sayin’, Jess. I can take a note up there. Give it to the little secretary gal. She’ll bust her buttons to take it to him personally. It’ll make her night, for sure.” All three turned toward him, their incredulous stares causing him to back away a step. But he continued. “Then there’s the witness thing. He’s probably more

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than you want, but he’ll do it for you, I know he will. Why he—” “Who, Joel, who?” “Oh! Rosalind’s uncle. Wheeler Hazard Peckham. You mighta heard o’—” Adrenaline soared through Jess’s veins, even though he was afraid to let himself believe their good fortune. Still, excitement propelled him forward. “You mean to tell me that your wife’s uncle is the man who prosecuted Boss Tweed? Who busted up Tammany Hall?” Joel Morton blanched a bit as Jess’s finger poked his sternum to punctuate every word. “Yessir, Uncle Hazard is as clean as they come.” Jess looked at Ford, and incredulity spread across their faces. They had their witness, a man who had prosecuted the most powerful crime boss the young country had ever seen. He was a saint. Who better to bring down Heaven? It was done. They had a plan. All they had to do was get Uncle Hazard on board. And that was easier than they ever expected, since Uncle Hazard had a telephone at his home, and he was actually there, not out socializing somewhere, and he was more than happy to meet with them in this emergency. They should just come right on over.

... Fifty-three minutes after eleven, six men waited outside Chase National Bank, well hidden in the gloom and shadows. The famed attorney and one of the Pinkerton guards he’d brought along hunkered with Jess behind the thicket of lilac bushes near the side door. Ford and the

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other two Pinkertons stayed out of sight behind the shed that covered the coal chute. A pair of gargoyles loomed over the side door and cast eerie shadows in the quiet yard. The merest tail of a breeze that found its way between the buildings didn’t do much to cool the sweat that gathered on every tense brow. Addie waited two blocks beyond the bank in the attorney’s ancient two-bench wicker phaeton. They all agreed it was best not to flirt with trouble by bringing the precinct chief’s own custom buggy to the very trap they’d set for him. The phaeton’s foul weather canopy was raised, and she stayed well within its recesses, as Jess had made her promise to do. Peckham turned out to be a real maverick, although it appeared his boots had barely survived his last safari and his pistol had been hanging on the wall as a decorator piece until earlier that evening. He was practically giddy at the idea of helping Salty Pepper. In fact, he was such a fan of the column that he’d already written a sharp letter to the editor decrying the Times’ silencing of “the finest truth teller that rag has ever known”. A streetcar several blocks away sounded its final run for the night just as Hamilton Jensen brought his own horse and buggy to a stop near the side door. His fancy little Runabout was evidently not running about just yet. He made quick work of unlocking the heavy iron grill that covered the door and disappeared inside. “Now we wait,” Jess whispered. “We can’t risk going in until Trumbull’s already in—” He stopped himself as a horsedrawn paddy wagon clopped noisily into the side yard. The precinct chief jumped down, the elbow-tip cape

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of his evening attire fluttering its white satin lining like a caged dove trapped in the inky black. Jess and Ford had correctly assessed his arrogance, and his need for secrecy. He’d brought no guards with him. And as they’d suspected, he did not look happy. The note that had been delivered to him was cryptic. Identity imminent. Midnight CNB transfer necessary. C. If the message had not triggered Trumbull’s immediate departure from the Vanderbilts, their entire plan would have failed. They would have had to apprehend Jensen or the two would figure out they’d been duped. And then holy hell would have broken loose. The precinct chief disappeared into the same side door Jensen had entered moments earlier. With a finger to his lips, Jess rose from his secluded spot. He gestured for Ford and one of his men to wait three minutes while Peckham and the two Pinkertons went in with him. Jess made it clear that it was the Pinkerton’s job to protect Peckham at all costs. Ford’s team would take up positions guarding the exits, in case Jensen or Trumbull eluded the trap. As he crept toward the door, Jess welcomed the steely concentration that fell upon him, the heightened state of awareness that gave him eyes in the back of his head on nights like these. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t need them. Tonight, it was Battery Park’s golden boy whose luck had run out.

... Hamilton Jensen knew his way through the bank in the dark, and Deacon Trumbull stayed close on his heels. There wasn’t a soul around, but in the eerie dark, Jensen

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kept his voice to a whisper. “Did you get rid of her?” Deacon dropped his cigar into a corner humidor to free his hands. Get rid of who? That southern doxy who thought she was so respectable working at the Times? Or the two-penny doxy he’d roughed up a little too much the other night? Either way, the answer was the same. “Yeah, I got rid of her.” “Good.” Deacon pulled a small derringer from his pocket and checked the cylinder. “You got a gun, Cash?” Hamilton stopped and turned his white face to Deacon. His startled eyes registered his answer. “Here.” Deacon handed him the little pistol. It was exactly the kind of worthless firearm a man like Jensen might carry. “Is it—?” “Yeah. It’s loaded. Now get going.” The two moved toward the vault, and even with his shaking hands, Jensen had the gates opened in just seconds. They pressed forward in unison to the massive door. Jensen worked the large dials and heard the tumblers fall into place, and signaled Deacon to help him pull open the heavy door. They stepped in tandem into the vault, and Deacon picked up the first bag of money he saw. “Not that one!” Hamilton hissed. “Why the hell not?” “It’s not ours!” Hamilton grabbed the bag and put it back on the cart where Deacon had found it. Deacon laughed and shook his head.

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“They can give it to me now, or they can give it to me later.” But Hamilton pressed his point. “I know to the penny what we took in from the gyp joints, dock loaders, protection funds and every predatory business practice you’ve gotten us mixed up in. I will not have you taking one cent that belongs to this bank.” Deacon dropped his eyes to the rude finger Hamilton had jabbed into his solar plexus. He curled his lip into a satisfied sneer as the banker realized he’d overstepped and withdrew his shaky hand. “All right, then. You clear the vault and I’ll haul the bags to the wagon.” Hamilton Jensen broke the silence. “Where should we stash it?” he asked as he quickly mopped his sweating face. “We’ll lock the wagon in one of the Pier 28 warehouses tonight. “ “But—” “Don’t worry, Cash, I’ll post a guard, for godssake.” Trumbull threw an empty bag at Hamilton. “There’s an awful lot, Deac, I don’t know if—” “Shut the hell up, Cash. Jesus! You didn’t seem to think it was too much when you got your last cut. Just get it on out here.” Hamilton tallied the take for Deacon each time he tossed him another bag. A hundred thousand. Five hundred thousand. A quarter million. Bingo. Deacon carried the last bag to the waiting paddy wagon and returned to find Hamilton closing the vault, a leather bag clutched with one arm to his chest. “What’s that?”

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Hamilton spun the combination and turned, blushing. “Mother’s jewels.” Deacon looked from Jensen to the bag and back again. “I didn’t know your old lady died.” Hamilton giggled, and hid his mouth behind the bag. “She didn’t.” As Deacon threw back his head and tried to stifle a hearty laugh, Hamilton raised his other hand, aimed squarely for Trumbull’s forehead, and squeezed the trigger of the little derringer. The hollow click of an empty chamber sounded just as Jess stepped out of the shadows. Deacon lost a second, stunned that the little coward had thought he could double cross the precinct chief, then raised his own gun and returned the favor. He’d caught Jess’s movement from the corner of his eye, and as he fired, he yelled in a false, commanding voice, “Don’t make me do it, Jensen!” But Jensen was already dead. “Hands up!” He whirled on Jess, and recognition tinged with satisfaction flooded his face. “I never figured you for a bank robber, Pepper.” Jess slowly raised his hands. A long moment passed as the two sized up the situation. “What are you saying, Deacon?” Deacon’s startled face relaxed into a canny smirk. “Well, let’s see now. I’m saying that I got a tip that you were here holding a gun on Jensen, that you forced him to empty the vault, and then you shot him.” Jess nodded slowly, breathing in the sharp sulfur tang that lingered after the shot. “That’s about the size of it, Trumbull. You got me dead to rights.” Jess saw the flicker of a white shirt cuff in the dimness beyond Trumbull’s

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gunhand, and hoped it was Ford and the Pinkertons that had crept halfway down a side hallway. Conceivably they had come in when they heard the shot fired. If he could just get Deacon to come a bit closer, they’d have a clear line of fire. But not before he loosened Trumbull’s tongue a bit. “I mean, you already planted that story that got me canned from the Times. I don’t suppose it will be much of a stretch for folks to believe I’ve added bank robbery to my list of preferred criminal activity.” That earned him a mirthless chuckle. “Pretty clever, if I do say so myself, Pepper. Now get over here.” Jess backed up a half step, and Deacon took a healthy stride toward him. “Stop right where you are.” “Okay, okay.” Jess put a heavy dose of fear into his voice and lifted his hands to show he wasn’t armed. “I just don’t think you should be taking all those good people’s money, is all I’m saying.” “That’s my money, Pepper. And what the hell good people would you be talking about? Those fat asses sitting up there in their Fifth Avenue offices couldn’t wait to line my pockets with it. Wouldn’t dare be seen in their hoitytoity Upper East Side castles in a stinkin’ opium daze. They needed me. They needed someplace to go. They begged me for someplace to go.” “So you gave them Heaven.” Trumbull huffed out a guarded laugh, clearly surprised that Jess knew of Heaven. “Helluva place, Heaven. Finest parlor in the whole goddamn Tenderloin. Too good for muckrakers like you, that’s for sure.” He took another step toward Jess, his words punctuated

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with impatience. “Now shut the hell up and move. Over here, next to the vault.” “I would but, well, I think you should know that you’re going to be in a lot of trouble when Addie delivers my next...mukraking column to the paper up in Albany.” Deacon laughed. “Addie? Adelaide Magee? You think you can bluff me, Pepper?” Now he sounded mad. “You think you can dupe me? Hm? Well, I’ve got news for you, boy-o,” he growled, and took an aggressive step toward Jess as he raised his gun and lined it up perfectly on Jess’s chest. “Mr. Magee’s pretty little daughter is dead. And so are you.”

... Addie heard one gunshot and then silence. Her heart hammered loud enough to drown out a cannon, but after several minutes she felt certain that only one shot had been fired. Please God, don’t let it be Jess. Her plea held double meaning. She neither wanted Jess to be the one shot, or the one who pulled the trigger. With each second she had less and less confidence that Jess had not been hurt. Why didn’t he come for her? He’d promised. Without consciously deciding, Addie slipped from the carriage and crept to the cover of the bushes near the bank’s side door. A police paddy wagon stood there, its horses untended. Had Trumbull brought more men? Had they overwhelmed the little party of Pinkertons? She had to know. If they were being held, she could somehow create a diversion. She had to do something, anything.

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She stepped up into the bank, her bare toes curling up from the cold marble floor. She paused and turned her ear toward the darkness. There were only two voices. Jess, and the devil himself. And the devil clearly had the upper hand.

... Jess shifted the subtle tension to his left leg, ready to dive. Deacon cocked the hammer of the gun, but the ominous click was muffled by a deafening scream as a blur of petticoats and ruffles flew from the far dark side of the hallway to grapple for the gun. “No-o-o-oooo!” Jess couldn’t stop the dive he’d already leaned into, but used the momentum coming out of his roll to hurtle toward the crazed precinct chief. The shot went wild as both Ford and Jess converged, each just a leap short of tackling Deacon. But before they reached him, the chief whirled and secured Addie beneath his arm, and they stopped in their tracks. “Jess! No!” Addie’s stricken eyes seemed so large in her delicate, pale face. Her hands gripped tightly onto Deacon’s arm that was clamped brutally about her neck and shoulder. “Let her go,” Jess barked. “You got no quarrel with her, Trumbull,” Ford said, his voice thinned by emotion. “Let her go.” “Ha!” Deacon spat. “Now isn’t this nice. Daddy and daughter back from the dead.” He moved the gun that had been trained on Jess, and jammed it into Addie’s shoulder. She gasped. “Back off or she’ll never play again,”

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he growled. Nobody moved. “Back off, I said!” In his anger he shoved the gun harder into Addie’s shoulder and she cried out, sending her pain hurtling straight through Jess’s gut. The shawl that had been knotted around her shoulders slipped, and its long tail dangled to the floor, lightly weighted by a knot that hadn’t yet come loose. In a perfectly choreographed instant, Jess caught Addie’s eye. He drew her attention to the trailing shawl, and her eyes lit with understanding. A split second later she kicked the knot sideways. It swished in an arc—still tethered where the other end was caught between her body and the chief—and landed behind Deacon. At the same time, she leaned hard into him, and he dragged her another step backwards. His foot came down on the knot and he stumbled. Addie pushed up with both hands and ducked out from under his arm just as her father darted in and pulled her away from the fracas, clearing the way for Jess to land on Chief Trumbull in a move slicker than a Texas takedown. In seconds the Pinkertons had hold of the chief, whose seething had taken on the wild-eyed panic of disbelief. The elegant satin cape of his evening dress hung askew, and bore the distinct boot print of an angry father. Blood trickled from his cut lip and hanks of blond hair hung boyishly across his cruel face. “You’re dead men. All of you!” he spat. “They’ll never take your word for this!” Wheeler Hazard Peckham cleared his throat as he recognized his cue and stepped out of the darkness. He

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walked slowly forward, letting Deacon comprehend the extent of the trap he had just sprung. The elderly lawyer bent down with stately elegance and picked up a lone Italian black patent shoe. He used the back of his own fine linen sleeve to polish the scuff marks from it, then handed it quietly to Deacon, who seemed to shrink as his shaky hand reached out to snatch the shoe. “Did you hear enough?” Jess asked, finding his breath at last, and dragging his eyes from Addie to watch Peckham’s commanding performance. Peckham just chuckled. “Oh yes, my friend. I heard... and saw...plenty.” He turned to the precinct chief. “And you, Deacon Trumbull, are under citizen’s arrest for libel, corruption, graft, kidnapping, and...oh yes...the murder of Hamilton Jensen.” He laid a fatherly hand on Deacon’s shoulder. “And that, son, is just for starters.”

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It felt like family, clustered there in Lizzie Chalmers’ Williamsbridge bungalow where they’d come to celebrate Chief Trumbull’s fall from grace. Addie sat on Jess’s left, her shoulder tucked behind his. She couldn’t get closer without sitting in his lap, and both of them counted the hours until she might. Ford stood by the window, a benevolent look on his face that neither of them recognized, and both of them loved. Tad and his parents beamed with pride over the article Tad hadn’t been able to wait to show Jess. Doc Haberman sat in the sunny bay window, bolstered all around by pillows. It was the first time he’d been in a chair in fifteen years, thanks to Jess and Tad’s father. He was practically drunk on the simple joy of it. Jess snapped the newspaper open and cleared his throat to read Tad’s article aloud. “Dear Ed,” he began, then looked over the top of the paper to catch Tad’s eye. “Who’s Ed?” Tad hunched his shoulders. “You know. The guy who

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writes all those letters in the paper. Just signs himself Ed.” Jess blinked, then smiled. Ed. Editor. “You mean the guy who responds to letters to the editor? That Ed?” Tad grinned and nodded agreement. Jess cleared his throat again, trapping his laughter in its gruffness. “Dear Ed. I read your newspaper every day, and I can’t say that I always agree with the things it says, but mostly I do. Except now. For some reason, you have stopped printing Salty Pepper’s column From the Salt Mines. Maybe you just forgot to put it in last week. And this week. Or maybe you just didn’t think you could make room for it. But Ed, if you are not going to put the Salt Mines back into the New York Times, please let me know, as I will stop buying the paper. You know, I never bought a newspaper before I met Jess Pepper. (That’s Salty’s real name. Did you know that?) I mean, I just never thought a kid my age had any use for a newspaper. But Jess Pepper showed me how wrong I was. He showed me how the words can draw pictures of things that happen to people, and pictures of things people should think about doing, and pictures of things people should stop doing.

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Words can do all that. And if a person has to go along making every mistake by hisself and not hearing about how other people fixed their mistakes or kept from making them in the first place, why a person could get to be old in a hurry just filling up his days making mistakes. When I read the Salt Mines, I see pictures of people doing good things, pictures of people who think more about other people than they think about themselves. It seems to me you’d want kids like me to get that from your newspaper. I’ll buy your newspaper again this week, Ed. But if I don’t see the Salt Mines on Sunday, I’ll just start saving my money. No offense, sir. But Jess Pepper has taught me more about doing what’s right than all the rest of the stories I’ve ever read in your newspaper combined. Yours truly, Thaddeus Morton “Well, my goodness, that’s a mighty fine letter, young Thaddeus.” Jess felt the corners of his smile waver a bit. “I do think you may have exaggerated a bit, though.” Tad jerked his chin up. “What?” “Exaggerated,” Jess repeated, “it means to over—” “I know what it means,” Tad huffed. “And I did not exaggerate. I meant every word exactly like I wrote it.”

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Jess blanched, embarrassed that his attempt at humility had offended his young protégé. He stood and crossed the room to offer Tad his hand. “What I meant to say, Tad, was thank you. Your words honor me more greatly than I deserve.” Tad stood and hesitated a moment, then slowly offered his own hand. Tad’s mother sniffled quietly, and Lizzie jumped up to offer more cookies. But the look that passed between Jess and Tad seemed less like the look between mentor and student and more like man to man. “Read the next letter, Jess.” “Wh—” “Here.” Tad took the paper from beneath Jess’s arm and re-opened it. Dear Thaddeus, it said. Please tell Jess Pepper we are holding his space in Sunday’s newspaper and will expect his usual fine column. And you may save your money, young man, because I have personally authorized a five-year subscription for you at no charge. You keep writing, son. I look forward to posting your work alongside that of Mr. Pepper one day. Ed. “Ya know?” Tad said, “I think that Ed must be a big shot over there at the Times.” Jess just stood shaking his head at the boy wonder he’d spawned with a single silver dollar, until Tad threw his arms around Jess’s waist. Jess ruffed Tad’s hair and swallowed back the salt that threatened to spill from his eyes as he hugged the boy back. Wheeler Hazard Peckham stood and clapped a hand on each of their shoulders. “A mighty fine article, son, mighty fine.” He shook Tad’s hand, then Jess’s, keeping his focus on Tad. “You know, this fellow,” he pointed a thumb

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at Jess, “managed to do what a whole legal team found impossible.” Peckham smiled. “And he did it without firing a shot.” He dropped his chin a bit. “Don’t ever forget that, young man.” “I won’t, sir!” Tad promised. “I’ve had a file as thick as your fist on that man, but he was slippery as an eel.” Uncle Hazard held Jess’s hand in a grateful, congratulatory grip. “It seemed as if he’d greased every palm from here to the Hudson. We’d no sooner get enough for an indictment than our witnesses would disappear, or reverse their testimony or some fool thing. But you took care of that, son, you took care of that just fine.” Jess smiled, still half stunned at the extent of the damage Chief Deacon Trumbull had wrought in his twenty-plus years on the force. He nearly broke the backs of local businessmen with his extortion for protection, then added innovations when opportunity presented itself. For months he and his men would look the other way as gyp joints and beer halls stayed open past the mandated time. Then, to polish his image, he’d arrange for a newspaper photographer to come along during a police raid, always using police officers from other precincts that wouldn’t be recognized by the regulars. The joint would be shut down and Chief Trumbull heralded in the papers as the defender of the law, the champion of justice. And once the furor had died down, the fair-haired precinct chief would magnanimously allow the owner to re-open his business. For a small fee, of course. The murders of Hamilton Jensen and Oliver Twickenham were just the last in a long string of battered corpses

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and missing persons that were now linked to Deacon Trumbull. It was more than likely that his own name would be added to the list of the infamous and innocent who had walked those cold stony steps into the hanging pit Trumbull himself had so proudly designed. Ford Magee crossed the room to sit on the edge of the divan, his large hand quickly covered by the delicate long fingers of his daughter. Jess turned, so full of questions for the man who had destroyed his own life to keep someone else’s secret, to keep the secret from his own family. There was more to know, and from the look of peace on Magee’s face, bits of that story seemed poised for the telling. “I don’t know if I could have done what you did, Ford. I mean, forget the fact that you survived a hanging. That I can’t even fathom. But, well, all those years of protecting Addie and her mother, not even getting to see them, and paying for Jeremiah’s hospital. That must’ve been brutal.” Jess sat on Addie’s other side, and now the three were linked by the woman whose silence spoke loudly of the things that were full upon her heart. “Don’t underestimate yourself, Jess,” Ford countered. “A person doesn’t do it because he has to. Sometimes it’s the only way to be a part of somethin’ you love.” “Even though she never knew?” Ford shifted his fingers to grasp Addie’s hand as he spoke of her mother. “It would have shamed her, broken her heart. But if I had to do it again, I...I don’t know.” Jess rolled the thought around for a moment, and tucked the lesson in it somewhere deep inside for future study. There were many colors of shame. Maybe the one Ford kept from Addie’s mother was the one color she

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could have lived with. But it wasn’t for him to say. Addie’s soft voice broke the silence with a tentative question. “How did you know it was Jeremiah?” When there was no answer for a long while, Jess looked over at Ford. He just sat there shaking his head slowly back and forth. “I just got lucky, darlin’. Plain ol’ dumb luck.” “How d’you mean?” Jess asked. Ford worked his thumb across the empty place where Addie’s amethyst ring had left its impression on her finger. “Workin’ for the railroad was never what I thought I’d do with my life. But the railroad was good to me. So, when I got this idea I was goin’ to buy us a cottage somewhere down the line, away from the city, the Hudson River Rail did me a favor. Or at least, I thought it was a favor.” Ford huffed out a long sigh. “I’d get paid a second full shift for runnin’ mailbags out to Albany. Just the engine, no cars. Easy money. I figured in two years I’d have enough to buy a place. Little cottage, y’ know? With a porch an’ all. “Some nights I was to pick up an Albany fellow runnin’ payroll back up to Manhattan. I tell ya, Jess, the longer I had that hired shotgun around, the more suspicious I got about what he was carryin’, and who he was carryin’ it for. “So one night I followed him. Turns out he made deliveries to a bunch of flophouses in the Gut. The last one was McGlory’s. I didn’t know it was the last until he didn’t come out for a while. I was just leaving when I heard the door opening, so I stopped and pretended I was fumblin’ for a smoke. “When I turned around, it wasn’t him at all. It was my brother-in-law. Jeremiah. Well, hell, I thought he was in

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the institution, so I took up followin’ him. “He was in a real bad way. Not really drunk, but staggerin’, like his head was gonna explode. He’d stop and cuss at a lamp post, and then go on up the street. And ’fore I knew it, he was across the street from our place, me and Julia’s. That’s when he got real weird. “I thought he was gonna kill himself, he banged his head so hard on the buildin’. He’d look up at our balcony and mutter or rant, then bang his head and walk in circles. “Well, I had no idea what to do. I thought I’d keep followin’ and find out where he was stayin’, then I’d get the doc out at the institution to come pick him up. “And then all hell broke loose. Jeremiah took off runnin’. Down alleys, across yards, over fences. I couldn’t hardly keep up. And when I did lose him, I just hunkered down on the sidewalk and tried to catch my breath. “I was forty years old, Jess. He was fifteen years younger ’n me. I didn’t have a chance of catchin’ him, so I was gonna head home. “And then I heard the screamin’.” Ford just sat and shook his head for a bit. He lifted his hand from Addie’s, as if what he was about to say was too raw, but she pulled his hand back into her own. “I ran toward the screamin’ and knocked him off her. I couldn’t believe how much...damage he’d done. So fast. I had to help her. I couldn’t chase after him, or she’d bleed to death. “As soon as I heard the police comin’ I took off. If I’d stayed, they might’ve asked me who did it, and I woulda told ’em. And I knew Julia would never forgive me that. “So I just left.”

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Ford fell quiet. “When the police showed up,” Jess ventured, “was it by any chance Deacon Trumbull?” Ford huffed. “Trumbull? Hell, no. It was his beat, too. He shoulda been there. So after a dozen times and I still hadn’t caught Jeremiah, I sent an anonymous note to the newspaper. They checked it out and published the fact that even though Trumbull was on duty each of those nights, he never showed up at a one of those attacks. The hullabaloo cost him a promotion, I heard.” “That hardly seems enough for him to come at you now with so much vengeance. Not that a skunk like that needed a reason.” “I know some skunks that’d take offense to bein’ compared to the likes o’ Deacon Trumbull, Jess, but you’re right. There was more. “I finally figured out that the attacks only happened on the nights Jeremiah went to McGlory’s. And those were always the same nights I brought my passenger up from Albany to make his deliveries. Whether he picked up something from Jeremiah or brought something to him, I never knew. I just kept comin’ closer to gettin’ Jeremiah. He’d get so far ahead sometimes I’d be two, three blocks away when I heard the screamin’. But finally, one night, I was just across the street a few yards back when he jumped the girl. I got there and got him off her, and she ran like a bat outta hell. I clobbered him so hard I figured he was either dead or next to it. “I got him out to Williamsbridge ’fore he knew what hit him. But...” Ford sighed heavily, “Julia had already left by then. The most I could do was look after them and keep

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sendin’ Trumbull anonymous letters ’til he finally closed down. By then I knew that Trumbull’s penny ante scam was arranging burglaries in houses he was supposed to be protecting, and that Jeremiah was one of his best boys at getting into tight places and coming away with the best booty. He was so good that he regularly got the ‘reward’ of going up to Heaven and relieving opium drunks of their valuables. Trumbull was madder than heck that I put his best catburglar back in the institution. “If you ask me, Doc, I’d say Trumbull didn’t send someone out here to kill Jeremiah. I think it was to spring him from this place and get him back on the prowl.” Doc nodded. “But by the time they found him here, Jeremiah had turned a corner. He didn’t want to live in that darkness any longer. And...” Doc gave a long sigh, “he saved my life.” Ford turned a sheepish grin on his daughter. “He was a sick man, darlin’, he...he hated your mother without reason. But she...” he shook his head, “...she never said an unkind word about her brother. All those years she thought he was dead, she put a bow on the Christmas tree every year, just for him.” Addie caught her breath at this last revelation, and dropped Jess’s hand to fall into her father’s huge embrace. Jess watched, a painful bevy of emotions twisting at his heart. How quickly she’d grown to love the man. And now Jess was just going to take her away from him again.

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Addie was on a euphoric high. Her eyes shone with it, her mouth curved up with delight in it, and the relief of it after so many days of worry had lightened her step. The bank had sent word that Miss Adelaide Magee was most welcome to resume her position as teller, an invitation which she had politely declined. Thanks to her new benefactors—her father, and a prestigious local Conservatory—she was free to immerse herself in her music. Ford was just helping her into the carriage when Jess trotted up Lizzie Chalmers’ lane on Dakota, the horse he’d been unable to resist when Uncle Hazard had offered it for sale at an insanely low price. “Jess! Oh, wonderful! I didn’t know you were coming today!” Addie waved and called from the carriage seat. Jess cantered the horse around the carriage and stopped alongside it. He tipped his hat to Ford and answered Addie’s glowing smile. “Going for a ride, you two?” “Going home!” Addie exclaimed. “At last!” Jess’s smile faltered. She looked so eager. She and

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Ford had stayed on for two days at Lizzie’s invitation, and basked in her good cooking, her fussing, and her personal style of restorative therapy. Feeling she could take on the world, the idea of going home had brought the color back to Addie’s cheeks. “I’ve been offered a studio at the Conservatory and I’ll be teaching a few hours each week. Cherise said the department head practically haunted the bakery until she finally agreed to get word to me of his offer.” She grinned and squared her shoulders. “You may now address me as Professor Magee.” She turned and beamed at her father who hadn’t been able to take his eyes off his exuberant daughter. Couldn’t he see it wasn’t safe for her to be traipsing around New York City? But they’d had that talk, and Ford had maintained that she’d be safe. Her name had been kept out of the publicized reports, and of the three men who’d endangered her, two were dead and one was permanently behind bars. “Well, then. Congratulations, Professor.” Jess winked and Addie sighed. Dakota shifted his weight and rocked Jess closer to the carriage. His hand rested on his knee, and Addie reached her hand up and laid her fingers softly on his. He took her hand and caressed it slowly with his thumb. “Will I see you tonight?” Her voice was quiet, her enthusiasm checked, a hopeful note unmistakable in her tone. Jess looked down at her hand and then back into her dark, waiting eyes. He kissed her fingers, then cleared his throat. “I’m staying here for a while.”

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Her eyes flew wide. “You’re what?” “I’ve rented a place just up the road. I can write the column from there. It’s a great base for me, and I can stable Dakota there. I want you to see it, Addie. I—” “But...Jess! I thought we...” “I’m not meant for the city, Addie. Nearly everything I need is right here. In Williamsbridge.” “Nearly everything?” A lump blocked his throat now, and he saw glistening pools begin to form in Addie’s eyes. She hadn’t expected this, and it suddenly felt cruel. But her father had asked him for time with his daughter, and Jess owed him that at the very least. His hand tightened on the rein and Dakota shied away from the carriage, pulling their hands apart. “You’re playing again Friday? At the hotel?” Addie nodded slowly, unable to answer. Neither of them had been ready to let go, but Dakota had taken care of that. “I’ll be there.” Jess tipped his hat to Ford. “Take care o’ her, y’ hear?” Ford nodded and Jess dug his spurs into the unsuspecting black, leaving behind a stunned and silent Addie as he and Dakota thundered down the lane and out of sight.

... Jess stared at the Blickensderfer as if he could will it to spill words onto the page. The blank sheet had been rolled into the platen for so long that it had wilted. Six hours, and it was still blank. Liar. Three days and six hours and it was still blank.

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He’d become intimately familiar with his new cottage in those three days, finding endless distractions to keep from writing. He’d fixed the shutters in the sunroom. He’d shaved a half inch off the table legs until the table was just the right height for typing. The Blick was still the Blick. He’d had his chair sent out from the Times. The old one. And then he’d had the great pleasure of moving his office furniture—the smooth mahogany and supple leather Deacon Trumbull had gifted him on the devil’s dime— into Gus’s corner office. It looked really fine there. And Gus hadn’t stopped smiling yet. Jess rubbed his thumbs across the worn arms of his ancient chair. He’d written his best work sitting right here in its hard, unforgiving embrace. But today the words wouldn’t come. Each time he stopped puttering and sat down and willed the words to flow, the same five letters blocked every coherent thought. A.D.D.I.E. It was impossible to drive the image of her dancing eyes from his mind. They’d sparkled with such anticipation, such eagerness to get to New York City and her new teaching post. Exactly the way he’d hoped her eyes would dance when she answered the question he’d been too much of a coward to ask. Jess pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, sending flashes of red exploding against his lids. But still her merry brown eyes taunted him. How much time would she need before he and his cottage could mean as much to her as she did to him? Three months? Six? A year?

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Jess fingered the small packet in his pocket, the velvet pouch holding Addie’s amethyst ring. They’d only just found it in Hamilton Jensen’s valise, and when his mother recovered from her grief enough to check on her jewels, she insisted that particular ring—although quite spectacular—was not hers. Fortunately she’d gone to Peckham rather than the police to search out its owner, or it might now be in the hands of yet another corrupt official. Jess knew he couldn’t delay returning it to Addie. And selfishly, he couldn’t wait to see the smile it would bring. Of course, he wouldn’t have to wait long. After all, it was Friday. He had a date with a fiddler tonight. She should be here, not gallivanting around New York City. And yet he knew that without her music she couldn’t possibly be his Addie. It was a maddening paradox. Still, she had to eat, and so did he. Jess spun his chair around, grabbed his Stetson from the hook as he got to his feet, charged out the door and stomped into the shed that served as a stable. The least she could do was have an early dinner with him. “Thinks she has everything she needs there in that mixed up city, does she? Hold still, Dakota.” He grabbed the saddle blanket and threw it over the bewildered horse. “Just wait’ll she tries to fiddle. She’ll find out what’s missing. Hold on, horse, whoa now.” He continued to rant as he threw the saddle on and tightened the girth. He had Dakota so riled up that the moment he planted a foot in the stirrup, the horse took off for the road. The two thundered to the corner and hardly slowed down as they both leaned into the turn.

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Dakota saw the sun glinting off metal before Jess did and he shied, then reared. In his distracted frame of mind, Jess was unprepared, lost his grip, and found himself seated rudely in the dirt, suffocating in the exhaust of a sputtering vehicle that lurched to a stop in the middle of the road. “Ow-ooof...” Dakota pranced into the ditch, his eyeballs looming white in the shade of the trees. “...bloody hell?” “...dammit-ouch...” “Oh, my lord!” Jess squinted into the sun and hauled himself up out of the dust. He slapped at his legs with his Stetson and rubbed his tender behind. “Aren’t you supposed to honk or something? Madcap drivers...” His creative string of expletives died away as he began to hobble to the side of the road. “And aren’t you supposed to watch where you’re going?” Jess froze. His back still to the car, he found his tongue and spoke to the ditch. “Addie?” “Jess.” From her tone, she had obviously found his abrupt departure from the saddle humorous. “You want to kill me, I can think of a lot easier ways.” He planted his Stetson on his head, gathered the reins and swung up onto Dakota. The saddle hit him square in the new bruise, but he’d be damned if he’d wince. The young horse sprang out of the ditch and pranced begrudgingly toward the brass and leather Packard. It was a sturdy-looking vehicle, practical, unlike Jensen’s flashy little Runabout. Addie stood behind the steering wheel, a

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wide-brimmed, veiled driving hat and duster covering her from head to toe. “Why would I want to kill you,” she said in a tone that banished all annoyance and replaced it with sheer lust, “when tormenting you is so much...fun?” Jess eased Dakota forward until he sat eye to eye with Addie. “Fun, you say.” “Oh, most definitely.” She slipped her hat off and tossed it into the back of the automobile. “Almost as fun as...driving.” Her fingers began at the top buttons near her throat and one by one she slowly unbuttoned her coat. “Driving...as in this contraption? Or driving...as in driving a man crazy?” Jess spoke slowly, the rhythm of his words matching the slow movement of her fingers from which he could not pull his eyes. “I suppose it depends upon the...situation.” She had worked her way halfway down the coat and shrugged it off her shoulders. The coat fell to the floor of the car as Jess brought his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. For once, Dakota seemed to understand his mission and stood perfectly still. Their lips brushed so slightly that it tantalized him in a way he’d not thought possible, and he lifted her onto his lap to deepen the kiss. Her arms came around his neck and her soft gloves sent maddening messages through his earlobes. With a small gasp, she pulled away from his demanding mouth. Her eyes danced, brown and brilliant, and penetrated his. She seemed to read with astounding accuracy the message his own eyes were screaming. Her answering smile nearly stopped his heart entirely.

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“What about my Packard?” She whispered it so quietly he didn’t register at first that she’d spoken. “Your Packard?” He nudged Dakota with his knees and let the reins dangle on the horse’s neck as the black’s sixth sense told him it was time to return to the stable. Jess stole another kiss before he asked, “That thing belongs to you?” “Mm-hmmm.” Her voice was dreamy now, her eyes dropping lazily to his mouth and up again. “Why...” he dipped for another kiss, “...do you need...” another kiss, “...a motor car?” Addie took a long, slow breath and expelled it on a sigh. Her fingers smoothed the hair at his temples as Dakota ambled up to the shed. “So I can drive...” she kissed his cheek, “...a man I know...” another kiss, “...crazy.” Then she kissed his chin. Her fingers opened the first button at his throat. “Or maybe,” she kissed each quivering tendon in his neck, “...to drive...” the cleft below his lip blazed hot and cold as her lips traveled higher, “...to a crazy man I...” she nipped his mouth, “...love.” Jess crushed her to him and swung his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. Somehow without removing his lips from hers, he managed to latch the shed gate before he carried Addie across the threshold of the cottage. Slowly he lowered her feet to the floor and stood cradling her face in both his hands. “Don’t you have to play tonight?” “Mm-hm,” she murmured, sliding a kiss along his jaw. “That’s why I got the motor car.” “So you could fiddle on Friday nights?” he asked, not

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caring that he made no sense. She reared back. “Oh, Mr. Pepper, there are many, many ways to fiddle on Friday night.” She twined her fingers into the curls at the back of his neck, and her face suddenly turned softly serious. Her eyes spoke even before she said a word. “I have to play, Jess, I need to play. It’s who I am. You know that, don’t you?” He nodded. “But...I...” He saw in her eyes what she wanted to say, and he could easily have spoken the words for her, but instead he waited. It seemed the most important thing in the world to hear her say it. “Addie. Darlin’.” He kissed her nose and willed her the courage to say what he needed to hear. “Oh, Jess, when you’re not with me I can’t even think about picking up my violin. I just want you...here...in my arms, and me in yours, because I...” she dropped her eyes, and when she raised them again he knew she finally understood what her heart had been trying so hard to tell her. “Oh, Jess, my fingers just refuse to remember a thing. It’s like I’m all thumbs. Everything I ever knew just flies out the window. And then I think how much I love you, and the music’s just suddenly...there. I love you, Jess. I—” Hearing the words seemed to solve the riddle of his earlier agitation. She loved him. And he loved her. He had given her the freedom to go where she needed and she had given him the Packard that would bring her home to him. “I love you, Addie darlin’,” he whispered, and her answering kiss nearly brought him to his knees. She’d solved the problem of how they would be together in this

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new world they were forging. It birthed a vision he hadn’t even allowed himself to contemplate, and his breathing found its rhythm with hers. They kissed and turned and traversed the space of the small living room in a way that only lovers can, and fell into the large overstuffed chair Jess had bought knowing it would fit them both perfectly. And it did. “You’re ruinin’ me, darlin’,” he breathed. “I’m what!” “You’re ruinin’ me. For furniture.” She grinned and gently clapped both hands to his cheeks. There was a motor car sitting out there in the middle of the road and a horse expecting his supper, and a column to be written and it would all just kindly wait. He would sit here forever with his face between her fingers and his heart in her hands. Here. With her eyes inches from his telling him he was finally home. “Yup. Ruinin’ me.” “Oh, Jess,” she sighed and brought her lips like fluttering wings to brush his cheek with her lingering words. She nipped his earlobe, then paused, delighted at his sudden intake of breath. She ran her tongue lightly around the ruddy rim of his ear, and relished his chuckling gasp. And then with devilish delight, she blew a long, gentle breath into his ear. He shuddered, and her fingers darted upward to cradle his cheek as he welcomed her home. “Ohhhh, Jess. Fiddle-dee-dee.”

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Jess let go of Addie’s hand. “No! Aren’t you coming with me?” Her startled eyes grew wider as he shook his head. He handed her the violin he’d already stowed backstage. Her fingers trembled, the amethyst ring shimmering in the worklights. She’d had no time to contemplate how to handle this moment, because this had been his surprise. It hadn’t been easy, either. They didn’t let just anybody walk out on the stage at Carnegie Hall. But when he’d finally worked his way high enough up the ranks, he’d come across the man whose dear friend had not been able to stop raving about the new young violin professor he’d just hired. And that’s all it had taken. Earlier tonight she had laid the world at his feet by answering yes to the question he’d finally found the courage to ask. He thought he knew every light that danced in her eyes, but when she answered him, a whole new kind of luminescence radiated from them.

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Addie walked a few hesitant steps, and stopped, turning to search the nearest seats of the lowest balcony that swept almost to the stage’s proscenium, just as Jess stepped in to take his seat there. He smiled. Nodded. She brought the fingers of her right hand to her lips, her eyebrows crinkling upward on the crest of a sob. Jess brought his hands together, the clap echoing musically across the four tiers of balcony and lush, red main floor. He clapped again, and she moved the tiniest bit. He kept up his slow, steady applause until Addie reached the place that she innately sensed was centerstage. The silence stretched as she lowered her head. His heart thundered, waiting for the music, waiting for the notes she would weave that would usher in their new life. He knew it would be the music of the gods, and still he was unprepared. She stood there. Breathing. Then, head still bowed, she raised her violin to its home beneath her chin. And with every vibrant note she’d ever explored, with all the sweet strength she’d ever conjured, and with every strain of loving Jess had planted within her, Addie played.

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Bailey Bristol is an author of both historical and contemporary suspense. Family bonds, enduring love, menacing villains and unforgettable characters are prominent in her stories set in unlikely places. The Samaritan Files Trilogy follows her debut novel, LOVE WILL FOLLOW, published in February 2011. Bailey Bristol is the pen name of Mary Potter Schwaner, an accomplished coloratura soprano, graphic artist, and IT geek.

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Book One THE DEVIL S DIME Corruption and greed set the scene for this vividly drawn tale of danger, heartbreak, unexpected love and family found. Investigative reporter Jess Pepper discovers he is falling in love with violinist Addie Magee just as his newspaper column places her father in mortal danger. Set in 1890 s New York City. Book Two THE GILDED CAGE A tattered le reveals a clue Jess is unwilling to accept one that shatters everything he ever knew about the mother who abandoned him. When he refuses to pursue the lead, Addie takes it upon herself to reunite mother and son and nearly pays for it with her life. Set in 1890 s New York City. Due out May 2012. Book Three STEAL ME, SWEET THIEF Addie s dream of playing at Carnegie Hall is interrupted when she is the prime suspect in a backstage murder. As Jess races to save her from the clutches of a madman, their wedding date comes...and goes. Set in 1890 s New York City. Due out October 2012.

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The Pennyfarthing Ranelagh Model Early 3-wheeler

For my Grandmother Genevieve, a violinist of great renown in the 1920’s. Your courage in stepping alone into your future has inspired me my entire life. I feel your wings!

Also by Bailey Bristol LOVE WILL FOLLOW

With immense gratitude to Bryn Baxter, Linda Hoegemeyer Clarice Carlson Orr and Vicki Woodburn

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circa 1896 Duryea Runabout

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circa 1896 Packard

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

THE DEVIL’S DIME Book One: The SAMARITAN FILES Trilogy Copyright © 2011 by Bailey Bristol First print edition ISBN 978-1-937216-16-0 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used in the context of another work of fiction without written permission of the author or Prairie Muse Publishing. Contact [email protected] Cover art by Prairie Muse utilizing art by © Konradbak | © Herzlinde Vancura | www.dreamstime.com www.prairiemuse.com