Murder in Little Italy

“Good morning, Mrs. Brandt,” she said cheerfully. “Going to catch up with the news?”

“I want to see what they have to say about a . . . a friend of mine. Maeve, will you take Aggie upstairs for a little while?”

“Mrs. Ellsworth was going to show me how to make a pudding,” Maeve said, not wanting to hurt the older woman’s feelings. She probably also wanted to eat the pudding.

“There’s plenty of time for that,” Mrs. Ellsworth said cheerfully. “Give me and Mrs. Brandt a few minutes to talk, and I’ll call you down when we’re finished so we can start the pudding.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said obediently, taking Aggie by the hand.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Mrs. Ellsworth’s polite smile faded. “What’s wrong?”

“One of my patients was murdered night before last,”

Sarah said, laying the papers on the kitchen table to sort through them.

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, taking a seat at the table. “I was afraid something like that would happen. I saw a crow on your back fence on Monday morning. It’s an omen of death. I didn’t say anything, because I know how you feel about my superstitions. I was just hoping you wouldn’t have a delivery that day.” She shrugged apologetically. “How did it happen?”

Sarah didn’t comment on her feelings about Mrs.

Ellsworth’s superstitions, but she briefly told her what had happened to Nainsi. “Last night when I was coming home, the newsboys were shouting about how she’d been kidnapped by the Ruoccos and had her throat cut because they wanted her baby.”

Mrs. Ellsworth made a rude noise. She’d had personal experience with the way the newspapers distorted the facts to make a story more sensational. “Let’s see what new lies they’re telling today. Hand me one of those papers.”

The two women spent the next few minutes scanning the stories.

“Says here Roosevelt himself had a press conference about it,” Mrs. Ellsworth reported.

“This paper says that, too,” Sarah noted. “I can’t understand why he’d take such a personal interest in the death of one poor Irish girl.”

“Maybe you should ask him,” Mrs. Ellsworth suggested with a sly grin. The Roosevelts had been friends with Sarah’s family for generations.

“Maybe I will.” They both read on for a minute or two.

“Oh, my, does yours talk about the riot down at Mrs.

Ruocco’s restaurant?”

“Yes. Says they arrested more than twenty men, too. Must have been a real . . . what is it the Irish call a big fight?”

“Donnybrook,” Sarah supplied. “The Irish and the Italians hate each other under the best of circumstances. They hardly need an excuse to start fighting.”

“Looks like they found one, though. I wonder if Mr. Malloy was down there making the arrests.” Mrs. Ellsworth was especially fond of Frank Malloy.

“I don’t think he does that kind of thing,” Sarah said, wondering what Malloy had thought when he heard about the riot. They’d both been so sure no one would care about Nainsi’s death. Then she noticed something particularly disturbing at the end of the news story. “Theodore promises that the killer will be caught,” she said in amazement.

“A good thing, too,” Mrs. Ellsworth said.

“More like a miracle, and even less likely to happen.

They’re Ugo Ruocco’s family.”

“Who’s Ugo Ruocco?”

“He’s the leader of the Black Hand.”

“Heavens! You mean those horrible people who blow things up?”

“They’re more likely to beat people up,” Sarah said. “They only use bombs if they can’t persuade you some other way.”

“Persuade you to do what?”

“To pay them money to protect your place of business.

The irony is that you’re paying them to protect your business from them. If you pay, you’re safe. If you don’t pay, they destroy you.”

“How awful!” Mrs. Ellsworth exclaimed in outrage. “Why don’t the police do something about it?”

Sarah gave her a sad smile and a moment to figure it out for herself.

“Oh,” the older woman said. “I suppose the Black Hand pays for protection from the police.”

“Or else the police are afraid of them, too.” Sarah sighed.

There was so much evil in the world.

Before she could sink into complete despair, she heard small feet running through the house.

“I think Aggie got tired of waiting for her cooking lesson,” Sarah said, turning to catch the child in a hug. Maeve was close behind her. The four of them spent the next hour preparing the pudding and putting it on the stove to steam.

Sarah was trying to clean Aggie’s hands when they heard the doorbell ring.

As usual, Aggie pouted, and Sarah went resignedly to answer it. She recognized the silhouette through the frosted glass, and she was smiling when she opened the door.

“Malloy,” she said.

He didn’t smile back, which told her he wasn’t happy to be here. Which meant he was here on business.

Aggie came running and flung herself at him before he could even remove his hat. Maeve and Mrs. Ellsworth followed at a more dignified pace, but they greeted him just as happily.

“Something smells good,” he observed when he’d set Aggie back on her feet.

“Mrs. Ellsworth showed us how to make a pudding,”

Maeve reported.

“We’d invite you to stay and try some, but it won’t be done for another three hours,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “I don’t suppose you planned to stay that long.”

“I’m afraid not. I’m working on a case. I just need to ask Mrs. Brandt a few questions, and then I have to go.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, nodding wisely. “The Ruocco case, I suppose. We were reading about it in the newspapers this morning.”

“Did Roosevelt put you in charge of it?” Sarah asked.

“Yes,” was all he said, but his look told her that he held her personally responsible for getting him into this mess.

She tried to look apologetic, but he seemed unmoved.

“I’ll take the girls upstairs while you two talk,” Mrs.

Ellsworth said generously. Sarah knew she’d cut off her arm to be allowed to sit in on the conversation, but she’d have to be content to hear about it second hand. “So nice to see you, Mr. Malloy. Maybe you’ll bring Brian back this evening for some pudding,” she added, referring to his son.

“We’ll see,” he said politely.

Sarah and Malloy waited until the three of them had disappeared up the stairs.

“Would you like some coffee?” Sarah asked as Malloy removed his coat and hat and hung them up in the hallway.

“I could use some,” he said, and followed her into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, Malloy,” Sarah said as she took cups down from the cabinet. “I never imagined anything like this would happen.”

He took a seat at the table. “Did you hear about the riot?”

he asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

“It was in the papers this morning. Was anyone seriously hurt?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen again. I imagine Ugo Ruocco’s got some of his thugs posted down there now, and they’ll do some real damage if anybody starts another fight.”

Sarah filled the cups and set them on the table. “At least Theodore managed to get the real story into the news today.”

“Yeah, but the penny press is still talking about kidnapping and stolen babies,” he said. “They don’t care about the truth. They just want to sell newspapers.”

“And now Theodore has promised everyone you’ll solve the case,” she said sympathetically, taking a seat opposite him at the table. “What can I do to help?”

“You can’t do anything, so don’t even think about getting involved in this investigation,” he warned.

“Of course not,” she said innocently. “Why would I?”

She didn’t fool him. “I mean it, Sarah. Ugo Ruocco would kill his own mother if she got in his way, and he sure wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

“I’m not in his way,” she pointed out. “And I’m not likely to be. Now tell me why you’re here. You said you had some questions for me.”

He sighed with resignation. “I want you to tell me everything that happened from the time you got to the Ruocco house until you left the night Nainsi was killed.”

She’d already told him everything yesterday, but that had been under far different circumstances. She went through the entire sequence of events again, trying to remember every detail.

“You’re sure Antonio wasn’t the baby’s father?” he asked.

“It doesn’t seem possible. He didn’t even know Nainsi when the baby would have been conceived.”

“Wasn’t she scared of what they’d do to her when they found out?”

“That was so odd. I thought she would be. I was afraid for her, especially when her mother said she couldn’t take her and the baby in if the Ruoccos threw her out, but Nainsi wasn’t even worried. She told her mother they’d let her stay.

She seemed almost . . .” She searched for the right word.

“Smug. That’s it. She was very confident that Mrs. Ruocco wouldn’t throw her out.”

“She was stupid then,” Malloy observed.

Sarah had to agree. “Someone in the family must have killed her,” she pointed out. “But I just can’t see why any of them would.”

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely curious. She felt a small sense of pride that he valued her opinion.

“Well, because killing someone is so dangerous. What if you get caught? And they didn’t need to kill Nainsi to get rid of her. Mrs. Ruocco had already said she’d throw her out as soon as I said it was safe for her to leave.”

“But she was married to Antonio in the church,” Malloy argued. “He’d never be able to divorce her.”

“Antonio is a big baby. I can’t imagine he was that interested in getting married in the first place. He might even be glad for an excuse to avoid that responsibility for the rest of his life.”

“So you don’t think he was outraged enough to have killed her for tricking him?” Malloy asked.

“He wasn’t even very angry. He just seemed embarrassed.

Besides, he and Joe went out and got drunk that night. They weren’t even in the house when she was killed.”

“We don’t know that for sure yet. We don’t really know when they got home or exactly when she died. What about the rest of the family?”

Sarah pictured them in her mind. “Let’s see, Mrs. Ruocco had already decided what she was going to do. Why would she change her mind and murder the girl instead?”

“You’re right. It doesn’t seem likely. What about the others?”

“Joe, Lorenzo, Maria, and Valentina. Why would Joe or Lorenzo or Valentina care that much? And Maria was the only one in the house who was kind to Nainsi. They might have been angry at what Nainsi had done, but why take the chance of killing her? I can’t imagine any of them being outraged enough on Antonio’s behalf to hold a pillow over Nainsi’s face while she fought them with all her strength for however long it took her to die.”

“I can’t picture it either,” he admitted.

“But it had to be someone in the family, didn’t it?”

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean? It was the middle of the night.

Who else could’ve been in the house?”

“Anybody. There’s a back staircase that goes right up to the floor where she was killed. That’s how they took her body out yesterday.”

“Wasn’t the door locked?” Sarah asked.

“Wouldn’t matter if it was. Even Aggie could’ve jimmied it.”

“But why would someone outside the family want to kill her? Surely, her death had something to do with the baby and the fact that it wasn’t Antonio’s. Who else would care anything about her?”

“Ugo Ruocco might care.”

“Did he even know?” Sarah asked in surprise.

“From what he said yesterday, Joe and Antonio must’ve gone straight to him that night. He knew the baby wasn’t Antonio’s, and he didn’t seem too upset that the girl was dead, did he?”

“He wouldn’t have killed her himself, would he?”

“Not a chance, but he has plenty of men who’d do it for him.”

“That would be more understandable if it was someone outside the family,” Sarah said.

“But even harder to prove. Nobody in Ruocco’s crew is going to say a word, and the family wouldn’t tell, even if they knew about it, which they probably didn’t. Ruocco wouldn’t trust them with a secret like that.”

They sipped their coffee in silence for a few moments, each considering various possibilities.

“If one of Ruocco’s men could have gone up those stairs, anyone could have,” Sarah mused.

“Yeah, but who else even knew she’d had the baby, much less that they’d figured out Antonio wasn’t the father?”

“Nainsi’s mother, but she wouldn’t have killed her.” A memory stirred. “Wait a minute, one of Nainsi’s friends knew, too,” Sarah recalled. “Or at least she told her mother to deliver a message to her. What was her name? Brigit, I think.”

“Brigit who?”

“She didn’t say, but Mrs. O’Hara would know. Nainsi wanted all of her friends to hear the news, too, and I guess this Brigit would tell them.”

Malloy considered. “I wonder if one of her ‘friends’ was the baby’s father.”

“Do you really think . . . ?”

“Right now, I only hope,” Malloy admitted. “Maybe the father is married. Maybe Mrs. O’Hara told this Brigit what the Ruoccos suspected. Maybe he didn’t want Nainsi to tell anybody who he was.”

“That’s a good story, but do you think it’s likely?”

“No,” Malloy admitted, “but it would be a lot more convenient if the killer isn’t related to Ugo Ruocco.”

When Malloy left, Sarah joined Mrs. Ellsworth and the girls upstairs while they waited for the pudding to steam. They were starting to think about lunch when the doorbell rang again. This time she found Lorenzo Ruocco on her doorstep.

He looked as if he’d rather be standing in front of a speeding train, but he whipped off his cap politely. “Mrs.

Brandt, I’m sorry to bother, but Maria, she asks that you come.”

Although Sarah was surprised, she couldn’t help feeling a little stir of excitement at the prospect of going back to the Ruoccos’ house. “What’s wrong?”

“The baby, he cried all night. Mama says she will give him to that Irish woman if he doesn’t stop, and Maria . . .

Mrs. Brandt, you must come. Maria will go crazy if she loses the baby!” He looked positively desperate.

“Of course I’ll come,” Sarah said. Malloy had warned her about getting involved with the case, but she wouldn’t really be investigating. They wanted her there in her profes-sional capacity. If she happened to find out something useful that led to Nainsi’s killer, even Malloy couldn’t complain.

As quickly as she could, she gathered her things and bid the girls good-bye. When she came back into the front room, she found Mrs. Ellsworth comforting Lorenzo.

“They say that a baby who cries long will live long,” she was saying. He nodded politely and solemnly, although he didn’t look comforted.

“Aggie, you be good for Maeve and Mrs. Ellsworth,”

Sarah told the child. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Aggie pretended to pout again, but Sarah tickled her and made her smile and gave her a parting kiss.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “We’ll even save you some of the pudding.”

Still, Sarah felt the same regret she always felt over leaving Aggie.

Lorenzo was more considerate than his brother had been and slowed his pace to match hers. Sarah had no trouble keeping up with him, even though he was just as anxious to get back as Joe had been to get her there the other day to deliver Nainsi’s baby.

“I can understand why your mother would be so upset. A baby’s cry is the most disturbing sound in the world,” Sarah said conversationally. She wasn’t sure what she could find out from Lorenzo, but she’d try to get him talking anyway.

“That’s so people won’t be able to ignore it and will do whatever they can to make the baby stop.”

Lorenzo almost smiled. “We couldn’t ignore him last night.”

“I’m sure he kept everyone awake.”

“Maria took him downstairs so they could sleep,” he said.

“But you didn’t sleep,” she guessed. The shadows under his eyes betrayed him.

He shrugged, embarrassed. “She . . . she needed help.”

“Not many men would sit up with a screaming baby,”

Sarah observed, meaning it as a compliment.

He did smile this time, sheepishly, and made a small, helpless gesture.

Sarah smiled back. Lorenzo wasn’t the first grown man to be captivated by an infant. He hardly seemed the type, but as Malloy had said, Italians were very fond of children.

“Could he be sick? The baby, I mean,” he asked, growing solemn again.

“Maybe it’s the milk. I warned Maria that some babies don’t do well when they’re fed from a bottle.”

“He cannot die,” Lorenzo said gravely. “Maria would. . . .

Just tell me what you need, and I will do it, but he cannot die.”

Sarah had no answer for that. She could make no promises, and she didn’t think Lorenzo’s efforts would make much difference. A wet nurse would be the best solution, of course, but even if they could find one and could afford her services, would Mrs. Ruocco allow it? Surely not for a baby she despised.

When they reached the restaurant, they found it doing bustling business with people coming in for their noon meals.

Lorenzo took her around to the alley and up the rear staircase to avoid the crowd. This was the staircase Malloy had told her about, the one they had used to carry Nainsi’s body out. The wooden steps had been enclosed so they were protected from the weather. An intruder could have climbed them without worrying about being seen, either going or coming. Malloy was right, anyone could have gotten into the house.

Halfway up the stairs, she could hear the baby crying.

Poor little thing.

Maria must have heard them coming. She was waiting for them in the hallway when Lorenzo opened the door.

“Mrs. Brandt, you must help,” she cried over the baby’s screams. She held him in both arms and was swinging him back and forth in a futile attempt to calm him.

Sarah could see Maria was on the verge of hysteria. Her eyes were bloodshot and so shadowed they looked bruised.

Sarah started crooning meaningless phrases of reassurance to her while she quickly set down her medical bag, shed her cape and thrust it at Lorenzo. Then she took the baby from Maria’s arms.

The sudden shift startled him into silence for a moment, and he looked up at her in surprise. “There, now,” she said softly. “You must be tired of crying.”

He whimpered but didn’t start screaming again. Sarah knew that sometimes just being held by someone calm could quiet a hysterical infant.

“Have you tried feeding him?” Sarah asked.

“He ate no more than an hour ago. Then he started screaming. I tried offering him more, but he wouldn’t take it.”

She’d been right, it was probably the milk. “Lorenzo, would you go out and try to find some goat’s milk?”

“Goat’s milk?” he echoed stupidly.

“Yes, some babies don’t do well on cow’s milk, and goat’s milk seems to be easier on their stomachs. You said you’d do anything to help,” she reminded him gently.

“Oh, yes, of course. I will. I will get it,” he said, handing Sarah’s cloak to Maria and heading back down the stairs.

Maria pushed the door shut behind him. Sarah noticed she didn’t lock it.

“Will that help?” Maria asked, her voice taut with exhaustion and fear.

“It might,” was all Sarah could promise. “And if it doesn’t, we’ll try something else.” The baby was starting to fuss again, screwing up his face for a full-fledged scream. “In the meantime, could you fix a hot water bottle? A small one to hold on his tummy?”

While Sarah walked the baby and let him suck on her finger, Maria went and found a small glass bottle, filled it with warm water, and wrapped it in a diaper.

The hot water bottle seemed to relieve some of the baby’s discomfort, and Sarah continued to walk with him. She made Maria sit down, but the poor woman couldn’t relax. She perched on the edge of the chair, ready to jump up the instant the baby might need something. After a while, the child finally fell into a fitful sleep, and Sarah laid him in his cradle, which Maria had put in the bedroom across from the room where Nainsi had died.

Maria gave a shuddering sigh and fought back tears. “He must stop crying. Mama doesn’t want him here, and if he cries all the time . . .” She bit back a sob.

“Don’t worry,” Sarah said, patting her shoulder. “And I want you to get some rest, too. Lorenzo said you were awake all night, and you look it.”

Maria automatically touched a hand to her hair as if to check the validity of Sarah’s assessment. “Lorenzo was with me,” she said, as if that had somehow made a sleepless night less of a sacrifice.

“He’s a good man,” Sarah said. “Not many men would tolerate a screaming infant all night.”

“No,” she agreed, a far away look in her eye. Fatigue was claiming her. “Not many would.”

“You need to take a nap now, while he’s sleeping,” Sarah said.

“I could not,” Maria protested. “Sleeping in the daytime?

Mama would never allow it.”

“She doesn’t have to know. Besides, the baby could be up all night again, and how will you stay awake if you don’t get any sleep at all?”

“What if he wakes up while I’m sleeping?” Maria asked, the edge of desperation back in her voice.

“I’ll sit with him and wait for Lorenzo to get back. Is there another room where you can lie down?”

She frowned, not wanting to cooperate. “Valentina’s room, I suppose,” she said reluctantly.

“Good, then go there. I’ll call you when he wakes up,”

she lied. He might wake up in just a few minutes, but she’d let Maria sleep as long as possible.

After a bit more coaxing, Maria finally went down the hall and retreated into one of the other rooms, closing the door behind her. Sarah checked on the baby and found him sleeping, although he didn’t look content. If his stomach was bothering him as much as she guessed, he’d have suc-cumbed to sheer exhaustion for the moment, but it wouldn’t last long. His little body jerked, as if he’d dreamed he was falling, but the movement set the cradle rocking lazily, and the motion soothed him again. A wonderful invention, cradles, Sarah mused.

Satisfied she could do nothing more for the baby, she took the opportunity to look around the room. The double bed and large dresser were fairly new and of good quality.

The shaving stand gave silent proof that one of the room’s usual occupants was a man, while the brushes and hairpins on the dresser belonged to a woman. This must be the room where Maria and Joe slept. Maria had naturally put the cradle in here.

The door to Nainsi’s room was closed, and Sarah had no desire to open it. The girl would have shared that room with Antonio for the few months they were married. What would that marriage have been like? Had Nainsi really thought no one would discover her secret, and that she could pass off her baby as Antonio’s? Sarah remembered how confident the girl had been the afternoon before she died. Why had she been so sure Mrs. Ruocco would let her and her baby stay here? Could she really have been that naïve?

Sarah glanced down the hall. Four doors opened onto it.

She knew one was Valentina’s bedroom, where Maria had gone. The fourth door stood open. If Malloy were here, he’d investigate to see who else slept on the same floor where Nainsi had died, so Sarah walked down to take a look. This room was furnished as a parlor. The furniture here was older and looked comfortable and well used. A pile of mending lay in a basket near one of the overstuffed chairs and a stack of ladies’ magazines sat on a table. Over the fireplace hung a picture of a beautiful sunlit landscape. Sarah imagined it was a picture of Italy. If so, she could understand why the Italians spoke so lovingly of their homeland. On the opposite wall, where the sunlight wouldn’t hit it directly, hung an elaborately framed photograph of a man. His unsmiling face looked familiar, and when Sarah looked more closely, she realized he bore a family resemblance to Ugo Ruocco.

He was much younger, of course, but the photograph was obviously old. This must be Patrizia’s husband, Ugo’s brother.

Everyone knew the story of how Patrizia and her children had come to America and she had started the restaurant.

What had become of her husband? Had he died in Italy and Ugo brought the family over here to take care of them? Or had he died during the crossing? Many immigrants did, she knew.

Sarah picked up one of the magazines and sat down in the chair closest to the window to wait for the baby to wake up. She’d read most of a second magazine when she heard someone coming up the inside stairs. Thinking it might be Lorenzo, she went out to meet him so he wouldn’t accidentally wake Maria or the baby. Instead she encountered Patrizia Ruocco. She looked almost as weary as Maria had.

The older woman started in surprise. “Mrs. Brandt,” she said, not pleased to see her. “Why are you here?”

“Lorenzo came for me. Maria thought the baby was sick.”

Patrizia’s expression hardened, and she glanced around.

“Where are they?”

“I sent Lorenzo for some goat’s milk. I think it might agree with the baby more than cow’s milk.”

Her lips flattened into a thin line. “Maria?”

“I . . . I made her lie down for a while. She was exhausted,” Sarah added quickly, remembering Maria’s fear that Mrs. Ruocco wouldn’t approve.

“She want to be a mother. This is what happen,” she said sourly. “The baby?”

“He’s asleep.”

The woman reached up and rubbed her forehead as if it ached.

“You should probably get some rest, too, Mrs. Ruocco,”

Sarah ventured. “I know what happened here last night, the Irish boys and the fighting in the street. You’ve been having a difficult time.”

“Rest will not help,” she said bitterly. “That girl, I know she is trouble. I tell Antonio he is fool, but he is married already. What can I do?”

Sarah wasn’t sure how welcome her sympathy would be, but good manners demanded she respond. “You did the right thing, Mrs. Ruocco.”

“The right thing,” she scoffed, but her venom was gone.

She rubbed her forehead again and this time she swayed slightly.

Sarah instinctively caught her. “Come in here and sit down,” she commanded, taking the older woman firmly by the arm and leading her into the parlor.

“I cannot leave boys alone in kitchen. I only come up for a minute,” she protested, but she didn’t resist when Sarah put her in a chair and brought a footstool for her feet.

“I’m sure the boys will be fine, and you won’t be any help at all if you faint and fall down the stairs.”

“I not faint,” she insisted, but without much spirit.

“When did you eat last?” Sarah asked, checking her for fever.

She waved the question away as if it were a pesky fly.

“I guess that means you don’t remember,” Sarah said.

She took her pulse. No fever and her pulse was only a little fast.

“My stomach . . . I am not hungry,” she said dismissively.

“Your stomach may not be hungry, but the rest of you needs some food. Stay here, and I’ll get you something from the kitchen.”

“I go myself,” she tried, starting to get up, but Sarah shook her head.

“You almost fainted just now. I’m not going to let you back down there until you’ve eaten something.”

With that she left, hoping Mrs. Ruocco would have the sense to stay put and rest, at least for a few minutes.

The crowd in the dining room had thinned, and almost everyone seemed to have been served, which was probably why Mrs. Ruocco had felt she could safely come upstairs to check on Maria. The scene in the kitchen was still chaotic, but everyone seemed to know just what they were doing.

Valentina was dishing up food, and Antonio and Joe were serving. All three of them looked up in surprise when Sarah came in.

“Where’s Mama?” Joe asked.

“She’s resting. I came to get her something to eat.”

They stared at her as if she were insane.

“It’s lunchtime,” Valentina said, gesturing toward the busy dining room. “We need her help!”

“Mama never rests,” Antonio added.

“She’s been under a lot of strain,” Sarah reminded them.

“Could you give me some soup and maybe some tea or coffee to take up for her?”

Everything else stopped while the three of them began to argue over what Mama might like. After a minute or two of this, Sarah started lifting pot lids herself, and that spurred them to action. Almost instantly, they arranged a tray of food for their mother, including bread and soup and a plate of spaghetti and a pot of brewing tea. As Sarah hoisted the tray, Joe poured a glass of wine and added it to the tray.

“For her blood,” he said. Then he held the doors for her and waited until she’d disappeared beyond the first turn in the staircase.

Sarah moved slowly and carefully so she wouldn’t spill anything. Relieved that she arrived at the third floor with most of her load intact, she made her way quietly down the hall to the parlor. When she stepped into the room and looked around, she almost dropped the tray.

Mrs. Ruocco had moved. She now sat in a rocking chair on the far side of the room, and in her arms she held the baby.

6

When Frank Malloy left Sarah’s, he went to see Nainsi Ruocco’s grieving mother. He would put off visiting the Ruoccos as long as he could.

He was furious at Mrs. O’Hara for going to the newspapers with her story, but he had to admit, from her point of view, it was a wise move. As he’d told Sarah yesterday, no one would be interested in finding out who’d killed Nainsi if Mrs. O’Hara hadn’t made the girl’s death a public scandal.

Seeing her side of it didn’t help Frank’s temper, though. He was still stuck with the thankless and probably impossible task of finding Nainsi’s killer.

Mrs. O’Hara lived in a rear tenement a few blocks from Mama’s Restaurant. The rear tenements got little sunlight and less air, so they were cheap. Those few blocks were also a world away. The Irish and the Italians didn’t mix much.

Frank found Mrs. O’Hara in her fourth-floor flat.

“I suppose you’re here to tell me you ain’t found out who killed my Nainsi,” she grumbled when she opened the door, and she immediately went back inside, letting Frank find his own way in. She’d been sewing men’s ties by the feeble light from a window that faced a narrow alley. A bundle of fabric lay at one end of her kitchen table and a pile of finished ties lay at the other. He closed the door behind him.

She picked up her needle and began to sew again, letting him know she wasn’t happy to be interrupted. He knew she’d earn only about fifty-cents a dozen for sewing the ties, and a dozen was a good day’s work. She wouldn’t want to waste any time in social pleasantries with him.

“I’m working on figuring out who killed your daughter, Mrs. O’Hara, but I need to know more about her first.” He pulled up the only other chair and sat down across the table from her. She spared him a skeptical glance.

“All you need to figure out is which of them dagos killed her,” she said, stitching the fabric with practiced ease. “It had to be one of them.”

He glanced around the flat. Through the doorway he could see a large stack of bedding in the other room. “You have lodgers, Mrs. O’Hara?”

“Of course I got lodgers,” she said. “You think I can keep myself by making ties?”

Many people in the tenements rented floor space for a few cents a night to those even less fortunate than themselves.

Frank pictured the flat as it would be when they were here, the floor filled with men and Nainsi sleeping only a short distance away. “Must’ve been hard, keeping the lodgers away from your daughter,” he remarked, remembering they hadn’t yet solved the mystery of who had fathered her baby.

He still entertained a small hope that the father might be involved in her death.

“Wasn’t hard at all,” Mrs. O’Hara snapped. “My Nainsi, she didn’t want nothing to do with them bums. She was smart, that one. Knew better than to waste herself on a man couldn’t give her nothing. Wanted to better herself, she did.”

“How did she plan to do that?” Frank asked mildly.

Mrs. O’Hara glared at him, her faded eyes narrow with hatred. “Not what you’re thinking!”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Frank insisted. “I’m trying to figure out how she ended up in Little Italy with Antonio Ruocco.”

“I don’t know. To this day, I don’t know. It started when she got herself a job at a sweatshop, sewing men’s shirts.

They didn’t pay her hardly anything, but it was more than she ever made helping me do this.” She gestured at the stack of ties.

Frank knew what happened when a girl like Nainsi suddenly got a taste of freedom and a little money in her pocket. “She made new friends at the shop, I guess.”

Mrs. O’Hara snorted. “Silly little biddies, every one of them.”

“Did she have a special friend? Somebody she’d want to know about the baby?” Frank asked. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to see what Mrs. O’Hara would say.

“Funny you should ask,” Mrs. O’Hara said in surprise.

“She did want me to tell Brigit Murphy right away.”

“This Brigit is somebody she worked with?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you tell her about the baby, like Nainsi wanted?”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna go out of my way, but I saw her right when I was coming home—she lives downstairs—so I did. She was coming home from work, and I told her.”

Frank wanted to know more about Brigit, but he’d get that information from the girl herself. “I guess Brigit and Nainsi went out in the evenings.”

“Nainsi was a good girl,” Mrs. O’Hara insisted angrily.

“She never walked the streets or anything like that!”

“I didn’t think she did. I’ll bet she liked to go out and have a good time, though. Maybe she went to dance houses with her friends.”

She sewed a few stitches, paying more attention than necessary to the tie she was working on.

“Lots of girls do that, Mrs. O’Hara. You can’t blame them for wanting to have fun. Maybe that’s where she met Antonio.”

She shrugged one shoulder, still not looking up. “Maybe.

Like I said, she didn’t tell me. All I know, she comes home one day to get her stuff and tells me she’s married. Says she’ll never be poor again. This boy’s family, they got a business, she says. A restaurant. At least I know she’ll eat regular. But then I see Antonio, and I know them dagos don’t take to outsiders. I know she’s in for misery.”

She reached up quickly to dash a tear from her eye, but she never missed a stitch.

“Antonio wasn’t the only man she knew,” Frank reminded her. “He wasn’t the father of her baby.”

“That’s what them dagos say, but my Nainsi was a good girl,” she repeated.

Frank didn’t bother to point out that good girls didn’t get pregnant before they got married. “Did she ever mention any other man to you? Someone she liked before she met Antonio?”

“She never said nothing to me. Why’re you wasting your time here? I didn’t kill Nainsi, and I don’t know who did.

You should be talking to them Ruoccos.”

“All right, which one of them do you think did it?” he asked.

“How should I know? I wasn’t there.”

“How did she get along with them? Was there one she fought with a lot?”

“The girl, Valentina. She and Nainsi fought like cats and dogs. The girl was jealous of everything Nainsi got. I guess she’s spoiled, being the youngest and the only girl, but she’s just plain mean. No call to be like that.”

“What about the others?”

“She didn’t like any of them, you ask me. Never had a kind word to say about them anyhow. Maria, she was nice enough, I guess. Always acted polite when I was there, and she treated Nainsi all right. But the mother . . . she’s a bitch, that one.”

“How did Nainsi get along with Antonio? Did he ever hit her?”

Now he had her full attention. “You think he did it?

Makes sense, don’t it? He thought she lied to him, and a man don’t like to be tricked that way.”

“Did he ever hit her?” he asked again.

She considered the question. “I don’t think so. She never said if he did, and I guess she would’ve. She complained about everything else he did and didn’t do. She didn’t have much patience with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean them Italian boys, they’re handsome all right, but their mamas spoil ’em something awful. Big babies, the lot of them.”

Frank remembered Sarah had said the same thing about Antonio. “Joe and Lorenzo, too?”

Mrs. O’Hara made a disgusted face. “They wouldn’t piss without asking Mama’s leave. You want to know who killed my Nainsi, you ask the old woman. If she didn’t do it, she ordered it done.”

Sarah couldn’t help staring at Mrs. Ruocco holding the baby.

“He woke up,” she said. She seemed a little defensive, as if she were afraid Sarah might think she’d changed her mind about the child.

Sarah tried not to let her amazement show. “I didn’t think he’d sleep very long. His tummy hurts, poor little fellow.” She set the tray down on the table with the magazines.

Mrs. Ruocco looked at the baby. “The water in the bottle is cold,” she said, pointing to where she’d set the hot water bottle on the floor beside the rocker.

“I’ll take care of it,” Sarah said, going over to get it.

The baby had been crying, but Mrs. Ruocco had managed to soothe him. She would have had lots of experience, and a woman never forgot how to hold a baby.

“He’s pretty, isn’t he?” Sarah said as she picked up the bottle. “Look at those curls.”

Mrs. Ruocco looked down at the baby as if to verify Sarah’s opinion. “My boys, they had curls,” she remembered.

She didn’t look happy at the memory. Or maybe she didn’t like making a comparison between her sons and this baby.

Sarah started to walk away, but Mrs. Ruocco caught her by the sleeve. When Sarah looked down at her, she saw fear in her dark eyes.

“Will he live?” she asked.

Sarah didn’t want to raise false hopes, and she wasn’t even sure what answer Mrs. Ruocco wanted to hear. “He’s strong and healthy,” she hedged. “If we can find some milk that agrees with him, he could do just fine.”

“But if you cannot?” she challenged.

Might as well say it. “If he doesn’t eat, he’ll die. The only other choice would be to try finding a wet nurse. Maybe one of the women in the neighborhood would feed him along with her own baby, to earn some extra money.”

She’d expected Mrs. Ruocco to protest such an expense, but she just stared back, her dark eyes unfathomable. After a long moment, she said, “Maria is good girl.”

“Yes, she is,” Sarah agreed, not knowing what she meant.

“She is like daughter to me. She is better daughter than my own. She is good wife to Giuseppe.”

“I’m sure she is,” Sarah said uncertainly.

“She need baby, Mrs. Brandt. Some women, they can accept. Maria cannot. She need baby.”

Sarah nodded, thinking she understood. “She’ll be very grateful if you let her keep this one.”

Mrs. Ruocco waved her words away again. “I do not do this for grateful. I do this for Maria. So she has happiness.

She has no other happiness.”

“She’ll be a good mother,” Sarah tried.

“But the baby must live,” Mrs. Ruocco said fiercely. “You will help her?”

“Yes,” Sarah promised with all her heart. “Yes, I will.”

They heard someone coming up the outside stairs, and Sarah went to see who it was. Lorenzo came in carrying a paper sack. Sarah held a finger to her lips, warning him to be quiet so he wouldn’t wake Maria, and led him into the parlor. He glanced over to where his mother sat holding the baby and almost dropped his package.

“You get milk?” she asked sharply. “Goat milk, like Mrs.

Brandt say?”

“Yes, Mama,” Lorenzo said uncertainly. He looked at Sarah, as if for an explanation for this amazing thing.

She simply smiled benignly and said, “Be sure to put the milk in the icebox when you go downstairs.”

He glanced around. “Where is Maria?”

“She sleep,” Mrs. Ruocco said. “You, go help your brothers in the kitchen. It is busy time.”

He turned to Sarah with a worried frown. “Is Maria all right?”

“She’s fine, just a little tired. I made her lie down.”

He seemed relieved, but still unhappy. He looked at his mother again, as if to verify that she was indeed holding the baby.

“Go!” Mrs. Ruocco said impatiently.

Lorenzo went.

Sarah went to where Mrs. Ruocco sat. “I’ll rock him while you eat something,” she offered.

Mrs. Ruocco was staring at the baby’s face. “In one minute.”

Frank found the sweatshop where Nainsi had worked. As he’d hoped, the girls were just taking their lunch break. Most of them would skip lunch, he knew, trying to stretch their meager wages so they’d have a nickel or a dime extra for admission to a dance in the evening. Frank found the boss, a man in his forties with thick dark hair plastered down with pomade and a perpetual scowl. For all of that, he was good looking, in a fancy-Dan kind of way.

He probably got a lot of attention from the girls who worked for him. Frank had no doubt he took advantage of his position, too.

He introduced himself and learned the fellow’s name was Richard Keith. Keith wasn’t happy to see a cop. “You won’t find nothing illegal here,” he claimed, a little too defensively.

Frank was sure he could, if he tried, but he wasn’t interested in that. “I’m here about one of your girls.”

“Which one? We don’t keep girls that get in trouble with the law.”

“This one’s dead,” Frank said.

“Then it’s not one of my girls. They’re all here today,” he said confidently.

“This one doesn’t work here anymore. She quit a while back to get married. Maybe you remember her—Nainsi O’Hara.”

Frank saw the surprise register on his smooth features, surprise and something else. Guilt? “Nainsi, you say? But she . . . I mean, that’s terrible.”

“You remember her then,” Frank said. It wasn’t a question.

“Well, yeah,” he said, a little flustered. “She was . . . a good worker.” A red flush crawled up his neck.

“Maybe she was good at other things, too,” Frank said mildly. “The girls here, they must be anxious to keep you happy so they can keep their jobs. Was Nainsi one of the girls who kept you happy?”

“I don’t run that kind of shop,” he said, his face scarlet now. His expression was definitely guilty.

“You know why Nainsi got married?” Frank asked.

He blinked stupidly. “I . . . I guess she found a fellow wanted to marry her.”

“And she was going to have a baby,” Frank said.

Keith gave a little shrug, feigning indifference. “Most of them are when they get married. That’s how they get the fellow to come around.”

“Except the fellow she married wasn’t the father,” Frank said.

Beads of sweat were forming on Keith’s forehead. “Why are you telling me this? And why are you here at all?”

“Did you know she had her baby?” Frank asked mildly.

“And that she died?”

“I . . . I didn’t,” he claimed. “Well, maybe I heard something . . .”

“Who told you she had her baby?”

“I . . . I don’t remember,” he claimed. “One of the girls told everybody in the shop. I overheard. Nobody said she died, though.”

“She didn’t just die,” Frank said. “She was murdered.”

Keith’s eyes widened and the blood drained from his face. “Who killed her?”

“I was thinking it might be the man who fathered her baby.”

Keith wasn’t a stupid man. “It wasn’t me!” he cried. “I never . . . My girls don’t get pregnant, because I don’t . . .

None of them do. If she said it was me, she was lying!”

How very interesting, Frank thought. “She didn’t say anything, Mr. Keith. I’m only trying to figure out who it might’ve been. I guess I’ll add you to my list.”

The color flooded back to his face. “It wasn’t me. I got a wife and family. I don’t need a lot of little bastards wanting money from me, too. I might have some fun with the girls, but none of them got a baby from it. I’d swear to it.”

Frank could find out easily enough what his reputation was. That wouldn’t prove he wasn’t the father of Nainsi’s baby, but at least it would give him an idea of the likelihood of it. “Thanks for clearing that up for me,” Frank said with just the slightest trace of sarcasm. “Now I’d like to talk to Brigit Murphy.”

“Why?” he challenged, assuming some of his bravado again.

“To find out more about Nainsi O’Hara,” Frank said. “If you’d like to point her out, I’d be grateful. If you don’t, I’ll have to start trying to find something illegal in your shop,” he added with a grin.

Keith looked like he wanted to punch Frank, but he pointed to a group of girls gathered in the back of the room.

“She’s the tall one with the curls.”

Frank didn’t thank him. He strolled down the length of the room to where the girls stood talking. One of them noticed his approach and motioned for the others to be quiet.

By the time he reached them, they were all staring at him in wide-eyed terror. They’d recognized him as a cop. People always did, even though he wore a suit just like any busi-nessman in the city. Maybe it was the way cops carried themselves. He’d never been able to figure it out, but people always knew.

“Hello, ladies,” he said as kindly as he could. “I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. I’m investigating Nainsi Ruocco’s murder.”

One of them made a little squeak, but the rest of them just stared.

“Miss Murphy,” he said, addressing the tall girl. Her hair was light brown and not so much curly as wild and frizzy.

She’d made an effort to pin it up neatly, but it was defiantly springing loose every which way. She’d be a handsome girl if she didn’t look like somebody was holding a knife to her throat at the moment. “Nainsi’s mother said you were good friends with her.”

Brigit nodded uncertainly.

“Did the rest of you know her, too?”

The other girls nodded reluctantly.

“You don’t have to be afraid. I’m trying to learn more about her so I can figure out who killed her.”

“Wasn’t it one of the Ruoccos?” the shortest girl asked.

Frank dearly hoped not, but he said, “I don’t know who it was yet. That’s why I’m trying to learn more about her—

and her friends.”

“Didn’t none of us kill her,” Brigit cried in alarm. “Why would we?”

“I didn’t think you did. I’m more interested in finding out about her . . . gentlemen friends.”

One of the girls snickered, then slapped a hand over her mouth.

Brigit glared at her, but the girl said, “Wasn’t none of them gentlemen.”

“But she did meet men at the dance houses,” Frank said.

“Well, sure, that’s why we go there,” Brigit said before any of the others could speak. “We all meet men there. That’s who we dance with.”

Frank knew the men would also treat them to drinks and cigarettes and even buy them gifts, in exchange for favors promised or actually delivered. “Did she have any special men that she met outside the dance house?”

“Antonio Ruocco,” the short girl said, making the rest of them giggle.

“This would’ve been several months before she met Antonio,” Frank pressed. “Last spring or summer.”

The girls exchanged puzzled looks. “That’s when she met Antonio,” Brigit said. “I don’t know when exactly, but it was early spring. The weather was just getting warm.”

“That’s right,” another girl agreed. “She’d just started wearing that straw hat. We told her it caught his eye.”

Brigit nodded. “She told us all about him, and he was her only special fellow all summer long. Some of the places, they don’t let the Italian boys in, so she’d go out with us, then slip away and meet him someplace.”

According to what Sarah had told him, that didn’t make any sense. He’d have to question Antonio and find out the truth. “When she found out about the baby,” Frank said,

“she must’ve talked to you about it.”

The girls looked a little embarrassed to be discussing such a delicate subject.

“She was real scared, and she cried all the time, even at work,” the short girl offered.

“Who wouldn’t be scared?” Brigit snapped. “She was scared at first, but we all told her not to be a goose. Tell him and make him marry her, we said. When she finally told him about the baby, he did, too, even though his mother didn’t like it.”

“Her mother didn’t like it either,” one of the other girls said.

“Who cares?” Brigit asked angrily. “They was in love.

That’s what matters.”

That wasn’t the picture Frank had of the union, but he didn’t want to distract the girls. “Could I speak with Miss Murphy alone for a minute?” he asked the others.

They couldn’t dare deny him, but they moved away with obvious reluctance and only far enough to give the illusion that they weren’t trying to listen in.

“Miss Murphy,” Frank said, still trying not to frighten her. It was a wasted effort, though. His mere presence was terrifying. “Mrs. O’Hara said she told you about Nainsi’s baby being born that night when you were coming home from work.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” she confirmed, puzzled by the question.

“Who did you tell?”

“Who . . . ? What do you mean?” she hedged.

“I mean, who did you tell that Nainsi’s baby was born?”

he said impatiently.

“I . . . The girls,” she said, gesturing to the group hover-ing nearby.

“Anybody else?”

Now Brigit looked truly frightened. She glanced toward the front of the room where Keith still stood, watching and glowering.

“Please, mister, I’ll lose my job. I gotta get back to work.”

The bell hadn’t rung yet, but Frank didn’t point that out. Plainly, she knew something she didn’t want to say in front of Keith.

“Go, then,” he said, and she scurried away, back to her seat.

He’d have to find Brigit someplace else and get the answer to his question, although he already knew it. For some reason, she’d told Richard Keith directly about the baby’s birth. But if Keith couldn’t possibly be the baby’s father, as he claimed, why would he have been interested?

*

*

*

When the baby started fussing again, Mrs. Ruocco took him downstairs while Sarah fixed a bottle in the kitchen, so his crying wouldn’t disturb Maria. By the time the bottle was ready, he was screaming lustily. Luckily, the luncheon diners were all gone, except for a few elderly men still gossiping over their grappa. The screaming had driven Joe, Antonio, and Valentina away. For some reason, however, Lorenzo stayed, even though the baby’s cries obviously distressed him.

Breathing a silent prayer, Sarah accepted the baby from Mrs. Ruocco and sat down to feed him the goat’s milk. The baby took the nipple and suckled greedily. Milk leaked out the sides of his mouth, and he choked a little until he got the rhythm. His mouth working mechanically, he finally settled down, his little fists clenched tightly against his cheeks, his eyes squeezed shut in bliss.

“He seems to like it,” Lorenzo observed hopefully, but he was wringing his hands.

“He like milk,” Mrs. Ruocco said dismissively. “He know nothing.”

“We’ll have to wait to see if it agrees with him,” Sarah concurred.

Lorenzo sighed and kept wringing his hands.

“Mrs. Brandt, you must eat,” Mrs. Ruocco said, pulling an apron down from a hook on the wall and tying it on. “I will cook.” Sarah knew better than to protest. Besides, she really was hungry.

The baby fell into a contented sleep when the bottle was almost empty, and by then Mrs. Ruocco had prepared a plate of spaghetti for Sarah. Mrs. Ruocco took the baby up to his cradle while Sarah ate the delicious meal. Lorenzo had followed his mother out of the kitchen, leaving Sarah alone, so when she was finished, she went back upstairs.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay without wearing out her welcome. If the goat’s milk agreed with the baby, they wouldn’t need her anymore, so this might be her last chance to learn anything of interest. The third floor was quiet. She found the baby sleeping peacefully in Joe and Maria’s bedroom, and no one was in the parlor. Perhaps Mrs. Ruocco had gone down to the second floor where her bedroom must be. The family probably had another sitting room down there as well. Counting up the members of the family, Sarah realized Lorenzo’s bedroom must also be on the second floor. Of course, any of them could have slipped into Nainsi’s room and smothered her in the night. It was a silent crime. Or anyone could have come up the back stairs from the street below and no one would have heard, either.

Sarah was standing in the hallway, considering all the possibilities when a door opened behind her. She turned to see Maria emerge from Valentina’s bedroom. Her hair was mussed and her face puffy from sleep.

“Mrs. Brandt,” she said in alarm. “Is something wrong?

Is the baby all right?”

“He’s fine. He woke up, and we fed him some goat’s milk, and now he’s sleeping peacefully again.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked in dismay. “I would have helped you.”

“Mrs. Ruocco helped me,” Sarah reported with a smile.

“Mama?” Maria didn’t believe her.

“She even rocked him for a while,” Sarah told her. “I think she may be starting to like him.”

Maria stared at her for a long moment, uncomprehending.

Then her eyes filled with tears, and she started to cry. Sarah slipped an arm around her shoulders and led her into the parlor. By then she was fairly sobbing, and Sarah seated them both on the sofa, patting her back and murmuring words of comfort. She’d seen many new mothers reduced to tears after a sleepless night or two. Maria may not have given birth to this baby, but she’d experienced everything else—the doubts and the fears and the numbing exhaustion and the despair of not being able to soothe the little one’s anguish and pain.

She’d also experienced her sister-in-law’s murder and a near riot at her doorstep. Maria had earned the right to weep.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she sobbed. “I did not dream it would be like this.”

“Of course not, but you’re doing very well at being a mother, Maria.”

“I want a baby of my own,” she said, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks. “I always want one, as long as I live, but it does not come. Then Nainsi marries Antonio. She is a foolish girl, but I am happy for her. I am happy to have a baby in the house. I think I will help her take care of her baby and play with it. He will love his Zia Maria more than anyone.

But I did not want her to die!”

She started sobbing again, and Sarah murmured words of comfort. “Of course you didn’t, but it was very generous of you to take him. Not many women would, under the circumstances.”

“What else can I do?” she asked between sobs. “I cannot let that woman have him, and . . . and he is my only chance to have a baby of my own.”

“Oh, Maria, you shouldn’t give up hope yet,” Sarah said kindly. “You’re still young, and—”

“No, it will not happen for me,” she insisted. When she looked up at Sarah, the tears had stopped and her eyes were dark with anger. “Joe, he . . . he does not come to me anymore. I will never have a child . . . except for this one.”

Sarah’s heart ached for Maria’s humiliating secret pain, and for the circumstances that had caused her to reveal it to a stranger.

“If he’s going to be your son, you should find a name for him,” Sarah said in an effort to distract her from her unpleasant thoughts.

It worked. The anger drained from her face. “A name,”

she echoed in wonder. “I didn’t think of that.”

“You can’t call him ‘baby’ forever,” Sarah said with a smile. “Is there someone you’d like to name him after?”

She considered for a moment. “Maybe,” she said with a touch of irony, “we should name him for his father.”

Gino Donatelli was much too cheerful for Frank’s taste. Frank couldn’t even remember being that young and excited about working on his first big case. Maybe he never had been. Gino, however, was taking great pleasure in having been selected to assist Frank with the mysteries of Little Italy.

They’d met at a coffee shop a safe distance from Little Italy, where they wouldn’t encounter any of Ugo Ruocco’s crew.

“As soon as Commissioner Roosevelt assigned me to this case, I started asking around about the Ruocco boys,” Gino was saying.

“And you found out they’re good Catholic boys who never got into any trouble and who respect their mother,” Frank guessed.

“How did you know?” Gino asked in surprised.

Frank sighed. “Did you find out anything useful?”

“Well, everybody knows that Mrs. Ruocco and her brother-in-law don’t get along too well. They even say . . .”

He glanced around to make sure nobody was listening, then leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “They say he makes her pay protection money just like everybody else.”

Frank swore in surprise. “I guess that would explain why she doesn’t like him.”

“He gets along good with the rest of the family, though,”

Gino added. “Ugo never had any kids of his own, so he dotes on his niece and nephews. He spoils Valentina rotten, and he’s always getting the boys out of trouble, starting with ten years ago when Joe and Lorenzo knocked over a pushcart. A bunch of Jews chased them through the streets until they ran into Ugo’s saloon. So now whenever they have a problem, they go to Zio Ugo, and he takes care of it.”

“And we know Joe and Antonio went straight to Ugo the night Nainsi’s baby was born.” Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d thought he had trouble when it looked like one of the Ruocco family members had killed the girl. If Ugo had sent one of his henchmen, they’d never solve the case.

“We’re going to have to visit the Ruoccos and find out exactly what happened the night the girl was killed.”

“Right now?” Donatelli asked hopefully.

“No. We’ll wait until they’re too busy to object.”

7

Maria had washed her face and regained her com-posure. She’d seemed a bit embarrassed about her earlier outburst, but she quickly recovered and began to ply Sarah with questions about caring for the baby. While they talked, Maria picked up a half-finished baby shirt and absently started stitching on it.

Sarah was beginning to think she ought to at least mention that she should be going home when they heard someone running up the stairs. The light footsteps clattered down the hall as Maria jumped up to caution whoever was coming to be quiet.

“You will wake the baby,” she warned Valentina, who stopped dead at the sight of Maria and Sarah in the parlor doorway.

“I don’t care if I do wake him,” Valentina informed them.

“I hate that baby. I wish it had never been born!”

“You are a wicked girl,” Maria replied in a tone that told Sarah she’d said those words many times before. “Why are you running in the house? You are too old to act like a child.”

“I’m trying to get away from all the yelling downstairs,”

she said petulantly. “Everybody’s screaming at everybody else, and it’s making my head hurt.”

“Who is screaming?” Maria asked with a frown.

“Zio Ugo and Mama and Joe and Lorenzo. Zio was so mad at them that he forgot to bring me a present. He always brings me a present!” she added in outrage.

“Why are they arguing?”

Valentina’s young face twisted into an ugly smile. “About you. And that baby. Zio wants to throw it in the river!”

Maria made a strangled sound in her throat and grabbed Valentina by the shoulders. “Liar!” she cried, forgetting her own admonition about waking the baby. “You should burn in hell!”

“That’s what he said!” Valentina insisted, and Maria gave her a violent shake.

Valentina tried to twist free, but Maria shook her again, making her teeth snap together.

“Lorenzo won’t let him, though,” the girl quickly admitted, frightened now. “That’s why they’re fighting. Lorenzo and Joe, they said you were keeping it.”

Maria thrust the girl aside and fairly ran down the hallway to the stairs. Sarah stared after her helplessly. This was none of her business, and she certainly couldn’t do anything to help. She turned back to Valentina, who was rubbing her arms where Maria had grabbed her.

“Would your uncle really kill the baby?” she asked.

“How should I know? It’s just a little bastard. It doesn’t belong to anybody here.”

“He belongs to Maria now,” Sarah said.

“I don’t care if he does or not. He’s a lot of trouble, and he makes too much noise, and Zio Ugo never forgot to bring me a present before he came along.”

She really was a wicked girl, Sarah decided.

They both heard a tiny mewling sound coming from Maria’s bedroom.

Valentina made a disgusted sound and stalked off to her own bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Sarah went to see about the baby.

He lay in his cradle, staring intently at the flowers on the wallpaper, and Sarah watched him for a few long moments. Few newborns were even attractive. The birth process usually left them with temporarily misshapen heads, and immaturity made their features indistinct. This baby was among the fortunate ones, however. Perhaps because he was so chubby and had such thick curly hair, he looked like a tiny cherub.

As she watched him lying contentedly, an idea formed in her mind. She went to the pile of baby clothes that Nainsi and Maria had prepared and found a bright yellow gown with satin ribbon ties. Then she picked the baby up and started to change him. A few minutes later, she donned her cloak, picked up her medical bag with one hand while holding the baby tucked in her other arm and started down the stairs.

She could hear the raised voices and knew the argument was still going on. The words were in Italian, but she could tell from the tone of them that Ugo was trying to prevail.

When she reached the bottom of the steps, she drew a forti-fying breath and pushed the door open.

Her sudden appearance had the happy effect of silencing everyone in the dining room. The unhappy consequence was that everyone’s attention immediately turned to her. They weren’t pleased about being interrupted, and when they saw who the intruder was, they were even less pleased. Sarah had a fleeting memory of Malloy’s warning that Ugo Ruocco would kill his own mother. Then she forced her face into an apologetic smile.

“Excuse me for intruding, but I really need to be going,” she said. Then she looked at Maria. “The baby woke up, and I didn’t want to leave him alone upstairs so I brought him down.”

She lifted her arm slightly, displaying him to his best advantage. She’d fluffed his curls with her fingers and the yellow gown was darling. He was still gazing around in wide-eyed wonder at this new and fascinating world. Then, as if he were aware of her plan and had waited until everyone was staring at him, he smiled with all the sweet innocence of a newborn.

Mrs. Ruocco made a small sound, and Maria swooped in to claim him, taking him from Sarah with loving hands and cradling him to her chest protectively.

“I saw that little gown, and I couldn’t resist trying it on him,” Sarah confessed.

“I made it,” Maria said with a touch of pride and more than a touch of possessiveness. She looked up defiantly at Ugo. “For my son.”

One of the boys said something in Italian and walked over to stand with Maria, but to Sarah’s surprise, it was Lorenzo, not Joe. Only after Lorenzo glared at him did Joe join his brother beside Maria, shamefaced but presenting a united front.

Mrs. Ruocco still stood on the far side of the room, her face twisted in anger. She said something to Ugo in challenge, and Sarah didn’t need to speak the language to understand that she was daring Ugo to tear his family apart.

Sarah watched his broad face flood with rage, but he threw up his hands in surrender as a curse exploded from his lips. He pointed a finger at Mrs. Ruocco and gave her some sort of warning, then turned to leave, but he paused for a moment when Sarah came into his line of vision. His eyes narrowed with hatred, and Sarah couldn’t stop the frisson of fear that tingled up her spine before he completed his turn and stalked out of the restaurant. A phalanx of his minions closed around him as he strode down the street.

Only then did Sarah realize she’d been holding her breath, and she let it out in a whoosh.

“Grazie,” Maria said, looking up in gratitude—at Lorenzo.

He didn’t reply. He just gave his brother a look that spoke of how disappointed he was that Joe hadn’t jumped to his wife’s defense. Joe looked down at Maria, but she was fussing with the baby and didn’t spare him a glance.

“I really must be going,” Sarah repeated. “Maria, if you need anything, send for me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Brandt, thank you so much for coming,”

Maria said earnestly. “I will never forget you!”

“Remember to make sure the bottles are clean and boiled each time you use them. I’ll stop in and check on you in a few days, if I don’t hear from you before that.”

“Wait,” Mrs. Ruocco said. “You will take some cannoli with you.”

After a few more minutes spent wrapping the cannoli and thanking Sarah again and again, they finally let her go.

By then customers had started arriving for supper, and Sarah had to work her way through the crowd gathering at the door to get out into the street.

She couldn’t help glancing around to make sure Ugo Ruocco wasn’t waiting for her outside, but she saw no sign of him. She did see a few young men loitering on the corner, smoking cigarettes and eyeing everyone who walked by with suspicion. They would be more of Ugo’s men, set to guard the restaurant from another invasion of Irish hoodlums.

As she walked down Mulberry Street, she gave a moment’s thought to stopping at the mission, but she’d already been away from home all day. She missed Aggie, and the thought of having supper with her tonight was much too inviting. She had just crossed Prince Street, within a block of Police Headquarters, when she saw a familiar face in the crowd approaching her.

“Mrs. Brandt,” Frank Malloy said with just a trace of cen-sure. He glanced up at the direction from which she’d come and frowned. “I don’t suppose you were delivering a baby in Little Italy today.”

Sarah tried to look innocent. “As a matter of fact, Maria Ruocco sent for me. The baby wasn’t doing well. He’d been crying all night.”

People making their way down the sidewalk were jostling the pair and muttering impatiently since they were blocking progress. Malloy took her arm and led her to a doorway where they’d be less of an obstacle.

“Sarah,” he said, the frustration thick in his voice. “I told you not to go down there. You could’ve told them to call a doctor if the baby was sick.”

“He wasn’t sick,” Sarah said, sympathetic to his concern but knowing she was justified. “Besides, if I’d told them to call a doctor, I wouldn’t have found out anything that might help you find Nainsi’s killer.”

“And did you?” he challenged.

“I’m not sure yet. But if I didn’t this time, I can find out next time I visit. You’ll just have to tell me what you need to know.”

Few people were as ungrateful as Frank Malloy, Sarah observed. Instead of thanking her, he looked like he might cheerfully strangle her. Fortunately, he wasn’t likely to do so on a public street. “Where are you going now?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Home to have supper with Aggie.”

“Then you’d better get going before I decide to lock you up for your own safety.”

“I’m fine, Malloy,” she assured him. “No one is interested in me.”

“Unless you start meddling in other people’s business, and then they’ll be very interested in you. Ugo Ruocco doesn’t care who your father is or how many times you’ve dined with the Astors. If he thinks you’re a nuisance, he’ll have you killed.”

“I’m not a nuisance,” she protested. He looked like he was ready to argue the point, so she added, “You should know that he’s got some of his men posted down by the restaurant. If any Irish boys try to start trouble again, they’ll be ready for them this time.”

Malloy sighed. “Go home, Sarah, and stay there.”

“Don’t you want to know what I found out today?”

He rubbed a hand wearily over his face. “Not right now.

Right now, I want you to go home.”

Sarah took pity on him and went, giving him a cheerful little wave which he ignored. Perhaps it was just as well he didn’t want to meet with her tonight. She needed some time to think about everything she’d seen and heard at the Ruoccos house today. Maybe if she took some time to remember everything, she’d figure out what would be really helpful.

After sending Sarah on her way, Frank met Gino Donatelli on the corner nearest Mama’s Restaurant, as they had previously arranged.

“Wipe that grin off your face,” Frank warned him.

He sobered instantly. “I didn’t realize—”

“And stop thinking this is fun. It’s not fun,” Frank added sourly. “I know it’s your first big case, and you’re thinking about finding the killer and being a big man, but nothing good ever comes of murder.”

“But punishing the killer—” he tried.

“Doesn’t bring the victim back to life,” Frank reminded him. “You can’t fix something like that. Punishing the killer might keep him from killing somebody else. It might even make another person think twice about taking somebody else’s life, but the dead person is still dead. There’s no justice for that, and sometimes . . .”

“Sometimes what?” Gino prodded when Frank hesitated.

“Sometimes punishing the killer makes innocent people suffer.”

Gino frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if you put a man in jail or execute him, he might have a family that’s left to starve . . . or worse. Half the children living on the streets have a father in jail and a mother who died after selling herself too many times. Now do you still feel like grinning?”

“No, sir,” Gino replied, properly chastened.

“Good. We’re going to visit the Ruoccos. Your job is to translate if they say anything in Italian and to help me make sure they answer all my questions.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Gino followed him respectfully for the short distance to Mama’s Restaurant. Frank noticed the young men loitering on the street corners. Sarah was right, they’d make sure the Irish didn’t get very far if they tried to start another riot.

None of them would meet Frank’s gaze, and he walked into Mama’s unchallenged, with Gino on his heels.

The aroma of garlic and tomatoes washed over them, making Frank’s stomach clench with longing. The dining room was starting to fill up, and Frank saw Joe and Lorenzo moving through the room with trays held aloft, delivering plates heaped with mouth-watering food to the diners.

“Looks like we came at a bad time,” Gino observed.

“They’re all busy.”

“That’s good,” Frank pointed out. “The rest of the family won’t have time to interfere when we question our suspects.”

When Joe’s tray was empty, he looked over to see who had come in. The welcoming smile froze on his handsome face.

He called something to Lorenzo, who frowned when he saw the cops. Lorenzo hurried back into the kitchen as Joe made his way across the room to meet them.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“We’ve got a few questions for some members of your family,” Frank said.

“It’s suppertime. We are very busy. Come back tomorrow.”

“We don’t want to come back tomorrow. We want to ask our questions right now,” Frank informed him with a glare that drained the antagonism right out of him. “Where’s Antonio?”

“In . . . in the kitchen,” Joe admitted reluctantly. “He’s helping Mama.”

“Tell him we need to see him.” Frank glanced around the noisy room. “And we’ll need someplace private to talk to him, unless you want everybody here to know what we’re asking him about.”

Joe looked like he wanted to punch somebody, but he said, “I’ll tell him to take you upstairs. I’ll get him.”

The people in the restaurant were starting to notice Frank and Gino, and the noise level in the room lessened considerably as people stopped conversing and started whispering and staring. Frank gave them his best effort at intimidation, and soon most of them were at least pretending to mind their own business.

“Here he comes,” Gino said softly, and Frank looked over. Antonio had come out of the kitchen, pulling off a sauce-stained apron. He glanced around the room nervously and found to his horror that everyone was staring at him.

Then he spotted Frank and Gino near the front door, and paled noticeably. He motioned for them to join him at the stairway door. By the time they got there, he’d opened the door and started up the stairs. They followed, closing the door decisively behind them.

Antonio stopped at the first landing on the second floor, and led them down a short hallway into a family parlor.

“What do you want with me?” Antonio asked before they were even in the room. “I don’t know anything.”

“I’m sure you know a lot of things, Antonio,” Frank said, taking stock of the room. The furniture was comfortably shabby. A shawl hung over the back of a chair and a pair of slippers had been left in front of the sofa. A pillow rested at one end of the sofa, and a blanket had been folded up and laid on top of it, as if someone had been sleeping there. “Tell me how you met Nainsi, Antonio,” Frank said.

Antonio frowned. “Why does that matter now?”

“Everything matters now,” Frank snapped. “Answer my question.”

“I . . . At a dance. I used to go to the dance houses with my brother, and I met her there.”

“When was this?”

He frowned, as if trying to remember exactly. “August.

I remember because it was right after Valentina’s birthday.”

“That’s a lie, Antonio,” Frank moving toward him. “I don’t like people who lie to me.”

“It’s the truth, I swear,” Antonio cried, his voice shrill and his eyes wide with fright. He flinched and tried to cover his face when Frank raised his hand, but he only used it to push the boy down onto a chair.

“Then why did Nainsi tell her friends she met you in the spring?”

“I don’t know,” he claimed, looking up at Frank in desperation. “She couldn’t have told them that. I didn’t even know who she was back then.”

“It’s true,” a voice said from the doorway behind them.

They all turned to see Maria Ruocco standing there. Frank had thought Patrizia was the matriarch of this family, the formidable one they’d have to outsmart, but seeing Maria right now, he reconsidered. For such a small, plain woman, she radiated an amazing amount of authority.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Ruocco,” Frank said politely, in deference to the power he sensed in her. “But how would you know such a thing?”

“Because Antonio never went to the dance houses before that. Mama wouldn’t allow it until . . . until Joe said it was time he started acting like a man.”

“When was Valentina’s birthday?” Frank asked her.

“August fifteenth.”

This didn’t make sense. Nainsi’s friends knew about Antonio months before that. “Maybe he was sneaking out so his mama didn’t know,” Frank suggested, giving Antonio another glare.

“No, I swear! Maria, tell them. I never went out at night before that.”

“He would not have dared disobey Mama,” Maria confirmed. “What does it matter now, anyway?”

“Because,” Frank said, still respectful to her, “if Antonio wasn’t the baby’s father, he had a good reason for killing Nainsi.”

“I wasn’t even here when she died,” Antonio reminded him. “Joe took me to see Uncle Ugo and then . . . We were with him all night!”

“Why did you go see Ugo?” Frank asked. “Did you want him to get rid of your wife for you?”

“No! I mean . . . I don’t know why we went. It was Joe’s idea. He said Ugo would know what to do.”

“Antonio,” Maria snapped.

“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Ruocco,” Frank said, moving toward her in a slightly menacing manner that forced her to step back until she was out in the hallway.

“We’ll send for you if we need you again.” He closed the door in her surprised face. Then he motioned for Gino to come over to guard the door and turned his attention back to Antonio.

“What did Joe want Uncle Ugo to do?” he asked when he was standing over the boy again.

“He didn’t want him to do anything,” he claimed. “Joe just told him that Nainsi had the baby and I wasn’t the father.”

“What did Ugo say?”

Antonio winced at the memory. “He said I was stupid to trust a whore, and I got what I deserved. He said a lot of things like that. I don’t remember all of it. He gave me some whiskey to drink, and we sat there for a long time, drinking. He and Joe were talking, but I was just drinking.

I don’t remember much after that. Next thing I know, I wake up right there.” He pointed at the sofa.

“That’s convenient,” Frank observed. “You don’t remember what you did for the rest of the night?”

“No, I don’t!”

“Then for all you know, you came home, went up to your bedroom, and put a pillow over Nainsi’s face and smothered her.”

“I didn’t! Why would I?” he cried.

“A lot of reasons. Because you didn’t like being made a fool of by a cheap little mickey bitch. Because you didn’t like being stuck raising somebody else’s bastard. Because you didn’t want a wife who’d lift her skirts for any man who gave her a smile or bought her a drink.”

The boy lunged to his feet with a roar of outrage, but Frank grabbed his shoulders and slammed him back down into the chair.

“Isn’t that what happened?” Frank challenged. “Did she do it for just a smile, or did she make you buy her a drink first?”

Antonio’s eyes glowed with loathing, and his handsome face twisted with rage. “It wasn’t like that!”

“Wasn’t it?” Frank demanded. “Did she even tell you her name first?”

“I knew her name!”

“Did you know she was carrying somebody else’s baby?”

That stopped him cold. Frank watched the rage drain out of him, and he was a boy again. “She said . . . she said it was her first time.”

“Of course she did.”

“She said she liked me,” he remembered sadly.

“Maybe she did,” Frank allowed. “She was looking for a husband, so she would have wanted somebody she could live with.”

Antonio grimaced. “She didn’t like me after we got married though. She didn’t even want me in her bed. She said she was sick from the baby, and didn’t want me to touch her. She was mean to everybody else, too. Mama hated her.

Lorenzo said I never should’ve married her.”

“No one would blame you for killing a woman like that, Antonio,” Frank said reasonably. “They’d probably throw you a parade.”

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. “I wish I had killed her.

Nobody would laugh at me then. They wouldn’t say I was stupid and weak for getting tricked like that.”

His shoulders started to shake and the tears ran down his cheeks. Frank had to look away. At least he could be pretty sure Antonio hadn’t killed Nainsi. He was too young and still too innocent to hide such a grievous sin.

He might’ve been too drunk to remember, but if he’d been that drunk, he wouldn’t have been able to overpower the girl.

“Go back downstairs and tell your brother Joe to come up to see me,” Frank said in disgust.

Antonio looked at him in surprise, scrubbing the tears from his face with his palms. “Joe? Why do you want to see Joe?”

“Because I do. Now go get him before I decide to take the easy way out and lock you up.”

Antonio sprang to his feet and rushed out, practically shoving Gino aside as he jerked open the door and ducked through it. Maria Ruocco still stood in the hallway outside.

She watched Antonio race away, then turned back and came to the doorway again.

“He didn’t kill the girl,” she said urgently. “He doesn’t have it in him.”

“Then he doesn’t have anything to worry about,” Frank said. “Mrs. Ruocco, would you answer a few questions for me?”

She stiffened in silent resistance, but she lifted her chin and said, “I don’t know what I can tell you.”

“You and your husband sleep upstairs in the room across from where Nainsi died, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She folded her hands tightly at her waist, offering nothing more.

“Did you sleep there the night Nainsi died?”

“Of course. I always sleep there.”

“When was the last time you saw Nainsi?”

She frowned, her heavy brows knitting as she considered the question. “I’m not sure. I . . . helped her with the baby for a while . . . after Mrs. Brandt left. Mama said Nainsi could stay until she was recovered.”

“I guess Nainsi must have been upset about having to leave with her baby,” Frank suggested.

She took a moment before answering this question, too.

“No, she wasn’t. She . . . she thought Mama would let her stay. She was married to Antonio, and she thought we would have to let her stay.”

“Even after your mother-in-law told her she’d have to leave?”

Maria shrugged. “She was a foolish girl, and young. She did not know anything.”

“About what time did you leave her?”

“I went down to help Mama with dinner. That is our busy time.”

“Who else helped?”

“Everyone. We always do.”

“You’re sure? Everyone was there?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Antonio said he and Joe went to see their uncle.”

Maria nodded. “They did. After dinner was over and we closed.”

“What did everyone else do?”

“We . . . we cleaned up. Mama was angry because Joe and Antonio didn’t stay to help. After that, we came up here, like always.”

“To this room?”

“Yes.”

“Did anybody go to check on Nainsi?”

“Valentina took some supper up to her earlier.”

“Do you know when that was?”

“I’m not sure. Probably near seven o’clock. The crowd was thinning out, and that’s usually when it happens.”

“What about after everyone came up here? Did you or anybody else go up to see how she was?”

Maria looked down at her clasped hands. “I . . . I wanted to, but Mama . . . She said we should do nothing for her.”

“But when you went up to bed, you couldn’t resist checking on the baby, could you?” Frank guessed.

Maria’s head snapped up. For a moment, he thought she would deny it, but then she sighed. “I looked in. I just opened the door a little. I could see the baby was asleep in his cradle. Nainsi was . . . She was asleep, too.”

“Did you actually see her?”

Some emotion flickered across her face and then was gone. “The room was dark, and I thought she was . . .

asleep. I didn’t want to disturb her.”

“So she might’ve been dead by then?”

For a second she looked frightened, and Frank knew she was wondering who she might have implicated. Then she remembered something, and her shoulders sagged in relief.

“No, she was alive. I remember now. When Joe came in later, he tripped on something and almost fell. He was . . .

drunk,” she explained in embarrassment. “He made a loud noise, and Nainsi called out to him to be quiet.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t know. I was asleep, and the noise woke me, too.

I helped him get into bed, and then we both went to sleep.”

“Did you hear anything else that night?”

“No, nothing that woke me up. And Joe, he was with me all night. I would know if he got up,” she added in anticipation of Frank’s impending question.

She turned at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Joe appeared in the doorway. “Maria? Why are you talking to this man?” he demanded.

“I was just asking her some questions about what happened the night Nainsi died,” Frank explained.

“She knows nothing about that. None of us do. How many times do we have to tell you?”

“Mr. Ruocco,” Frank said with a trace of sarcasm. “A woman was murdered in this house. That woman was married to your brother. Somebody in this house knows something about it.”

The color rose in his face, but he knew better than to argue with the police. If one of them accidentally broke your jaw, none of the authorities would care. Uncle Ugo might exact revenge for it, but your jaw would still be broken.

“Maria, go upstairs and take care of the baby,” he said.

Maria took the opportunity he offered and left. She didn’t look back.

“Antonio said you wanted to talk to me,” Joe said bel-ligerently.

“Tell me what you did that night after Nainsi’s baby was born.”

He looked puzzled, but he made an effort to remember.

“I . . . We all served dinner, like we do every night. All the time I was trying to think of some way to . . . to help Antonio.”

“So you decided to kill Nainsi?”

“No! I could think of nothing, so I went to see my uncle.”

“Ugo,” Frank supplied. “Did you go alone?”

“No, Antonio went with me.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know. After all the customers left. Maybe eight o’clock. Maybe later. I don’t know.”

“So you went to see Ugo. Where did you go?”

“He owns a place on Mott Street. That’s where you go to find him.”

Frank knew it well, a saloon where men could talk and not worry about outsiders hearing them. “What did you tell him?”

Joe sighed. “I told him about the baby, and how Mama wanted to throw them both out into the street.”

“And Ugo suggested it would be much neater if you just killed the girl.”

“No! Nobody said anything about killing her. Why would they?”

“Because she was married to Antonio. You know how hard it is for a Catholic to get a divorce.”

“He . . . he didn’t want to divorce her,” Joe claimed.

“Why not? Don’t tell me he was going to forgive her and raise the baby as his own?” Frank scoffed.

“He . . . We were talking,” he said, his hands moving nervously. “Trying to decide . . . what was the right thing to do.”

“Your mother already decided. She was going to throw Nainsi and the baby out of the house,” Frank reminded him.

“But . . . Nainsi was Antonio’s wife,” he said, gesturing helplessly.

“A wife who’d tricked him into marrying her so her bastard would have a name,” Frank reminded him.

“But . . .” He glanced around as if trying to find the correct reply written someplace in the room. “Maria,” he finally decided and nodded in approval at his choice. “Yes, Maria, she didn’t want Nainsi to leave. She didn’t think it was right. The girl is so young, she said. And the baby . . . Who would take care of them?”

“Maria wanted them to stay?” Frank asked in amazement.

“Yes, that’s right. She wanted them to stay, but she couldn’t say this to Mama. So I went to my uncle. I thought he would know what to do.”

“And did he know what to do?” Frank asked, managing not to betray his skepticism of this unlikely tale.

“No,” Joe said, heaving another sigh. “No, he did not.”

Frank opened his mouth to ask another question, but a shout and the explosion of shattering glass stopped him.

“What the . . . ?” he cried, running to the window.

“What is it?” Gino and Joe both demanded, close behind him. They jostled each other for a better view of the street below over Frank’s shoulders. The glow of torches illumi-nated the mob that was swarming down Hester Street.

Frank knew it was too early in the evening for them to be drunk enough for this to be a spontaneous act. Someone had organized them, whipping the Irish lads into a frenzy and probably arming them with sticks and stones and enough liquor to make it seem like a good idea to march down to Little Italy and teach the dagos a lesson.

“Gino, go down the back stairs and get everybody you can find at Headquarters,” Frank said.

“What are you going to do?” Gino asked.

“Try to stop this.”

8

By the time Frank got down to the dining room, the fighting had already started. Ugo Ruocco’s guards had done their job and gotten reinforcements to meet the mob in the street outside. The remaining dinner customers were screaming in terror as Antonio and Lorenzo frantically tried to herd them into the kitchen so they could escape out the back into the alley. Joe had followed Frank down the stairs, and he hurried off to help.

“Turn out the lights!” Mrs. Ruocco was yelling to no one in particular as she reached up to turn off the nearest gas lamp.

Realizing he’d be wasting his time and endangering his life for no reason if he tried to intervene in the melee outside, Frank started turning off the gas jets in the front of the room.

“The door!” Mrs. Ruocco cried as someone slammed against the front window. “Lock it!”

Frank hurried over and shoved home the bolt. “I’ll pull the shades, too,” he said. He didn’t add that it was a safety precaution. If they smashed in the windows, the shades would keep the glass from flying too far and injuring someone inside.

“What’s happening?” a woman cried from the shadow of the stairway. Frank looked over to see Maria Ruocco holding the bundled baby. Her eyes were wide with terror.

“They’ve come to kill us,” Valentina informed her hysterically as she emerged from the kitchen. “All because of that damn baby!”

“Valentina!” Mrs. Ruocco chastened shrilly.

“I don’t care! I hate that baby! We should throw it out there and let them have it so they’ll leave us alone!”

Something thudded against the front window, and Valentina screamed. Joe came out of the kitchen, his brothers close behind him.

“Turn off the rest of the lights,” Mrs. Ruocco shouted as glass shattered on the doorstep.

Valentina screamed again and this time she didn’t stop.

Mrs. Ruocco strode over to her, lifted a hand, and slapped her soundly across the face, silencing her instantly. Frank winced, but he was too glad to have her quiet to worry much about it.

“Mama,” Joe said, throwing an arm around Valentina and pulling her close. “We need to get out of here.”

“We cannot leave our home!” Mrs. Ruocco replied, outraged.

“Joe’s right, Mrs. Ruocco,” Frank said. “They might set the place on fire.”

Valentina made a sound like she was going to scream again, but Joe tightened his grip, silencing her.

“Maria and the children should leave,” Lorenzo said sensibly. “Maria, you take Valentina and the baby out the back and over to Mrs. Pizzuto’s.”

“I will not leave,” Mrs. Ruocco informed him.

“Did I say you should go?” he countered. “Come on, Maria. Hurry before somebody thinks about going around to the back.”

“Mama?” Maria asked uncertainly.

“Go,” Mrs. Ruocco said. “You cannot help here.”

Valentina was already hurrying toward the kitchen, and Maria followed her with obvious reluctance.

“One of you men, go with them and make sure they get there safely,” Frank added. Lorenzo went after them.

“You are police,” Mrs. Ruocco reminded him with a scornful glance. “Why you no do something?”

“I sent Officer Donatelli to Police Headquarters. They’ll be here soon.”

She snorted in disgust.

“Come away from the windows, Mama,” Joe said, taking her arm and trying to get her to move.

She shook him off. “I tell you turn off lights!”

Joe and Antonio finished the task, and soon they stood in shadowy darkness, relieved only by the flickering reflections from the torches outside.

“Mama, you should leave, too,” Antonio said, the fear thick in his voice. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

“Go, if you are afraid,” she said. “I will stay.”

“We should’ve let that Irish woman take the baby,”

Antonio said, looking toward the front of the restaurant where the shadows of the men outside danced across the shaded window. “Do you know what they’re saying about us in the newspapers?”

“I no care what they say,” Mrs. Ruocco cried. “Do you have no pride?”

“I have pride for my family, but that baby is not our family,” Antonio argued, his voice quivering with terror. “Why should we die for somebody else’s bastard?”

“Shut up, Antonio,” Joe said. “We aren’t going to die.”

“He said they’d set the place on fire!” Antonio cried, gesturing toward Frank.

“Then run away with the other baby,” Joe said in disgust.

“This is all your fault!” Antonio was shouting now. “You were the one who said I should marry that bitch!”

“You tell him that?” Mrs. Ruocco demanded in surprise.

“The baby!” Joe threw up his hands in frustration. “What else could he do?”

“He could do nothing!” Mrs. Ruocco informed him. “He is boy!”

“I’m not a boy, Mama!” Antonio protested. “I’m a man!”

Something struck the front door, shaking it in its frame and startling Mrs. Ruocco into crying out.

“Mama, Antonio is right. You must get out of here,” Joe said, moving toward her.

Frank had already stepped between her and the door. He picked up a chair, ready to swing it as a greeting to intruders. “Take your mother out the back,” he shouted at Joe.

They heard a door slam behind them and the sound of running feet. Someone burst through the door from the kitchen.

“Maria is safe,” Lorenzo reported. “What’s happening?”

“Take Mama away,” Joe said as the front door shook again under the assault of someone trying very hard to break it down. “Quick!”

“No!” Mrs. Ruocco cried, slapping away Joe’s hands when he tried to push her toward his brother. “I stay!”

“Get her under a table then!” Frank shouted as the front door shuddered one last time before bursting open. He didn’t see what happened to her because he was too busy swinging the chair at the first body through the door. It landed with a satisfactory thud, driving the fellow backward into the bodies behind him. Since the mob kept surging forward, no one could retreat or even stop, and the bodies pouring through the doorway all started falling over each other like dominoes.

Frank raised the chair and brought it down again on the first man to struggle to his feet. It shattered in his hands, so he shook loose one of the legs and started swinging. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep the rioters at bay with a chair leg, but fortunately, he finally heard the blast of a police whistle outside, followed by a chorus of echoing bleats that signaled the arrival of the cops.

“Get out of here before I lock you all up!” Frank shouted to the writhing mass of men lodged in the restaurant doorway. He could hear the satisfying sound of locust clubs striking flesh and bone and the howls of pain from the rioters in the street. Someone else had picked up another piece of the broken chair and was helping him beat back the in-vaders. For what seemed a long time, none of them were able to move because the crowd outside was blocking their escape. But suddenly, as if a cork had been pulled from a bottle, the mob fell away and those stuck in the doorway scrambled or dove or crawled outside to the relative safety of the street. Frank followed, still swinging his club to encourage them on their way. The street was already clearing except for those lying senseless on the cobblestones or being thrown into the paddy wagons.

Gino came running over to Frank. “Is everybody all right?”

“I think so,” Frank said, a little winded from his exer-tions. “Maria took Valentina and the baby to a neighbor’s.

The old woman wouldn’t leave, and the boys are still inside, but nobody got any farther than the front door.”

“We are all fine,” Lorenzo reported, coming up beside him, still holding his chair leg. So he’d been the one who rushed to help. Frank had expected Joe.

Behind them they could hear Patrizia Ruocco shouting in rapid Italian. Her tone spoke of outrage over the attack on her property and her family. Joe was trying to calm her without much success.

Gino went back to helping his fellow officers clear the streets by throwing every rioter too injured to run into a wagon for transport back to the station. In a surprisingly short time, the Black Marias rumbled away, leaving only the discarded clubs and broken beer bottles as evidence of what had transpired. The sergeant had come over to get Frank’s version of what happened. When he was finished, the last of the police officers drifted away, leaving only Frank and Gino Donatelli.

“Lorenzo,” Mrs. Ruocco snapped. “Help Giuseppe fix door.” She was carrying a broom and a dust pan and had begun sweeping up the broken glass around her doorstep.

“I should go get Maria and let her know it’s safe to come home,” Lorenzo said.

“I send Antonio already,” his mother said.

Lorenzo headed back into the restaurant.

“Mrs. Ruocco, if you like, I can get some police officers to guard your house tonight,” Frank offered.

She made a disparaging sound. “Police no good. We take care ourselves. You, go home. Leave us alone.”

Frank was only too happy to oblige.

“Should I stay?” Gino asked in a whisper.

“If you want to, but I doubt anybody will bother them again tonight. Those fellows will be nursing sore heads for a day or two. They might want to come back when they feel better, but not real soon.”

“Gino,” Mrs. Ruocco called. “Go home to you mama. We no need you help.”

“Come on, Gino,” Frank said, slapping the young fellow on the back. “It’s been a long day.”

The next morning Sarah woke to the sound of someone banging on her back door. Only her neighbors used the back door, so Sarah hurried to answer it, hoping no one was sick. She saw Mrs. Ellsworth’s silhouette on the glass and threw the door open.

“Have you seen the newspapers?” Mrs. Ellsworth demanded, holding one up. “Oh, I don’t suppose you have,”

she added, noticing Sarah was in her nightclothes. “I’m so sorry to wake you, but when I saw this article—”

“Come in, come in,” Sarah urged, closing the door behind her. “What is it?”

“Another riot at the Ruoccos’ restaurant last night,”

she said, holding up the paper again. “I heard the newsboy shouting about it when I was on my way to the market.

I bought it and came right here to show you. It’s bad luck to go back, you know, but since I wasn’t going to my own house, I don’t think that counts, does it?”

Sarah had no idea. She took the newspaper Mrs. Ellsworth handed her and scanned the story.

Supposedly, the Irish lads who had been arrested claimed they were only trying to rescue the baby the Italians had kidnapped. According to the report, none of the Ruoccos were injured, although Sarah knew that newspaper reports were notoriously inaccurate. Did she dare go down to Little Italy to check on the family? She knew what Malloy would say, but she really was worried about Maria and the rest of them, too. Maria was already under a strain with Nainsi’s murder and caring for the baby. Now she must be terrified as well, knowing a mob had wanted to take the boy from her.

“I should go down there,” Sarah said. “Make sure everyone is all right.”

“Oh, dear, I don’t think that’s wise,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with a frown. “Who knows who might be lurking around.

Besides, the family might not appreciate visitors right now, after what they went through last night.”

“I guess you’re right,” Sarah said, knowing she was. “I suppose if they need me, they’ll send for me.”

“Of course they will, dear. And if you simply can’t stay away, you might consider a visit to the mission a little later on. Surely, someone there can tell you everything you’d want to know,” she added with a wink.

Frank wasn’t surprised at the summons to Roosevelt’s office when he arrived at Headquarters the next morning. Old Teeth and Spectacles was in early this morning, and Frank had a feeling he probably hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. When he saw him, he was sure of it.

“Mr. Malloy, we can’t have the Irish and the Italians rioting in the street,” he said before Frank had even closed the door behind him.

“No, sir, we can’t.”

“Have you made any progress on the Irish girl’s murder yet?”

“No, sir. I was at the Ruoccos’ last night, questioning the family, when the riot started.”

“Do you still think one of them is the murderer?”

“That’s the most logical solution, but it’s hard to figure out why they would kill her. The boy she was married to had the best reason, but I’m almost certain he didn’t do it.

By all accounts, he was passed out drunk that night anyway, and I don’t think he’d even realized yet what all this meant for him.”

Roosevelt removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I had a visit from Tammany Hall last night,” he said grimly. “And Commissioner Parker.” Tammany Hall was where the Democratic politicians held court. He meant that someone in power there had accompanied Parker.

Although Roosevelt liked people to think he was in charge of the department, he was only one of four police commissioners. Parker was another of the four, and as a loyal Tammany soldier, he was the bane of Roosevelt’s existence.

“They came to my home,” Roosevelt added with quiet outrage. “They want this matter settled, and they want the girl’s mother—what’s her name?”

“Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Mrs. O’Hara. They want Mrs. O’Hara to have the child.”

Frank managed not to wince. “But the law says—”

“I know what the law says. I also know that this O’Hara woman has been raising Cain down at Tammany Hall, and the penny press has got everybody in an uproar. When we questioned the rioters we arrested last night, we found out they’d been organized by the Ward Heelers!” The Heelers were the political hacks assigned to organizing voters and making sure they made it to the polls to vote for the proper—that is, Democratic—candidates, as well as per-forming whatever other duties might be required of them.

Frank hadn’t realized that starting riots was one of those duties.

“Are you saying Tammany Hall is behind all the trouble?

Why would they care about one baby?”

“I think they want to demonstrate to their constituency that they have the power to control even me,” Roosevelt admitted. Frank could see how much this infuriated him.

“The trouble is, I can see the justice in this woman’s claim.

If someone in that house killed the baby’s mother, then they’ve got no right to the child.”

Frank had to agree with that, too. “We don’t know if one of the Ruoccos killed her, though.”

“Do you have other suspects?”

“Not any good ones.” Frank thought of the foreman at the sweatshop where Nainsi had worked.

“I don’t know how long Tammany will wait before they organize another riot, and the next time the Ruoccos might not be so lucky. Would it be possible to convince them to give the child to Mrs. O’Hara?”

Frank remembered Maria Ruocco holding the baby in her arms. She wouldn’t give the boy up willingly, but she wasn’t the power in that household. “Maybe,” Frank said,

“but they wouldn’t listen to me.”

“What about Officer Donatelli?”

“They don’t trust the police, even when the cop is Italian.

They don’t trust anybody else with authority, either. According to Donatelli, they only trust their own blood relatives.”

“But there must be someone else they’d listen to,” Roosevelt argued. “Or at least someone who could reason with them. It could save their lives!”

Frank gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t say her name. He wouldn’t even think it, not even to save every last one of the Ruoccos. “Maybe Donatelli knows somebody,” he offered.

“Somebody Italian who could influence them.”

“Dee-lightful,” Roosevelt declared. “The boy is upstairs in the dormitory. The desk sergeant told me they didn’t get finished with the prisoners until early this morning, so he stayed here.” He hurried to the door and ordered Miss Kelly to send for him.

While they waited, Frank filled Roosevelt in on everything he’d learned so far in the case. Hearing how little it was discouraged even him. He’d said before that all the Ruoccos had to do was keep quiet, and they’d never find Nainsi’s killer. He’d gotten them to talk, at least a little, but he was still no closer to the truth.

Donatelli appeared a few minutes later, looking as if he’d only had a few hours of sleep—which he had. His uniform, Frank noticed, looked a little less crisp than usual, but not too bad under the circumstances. Roosevelt quickly explained why they’d summoned him.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Donatelli said, his voice still thick from sleep. “I know who could talk to them—Mrs. Brandt.”

Frank almost choked.

Roosevelt pulled off his spectacles again. “Mrs. Brandt?”

he echoed with an accusing glance at Frank that caught him mid-wince. “Mrs. Sarah Brandt?”

“I don’t know her given name, sir,” Donatelli said, “but she’s the midwife who delivered the baby.”

“You didn’t mention Mrs. Brandt was involved in this case, Mr. Malloy,” Roosevelt said, less than pleased.

“She isn’t involved,” Frank lied. “She just delivered the baby.”

“But she also—” Donatelli began but caught himself when Frank glared at him.

“What did she also do?” Roosevelt asked Frank in a tone that brooked no evasion.

“She helped the Ruocco woman take care of the baby after the mother died,” Frank admitted reluctantly.

“They’d trust her, then?”

Frank doubted it. “I don’t know,” he said instead. “And I’m not even sure Mrs. Brandt would be willing to ask them to give up the baby. The Ruocco woman is pretty fond of it, I understand.”

“But Sarah would see the wisdom of it,” Roosevelt argued, using her first name to remind Frank he’d known her all his life. “She’d understand that it’s to protect the family and for the good of the whole city.”

Frank suspected Sarah would choose the good of one baby over the good of a whole city any day of the week, but he refrained from saying so. “Mrs. O’Hara doesn’t really have the means to take care of a baby,” he argued.

“Tammany is going to give her some kind of a pension, I’m told. They want this badly, Malloy. They aren’t going to let the matter rest, and if they don’t, I imagine Ugo Ruocco will make sure they have a fight on their hands. We can’t have these two factions rioting in the streets every night.”