Murder On Astor Place

9

SARAH READILY ADMITTED SHE WAS FLATTERED BY Frank Malloy’s request that she investigate Alicia’s murder. She would never admit it to him, of course, but she was, nonetheless. She was almost as flattered as she was outraged by Malloy’s news that his superiors had taken him off the case. She could understand if he wasn’t doing a good job or if they were merely assigning such an important case to someone with more seniority or some such thing. But to simply tell him the case was closed without any intention of ever finding Alicia’s killer was more than she could bear. What choice did she have but to accept the challenge of solving Alicia’s murder herself?

She hadn’t mentioned to Malloy how she had fantasized about being a detective. She also hadn’t mentioned how she had once questioned his dedication to finding Alicia’s killer. Whatever she might have thought of him before, he had vindicated himself by his request. And she wasn’t even counting the fact that he had entrusted a “mere” female with the task, but if she had, it would have counted heavily in his favor. If she wasn’t careful, she might start to think well of Malloy. Or at least not quite so badly.

But all of that could wait for another day when she had the time and energy to think about such things at her leisure. In the meantime she had a murderer to catch. She and Malloy had discussed possible courses of action, and the one that seemed most logical to Sarah was a return to the Higgins house where it had all started.

Today was going to be even hotter than yesterday, and the newspaper was starting to talk about a heat wave. If this was only April, what would July be like? In spite of the building heat, she found Mrs. Higgins in the kitchen preparing the noon meal for her lodgers. She would’ve preferred finding the new mother still in bed, but a quick examination of mother and child showed they were doing fine.

“I see you’ve got all your rooms rented,” Sarah remarked as she sat at the kitchen table, cradling the baby, while his mother worked at the stove.

“Yes, but for how long?” Mrs. Higgins asked plaintively. “Good lodgers is so hard to find, and the ones we’ve got now don’t fit that description. I’d reckon they’ll be gone before the month is out, owing rent into the bargain.”

“Then you’ll find some better lodgers,” Sarah said reasonably. “Of course, when the police catch the man who killed Miss VanDamm, you’d have a much easier time renting your rooms.”

“That’s certain,” Mrs. Higgins agreed, lifting a spoonful of soup to her mouth to taste. Apparently she was satisfied. She laid the spoon down on its rest and heaved the heavy cover back onto the cast iron soup pot with a clang, holding the handle with a corner of her apron. “But how will they ever catch him now? Nobody’s been around in a week. I don’t think they’re even looking anymore.”

How true, Sarah thought, but she said, “I’m sure they’ll find the killer soon. Is there some reason the police should have come back? Have you heard anything or has someone remembered something?”

Mrs. Higgins shook her head and turned a ball of dough out of the crockery bowl in which she had mixed it and began to knead it with practiced strokes. “Not that I know of. It’s just… the children are still so upset. They have nightmares. They think the killer is coming back to get them.”

Sarah felt an instant empathy with them. How many times had she dreamed she was Maggie, bleeding to death on a tenement floor? And she had been nearly grown when that happened. Their little imaginations must be running wild.

“I’d be happy to talk to them, if you think it would help. I know you’ve reassured them, but sometimes they don’t believe their parents. If an outsider-another grownup-tells them they don’t need to be afraid, they might believe it.”

Mrs. Higgins’s lined face brightened instantly. “Oh, would you, Mrs. Brandt? They all think the world of you. Mary Grace says she’s going to bring ladies babies when she grows up, just like Mrs. Brandt does.”

Sarah smiled, absurdly gratified by the compliment. “I’d be happy to speak to them.” From the sounds she could hear through the open kitchen doorway, she was sure she’d find most of them playing in the tiny yard behind the house. Probably, they’d been sent outside to escape the heat. “I’ll just take little Harry out for some air,” she offered, shifting the baby to her shoulder as she rose from the chair.

The Higgins children were racing around out in the yard, along with several of the neighbor’s children, engaged in some game only they could understand. Drawn by the novelty of a visitor, they came to her immediately, circling around like shy fireflies. She called each of them by name and tousled a few heads before seating herself on the steps. The smaller ones claimed the seats nearest to her, snuggling up and preening, basking in the undivided attention of a stranger. Little Harry gurgled contentedly, squinting in the bright morning sunlight where he lay on Sarah’s lap.

They chatted for a while, Sarah inquiring politely into their activities before bringing up the subject of bad dreams and bad men who came to get little children in the night. She hoped she wasn’t lying when she assured them the bad man who had hurt Alicia was gone and wouldn’t be back. At least she could be fairly certain he wouldn’t be back to the Higgins house. After a few minutes, the novelty of her presence wore off, and the younger children wandered away, back to their games. Sally and Mary Grace claimed the seats vacated by the little ones and asked what they perceived to be more grown-up questions, until Sally, too, grew bored. She took her doll back to the makeshift playhouse her father had built out of wood scraps in a comer of the yard, leaving Mary Grace alone with Sarah.

Sarah smiled at Mary Grace as she bounced Harry gently in her lap, but the girl didn’t smile back. She wished Mary Grace didn’t look so old for her years. Sarah could almost believe she carried the weight of the world on her slender shoulders.

“That black bag you carry, is that what you bring the babies in?” Mary Grace asked suddenly.

Sarah bit back a smile, knowing if she showed amusement, she would damage Mary Grace’s fragile pride. “Is that what your mother says?”

“She says it’s none of my business, and I’ll understand when I’m older.”

She wouldn’t ever understand it if no one ever explained it to her, Sarah thought. “What do you think?”

Mary Grace frowned thoughtfully and pulled on one of her pigtails. “I think the baby was in my mother’s stomach.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because her stomach was big when we went to bed that night, and in the morning it was small again, and Harry was born.”

“You’re very smart to figure that out, Mary Grace,” Sarah said, a little relieved that Mary Grace was so perceptive and Sarah wouldn’t have to risk telling her something her mother would be angry to hear about.

“What I can’t figure out is how Harry got out of her stomach,” Mary Grace said, her small face pinched in frustration.

Sarah wasn’t about to explain this to a girl of ten years. The actual mechanics of birth were still hard for Sarah to accept, even after all her years of experience. Explaining to a young girl how a baby could pass through an opening she probably didn’t yet know existed wasn’t something she was about to attempt on this spring morning.

“That’s what the midwife does,” she said by way of compromise. “I help the baby come out. Like your mother says, it’s something you’ll understand when you’re older, but you don’t have to worry about it right now. It will be a long time before you have to think about babies.” At least she hoped so, remembering how very young Alicia VanDamm had been.

Sarah expected Mary Grace to wander off, too, now that their conversation was over, but she sat where she was, pretending to play with Harry, letting him grab her fingers with his tiny hands. Sarah sensed the girl had another question she wanted to ask and was just trying to work up the courage. She just hoped it was one she could answer honestly without incurring Mrs. Higgins’s wrath.

Finally, she said, without looking up, “There was two of them.”

“Two of who?” Sarah asked.

“In Alice’s room that night.” She glanced up to see if she’d shocked Sarah. She had, of course, but Sarah managed to register only surprise. She didn’t want to frighten Mary Grace into silence.

“You saw the men who went to Alicia’s-um, Alice’s room?” she asked.

“Wasn’t men. It was a man and a woman.”

A thousand questions swirled in Sarah’s mind, but she resisted the urge to throw all of them at the girl at once. If she was too eager or overanxious, Mary Grace might feel she was doing something wrong, and Sarah would learn nothing more. “Was it someone you knew? Ham Fisher, maybe?”

Mary Grace shook her head. “He was there, but it wasn’t him. He let them in, I think. They come to the back door, and somebody let them in. Then Mr. Fisher goes out. He was carrying the bag he brought with him when he come. I guess it was his clothes, ’cause Mama said all his things was gone the next morning.”

“The man and woman, what did they look like?”

“I don’t know. It was dark,” she said simply.

Of course it was. “But you recognized Ham Fisher,” Sarah reminded her, shifting Harry and bouncing him a little when he started to fuss.

“I knowed the way he walks.”

“Could you tell anything about the man and woman? Were they tall or short? Was there anything unusual or familiar about them?”

“Tall and short. He was tall and straight up and down. She was short and round, like a ball. She walked slow. She had a stick in her hand, a cane, I think it was, like she was crippled or something. He had to help her up the steps.”

“Why didn’t you tell anybody this before, Mary Grace?” Sarah asked.

The girl smoothed the fabric of her skirt. As the oldest child, she never had to wear hand-me-downs, so the quality was still good. “Nobody asked me,” she said simply.

Sarah would enjoy telling Malloy that he’d missed a good bet by not questioning the children. She wondered that they didn’t teach detectives how important that could be. “But I didn’t ask you either,” she pointed out.

Mary Grace flashed her a look. Her eyes were still shadowed. “I thought if I told the policeman… You won’t tell my Mama, will you?”

“Why not?”

“Because I was supposed to be asleep. I like to sit up late, when everybody’s asleep and everything’s real quiet, but Mama yells at me. She says I need my rest. I think she just gets mad because I don’t wake up when she calls me in the morning.”

Sarah could believe this. She could also imagine how a girl like Mary Grace might treasure a few minutes of solitude in a house so full of people. But she couldn’t spend too much time worrying about Mary Grace’s sleeping habits. She had a job to do, one Malloy would probably do much better since he was trained to do it. But Malloy wasn’t here, and Sarah would have to manage somehow on her own. What would Malloy ask if he were here? What else would be important to know?

“Did you… did you hear anything that night? Any noise from Alice’s room or people talking in there?”

“Her room’s too far away, and I fell asleep. For a while, anyways.”

“What woke you up?”

“I guess it was the back door opening. My bed’s right by the window. I saw the man leaving.”

“The man and woman, you mean.”

“No, just the man. And he was hurrying, like something was chasing him, only nothing was.”

“But you didn’t see the woman?”

“No, she never come out, not that I saw. You won’t tell my Mama, will you?” she asked anxiously.

“No, I won’t tell her a thing. But I’m glad you told me. This might help the police catch whoever hurt Alice.”

“I want you to catch him,” Mary Grace said earnestly. “I dream he’s coming back for me. I dream he’s coming right through the window to get me, and when I wake up, I’m shaking.”

“Oh, dear,” Sarah exclaimed, sliding her free arm around the girl’s slender body and pulling her close. “You don’t have to be afraid. He doesn’t know you saw him, so he wouldn’t have any reason to come back for you, and besides, he’s going to stay as far away from this house as he can.”

“Do you think so?” she asked doubtfully.

“I know so,” Sarah replied, holding her close. She just wished Mary Grace looked a little more convinced.

EVEN THOUGH SARAH had wanted to go see Malloy at once, she headed home instead. After all, she couldn’t go to him with every single clue. The people at Headquarters would get suspicious, and if they figured out that Malloy had put her on the case, he might be in terrible trouble. Besides, he’d said he’d check in with her every few days to see if she’d learned anything, so she would just have to wait until he showed up at her office again. It wasn’t as if she’d discovered the killer’s name or anything. She just knew that a man and a woman had gone into Alicia’s room that night. The woman might have been an abortionist, and if she was, the description might identify her to Malloy, who had interviewed a goodly selection of them. But who was the man? She wished she knew more than that he was tall and straight. She supposed Mary Grace had meant he wasn’t fat, but that could describe half the men in New York. It most certainly described Mr. VanDamm, Sylvester Mattingly, and probably even the groom, Harvey.

But if the woman was the abortionist, and they could find her, she could identify the man for them. If she would, that is. Sarah had little reason to hope the woman would betray someone who had probably paid her for her silence and who was already a murderer. Unless, perhaps, she feared for her life if she didn’t betray him. Well, Malloy had much more experience at this than she did. He’d know what to do next.

Sarah was in her kitchen, braving the heat to bake some cookies for the Higgins children as a reward for Mary Grace’s information, when someone rang her bell. She opened her door to find one of the dirty, shoeless boys known as street Arabs who made their precarious living any way they could.

“Mrs. Yardley, she says to come quick. Her baby’s real sick,” he told her anxiously, hopping from one bare foot to the other in his urgency to be off again.

Remembering young Dolly and the babies she had already lost, Sarah hurried. On her way out, she captured one of the freshly baked cookies for the boy, who gobbled it up without a word of thanks. The afternoon heat was oppressive, and Sarah took her parasol along with her bag.

Although Sarah was technically a midwife, she was also a trained nurse and was often called upon to treat illnesses as well as childbirth. New mothers always seemed to think of her first if their babies became ill.

“What’s wrong with the baby, do you know?” she asked the boy, who had to slow down so he wouldn’t outpace her. He wouldn’t get paid until she appeared, so he was sticking close to her.

“I don’t know nothing. I was just to fetch you is all.”

Sarah quickened her pace, even though she could already feel the sweat forming beneath her clothes. Maybe she should consider a bicycle, so at times like this she could move more quickly through the city streets. They were all the rage, and even the police used bicycles now. They were one of Commissioner Roosevelt’s innovations, and just the other day she’d seen an article in the Times that the bicycle force was being expanded. Every now and then she saw a story about a “wheel man” stopping a runaway horse and wagon from the seat of his cycle, even though that hardly seemed possible. Somehow she couldn’t imagine herself on one of the comic contraptions, however. Perhaps if she were younger and not so worried about her dignity.

At last she reached the tenement building on First Avenue where the Yardleys lived. Will Yardley stood on the front stoop, apparently watching for her. He shouted something when he saw her and the boy approaching and hurried to meet her. He even took her bag, carrying it the last few paces and up the stairs. Sarah could hear the baby’s cries even out on the street. At least she was still alive and fairly strong, if the volume of her wailing was any indication.

“I told Dolly to send for a doctor, but she wouldn’t have none of it,” he was saying. “She only wanted you. Said you was the one kept this one from dying when it was born, and you’d keep her alive now.”

Sarah was gratified to see that he seemed genuinely distressed by his daughter’s illness. Perhaps he’d finally reconciled himself to the child after all. She would have asked him what was wrong with the baby, but by then they were on the stoop, and it was only a step into the Yardley’s flat.

Sarah found Dolly walking the floor with the screaming baby over her shoulder. Her face was pale, her hair a mess, and she looked near exhaustion. “Oh, thank heaven you’re here, Missus,” she said. “My girl is that sick, she is.”

“What seems to be the trouble?” Sarah asked, taking the squalling infant from her mother’s arms.

“She’s been up all night long, crying, and I can’t figure out what’s the matter!” They had to shout to be heard over Rosy’s cries.

“Will she nurse?”

“Yes, but that just seems to make it worse. When she’s done, she just starts screaming again.”

“Has she been sick at all?”

“Not at all except for the crying!” Dolly said, on the verge of tears herself.

Sarah laid the baby on the kitchen table and checked her for rash and fever. She seemed warm, but considering the weather and the fact that she’d been held against her mother’s body for a while, that was only to be expected. Or perhaps she had a low fever. Sarah listened to the baby’s heart and lungs with her stethoscope and, to her great relief, found nothing wrong there. Having eliminated every serious possibility, she knew the answer.

“She has the colic,” Sarah said.

“The colic? What’s that?”

“It’s a bad stomachache. See the way she pulls her legs up when she cries? That’s because her stomach hurts.”

“But how could she have a stomachache? She don’t eat nothin’ ’cept my milk. Do you think I’m poisonin’ her?” she asked in horror.

“Oh, no, of course not. The colic is something some newborns get. Nobody knows why, and unfortunately, nobody really knows how to cure it. Usually, it lasts for six months-”

“Six months?”

“-and then the baby just grows out of it, and it stops. That’s why they call it the six months colic.”

Dolly looked stricken. “You mean she’s gonna cry like this for six months? I’ll have to go to Bellevue!” she cried, naming the local insane asylum. “And Will’s gonna go right along with me!”

“I didn’t say we couldn’t help her,” Sarah assured her. “I’ll show you some tricks that will make her more comfortable and help you all keep your sanity.”

Sarah showed Dolly how to carry the baby over her arm, which seemed to soothe her instantly. Meanwhile, she warmed some rags to lay on the baby’s stomach. Within an hour, the exhausted child was sleeping peacefully.

When Dolly had laid her in the bed, she sank down in a chair and gave Sarah a desperate look. “You don’t have to tell me no lies just to make it easier, Mrs. Brandt. Just tell me straight out, is she gonna die? Don’t be afraid to say the truth. I don’t wanna-”

“No, of course she isn’t going to die. Not from colic. I told you, lots of babies get it. They just cry a lot, and then one day you wake up and it’s over, and your baby will be happy and healthy.”

Dolly’s large eyes filled with tears. “You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

Dolly grabbed Sarah’s hand and pressed it to her lips in a gesture both touching and humbling. “Oh, Missus, thank you for coming. I don’t know what I-”

“Now don’t give me more credit than I deserve. Rosie isn’t even really sick,” Sarah demurred, gently extricating her hand. “And now I think I’d better start taking care of my other patient. You need some rest, too, Dolly, but first let me fix you something to eat. Then I want you to sleep until the baby wakes up. That’s an order.”

Within a few minutes, Dolly was fed and tucked into bed with her child, both of them sound asleep. Sarah found Will Yardley, still perched on the front stoop. He was nursing a glass of something that looked suspiciously like beer, and he looked as frazzled and exhausted as Dolly had.

“Is she gonna live?” he asked Sarah.

Sarah knew it wasn’t a silly question. Babies died of seemingly minor ailments every day in the tenements. At least this time she could give him hope. “She’s got the colic. It’s nothing but a stomachache.” Sarah explained it again, trying to use terms Will could understand.

“And she won’t die of it?”

“Not of the colic.” That much she could promise. As for whatever else came along, well, that was in God’s hands. “I’ll be back again tomorrow to see how they’re doing, but right now, they both just need to get some sleep.”

“Could a doctor do anything more?”

“No,” Sarah said quite honestly. There were no magic potions to cure the mysterious maladies that plagued mankind, no matter what the claims of patent medicines might be. At least Rosie’s ailment could be cured by time.

Will nodded, accepting her word. His young face looked haggard, and for the first time she realized how young he was. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five, if that, but his face showed every year of his life, and his eyes gleamed with a wisdom hard-earned. She thought of the boy who had come to fetch her today, and wondered if Will was the kind of man he would grow into, if indeed he lived long enough to grow up. Few did.

Will ran a grubby hand over his weary face. “I don’t know what I’ll do with Dolly if anything happens to that kid. I thought she took it hard when she lost them other ones, but this one… she sets store by this one, Mrs. Brandt.”

From the red rims of Will’s eyes, Sarah suspected he did, too, but she wouldn’t challenge his manhood by asking him to admit it. “I’ll take good care of both of them, Will.”

“I’ll pay you for this time,” Will offered, perhaps afraid she might not give him good service if it was a trade, like before. Or perhaps he was simply afraid of being neglected if she thought he couldn’t afford her fee.

Sarah wasn’t so well-off that she could afford to turn down a fee, but when she recalled the bargain she had made with Will the last time, she wondered if he might not be of use to her again. “You won’t have to pay me anything at all if you can find out some more information about that man I asked you about before.”

“That Fisher swell?”

“That’s the one.”

Will frowned suspiciously. “I heard it won’t be very good for my health if I go messing around with that Mattingly fellow he works for.”

“You won’t have to.”

Will was still suspicious. “Then what do you want to know?”

Sarah thought it over and decided she might as well go for broke. “I’d like to know where to find him.”

Will’s frown deepened. “Why would you wanna know that? You ain’t going after him yourself, are you?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t think of it,” she said, then wondered if that were true. If she knew where Ham Fisher was-the man who had perhaps admitted Alicia’s killer to the Higgins house-would she be patient enough to wait for Malloy? That was a question she couldn’t answer until she knew. “I just need to know where he is, Will. And when I do, a friend of mine wants to talk to him. A male friend,” she added, in case he was still worried.

Will was still worried. “I owe you, Mrs. Brandt, so I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make no promises. It’s a big city, and there’s a thousand places a fellow like that can hide if he don’t want to be found.”

Sarah smiled at Will Yardley. “I know you’ll do your best, Will.”

IT WAS THE end of a very long, very hot day when Frank climbed the stairs to his flat. The smell of cooking cabbage hung heavily in the stifling air of the littered stair-well, along with other, even less savory aromas. Too many people living too close together. He could hear the sounds of the McMullins arguing, her screeching and him booming in response. The words were indistinguishable, but Frank knew he wouldn’t understand the fight even if he could understand the words. There’d be some crashing of pots and pans and then silence for a long time afterward. That’s how it always went. Nothing much changed in this building, even when he was gone for days at a time, which he mostly was.

When he reached the door to his flat on the second floor, he tried the knob before hunting for his key. As he’d suspected, it turned under his hand. How many times had he told his mother to keep the door locked? Maybe she wanted somebody to break in and murder her.

She’d probably reason that at least he’d have to pay attention to her then, if for no other reason than to investigate the crime.

She was in the front room in front of the open window to catch what breeze there was when he walked in, rocking and sewing by the light of the gas jet. She looked up from her mending when the door opened. Her expression was all phony surprise.

“Well, now, sir, and what might you be wanting? If you’re selling something, I’m just a poor old woman with no money to spend on fripperies, mind you, so you might as well be on your way.”

“Ma,” he said in warning, but it didn’t faze her.

“And if you’ve come here for no good, let me warn you, I’ve got a son who’s a police detective, and he’ll hunt you down like a dog. I hear he’s pretty good at his job, although I wouldn’t know for myself, since I hardly ever get to see him.”

“Enough, Ma.” Frank stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Frances?” she cried in feigned surprise. “Is it you? I swear, it’s been so long, I’ve forgot what you look like.”

He could have argued that he’d been here just last Thursday, but of course, that was five days ago now, and she’d hardly consider that a recent visit. Technically, he lived here, but he spent far more time in the police dormitory and elsewhere. His mother was part of the reason why, if only part.

“Do you have anything to eat?” he asked, hanging his hat on a peg by the door and shrugging out of his suit coat. At least he didn’t have to stand on formality here. It was one of the few advantages of coming home.

“Of course I have something to eat. My son, the big fancy police detective, he brings me money every week. I go to Mass every morning to thank the Blessed Virgin that I have such a generous son.”

Briefly, Frank considered performing that murder he had been thinking about earlier himself. Unfortunately, he needed the old woman too much. “Would it be too much trouble for you to fix me something?” he asked instead, managing to keep his voice even, mainly because he was too tired for an argument. “I haven’t eaten since morning.”

As he’d suspected, her motherly instincts overcame her need to make him feel guilty. Something about a hungry child, no matter what his age, was a temptation no woman could resist. She laid her mending aside and rose instantly. “You get washed up. It’ll only take a minute. I’ve got a stew I just made today, your favorite. I put carrots in it, just the way you like.”

Frank washed up at the kitchen sink and dried his hands and face on an immaculate towel. Everything in the apartment was immaculate, in fact. The floors were spotless, the furniture polished and shining, even the windows shone. Frank almost felt like he was contaminating the place by his presence. Another reason to stay away.

As if he needed one.

Sitting down at the scrubbed table, Frank remembered the meal he’d eaten with Sarah Brandt. Although her cooking wasn’t up to his mother’s standards, she’d been a lot better company. Or maybe that was just because they’d only been talking about his work. Frank always felt comfortable when he was talking about his work. His mother, of course, never wanted to hear about what he did. What he did frightened her, and besides, she had her own world. And her own concerns. Frank was sometimes one of them.

She worked in silence, heating the stew. The rich aroma made his stomach clench painfully, and he tried to remember why he hadn’t stopped for lunch today. A stool pigeon had kept him busy most of the afternoon, a little weasel of a man who claimed to know who had robbed that big warehouse on the docks. If Frank could solve that case, he’d be able to add a reward of several hundred dollars to his savings. A promotion to Captain cost $14,000, or at least it used to, before Roosevelt and his reformers took over. But the reformers wouldn’t last. Someday soon things would be just the way they used to be, and Frank would need that $14,000. He still had a long way to go.

His mother set the plate down in front of him, and he looked at her-really looked at her-for the first time since he’d come in. She was tired. And when had her hair gotten so gray? She was a small woman, shorter than average, and over the years her once-trim figure had broadened in the beam, but she was still a long way from fat. Frank could remember her working long days over a washtub to bring in extra money when he and his sisters had been young. He wondered vaguely how a woman so small had managed such hard physical labor, something he’d never even considered before. She hadn’t seemed small then, since he’d been a child himself, and he hadn’t thought of those days in years, not since he’d gotten work and been able to ease her load somewhat.

Frank shoveled in a spoonful of stew and chewed gratefully. “This is good, Ma,” he said, startling her. But his mother wasn’t one for compliments, and neither was he. She was instantly suspicious, and went on the attack.

“He’s asleep, and thank you for asking,” she said tartly, taking a seat opposite him so she could glare.

Frank allowed himself another bite of stew. “I figured. It’s late.”

“Is that why you waited until now to come? So he’d be asleep, and you wouldn’t have to see him?”

“I waited until late because that’s when I was finished with my work,” Frank said. He tried not to sound defensive, but the stew suddenly tasted like sawdust in his mouth. He broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in the gravy, and stuffed it in his mouth defiantly. “You know I work long hours. You know I can’t get home very often.”

“You got home easy enough when Kathleen was alive,” she reminded him.

“I was a patrolman then. I worked my shift and went home.” The shifts had been twenty-four hours long, too, so he really hadn’t been home a lot, even in those days. But his mother wasn’t going to be bothered by facts when she had a point to make.

“He asks for you. I don’t know what to tell him.”

He really wanted to kill her then, for telling such an awful, hurtful lie. “He doesn’t talk, Ma. He can’t talk.”

“He talks. He don’t talk plain, like you and me, but I understand what he wants. I show him your picture, the one of you and Kathleen when you got married, and I tell him, ‘That’s your Da.’ And he asks for you. He knows who you are, even though he don’t see you more than once in a blue moon.”

“I’ve got my job to do, don’t I?” he asked, hating the guilt he felt clawing inside of him. Hating her and himself and everybody in the world.

“You’ve got more than one job, Frances Xavier Malloy.”

“Only one that puts food on the table and a roof over your head. Over his head. Or would you rather live on the streets?”

His feeble attempt to make her feel guilty in return failed miserably. She was the master at it. “Finish your supper,” she told him, as if he was a boy again. “Then you can go in and see him.”

What a rare treat, he thought bitterly. By now the delicious meal was a leaden lump in his stomach, and whatever appetite he’d had vanished. “I’ll see him now,” he said resignedly, throwing down his spoon and pushing his chair back with a scrape.

“Now, Frances, finish your supper,” she tried, but he was gone to do his penance, opening the door to the bedroom.

The room was dark and silent except for the rasp of breathing. His mother’s bed took up one corner and the crib the other. The light from the gas jet in the kitchen spilled in, enough for him to see when his eyes had made the adjustment. Every instinct told him to flee. Every instinct rebelled against putting himself through this. It never got any easier. If anything, after three years, it was harder than ever to look upon the face of disaster, but still he forced his footsteps across the few feet of floor to the side of the crib.

The crib was large, larger than a regular baby’s crib. A carpenter had built it for him special. A necessary expense that had come out of his captain’s fund. Not that he begrudged the money, but still, every dollar that came out would mean he’d need that much longer to gather enough money. Time he didn’t have to waste.

Frank wrapped his fingers around the side railing of the bed and looked down. The face lay in shadows, but Frank could see it well enough. He knew it by heart, after all. The beautiful face. Kathleen’s face shrunk down to child size. Kathleen’s beautiful blue eyes, closed now in sleep, thank God, so he didn’t have to see them and feel the pain he still felt every time he looked into them and saw only emptiness.

His son and heir. The blanket covered his twisted legs, the legs that would never walk, and the night had closed the empty eyes so Frank wouldn’t have to see that no matter what his mother said, his own child didn’t recognize him and probably never would and would most certainly never call him by name.

They’d told him the grief for Kathleen would dim with the passing of time, but he still felt it fiercely each time he saw his son, the legacy of her awful, needless death. The pain in his heart was like a gaping hole, a bottomless pit he could never fill, no matter how hard he tried. He’d been holding on for three years, now, and if he ever let go, he might fall into that pit and lose himself forever.

How many times had he been tempted to do just that? Only one thing had stopped him. His son. Kathleen’s son. The boy who would grow tall but who would never grow up, who would need someone to look after him for his entire life. Frank was that someone, and so he had to make Captain, to make sure his son would never want for anything as long as he lived.

Without consciously deciding to, Frank reached down and stroked the red-gold curls that his mother refused to cut. They felt like silk beneath his rough fingers, and the boy stirred slightly in his sleep.

That was when Frank understood about Alicia VanDamm. She’d been just as helpless as his boy, in her own way, helpless and afraid and no one had taken care of her. That was wrong. Frank knew it in the depths of what little soul he still possessed. He wouldn’t be able to right that wrong. He wouldn’t be able to help Alicia VanDamm. She was long past such help now, but at least he could avenge her death. A blow for justice in an unjust world. Usually, Frank didn’t feel he could afford the luxury of justice, but just this once, and just because he had Sarah Brandt to help him, he was going to indulge himself.

He only hoped Sarah Brandt was up to the task.