Murder On Mulberry Bend

6

SARAH THOUGHT ENOUGH TIME HAD PASSED SINCE Malloy had put her into the Hansom cab. He would have long since been to the mission and gone, so it was now safe for her to go there herself and speak with Mrs. Wells about her plans. If she also happened to learn more about Emilia while she was there, she’d certainly be happy to share that information with Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy.

The girl who opened the door to her had red hair and freckles, and she looked at Sarah suspiciously. News of Emilia’s death would certainly have upset everyone in the house and made them wary. Sarah asked to speak with Mrs. Wells and was admitted and instructed to wait in the parlor.

Mrs. Wells appeared a few minutes later. Her expression was somber, her smile of greeting sad. “Mrs. Brandt,” she said. “How good of you to come. Won’t you sit down?” She directed Sarah to the horsehair sofa and took a seat beside her, her back still rigidly straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Like most women, she had been taught to put on a good face in public, no matter what her private pain might be.

“I’m terribly sorry about Emilia,” Sarah said.

“So are we,” Mrs. Wells said. “She had struggled for a long time against the forces of evil. At least we can take comfort that she is at peace now.”

Sarah thought that an odd thing to say about someone so young and healthy as Emilia had been, but she knew her view of life and death was different from Mrs. Wells’s.

“I was surprised,” Mrs. Wells continued, not waiting for Sarah to respond, “that you had been asked to identify Emilia’s body.”

Sarah heard the unspoken question. She wondered how Malloy had explained it to her. “Detective Sergeant Malloy recognized the hat Emilia was wearing as one he’d seen me wear.”

“He must know you very well,” Mrs. Wells observed. “Few men would remember a lady’s hat.”

Sarah wasn’t sure if she heard a note of disapproval in Mrs. Wells’s voice or not. Few people would think it proper for her to be on intimate terms with a policeman, since the police were considered as corrupt as the criminals they arrested. She reminded herself that her own mother disapproved of her acquaintance with Malloy. “I have been able to assist Mr. Malloy on several of his cases – cases that involved people with whom I was acquainted,” she added when Mrs. Wells’s eyebrows rose a notch.

Her eyebrows rose even higher, but she said, “I suppose as a midwife, you must encounter all sorts of people.” Obviously, she wouldn’t have expected Sarah to meet people who got themselves murdered in the ordinary course of her life.

“Just as you do, in your work,” Sarah pointed out.

“I’m sorry if I seem overly curious about your personal affairs, Mrs. Brandt, but I don’t believe I’ve ever known the police to be particularly vigilant about solving crimes involving people like Emilia. But Mr. Malloy has made an extraordinary effort, and I was wondering why.”

Sarah couldn’t take offense at that. Mrs. Wells was absolutely correct. “You’ll be happy to know that Mr. Malloy is unusually conscientious. He has also promised to do everything he can to find out who killed Emilia so brutally and bring her killer to justice.”

The blood seemed to drain from the other woman’s face, and she pressed a handkerchief to her lips. Sarah instantly regretted reminding her so coldly of Emilia’s death.

“Are you ill?” Sarah asked in concern, leaning forward and ready to catch her if she fainted.

“No, I’m fine,” she said, a little weakly. She drew a deep breath and forced herself to look up at Sarah as if to prove her assessment of her own condition. “That poor, dear girl. It’s just been very difficult…”

“I’m sure it has. The other girls must be terribly upset.”

“I’ve tried to set a good example, of course,” Mrs. Wells explained. “We must not grieve for those who have gone to be with the Lord. They are much happier than we can ever imagine.”

Sarah supposed this was a good way to deal with grief. She liked to think of Tom as living happily in the hereafter. It had never been enough to make her content to live without him, however. “I suppose Emilia had a very unhappy life before she came here,” she ventured, hoping to allow Mrs. Wells an opportunity to tell her about the girl in whom she had invested so much effort. As Sarah knew, talking about the deceased helped ease the pain of loss. Not to mention, she might reveal some useful information in the process.

“Her family was no worse than most, I suppose,” Mrs. Wells said, not looking at Sarah. She seemed to be speaking more to herself, lost in her own memories. “The Italians are of an emotional temperament, as I’m sure you know. Emilia was a sensitive girl. She suffered more than most under her parents’ inability to control themselves. I’m afraid that made her easy prey for the wrong kind of man.”

“You mentioned that she had been seduced by a man who wouldn’t marry her,” Sarah reminded her.

“Emilia wasn’t his first conquest, I’m afraid. He promised her marriage, but he had no intention of keeping that promise. Why should he when Emilia had already granted him every privilege of marriage without it?”

Sarah had heard this same story many times, innocent girls betrayed by faithless lovers.

“How did she come to the mission?” Sarah asked.

Mrs. Wells sighed. “The first time she was desperate. When her lover refused to marry her, she had enough self-respect left to leave him, but her parents refused to take her back. She’d disgraced them, they said. As if people like that had any honor to begin with.”

Her contempt was probably well deserved, Sarah thought. People who turned a child away were despicable. “So she came to the mission?” Sarah guessed.

“Not then,” Mrs. Wells said with a sigh. “She allowed herself to be deceived by yet another man who was even worse than the first one. This one forced her to… to sell herself in the streets.”

Sarah winced. Too many girls ended up in this situation, never to escape. “How did she manage to get away from him?”

“She became ill, and he threw her out. She wandered the streets and ended up on our doorstep.”

“She was fortunate.”

Mrs. Wells gave her a sad smile. “I only wish she had realized it. As soon as she was well, she left us.”

“She went back to her pimp?” Sarah asked in amazement.

“At least it wasn’t that bad,” Mrs. Wells said. “She returned to the man who had originally seduced her. She still loved him, and she was grateful he still wanted her after what she’d done.”

“Did he promise to marry her this time?”

Mrs. Wells shook her head. “She didn’t care. She just wanted someone to love her, she said. And someone who wouldn’t make her walk the streets again.”

Sarah’s heart ached for a girl so desperate for love that she would believe any lie and endure any humiliation. “What brought her back to the mission?”

“She found herself with child. She begged her lover to marry her, for the sake of the baby, but he refused. He said he couldn’t even be sure the child was his. Then he beat her until she lost the baby.”

Sarah couldn’t hold back a low moan. She could feel Emilia’s pain and the despair she must have endured after losing her baby. “So that brought her back here,” she guessed.

“I’m afraid so. God works in mysterious ways, Mrs. Brandt, and all things work together for good. We cannot question why evil things happen if they lead us to Him.”

Sarah had long since stopped trying to understand why evil things happened. “She seemed very happy when I saw her on Sunday.”

“She was very pleased when I gave her the clothing you brought. She said that now she would look like a lady.” Mrs. Wells smiled sadly at the memory. “She was going to find work today.”

Sarah could just imagine how excited the girl must have been, setting out in her “new” outfit to start a new life. What had taken her to the park this morning, instead, and who had killed her?

“Do you know where she was going?”

“She was going to look for a job in one of the factories nearby, making clothes. She had developed into a fine seamstress.”

“Why would she have been down by City Hall?”

“I… I can’t imagine,” she said. “I don’t want to believe she lied about where she was going.” Plainly, the thought pained her.

“Could she have gone to meet someone?” Sarah asked.

Mrs. Wells winced slightly. “Your friend, Mr. Malloy, asked me the same thing,” she said. “I told him I didn’t know. I’m sure if Emilia was meeting a lover, she wouldn’t have let anyone here know it.”

That did seem reasonable. “I guess you couldn’t blame her if she wanted someone she knew to see her all dressed up,” Sarah said.

Mrs. Wells lowered her gaze, studying her folded hands for a long moment. “She did say…” she began, then caught herself.

“What did she say?” Sarah asked. “It might be a clue to who killed her.”

Plainly, Mrs. Wells did not want to tell her. “One of the girls told me… You must understand, I’m sure Emilia was just talking when she said it.”

Sarah nodded encouragingly.

“She said she wished Ugo could see her. That is the man who beat her.”

Sarah tried not to let her excitement show. This could be a clue as to who killed Emilia, but she didn’t want to alarm Mrs. Wells or frighten her. “It would be perfectly natural for her to want him see how beautiful she is and to regret losing her,” she said.

“ ‘Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain,’ ” she quoted with a hint of despair in her voice. “In Emilia’s case, I’m afraid it may also have killed her.”

“Do you think that’s what she did? Meet her lover to let him see what he’d lost or even to make him want to take her back?”

“It’s possible. Heaven knows, I’ve seen girls do things even more foolish. And this Ugo is prone to violence, as he proved before.”

“Did you tell this to Mr. Malloy?” Sarah asked.

Mrs. Wells shook her head. “I’m afraid I didn’t think of it. He asked me the name of her family, of course. And I also told him her lover was named Ugo. I never heard his last name.”

“I’m sure her family will know it,” Sarah said. “Malloy should know that she might have gone to meet him this morning, though.”

“Would you have the opportunity to tell him?” Mrs. Wells asked. “I’m afraid I’d rather not discuss it any further. It’s rather painful, and I… Well, I’d really rather not deal with the police anymore.”

“Of course. I’ll be glad to tell him,” Sarah said. No one ever wanted to deal with the police.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brandt,” she said, preparing to rise. Sarah knew this was a signal their visit was over, but Sarah hadn’t yet told her why she’d really come.

“Mrs. Wells, I was wondering if you would allow me and Mr. Dennis to hold a party to raise money on behalf of the mission.”

Mrs. Wells stared at her with that intense gaze she had noticed on her previous visit, as if she were trying to look into Sarah’s soul and read what was written there. “That would be very kind of you,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. She wouldn’t want to appear too eager, of course. That would make her look greedy.

“My parents would actually host the party, at their home. My father is Felix Decker,” she added, knowing this would overcome Mrs. Wells’s wariness.

As self-contained as she usually was, Mrs. Wells could not conceal her surprise. She had obviously underestimated Sarah Brandt. “Mrs. Brandt, I… We would be honored.”

“Mr. Dennis suggested that perhaps you would like to attend the party yourself and speak about the work you are doing here. He thought it might also help if you brought a few of the girls with you, to actually show the success you’re having.”

“I’m sure we can do whatever you think would be most appropriate. We never have enough of anything here at the mission. Raising funds is a constant struggle.”

“I was certain that was true,” Sarah said. “Which is why I want to help. I’d like to think that Emilia’s death can bring some good.”

Mrs. Wells smiled sadly. “I’d like to think that, too, Mrs. Brandt.”

When Emilia Donato left home, she hadn’t gone too far, Frank observed. Her parents lived only a few blocks from the mission, where Mulberry Street made a sharp turn between Park and Bayard Streets. Known as the Bend, the area had long been the location of the most notorious slums in the city. A couple decades earlier, it had been the juncture of five streets. The Five Points area had been so dangerous that even the police never went there except in large groups. Five Points crime had been cleaned up, but the poverty and squalor remained.

Thousands of Jewish and Italian immigrants were now crammed into crumbling tenements and rotting houses left over from the original Dutch settlers. The city had recently decided to tear down the worst of them and build a park on the west side of Mulberry Street, but the work was just beginning. The people who lived here now were still trapped in their poverty and misery, and in addition to the criminals that plagued the entire city, they were also terrorized by the more subtle members of the Black Hand.

Frank had waited until evening to call on the Donato family, figuring the father and brother were more likely to be home at that time of day. Frank was assuming, of course, that they had jobs. From the way Mrs. Wells had spoken of them, he would not have been surprised to find them lying in a drunken stupor in their flat at nine o’clock in the morning.

This part of the Bend was inhabited primarily by Italian immigrants, most of them recent arrivals. The people were dressed in bright colors, and everyone spoke in Italian. Except for the buildings surrounding it, the street might have been in any village in Italy. Peddlers’ carts lined both curbs, and even at this hour, transactions were taking place with much shouting and gesturing as housewives negotiated for the ingredients of their evening meals. Even the doorways of the buildings had been commandeered for commerce. Boards were stretched across the openings and merchandise displayed upon them. Each merchant stood inside the tiny lobby of the building, as if it were his shop, and conducted his business on this makeshift counter. Tenants of the buildings had broken holes in the back walls of the lobbies, and they used those improvised entrances so as not to disturb the transactions taking place in the official doorways.

Everyone on the streets looked suspiciously at an Irish policeman. Conversation died as Frank approached each group and picked up again noisily as soon as he was past. Their fear and distrust were like a miasma through which he walked until he reached the alley that led to the Donatos’ tenement.

Most of the windows in the surrounding buildings were open, even though the day was cool and getting colder, and the residents who weren’t outside were hanging out of the windows, conversing with those below. The Italians liked the outdoors, even if that meant city streets without a tree or a blade of grass for miles. They’d appreciate the park, when it was finally built… if they managed to find cheap lodging nearby after these buildings were torn down.

Frank passed an old hag selling stale bread from a sack made of filthy bed ticking and found his way into one of the many twisting alleys in the neighborhood to the rear tenement where Mrs. Wells had said the Donato family lived.

A woman had just begun climbing the stairs in the pitch-dark hallway when Frank entered. A red bandanna covered her hair, and the darkness shadowed her face, but her weary step and hunched shoulders told of years of suffering. She carried a market basket over one arm.

“Donato?” Frank called, hoping for some direction to the proper flat.

She looked up in surprise.

“Do you know where the Donatos live?” he asked, hoping she spoke some English.

“What you want?” she asked suspiciously.

“I want to see them. Which flat is theirs?”

“We no do nothing wrong,” the woman said, the fear thick in her voice.

“Are you Mrs. Donato?” he asked, coming closer.

She cringed away. “We no do nothing wrong,” she insisted.

“I need to talk to you, about your daughter Emilia.”

“Emilia!” she echoed scornfully. “I have no daughter. Go away.”

She certainly didn’t have a daughter any longer, but Frank didn’t want to break the news to her in the hallway, no matter how angry she might be with the girl.

“Is your husband at home?” Frank asked.

Now that his eyes were used to the darkness, he could make out her features more clearly. She wasn’t as old as her plodding gait had suggested, but the years hadn’t been kind to her. “He no here,” she claimed almost desperately. “Come back later.”

“Maybe I’ll just wait here for him,” Frank suggested. “Or go get the landlord to help me find him.”

This put the fear of God into her. Landlords didn’t like tenants who brought the police snooping around. “What you want?”

“I told you, I want to talk to you about your daughter Emilia,” he said patiently. His experience had been that most of the Italians avoided trouble whenever possible and were terrified of dealing with the police. Apparently, law enforcement in their native country was even more corrupt than it was in New York City. “I won’t keep you very long, but it’s not something I want to talk about here,” he added meaningfully.

She hated him. He could see it in her eyes, along with the fear. But she said, “Come,” and started up the stairs again. She was a short woman, but not small. Her breasts and hips were full and round. They were sagging now, but she’d probably had an appealing figure as a young girl, before the years and childbirth had taken their toll.

Fortunately, the Donato flat was only on the third floor in this five-floor walk-up. Frank found it difficult to question someone when he was completely winded.

The Donato flat was exactly like a million others in the city. A few pieces of furniture might have been carried from the old country, but the rest had been purchased here, as cheaply as possible, or scrounged from the trash heaps. Brightly colored curtains hung from the front window, and scarves were draped here and there to brighten up the place, but nothing could help the back rooms where sunlight never reached.

The door opened into the kitchen of the flat, and Mrs. Donato set her basket on the table, which was no more than planks laid over some wooden crates. Frank saw that tonight’s dinner would be some dried-up potatoes and turnips. What appeared to be dead weeds would probably become a salad. Beneath the recently purchased food, he could see a few paper flowers, and the kitchen table held the makings for more. Probably the woman made and sold them for extra money, as many wives in the tenements did.

“Tell me quick, before Antonio come home,” she advised him. “He want to help if she in trouble, so I no tell. We no help her. I have no daughter.”

Frank was beginning to wonder if that could be true. He could see now that her hair beneath the scarf was black, only slightly tinged with gray, and her complexion was the dark olive he would have expected. He wondered if Mr. Donato was blond. Sarah had said that Emilia must be from Northern Italy because of her blond hair, but her mother certainly wasn’t. “Your daughter was found dead this morning,” he said baldly, since she’d already informed him she didn’t care about the girl.

“Dead?” she repeated as if she wasn’t sure what the word meant. “Guasto?”

“Yeah, guasto,” he replied, nodding so she’d understand.

“Emilia?” Was she trying to deny it, as most mothers would, or was she just trying to make sure?

“She had yellow hair,” Frank said. “She’d been living at the mission. She had a lover named Ugo.”

“Sì, Emilia,” she confirmed with a sigh, sinking down into one of the mismatched chairs. She set her elbow on the table and rested her forehead on her clenched fist.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said, interpreting the gesture as grief.

But when she looked up, her dark eyes were blazing with fury. “She trouble, all a time, trouble. Is good she dead. No more trouble.”

Frank had seen reactions like this before, but usually it was because the deceased was a son who’d gone bad. Rarely did a mother react this way to the death of a daughter. Of course, he’d never had to inform a prostitute’s mother that she was dead. With women like that, nobody even knew who their mothers were.

Frank heard the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. It could have been anyone, but Mrs. Donato must have recognized them. She jumped to her feet. “You go now,” she said urgently. “I have no daughter. You go.”

But Frank hadn’t quite finished his business here. He wanted to get a look at Emilia’s father, just to satisfy his curiosity. He stepped out onto the landing and waited. Mrs. Donato hovered anxiously in the doorway. Frank figured her husband might not be as glad as she was that the girl was dead. He wondered why.

The man who emerged from the gloom of the stairway was a little shorter than average height, his body stocky and muscular from heavy labor. His swarthy face had been darkened even further by the sun, and beneath his workman’s cap, his hair was as black as his wife’s. He stopped in alarm when he saw Frank standing there and glanced at his wife with a silent question.

“Polizia, ” she said as a warning. “È venuta dirci che Emilia fosse guasto.”

Frank wasn’t certain exactly what she’d said but recognized enough words to know she’d warned him Frank was from the police and Emilia was dead. The man showed the shock his wife had not.

“Emilia?” He didn’t want to believe it, and he looked to Frank for confirmation.

“Someone stabbed her to death this morning in City Hall Park,” he said.

“No,” he said desperately. “No true!”

“I’m afraid it is. Someone who knows her already identified the body.”

“Who?” he challenged.

Sarah’s name would mean nothing to them. “A lady who met her at the mission.”

“Mission,” Mrs. Donato repeated and spat on the floor to show her contempt. Donato’s shoulders sank in defeat, and he looked as if he might pass out.

This wasn’t going the way Frank had expected. The man of the house was shocked senseless and his wife was spitting on the floor. “Sit down, Mr. Donato,” he tried, guiding the man into the flat and pulling out a chair for him. He sank down as his wife had, but he was suffering from grief, or something very like it. Frank still wasn’t sure.

Donato rubbed a calloused hand over his face. When he looked up, Frank saw strong emotions but none he could identify. “You say she stab?”

“Probably with a stiletto,” Frank said, watching for a reaction.

Donato frowned, and his wife started muttering invectives in Italian.

“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Emilia?” Frank asked.

“We no see her, long time,” Mrs. Donato said firmly.

“What about her brother? Has he seen her?”

“No,” Mrs. Donato said firmly. Her husband said nothing.

“Maybe I should ask him myself. When will he be home?”

She crossed her arms beneath her heavy breasts and just glared at him.

“What about Ugo?” Frank asked casually. “You wouldn’t mind if he went to jail, would you?”

Frank expected Mrs. Donato to spit on the floor again, but she just continued to glare at him furiously. He looked down at Donato and gave the leg of his chair a slight nudge.

Donato made a squeak of surprise and looked up, terrified.

“What’s this Ugo’s last name and where does he live?” Frank asked.

“Ianuzzi,” Mrs. Donato hastily offered and added an address farther down Mulberry Street. “He bad,” she added helpfully. “He kill sure.”

“Was he angry at Emilia for leaving him?” Frank tried.

“Si, he hate Emilia. He kill, you see.” She was much too certain, as if she were trying to convince herself, too.

Frank looked at Donato. He wasn’t saying anything, just staring at the table. Frank would have to catch him without his wife. He’d need to see the son, too. They had no intention of telling the police anything. They thought they were well rid of Emilia and her “trouble,” and they weren’t going to let any other family member get dragged down with her.

“I’ll be back,” he warned them and took his leave. Making his way carefully down the dark stairwell, he silently cursed Sarah Brandt. Only she could have compelled him to make such a ridiculous promise. No one was going to be able to find Emilia’s killer. Not only didn’t these people speak English, they were too terrified to tell the truth to the police. They’d also lie to protect each other, even if they were innocent.

He could probably beat a confession out of someone, but he made a point of saving that tactic for people he knew were guilty. In this case, he’d be lucky to find someone who even knew she’d be in the park this morning. On the other hand, she must have been killed by someone she knew. She’d had nothing of value, so she hadn’t been robbed, and she hadn’t been molested, either. Someone who had wanted her dead and knew exactly what he was doing had stabbed her quickly and neatly and walked calmly away, leaving her to fall to the ground and die.

How many enemies so cold-blooded could a girl like that have? And although she’d obviously had at least one, how on earth was Frank ever going to find him when her own mother thought he’d done them a favor?

Sarah could tell by the way Frank Malloy was pounding on her door the next morning that he hadn’t liked getting a message from her at Police Headquarters. She opened the door and said, “My only other choice was to go by your flat and leave a message with your mother,” before he could even open his mouth.

Whatever angry words he’d been about to say died on his lips, but his glare was still fierce. “At least my mother wouldn’t have laughed,” he informed her grimly.

She could only imagine how much teasing he endured each time she contacted him there. “I’m sorry, Malloy, but I didn’t know how else to get you over here. You made it very clear you didn’t want me to get involved in the case, so I knew you weren’t going to drop by to consult with me.” She stepped back and allowed him to enter.

He pulled off his hat and hung it up without waiting for an invitation to stay. “Don’t think for a minute that I’m here to consult you,” he warned. “You aren’t getting involved in this, and that’s final.”

“Of course,” she agreed cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ll find Emilia’s killer all by yourself in a day or two, so I won’t even have time to get involved. I just wanted you to know one thing that Mrs. Wells forgot to tell you.”

This time he looked so angry that Sarah began to feel a little uneasy.

“When did you see Mrs. Wells?” he asked her in a voice that raised the hair on her arms.

“I went to see her yesterday afternoon,” she said, refusing to be cowed. “I had to tell her that my mother offered to hold a party to raise funds for the mission.”

He needed a minute to absorb this information. “Your mother?” he repeated incredulously. “What does you mother have to do with this?”

“Nothing at all. I just thought I’d like to do something to help Mrs. Wells with her work at the mission. Places like that always need money, and my mother knows lots of rich people.”

“Does you mother know she’s giving a party for the mission?” he asked suspiciously.

“Of course she does!” Sarah replied huffily. “She was only too happy to do it.”

“What about Richard Dennis?”

“What about him?”

“Does he know about this party, too?”

Sarah knew Malloy had no love for Richard Dennis, but the expression in his voice when he said the man’s name went far beyond simple dislike. She remembered her suspicion that Malloy was jealous of Richard, but she didn’t dwell on it. She didn’t need to, because now she was certain of it. “Mr. Dennis’s wife worked as a volunteer at the mission before her death. He is also very interested in helping them.”

“Was he with you on Sunday when you visited the mission?”

He was acting as if he had a right to question her like this! She could, of course, point out that it was none of his business, but she said, “Mr. Dennis asked me to accompany him so he could see what kind of work they do there.”

She gave him a moment to digest this, but before he could come up with another intrusive question, she said, “Would you like some coffee?” Without waiting for his answer, she turned and walked off toward the kitchen, perfectly confident that he would follow.

He did.

“Have a seat,” she offered, busying herself with finding some cups. The pot was still warm from breakfast, so she poured them each a cup and set them on the kitchen table. Only then did he deign to sit, and once again she spoke before he could.

“Mrs. Wells told me that Emilia was very proud of her new outfit. The one I’d donated to the mission,” she added, knowing full well he already knew which outfit Emilia had been wearing. “One of the other girls heard Emilia say that she wished Ugo could see her. Ugo was her lover, the one who beat her and threw her out.”

“I know who he is,” he snapped.

“Have you talked to him already?” she asked.

“He wasn’t home when I called,” Malloy said sourly.

“That’s good. You probably needed to know this information before you question him.”

“What information?”

“That Emilia was thinking about showing Ugo how beautiful she looked,” Sarah said, amazed he couldn’t figure that out. “It’s a normal, feminine reaction. She’s feeling confident and irresistible, so she seeks out the man who rejected her.”

“Why? So he’ll take her back and beat her up again?”

He really was in a bad mood. She couldn’t help wondering how much of it was due to Richard Dennis. “I’m sure she wasn’t thinking about him beating her up. She was probably thinking about him falling in love with her and wanting her back. Then she could reject him and have her revenge.”

“Italians get real excited over revenge,” he observed, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Malloy.”

“Okay, let’s think about this seriously,” he suggested. “The girl gets all dressed up, looks in the mirror, and decides she wants her old lover to see her and regret throwing her out. Even though she hasn’t seen him in months, she goes straight down to City Hall Park, where she meets up with him. They have a fight, he pulls out a stiletto and shoves it in her neck. Then he walks away. Is that about how you figured it happened?”

When he said it like that, it didn’t sound very convincing, but Sarah wasn’t going to give in without a fight. “I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe she’d seen him around before that day. Or maybe someone had told her he’d be in the park that morning. She’d probably known about the clothes since Sunday, when I dropped them off. Why did she wait to go out looking for work? Maybe she’d arranged to meet him that morning and only told Mrs. Wells she’d be looking for work so she wouldn’t get suspicious.”

There, that was plausible! She watched him drinking his coffee and trying to figure out what was wrong with her theory. “Okay, then why did he kill her? And why did he kill her like that?”

A very good question. “He… She made him angry,” Sarah improvised.

“Why didn’t he just walk away then? Or hit her and walk away?”

“He didn’t want to cause a scene or draw attention to himself. The park is a busy place.”

“Not that busy. A girl got killed without anybody noticing,” he reminded her.

“Which is why he stabbed her instead of hitting her.”

“Yeah, he killed her so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself by slapping her. That makes sense.” Sarah glared at him but he ignored it. “So why did he stab her there?”

“There? You mean in the park?” she asked in confusion.

“No, in the neck. And by the way, Dr. Haynes, the coroner, agreed with you. The girl was killed by being stabbed the way you thought. But why there? I’ve seen lots of people get stabbed in lots of places, but never in the back of the neck.”

Sarah hadn’t thought about this aspect of the case. “That is strange. Whoever stabbed her must have known it would kill her.”

“How many people would know a thing like that? Would you?”

“I… I knew it when I saw where she’d been stabbed, or at least I knew a wound there could have damaged the brain. But I don’t think I ever would have thought of it as a way to kill someone.”

“Would a doctor know it?”

Sarah shook her head. “He’d know how dangerous it is to injure the brain, but I can’t imagine anyone choosing it as a method of murder. In any case, it couldn’t have been a crime of passion. Whoever did it had planned it.” Then she thought of something else. “Maybe this is a traditional way the Black Hand kills people!”

“They usually like to kill people in very dramatic ways – like blowing up their store or something. They only kill as a last resort. You can’t collect money from a dead man, so they do it to make an example, to scare everybody else into submission.”

“But don’t they assassinate people, too? This could be one of those things they brought over with them from the Old Country.”

He shrugged. Sarah figured he knew she was right but couldn’t bear to agree with her. “What else did you find out from Mrs. Wells that I didn’t?” he asked, without much apparent interest.

“I’m not sure. Did she tell you Emilia had a pimp?”

He frowned. Malloy wouldn’t approve of a lady knowing about pimps. “She claimed she didn’t know his name.”

“Did you ask her parents? Maybe they know.”

“The subject didn’t come up. What color hair do your parents have?” he asked suddenly.

Sarah stared at him in surprise. What did that have to do with anything? “My mother’s is blond, like mine. My father’s is brown.”

“Emilia’s parents both have black hair.”

Sarah needed a moment to recognize the significance of this. “And hers was blond. That’s unusual, but not unheard of, I suspect.”

“I didn’t see any other blond girls in that neighborhood. Everybody is from Southern Italy, like the Donatos. They’re all dark.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just telling you what I saw.”

Sarah considered this information. “Do you think Emilia wasn’t really their daughter?”

“The old woman – her mother – kept saying she didn’t have a daughter.”

“Are you sure you were talking to the right people?”

“Oh, yeah, they were her family. The father acted the way he should have, shocked and sad. The mother was just mad. She hated the girl. Sounded like she’d disowned her. When she first saw me, she thought Emilia was just in trouble with the police, and she didn’t want me to tell her husband because he’d help her.”

“That’s strange,” Sarah mused. “Usually, it’s the mother who tries to protect the child, and the father who gets angry and wants to disown her. Does Emilia have sisters?”

“Just a brother, according to Mrs. Wells. He wasn’t home.”

“Is he older or younger?”

“I don’t know yet. Look,” he said, growing solemn and setting his coffee cup down firmly, “they aren’t going to let me spend much time on this. I can only give it another day or two, not even that long if somebody upstairs realizes nobody cares about this girl.”

“Then you’ll need my help,” Sarah said, certain that’s what he was getting at.

“No,” he said impatiently, “you don’t understand. I’ll question this Ugo and try to find the pimp and her brother. After that, if I haven’t found out what happened, I’ll have to close the case. Nobody will ever find out who killed her.”

“But you can’t – ”

“Yes, I can,” he corrected her firmly. “You are not going down to Mulberry Bend and start asking questions about the Black Hand. This isn’t like the other cases you were involved in. These aren’t respectable killers who made a bad mistake. These people are pure evil. I don’t want to see your body on a slab in the morgue. Do you understand?”

She’d never seen anyone look so angry and so vulnerable at the same time. She swallowed. “Yes, I understand.”