“Well, then,” she tried, “perhaps you will indulge me in my delusions. I would dearly love to return to Coney Island and learn more about it, but Mr. Malloy refuses to accompany me.”
“More fool he,” Dirk said, his grin flirtatious. Sarah wondered who might be watching them from the house. She hoped it looked as if they were having a romantic
“Since you obviously know a lot about the area, I was hoping I could convince you to escort me and show me some things I might have missed on my first visit there.”
His smile was mocking. “Do you think I can point out potential killers to you?”
Sarah gritted her teeth at his tone, but she managed to maintain her facade of congeniality. “I am hoping you can help me understand the place. The dead girl met her killer there, you see.”
This instantly wiped the smirk off his face. “How do you know that?”
“He bought her a gift there right before she died. At least we suspect the man who bought the gift was her killer.”
“And what, exactly, was the gift in question?”
Sarah felt silly saying it aloud. “A pair of red shoes.”
Something flickered deep in his eyes, something Sarah couldn’t decipher, but then he was smiling. It was a dazzling smile, a delighted smile. “Oh, Sarah, what could be more pleasant than helping you discover who killed a young lady of such abominable taste?”
He didn’t have to respect her, she reminded herself. He didn’t have to take her seriously or even believe her. He only had to go with her and show her around. “Are you free this Sunday?” she asked, and they set the date for the day after tomorrow.
NOBODY KNEW ANYTHING more about the mysterious man named Will than the ones Sarah Brandt had spoken with. Frank had questioned all the girls who knew the four victims well enough to tell him anything. After days of tracking the girls down and interrogating them again, he knew no more than he’d known the first day.
The fellow had been careful not to reveal his last name or to give any indication of where he lived. Uptown was Frank’s guess. By all accounts, he always had a lot of money to spend. Even those who had never seen him knew that much. His reputation was excellent among those who judged a man’s worthiness by how many times he treated a young lady to a beer or an amusement-park ride. He couldn’t have been an average workingman, not if the girls Frank had spoken with were accurate in their estimates of the amount of money he spent on the girls he found attractive. His clothes and his manners, by all accounts, had also indicated he was upper class.
A few of the girls had been more than treated by him, too, if Frank was any judge. They didn’t admit it, of course. Why should they? Even if this Will had murdered their friends, they were still alive and had to live here. Destroying their reputations wouldn’t bring their friends back, would it? And if he hadn’t killed them when he had the chance, he wasn’t likely to do it now, was he?
Frank was beginning to wonder why Sarah Brandt was so desperate to avenge the deaths of these girls. He was so annoyed with them, he was beginning to sympathize with the killer.
Frank was bone weary when he climbed the steps to his flat that evening. He hadn’t been home in two days, and when he opened the door, he found his mother knitting in her rocker by the front window. Brian was playing on the floor, carefully building a tower of wooden blocks so he could knock it over and build it again.
When he caught sight of Frank, however, he scrambled to his knees, smashing the tower in his haste as he crawled over to greet his father. His mother said something by way of greeting, but Frank hardly heard and didn’t even acknowledge her. He was, he realized, really seeing the boy for the first time.
For three years Frank had been torn by the existence of his son. The boy’s birth had killed Kathleen, the only good thing that had ever come into Frank’s life. If Kathleen had lived, Frank could have borne any disappointment in the child because she would have made it right. She would have loved the boy no matter what was wrong with him, and she would have made Frank love him, too.
But Kathleen had died, taking with her Frank’s one source of happiness in the world. That alone would have been enough to embitter him, but the boy had also remained, a painful and broken reminder of what he had lost. Not only had he taken his mother’s life, he had left Frank with a burden so enormous, at times he felt it might crush him.
For a time he had hated the child, blaming him for killing Kathleen. But that had passed, leaving only a profound sadness and pity and a bitterness so deep, Frank doubted he would ever find the bottom of it. And, of course, the guilt. Because if the boy had killed Kathleen, Frank had been the one who put the child inside of her in the first place. If he hated the boy, he would have to hate himself as well.
So the guilt drove him to do right by the child, no matter what his true feelings might be. It drove him to take the bribes that had enabled him to move up in the police force so he could ensure the boy would always be provided for. It compelled him to tolerate his mother because she was willing to take care of the boy.
Now he looked at his son, this imperfect remembrance, all he had left of the woman he had loved more than life itself. She would have expected Frank to love the boy simply because he was their flesh and blood. She would have done anything, made any sacrifice for him. Frank had been willing to make every sacrifice except one. He hadn’t been able to love him.
He gazed into the face that was so much like Kathleen’s, it caused him physical pain to behold it. The boy was looking up at him through Kathleen’s lovely eyes, pleading with him for something he couldn’t say but understood instinctively.
The small, spindly arms were reaching up even as he held himself back, braced for the rejection he almost always received. For so long, Frank had believed the boy an idiot, too damaged even to feel normal human emotions. He’d shielded himself with that belief, telling himself his indifference didn’t matter to the child because he couldn’t understand such things. Now he looked down into the boy’s face and knew it had all been a lie.
If Frank was guilty of causing Kathleen’s death, then there was only one thing in the world he could do to earn absolution. He reached down and caught the boy up into his arms. Small arms and legs wrapped around him, as if the boy felt he had to hold on with every ounce of his strength for fear of being thrust aside. From the comer of his eye, he saw his mother had risen to her feet, her eyes wide with surprise. She crossed herself and pressed a fist to her lips.
He wrapped his arms around the boy’s small body, amazed at how slight he was, hardly there at all. He buried his face into the cloud of silken red-gold curls and inhaled the clean, fresh scent of him.
Frank felt a stabbing pain in his chest as years of bitterness cracked and fell away. He’d wronged the boy terribly, but it wasn’t too late. He still had a chance to really do right by him.
“Ma,” he said, “there’s some people I want Brian to meet. They’re deaf.”
SARAH HAD BEGUN to regret her decision to ask Dirk to accompany her to Coney Island before their trolley had even left the city. He seemed highly amused by the entire escapade, and he felt compelled to share his mirth with everyone they encountered. Sarah found it exhausting, and by the time they reached Coney Island, she was wishing she had come alone.
“Have you seen the Elephant yet, Sarah?” he asked cheerfully as they strolled from the trolley station toward the park.
She looked to where he was pointing and saw the Elephant Hotel, a enormous hotel actually built in the shape of an elephant. It was one of the landmarks of Coney Island. “Seeing the Elephant” had come to mean making a trek out of town to see something extraordinary.
“I saw the elephant the last time I was here,” she reminded him.
“I don’t think you did,” Dirk said meaningfully. “I doubt Mr. Malloy is adventurous enough to allow such a thing. Fortunately, I am.”
Yes, fortunately, Sarah thought cynically.
“I’m surprised Mr. Malloy didn’t take you bathing, Sarah. I imagine the sight of you in a bathing costume would be quite pleasant. Have you ever bathed in the ocean?”
“Have you?” Sarah countered, trying unsuccessfully to imagine herself wearing one of those skimpy bathing costumes with the skirts that only reached to the knees.
“Certainly! I find the sand a bit annoying. It does tend to creep in where one least desires it to, but the water is
