She was only being kind, he told himself for the thousandth time and ignored the small spark of happiness she’d caused him. She was asking because she adored his son, and who could blame her? “I know the boy would like it,” was all he trusted himself to say.
That seemed to please her very much. “I’ll see you at the doctor’s office, then. And Malloy, thank you for working so hard on this case.” She gave him her hand, just the way she had to Dennis. “I know the Ellsworths will want to thank you, too, but I wanted you to know how much I appreciate it.”
Her gloved hand felt small and fragile in his, and once again he experienced the rage he’d known last night when he’d realized how close Walcott had come to murdering her. “Just don’t think you’re going to be investigating any more murders, Mrs. Brandt,” he told her gruffly. “This is the last time I’m going to see you almost get killed.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with you, Malloy,” she said with a wan smile, “and you know how much I hate agreeing with you on anything.”
It took a moment for him to realize the emotion he was feeling was regret. As much as he wanted to protect her from danger, he also didn’t like the thought of never having her involved with his life again. Not that he had any right to be involved with her under any circumstances. This was really for the best. After what he’d done in the cab, he knew he could no longer be trusted to keep his feelings for her in check. At least she didn’t remember his indiscretion. He was sure now, because if she did, she wouldn’t still be so friendly to him.
He realized he was still holding her hand, and he released it. “Uh, I guess I should get back to work.”
“And I should go to the hospital to check on Mr. Prescott.”
“How is he?”
“He’s still alive. That’s always good.”
They’d run out of things to say, but Frank didn’t want to say good-bye. He was also acutely aware that he had no other choice. “I’ll see you on Wednesday, then. Unless something comes up, and you can’t make it,” he added quickly, giving her permission to cut him completely out of her life, if that’s what she wanted to do.
“Good day, Malloy,” she said and turned away.
She’d gone a few steps before he thought of something else. “Mrs. Brandt?”
She turned, an expectant look on her face.
“Tell Prescott I hope he’s feeling better.”
“I will,” she said. She started to turn away again, but stopped and looked back at him with a small grin. “And Malloy, after all we’ve been through, I think you should call me Sarah.”
Had she winked? Malloy was sure she’d winked just before she turned away again, but it was probably just a trick of the bright sunlight. Women like Sarah Brandt didn’t wink. But if she
Would she?
Frank had to admit he didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. Just leave well enough alone, he told himself. And keep on pretending nothing untoward had happened. Unless she brought it up, of course, which she’d never do because she didn’t even remember.
By the time he’d settled all that in his mind, Sarah Brandt had rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Frank made his way back to Mulberry Street.
The desk sergeant greeted him with the usual lack of enthusiasm and informed him that someone they’d locked up overnight wanted to see him.
“Says he has information you want,” the sergeant said.
“I don’t need any information,” Frank replied wearily. “I locked up the killer last night.”
“We told him, but he said it wasn’t about that case. Said it was something else, something real important, and you’d want to hear what he had to say.”
Since most of Frank’s cases were solved by some bum who wanted a bribe for turning in a friend, he figured he should at least hear what this fellow had to say. There was still that warehouse robbery he was working on. The owner had offered a big reward, but so far he hadn’t had any luck finding the missing merchandise. In cases like that, a lot of crooks didn’t even bother trying to fence the stolen goods. They’d just wait for the police detective to track them down, turn the merchandise over, and split the reward with him. Just another cost of doing business for the merchant, and everybody benefited.
Frank found the right cell, and at the sight of him, one of the prisoners inside hurried over to the bars. “Malloy, do you remember me?”
He was shabbily dressed, his hair long and greasy, his face small and sharp, like a weasel’s. “Finn, is it?” Frank asked.
“Finnegan,” he corrected with a grin that showed blackened teeth. “I heard you was asking around about a murder.”
“You’re too late, Finnegan. I already arrested the killer.”
“The one what killed the doctor?” he asked in dismay.
“What doctor?” Malloy asked.
“Young fellow. Doc Brandt, his name was. It’s been a couple years now, but-”
“What do you know about it?” Frank snapped, reaching through the bars and grabbing the man by his lapel. He hauled him up against the bars until his face was squished between them.
“Easy there, boss,” Finnegan said, his voice high with apprehension. “You don’t have to get rough. I’ll tell you without that!”
“Tell me, then,” Frank said, not letting him go.
“Well, I… I don’t know much myself, you understand, but I can give you a name, somebody what does know.”
“You’re right, that’s not much,” Frank said, releasing him slightly, then banging him against the bars again. He figured Finnegan was just angling to get out of whatever fix he’d gotten into and knew somehow that Frank had been asking around about Dr. Brandt’s death.
“You can trust Ol’ Finnegan,” he said desperately. “I wouldn’t lead you wrong. This fellow, he knows all about what happened to the young doctor. There’s some swell involved in it, too. I don’t know his name, but Danny does.”
“Danny who?” Frank asked skeptically.
Finnegan grabbed on to the bars so Frank couldn’t slam him again. “I don’t know his last name, but if you get me out of here, I’ll take you to him.”
“And this Danny will just tell me everything out of the goodness of his heart?”
“I didn’t say he’d tell it willing, did I? All I said was he knows. Getting him to tell, I guess that’s your job, ain’t it?”
Frank stared at the little weasel of a man. Chances were he was lying through his teeth. Chances were there was no man named Danny, and if there was, he didn’t know a thing about Tom Brandt’s death.
Frank had already warned Sarah Brandt that she wasn’t going to be involved in any more murder investigations. This meant she wasn’t going to be involved with Frank, either. She’d soon lose interest in Brian, too, and then he’d never see her again. That was exactly what should happen, too. Hadn’t he just told himself he didn’t even have a right to know her? If he started investigating her husband’s death in earnest, though, sooner or later he’d have to involve her again. That would be wrong. And cruel. Selfish, too.
“Guard,” he called, releasing Finnegan. “Open the cell. I want to question this prisoner privately.”
Author’s Note
WHEN I WAS DOING RESEARCH FOR THIS BOOK, I CAME across an account of the trials of Maria Barbella, the Italian woman I mentioned in the story who had slashed her lover’s throat because he refused to marry her. Her story was a classic case of justice denied because the defendant was a poor immigrant. Maria was fortunate to attract the attention of a wealthy patroness who championed her cause and won her a new trial. The second time, she was found not guilty because she was temporarily insane, one of the first individuals to be acquitted on those grounds.
