Murder on Sisters' Row

Jake wasted no time getting the horses hitched, moving with practiced ease in spite of his groggy state. When he was finished, he moved to the carriage door and held it open for Sarah, indicating with a wave of his hand that she could enter. He made no effort to assist her, though, crossing his arms in silent rebellion against good manners.

Sarah struggled a bit climbing in with the babe in her arms, but she managed. When she was settled, he said, “Where do you want to go?”

“To the Mission, the same place you took me last time.”

His expression told her he thought this was crazy, but he slammed the door shut and climbed up to the driver’s seat. Sarah hastily opened the curtains at the windows in hopes of seeing some indication that the rescuers were nearby and waiting. At least they would see her and know she’d gotten away. She even held the baby high against her chest, so the bundle he made would be visible. As they turned onto Seventh Street, she saw a shabby carriage stopped on the next block, its driver slumped over as if drunk or sleeping. Could that be them?

Her carriage started down the street, and she caught a glimpse of a gentleman strolling leisurely on the opposite sidewalk, a walking stick in his hand. She recognized him. Mr. Quimby. She held the baby up even higher, so he’d know she had him. He didn’t seem to take any notice, and then they were gone, rattling away. Sarah lowered the baby to her lap and sank back against the cushions and started to pray.

NEARLY TWO HOURS LATER, SARAH ARRIVED AT THE house where Mrs. Van Orner had provided a refuge for the women she rescued. Mrs. Keller, at the Daughters of Hope, had loaned her a market basket in which to carry the baby. She’d be less noticeable, they’d decided, if Jake did return and started asking if anyone in the neighborhood had seen a woman carrying an infant. By the time she arrived at the modest clapboard house in the Lower East Side, however, she was extremely noticeable. The baby was screaming bloody murder, drawing looks varying from pity to outrage from the people passing her in the street.

Having only the address and seeing nothing about the house to distinguish it from its neighbors, Sarah breathed a silent prayer that she was at the right place and pounded on the door. A young woman opened it, her astonished gaze taking in Sarah and the screaming baby in the basket with one glance, then sticking her head out to hastily check the street before drawing Sarah inside and closing the door securely behind them.

“Are you Mrs. Brandt?” the girl asked.

“Yes, I—”

“Thank heaven you’ve come. That girl Amy, she’s half out of her mind worrying about what happened to you and the baby.” She reached into the basket and snatched up the squalling child. “He’s soaking wet!”

“I was in such a hurry to get him away, I didn’t even think to ask them for spare diapers,” Sarah said by way of apology, but the girl was gone, hurrying toward the stairs at the end of the front hallway.

Sarah stood there stupidly, watching her disappear up the stairs. Then she looked around. The place reminded her of the Daughters of Hope Mission, an old house furnished with threadbare rugs and castoff furniture. Faded wallpaper covered the walls, unrelieved by a single picture. A far cry from the house on Sisters’ Row.

She heard a door open upstairs and a woman’s voice raised in anguish, the words indistinguishable. The door closed, muffling the baby’s cries, and then they ceased altogether. Sarah sighed with relief.

“Not exactly what you expected, was it?” a familiar voice asked.

4

BEING SUMMONED BY THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES WAS never a good thing, Frank observed as he made his way upstairs to Stephen O’Brien’s office. When he saw a woman was already in O’Brien’s office, he knew it was even worse than he’d thought.

“Close the door, Malloy,” O’Brien said. He didn’t sound happy to see him.

Frank closed the door and took a few steps closer to O’Brien’s desk. The chief didn’t invite him to sit down.

The woman glared up at him from where she sat, as if she held him personally responsible for whatever she was so angry about. He thought she looked familiar, but maybe she just looked like every other madam in the city —a bit past her prime, more than a bit plump, and wearing expensive clothes that still looked cheap. Her hat had probably cost more than Frank made in a month, but the bird perched on it and staring at him with beady glass eyes was orange. Not a color found in nature.

“Mrs. Walker, this is the detective sergeant I told you about,” O’Brien was saying.

“The one who knows this Mrs. Brandt?” she asked sharply.

Frank’s stomach knotted, and he managed not to swear aloud, although the curses were roaring in his head. In the one second that ticked by, he saw in his mind’s eye exactly what had happened. Sarah had ignored his advice and done a very stupid thing. He wasn’t going to let on that he knew, though. Things were already bad enough. Frank just clamped his teeth shut and waited, knowing anything he said would be wrong.

“You do know Mrs. Brandt, don’t you, Malloy? The midwife?” O’Brien prompted.

What had happened to Sarah? Was she all right? “We’ve met,” he allowed.

O’Brien wasn’t amused. “Met? Hasn’t she been involved in some of your cases?”

“A few.”

“Involved in your cases?” Mrs. Walker echoed. “Does she work for the police?”

“Of course not,” O’Brien assured her. Frank noticed his face was a dangerous shade of scarlet. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous,” Mrs. Walker informed him. If possible, she was even more furious than O’Brien. “I’ve been robbed, and I want you to do something about it.”

“Did Mrs. Brandt rob you?” Frank asked before he could stop himself.

Mrs. Walker hadn’t missed the sarcasm in his voice, but she squared her shoulders righteously. “As a matter of fact, she did. She kidnapped a baby.”

Frank wanted to groan. He could easily imagine Sarah kidnapping a baby if she thought that was the right thing to do. He wasn’t going to admit that, though. “What were you doing with a baby? What kind of a place do you run anyway?” he asked, pretending to be shocked.

Now her face was a dangerous shade of scarlet, but she turned to O’Brien. “I don’t have to sit here and be insulted. I pay good money for the police to protect me, and I expect you to earn it!”

“Malloy, what do you know about this?” O’Brien demanded.

“I know Mrs. Brandt isn’t a kidnapper. She’s a respectable lady, and she never would’ve gone into a brothel voluntarily. Maybe she was the one who was kidnapped.”

“Nobody did anything to her,” Mrs. Walker said indignantly. “She got away scot-free.”

The knot in Frank’s stomach loosened a bit. At least she was all right. For now. “With this baby?”

“Yes, with the baby, and his mother, too.”

Frank gaped at her. “She took a woman and a baby out of your house, and nobody stopped her?”

Mrs. Walker made an exasperated noise. “Of course not! I told you, she took the baby. Then some other people came and took the woman. Kidnapped her! Carried her out of there against her will.”

Frank remembered what Sarah had told her about those rich do-gooders who rescued prostitutes. Apparently, they’d succeeded. “Don’t you have a bouncer in the place?”

“Of course I do, but your Mrs. Brandt asked him to take her and the baby in the carriage, so he wasn’t there when the rest of them showed up.”

“She’s not my Mrs. Brandt,” was all Frank could think to say to that.

“Do you know anything about this, Malloy?” O’Brien asked.

“No,” Frank lied. “And if I did, Mrs. Brandt wouldn’t be involved in it.”

“Well, she is involved in it, and I want you to get her in here so she can tell us where they’ve taken this woman.”

Fury welled up in Frank, almost choking him, but he knew anger wouldn’t get him anywhere with O’Brien. Fortunately, he had another weapon he could use. “Do you know who she is, Chief?”