“Hiya, Fred,” she said to a man sitting beneath a shop window. He appeared to be in his fifties, but I had a hunch he was much younger underneath his scraggly facial hair. Bertha flipped a coin into the paper cup in his hand. “How ya holding up?”
“One day at a time,” Fred croaked. “Need another favor?”
“Maybe in a few months. Wouldn’t want to get you killed.”
Fred winked. “Good point. Cheers, B.”
“What was that all about?” I asked as we continued on our way.
“I used to employ Fred every once in a while to dress up in Victorian garb and creep behind the group during the tour as if the Ripper was following us,” she said. “It was a good bit of fun, but if he did it now, I’m afraid someone would get scared and attack him. Greta, how are you?”
We stopped again, this time to chat with a woman selling magazines from a small stand. Bertha made Greta promise she wouldn’t stay out too late. One block later, Bertha waved to a group of elderly women knitting on someone’s front stoop. Not long after that, she checked in with a young man who worked at a corner store. She bought a pack of bubblegum, handed the kid twenty pounds, and told him to keep the change.
“Do you know everyone?” I asked her as we neared Hanbury Street.
“Nearly,” she replied. “When you’re out and about as much as I am, you make a lot of friends. Quick left here.”
We turned the corner, and police lights blinded us instantly. The car park at 29 Hanbury Street was completely blocked off. Police swarmed the streets, directing cars and people away from the area. Bertha and I watched from a safe distance.
“We’ll be lucky enough to get within fifty feet,” I muttered. “They’ll notice us for sure.”
“Not if we give ’em a good enough distraction.” Bertha grinned at me. “What do you say? I’ll make a scene while you run in and check the place out.”
“You want me to go inside?”
“You’re smaller. No one will notice you. Me, on the other hand—” She gestured to her height and girth. “They’d definitely catch. Are you in?”
I scanned the scene and saw at least fifteen cops in and around the car park. “I don’t know…”
“You wanted information, right?” Bertha said. “This is how you get it.”
All I could see in my head was Evelyn’s look of disapproval. The last time I’d messed around at an active crime scene, I was arrested for interfering with the investigation. If Evelyn had to bail me out of jail tonight, she would likely never speak to me again.
A police car pulled away from the curb. The cops gathered their things. It looked like they were getting ready to leave.
“They’re switching shifts,” Bertha noted. “That’s lucky. Best time to sneak in would be right now. What’s it going to be, Jack?”
I caught a glimpse into the car park. Was that a splotch of dried blood or an oil stain on the concrete? Curiosity had always been my greatest weakness.
“I’m in,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
“See that door over there?” She pointed toward the back end of the car park, where only one officer guarded the building. “Go in through there. Less people with notice you, but wait for me to draw the guard away first. Code word is ‘distraught.’”
“Wait, what?”
“The code word,” she repeated. “If I see someone heading toward you, I’ll work the word ‘distraught’ into my conversation. Clear?”
I nodded. “Got it.”
Without another word, she jogged toward the police officers. Once she was close enough, four of them converged on her at once.
“You don’t understand!” she howled. “My cat got out, and he ran this way, and I saw him go into the car park. If I could check for him—”
The officer closest to her had to crane his neck to meet her gaze. “My apologies, miss, but this is an active crime scene. No one goes in or out. It could contaminate our evidence.”
Bertha’s voice grew higher and louder, drawing the attention of more officers, including the one standing guard at the car park’s back entrance. “But Pookie isn’t an outdoor cat! He’s probably terrified. Please, sir.”
“Miss, I’m sorry about your cat, but I need you to step away.”
Bertha took a step forward instead. “What if he gets run over by a car? He’s the only family I have left!”
She burst out crying, real tears streaming down her face. She rested her head against the officer’s shoulder, leaning down at least two feet to reach him. He awkwardly patted her back and looked around for someone’s help, panic building in his eyes. The others closest to him hid guffaws behind their gloves.
“There, there,” the officer said to Bertha. “I’m sure your cat will turn up.”
Bertha let out an anguished howl. The guard near the back door headed toward the street to check out the commotion. This was my chance. I darted from my hiding spot and sprinted into the building through the unmonitored door. I was inside. Step one complete.
Step two: check the cameras. That was easy enough. They were positioned in every corner of the car park, covering every possible angle. The police absolutely should have had footage of the killer and his victim.
Step three: examine the crime scene. This was a bit harder. The blood splotch was halfway across the lot, and the car park was annoyingly well lit with bright fluorescent tubes. If a police officer glanced inside, they would spot me instantly. It was a chance I was willing to take.
I peeked outside to make sure the officers were still distracted. Bertha’s act was so good that she had drawn the attention of the entire squad. With silent thanks to her, I crouched down and ran across the garage to the exact spot where Rosie Brigham had been killed that morning.
A chill raised goose bumps on my arms as I saw the extent of the bloodstain. It started at the foot
