“It’s not as easy as it looks,” I said. “The ink has run, and every chapter has a different code rule.”
She examined the journal over my shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“I got through the first entry,” I explained, showing Evelyn my decoded version of the journal that I’d written in my personal notebook. “That’s how I found out the writer was obsessed with Holmes. But when I started the second entry, it was all gibberish. The writer switched the letter combinations.”
“Who has that much time on their hands?”
“Someone without a job,” I guessed. “Someone who wanted to make sure no one could read their diary.”
Evelyn chuckled evilly. “I suppose they never expected you would find it.”
I shut the journal. “What do you say to an adventure today?”
“What kind of adventure?”
“I want to see the original site of Holmes’s Murder Castle,” I told her. “If someone is mimicking his crimes, they would have visited there at some point.”
“Where is it?”
“About twenty minutes south of here. You up for it?”
Evelyn folded the wet towel and hung it up to dry. “We’re just going to look? You don’t have some crazy idea to catch the kidnapper there, do you?”
“If I knew who the kidnapper was, I’d tell my fancy new detective friend and let her deal with him.” I crossed my arms behind my head and laid back. “That’s right, Ev. Gone are the days where I have to do the dirty work myself. I’ve got a cop to do them for me now.”
She shot me a wry look. “Don’t you mean gone are the days where I have to save you from the dirty work? How’d you get a detective on your side anyway?”
“Girl power,” I replied. “Are you in or out?”
“I’m in,” she said. “Marie said she doesn’t need me until later today, and I’m dying to get out of this hotel.”
“Not literally, I hope.”
H. H. Holmes’s infamous Murder Castle caught fire in 1895, and the remains were torn down thirteen years later. Nothing of the original building still stood, but the piece of land on the corner of West 63rd Street and South Lowe Avenue still roused a shiver from my spine as we parked on the curb.
“This is a post office,” Evelyn said, resting her arms on the steering wheel as she peered through the window. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
“This is it.”
“No ghost tours?” she questioned. “No murder mystery dinner affair? This isn’t like you, Jack. Where’s the intrigue?”
“Maybe there isn’t any.”
We watched as people went in and out of the building, carrying packages and letters to send off. No one appeared concerned with the post office’s location. How many people had been killed on this street corner?
“What should we do?” Evelyn asked. “Get a postcard?”
With Evelyn behind the wheel, cracking sarcastic jokes, it almost felt like last year, when she reluctantly agreed to hunt down the new Jack the Ripper with me. This was how it was supposed to be: the two of us working together.
“Let’s go inside,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.
But the post office’s interior didn’t provide any more intrigue. In fact, there was no mention of Holmes at all inside, not even a plaque or note that acknowledged the serial killer’s existence.
“It’s not like he deserves the fame,” Evelyn said when I pointed out the lack of information. “What did you expect? A museum for the guy?”
“No, but a pamphlet would have been nice.”
“Like a pamphlet would have told you anything you didn’t already know.”
Frowning, I left the post office with Evelyn on my heels. As we headed back to the Cadillac, I said, “I thought coming here would jog a hint, or that we would find another clue. Now I know what the cops feel like whenever they hit a dead end.”
Evelyn’s gaze cleared the top of my head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Looks like we got a lead right over there.”
I whirled around. On the street corner stood a man with a thick mustache, wearing an old-timey suit and a bowler hat. As people passed, he tipped his hat to them. Most of them pretended like they couldn’t see him.
“He’s not a ghost, is he?” Evelyn asked.
I crossed the grass toward the oddly-dressed man. “Hey!”
The man turned. When he saw me and Evelyn marching toward him, his eyes widened. Stumbling over his long cloak, he turned tail and ran.
I broke into a sprint, but Evelyn was faster. Her long legs covered twice the distance that I could in the same amount of strides. She easily caught up with the costumed man and tackled him around the waist. Evelyn pinned his hands behind his back and lifted him to his feet.
“I didn’t do anything illegal!” the man was saying once I caught up to them. “You can’t tell me not to stand on a street corner. I’m not soliciting or nothing!”
“Who are you?” I demanded, trying not to appear completely befuddled by his outdated appearance. “Why are you dressed like that?”
The man’s mustache fell off. “You—you aren’t cops?” he stuttered.
“No, but that doesn’t mean we won’t kick your arse for some answers,” Evelyn threatened.
“Easy, Ev,” I warned.
“My name’s Jeff,” the man said. “I dress up like this for all the tourists who come to see the Murder Castle. Some of them want pictures, so I get a few bucks out of it. Please don’t hurt me. My dog will be sad if I don’t come home.”
“Let him go,” I said to Evelyn.
She released him, and he rubbed his wrists.
“What do you know about Holmes?” I asked Jeff.
He lifted his shoulders. “Weird-looking dude.”
“You impersonate him,” Evelyn reminded him.
He picked his mustache off the sidewalk and pressed it to his lip again. “For cash. I’m out of a job right now. Do what you gotta do, right? Are we done here?”
“Why’d you think we were cops?” I said.
Jeff eyed Evelyn’s broad shoulders as if trying to decide whether or not running from her was worth it. “The post office calls
