She returned to her desk and pulled out her leather-bound notebook, examining the notes she’d made the morning after her encounter in Bottle Alley. Amending them, she began to write down everything she had discovered about Daniel McCaffrey: his elusive past, his frequent long stays abroad, his work as an attorney.
“What’s the word, Genevieve? How’s Monday treating you?” Luther Franklin perched on the edge of her desk, grinning amiably at her. Genevieve hurriedly closed her notebook and shoved it aside.
“Luther! Just the person I wanted to see.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled broadly.
“Yeah? Little old me?” A slight blush crept up Luther’s cheeks. Genevieve knew her fellow reporter was a trifle sweet on her, though she clearly didn’t return the sentiment. She did like him, though. He was a nice man, and fair; the antithesis of Clive.
And she had been waiting for him to come in—Luther covered homicide for the paper. He appeared too young for the job, with a round, open face, giving him an almost boyish appearance, but he was one of the best journalists they had.
Genevieve leaned forward conspiratorially. “Any dead bodies of interest over the weekend?” She picked up her pencil and began to tap it against her desk idly. “In Five Points, say?”
Luther’s genial brow furrowed. “Five Points, huh? Genevieve, people are always dying around there, you know that.”
“What about Bottle Alley?” she pressed, tapping the pencil faster.
Looking thoughtful, Luther nodded. “Yeah, I did see something about an old lush who froze to death down there. Or his liver finally went kaput. But no murders.”
“What if it was murder?” Genevieve asked, keeping her voice casual. “I heard that maybe his head was struck.”
Luther raised his brows in surprise. “Where’d you hear that?”
Genevieve waved her pencil in a lazy circle. “Around.”
“Around, huh? Well, I dunno. Maybe he fell and hit his head.”
“Or maybe he was hit.”
Luther nodded again, concern creeping into his features. “Maybe.”
“Can you keep your ear to the ground for me? Maybe get your hands on the police report, see what it says?”
Now her friend looked alarmed. “Genevieve, what are you involved in?”
She managed a smile. “Probably nothing. But would you do it?” She cringed a bit internally, knowing full well she was exploiting his feelings for her.
“Okay, toots,” he replied, still looking concerned.
Genevieve’s smile turned more genuine; Luther was the only person in the newsroom she would allow to call her such a nickname, as she knew it stemmed from genuine affection.
“But be careful, all right?”
Glancing at the gilt clock mounted to the office wall as Luther made his way to his desk, Genevieve was startled by the time: ten forty-five already. She reluctantly reopened her notes on the flower show she’d unenthusiastically attended the previous Friday. Resplendent gladioli reigned supreme at the 24th annual Flower Extravaganza sponsored by the Ladies’ Auxiliary Horticulture Society …
Five hundred words on flowers. That was it. Five hundred words before noon, and then she could tackle the real business of the day: uncovering whatever secrets Daniel McCaffrey thought fit to hide.
Daniel strolled down Irving Place toward Fourteenth Street, hat pulled low and hands in his pockets, enjoying the uncommonly warm February afternoon. He figured he’d walk over to First Avenue and catch the elevated train—or “el,” as it was known—downtown rather than take his carriage. Being on foot was better for this errand anyway. The wind picked up slightly, and he turned his head to better coil the silk scarf at his neck. That’s when he spotted her out of the corner of his eye: Miss Polly Palmer, hot on his heels. Or Miss Stewart, he supposed.
Genevieve, a low voice in the back of his mind whispered.
Amusement battled with annoyance at her presence. He had to give her credit. As he’d suspected, she was persistent. She was dressed suitably for skulking in a dull-gray woolen coat, and she’d hidden her bright hair under a black scarf, wrapping it in imitation of the recent immigrants. But her full mouth was unmistakable.
Daniel hopped across the busy intersection of Fourteenth and First, making his way toward the train’s entrance. Somehow being followed by Genevieve Stewart wasn’t as vexing as when it was the ratty fellows on his tail. Though he didn’t want her knowing where he was headed—she was a reporter, after all, and obviously a very ambitious one—he was mildly curious to see how long she could keep up.
He noted with some satisfaction that she’d anticipated his move across Fourteenth and had managed not to get caught behind the hurtling traffic. Attagirl.
Bounding up the stairs two at a time, Daniel wondered why he was mentally cheering on a journalist bent on finding out … what? Why he had been in Five Points? How he knew Paddy and Billy? What had become of the dead man in Bottle Alley? How he’d inherited Jacob’s money? He didn’t know what she wanted but was surprised by how much he was enjoying the chase.
After flinging himself through the train’s doors just before they closed, he settled on one of the long wooden benches lining the car and pulled a folded newspaper out of his pocket, pretending to read. Through the windowed door that led to the next car, he could see her black-scarfed head swaying in time with the motion of the rattling train as it noisily made its way downtown. She was studiously pretending to be engrossed in the rapidly passing scenery: shop windows, apartments, billboards. Every once in a while, though, she would casually glance at the window between their two cars.
Daniel wondered again why he was putting up with a shadow, even one as pretty as her. He’d bet his boots she was trying to break the Robin Hood story on her own, hoping to prove herself and move ahead. It was a gutsy and unusual move, he thought approvingly. If he understood anything, it was the ambition to succeed. He’d just rarely encountered
