They came out blinking into the hazy light of Twenty-third Street and were rushed by a wave of reporters shouting over one another. A flashlamp went off and Evie blinked away the bright dots dancing in the air.
“Vultures!” Malloy grumbled. “Get away from here!”
T. S. Woodhouse ran forward, notebook and pencil in hand. His unruly brown hair had clearly been oiled back that morning, but now a long chunk of it hung over his left eye like a veil. Evie hoped he wouldn’t blow her cover.
“Excuse me! Gentlemen, T. S. Woodhouse, with the Daily News. I hear you’ve got another stiff in there. And this one isn’t some marathon dancer from Brooklyn or a kid from the West Side.”
“Get lost, Woody,” Malloy growled.
The insult didn’t seem to make a dent in Mr. Woodhouse. He glanced at Evie, then turned to Will. “What’s your bead on this, Professor? Must be pretty bad for them to pull in a civilian. Is it a gangland war? A mob beef? Anarchists? Reds? The Wobblies?” Woodhouse smiled. “The bogeyman?”
“It might be a reporter!” Malloy taunted. “Why don’t ya write that down, Woody. Give us a reason to ship you boys out to Russia.”
“Freedom of the press, Detective.”
“Freedom of the jackals, more like. The way you boys play fast and loose with the facts, we’ll all be reading stories that are as reliable as my grandfather’s fish tales.”
“Anarchists mean to abolish the state,” Will said, as if still taking part in the previous conversation. “They want to cause the most chaos, to upend order. This is methodical. Planned out.”
The reporter’s pencil scratched across the page. “So the bogeyman, then?”
“Pal, aren’t you a little young to be on this beat?” Malloy again.
“Time to get rid of some of these old windbags writing careful little stories, Detective. Bring in the new blood, I say. It’s a modern world. People need some excitement in their news. A little zip. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss O’Neill?”
Evie didn’t answer.
“Best of luck,” Malloy said.
“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in opportunity. You and me, Professor, we could work together on this one. Put the killer on the ropes. Whaddya say?”
Uncle Will squared his hat and marched toward Sixth Avenue. T.S. sidled up to Evie and tipped his hat. “That must’ve been some awful scene in there. You poor thing, you’re trembling. Let me help you. Excuse me, excuse me, folks, coming through.”
T. S. Woodhouse led Evie to a spot behind a police wagon. He opened his jacket to reveal a flask. “You, ah, need a little liquid courage?”
Evie took a swig, and then chased it with a second. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. What you can mention is what the scene was like in there.”
Evie filled him in on some of the details, purposely leaving out others.
“You ever need a favor, you just let T.S. know.”
“I’ll remember that, Mr. Woodhouse.”
Evie took one last drink from his flask, then adjusted her scarf. “How do I look?”
T. S. Woodhouse grinned. “Swell, Sheba.”
“Have your shutterbug get me from my left side. It’s my good one. Oh, and we should make this seem unfriendly. You understand.”
T. S. Woodhouse gave a thin-lipped smile. “Purely business.”
“There’s no worse class of human on earth than cold-blooded murderers. Except for reporters,” Evie said loudly as she walked past the human chain of policemen keeping the reporters back. She turned just slightly, holding the pose long enough for the photographer from the Daily News to snap her picture. Then, tossing her scarf over one shoulder, she ran toward Will and the waiting car on the corner.
The headache had started. Evie leaned back against the seat and watched Sixth Avenue fly by from the police car’s windows. Down a side street, several boys played stickball, blissfully unaware. She hoped they’d stay that way for a long time. In the front seat, Officer Malloy scribbled in his notebook. The scratching made her head hurt all the more. She closed her eyes. She wasn’t aware she was whistling the song she’d heard in the Temple until Malloy said, “I haven’t heard that one in a long time.”
Evie sat forward. “Do you know that song? What is it?”
“Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on,” Malloy sang. “Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells ’em off for a coupla stones. They used to sing it on my block to scare us little ones into behaving. They’d say Naughty John would come and get you if you didn’t behave.”
“Who?”
“Naughty John. John Hobbes. A grave robber, con man, and killer. He kept people’s bones in his house, an old mansion uptown.”
“Do you think he could be behind these killings?”
Malloy’s smile was patronizing. “Not likely, Miss O’Neill.”
“Why not?”
Malloy stopped writing and looked her in the eyes. “Because John Hobbes is dead, and has been for nearly half a century.”
NAUGHTY JOHN
Evie followed Will into the museum, talking quickly despite the pounding in her head. “I heard that song with Ruta Badowski’s buckle, and again today with Eugene Meriwether’s ring.”
“Didn’t I specifically ask you not to do that very thing—”
“What if there’s some sort of connection we’ve missed? What if our killer has patterned himself after this Naughty John person?”
“You’re basing your assumption upon a song—”
“A song known to be associated with a murderer!”
“That’s rather a questionable hunch to go on….”
Jericho and Sam watched the scene unfold like a tennis match gone awry.
“What is this about?” Jericho said at the same time that Sam asked Evie, “Why would you touch a dead man’s ring?”
Will and Evie ignored them and continued arguing.
“Would you touch a dead man’s ring?” Sam asked Jericho, who shrugged.
“Unc, it’s the only lead we have,” Evie said.
“Very well,” Will said after a pause. “If you feel strongly about it—”
“I do.”
“Then you may do what scholars do when they feel passionately about a subject.”
“What’s that?”
“You may visit the library,” Will said. “The New York Public should have what you need to know about this John Hobbes fellow.”
“I will do just that, then.” Evie hung her hat and scarf on the stuffed bear’s giant paw.
“What we do know is that the killer is playing by the Book of the Brethren,” Will said. “The Temple of Solomon: The Freemasons also refer to their lodges as temples, and they consider themselves descendants of King Solomon.”
“We had the right idea, but the wrong joint,” Sam said.
“What’s the next offering?” Sam asked.
Jericho turned to the next page in the Book of the Brethren. “The eighth offering, the Veneration of the Angelic Herald,” Jericho said. He immediately began naming possibilities. “Angels… a church, a priest or nun, someone named Angel or Angelica. A herald—a messenger of some sort… postman, radio announcer, reporter, musician…”
“Reporter,” Evie repeated. She rubbed her temples.
“What’s the matter?” Will asked.
“It’s just a headache.”
“A headache? When did it start?” Will asked.
“It’s nothing but a nuisance. Mother says it’s because I need cheaters—um, eyeglasses, but I’m too vain to wear them. I told her my eyesight’s just fine. Honestly, two aspirin and I’ll be right as rain.”
Jericho fetched Evie two aspirin and a glass of water.
“Unc, why are you looking at me like that?” Evie asked.
Will had been watching her, his brow furrowed. He busied himself with a pointless tidying of his desk. “Take your aspirin,” was all he said.
THE WRONG PERSON