For the Love of Mike (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #3)

“Nell didn’t stop to think about things like that,” Jacob said. “When she was onto a story, she took appalling risks. She never . . . she wouldn’t . . .” His voice faltered. I reached out and touched his arm.

I was praying, for once, that the police detective who was summoned to this scene would not be Daniel. I really didn’t feel up to facing him or the tongue lashing he would obviously give me. However, the detective sergeant who arrived shortly afterward, with two more constables, was a fresh-faced young man called Macnamara. He listened politely as we told him how we had found her after finding the boys with her bonnet. When we tried to describe the boys, I realized that the description fit every street urchin on the Lower East Side. I was angry at myself for not getting their names, nor for searching them further to see if they had other items belonging to Nell in their pockets. Had they found her purse and stuffed their pockets with anything worth stealing?

“A curious fact, that has been worrying me,” I said. “The boys had Miss Blankenship’s bonnet, and yet the inside of the bonnet is sticky with blood. Doesn’t that indicate it was on her head when she was struck?”

The young officer looked at me with interest. “I wouldn’t expect a young lady to think of things like that.”

“This is no ordinary young lady,” Jacob said. “Miss Murphy is a private investigator.”

I was flattered that he had leaped to defend me, but I rather wished he hadn’t mentioned it. Macnamara stared at me even harder. “Then maybe she can tell me why a well-dressed lady came to be found alone, in this part of the city. Was this some kind of investigation she was carrying out?”

“I rather fear that it was,” I said. “Although I have no idea what brought her to this alleyway.”

“As for that,” Macnamara said, “she may well have been grabbed on the street in full view of anyone who happened to be passing. The types that frequent this area wouldn’t think twice about grabbing her and dragging her into the alleyway—knowing that most folk would pretend they hadn’t seen anything and pass by on the other side. So if her purse is missing, then we have to conclude that robbery was the motive.”

“Which doesn’t make sense,” I said. “She is still wearing gloves and I think I can see the shape of a ring under the leather. Why not take her jewelry too?”

“Someone was coming and they had to beat it in a hurry,” Sergeant Macnamara suggested. “They clubbed her from behind. Her hat came off when they turned her over and they left the hat lying there when they stuffed her into that hiding place.”

“Rather careless, wouldn’t you say?” I asked. “If the boys hadn’t picked up her hat, we’d never have found her.”

Sergeant Macnamara shook his head. “Like I said, they were in a hurry to beat it. Maybe she had a nice fat wallet in her purse and that was enough for them.”

Another constable arrived to tell him that a morgue wagon was ready to transport the body. “I’ll need you to come to police headquarters on Mulberry Street to make statements,” Macnamara said. He didn’t offer us a ride in the morgue wagon, for which I was glad. “Constable Daly will show you the way.”

The original constable escorted us to the end of the alley and then motioned for us to go with him along Canal. As we came to the first cross street I glanced up and noticed that it was Chrystie. Somewhere along that street was the Eastmans headquarters in a building that must have backed onto that very alleyway. I might suggest that line of inquiry when we made our statement.

It was a long weary trudge back along Canal to the police headquarters. We gave them our names and addresses and dictated our statements to a uniformed sergeant. Then we were told to wait. Someone brought us cups of tea which were most welcome. We sat in a small, windowless room, on hard, straight-backed chairs, and waited. Jacob looked around him. “I have been in rooms like this before,” he said. “They would always keep you waiting. There would be screams from other rooms. Sometimes I still have nightmares.”

I wanted to take his hand, but it still seemed too forward. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I dragged you into this. I can’t tell you how badly I feel at this moment.”

“It is I who feels guilty,” he said angrily. “How could I have let her go alone to a place like that? I should have protected her better.”

“You were not her bodyguard, Jacob. And from what I saw she would not have listened to you. She led her own life.”

He nodded. “But it doesn’t ease the guilt,” he said.

“I know. Nothing eases the guilt at the moment. I feel terrible myself. It was I who sent her there.”

He reached out and took my hand. I was glad it was the other hand, not the one sticky with dried blood. His hand was as cold as mine. We sat there, clutching each other for support.