Murphy's Law (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #1)

"I think he's been in every night this week, miss," the landlord said, "although I couldn't swear to it."

"Any idea what time he might have been here?" "What's this about, then?" A man beside me demanded, shoving a beery face into mine. "Didn't he show up when he was supposed to for an assignation?"

"Oooh. Assignation. Big word."

Ribald jokes rushed around the bar room. Someone tugged at my sleeve. "Don't let Ma Boyle cop you so close to his home, or you'll be in for it. She was in here once before, flailing her umbrella at some poor girl."

"Believe me, my taste in men doesn't include Mr. Boyle," I said haughtily. "I just needed his help about something that happened on Ellis Island. I won't trouble you any longer."

I tried to force my way out again. Hands grabbed at me. "Here, what's the hurry? Stay and have a drink. Come on, honey, don't be shy."

I had to give a couple of good kicks to the shins and stamp on a few toes before I made it past them. Enough. I had had enough of living dangerously for one day. Now I was going back to Daniel Sullivan. I didn't have much to go on, but I had found out that Boyle was a big spender and he hadn't been home all that night. Surely there ought to be something worth checking into in that.

"The young woman to see you again, Captain," a uniformed policeman announced with resignation in his voice. Daniel Sullivan looked up as I was ushered into his cubicle.

"Mrs. O'Connor. What a pleasant surprise. Is it too much to hope you've had a change of heart and you're here to tell us everything you know?"

"That's exactly why I'm here," I said, accepting the chair he offered me. "I've come up with several interesting facts you should be looking into."

"Such as?"

"For one, the blood on Michael's jacket and handkerchief. I remembered afterward where they came from. My boy got into a fight on board the ship. Michael brought him to me with a bloody nose.

He had carried him away from the fight and lent him his handkerchief. So there you are."

"Nicely thought out. I credit you with great imagination."

"Imagination?" I demanded. "You think I'm making it up? Why would I bother to come here if I didn't think I'd be able to make you see that Michael Larkin did not kill O'Malley? That incident on the ship with the bloody nose--we were all in the big room together, you know. I could call you a dozen witnesses who saw it."

"Like mother, like son?" he asked, and for a second his eyes flashed amusement at me. "Both getting into very public fights?"

"That wasn't the main reason I came to you," I said, ignoring his goading. "I've been doing my own detective work and looking into Mr. Bernard "Bully" Boyle--the island guard I saw that night."

He held up his hand. "Mrs. O'Connor, please. No more suggestions that Boyle was responsible. I've got a sworn statement from two other watchmen that he was on their shift and took the launch back to New York with them."

"And I've talked to the boatman who said it was so cold that afternoon that everyone huddled together in the little cabin and it was impossible to see who was or wasn't there."

"But we've been through this before, Mrs. O'Connor. Why would an island watchman suddenly decide to attack one of the immigrants?"

"I'm not saying he did kill O'Malley.

I just think that you should be looking into him a little more. He's a very interesting person, Captain Sullivan. He's known in all the saloons. He's generous. He shouts rounds of drinks when he's flush. He even visits prosperous houses of ... ill repute."

"How the devil do you know that?"

"I checked it all out for myself." I gave him a triumphant smile, not admitting the precarious nature of my visit there. "And what's more," I finished before he could ask too many questions, "his own wife says that he didn't come home all that night."

"The man lives in Hell's Kitchen, doesn't he?" Sullivan demanded. "You went around there asking questions? You were taking a big risk, Mrs. O'Connor. These are not the kind of people you'd

want to invite to take tea with you."

"I know that," I said, "but someone has to help Michael if you're not going to. And me--you still suspect that I had something to do with it, don't you? Somehow I have to clear both our names and I'll do what it takes."

"You're a gutsy woman, I'll say that for you," he said, "but have you ever thought what would happen to you if you were right and you did unearth the true killer? Someone who has slit a man's throat in a room full of other men is a reckless gambler. He's already taken at least one life. He'd make short work of you."