“Hmm,” I said as if we were only remarking on the weather and nodded in the direction of the next corpse. We moved forward.
Ignoring faces, focusing only on the sites of harm, I saw evidence of many kinds of damage that could be done to the human body. Here, a gunshot; there, a knife wound. Other bodies had no visible signs at all, their limbs as smooth and clean as my own, and Apron told me of internal injuries, damaged hearts, and utter mysteries. By the end, my poor body was still roiling with nerves, but I was fully engaged in conversation, my brain overriding my baser instincts in order to add knowledge to my repertoire.
Afterward, Mortenson returned me to more familiar territory, our heels clacking on the wooden sidewalk in silence the entire journey. Touching the brim of his hat once, he took his leave without a word. I sensed I had disappointed him; he’d been hoping for a womanly, weak reaction. A collapse, perhaps, or at least some sign of fragility.
I’d never been so happy to disappoint someone in my life.
? ? ?
The next day, I did force myself to report to the office, though I avoided Pinkerton’s gaze as if everything depended on it—as well it might. While I was able to busy myself around the margins for a few hours, eventually, he said, “Come here, Warne, and let’s talk.”
I dragged my feet, walking to his office. He stood by the door, ready to shut it as soon as we were both inside. I dreaded the moment when I would pass by him, his intimidating bulk refusing to give quarter, especially since I was afraid he might see me trembling.
I could not linger any longer when a shout came from behind me: “Boss!”
We both turned. Everyone turned. Besides Pinkerton and me, Taylor and Bellamy were also there. Taylor was bending down in front of the office safe, a stack of bills in hand—probably counterfeit—and he was the one who’d spoken.
Pinkerton pushed past me into the outside office, saying, “Yes?”
“Look.”
We all witnessed the moment. We all saw Taylor lift the stolen ring from the safe. The gold and gems glinted merrily in the stale air. It was clearly the snake ring from the Obanov case, fitting the description exactly; unless it belonged to Queen Victoria herself, it could be no other.
Pinkerton said, “Well then.” His tone gave nothing away.
I wanted to feel relief. I did let out a single breath I felt I’d been holding forever. But Taylor’s and Bellamy’s glares told the story. Whoever had taken the ring had given me respite by returning it, but he’d also made it impossible to prove that I hadn’t taken it in the first place. In the absence of proof, I would be both guilty and innocent, always.
Between the morgue and the snake ring debacle, doubt crept in. If the other operatives would be torturing me, staring at me, driving me out, what was the point of it all? I could leave now and not come back. It would be the easiest thing in the world.
But I could make a success of myself as an operative. I knew I could. I’d survived something Mortenson thought I couldn’t, and that gave me confidence, but I realized there were reasons far deeper why I needed to remain.
Because I always felt like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t anyway. Because my complete lack of trust in every new person I met might finally be turned to some positive purpose. And because Charlie would have told me I couldn’t, but Charlie was dead, and it was time for me to make my own choices.
I’d already known I had to be twice as good as any of the men on the job. Now, I would have to be twice as good as twice.
Everything depended on it.
Chapter Eight
Surveillance
After the unexplained theft and return of the snake ring, I cast a suspicious eye on all my fellow operatives. Even without the formal meetings or introductions that Pinkerton so eschewed, after three months, I’d learned a great deal.
Bellamy specialized in disguises, which was why he had charge of the costume closet, and often gave advice to other operatives on the best way to take on a role. Many times, I found him in the office pasting things onto another man’s face with spirit gum or scrutinizing his clothes for telltale signs that he did not belong where he was being sent. He alternated between eyeing me disdainfully and looking right through me, and I still thought him the most likely saboteur.
Graham DeForest, as befitted his stylish and ingratiating aspect, specialized in seductions. Not true seductions—Pinkerton took pains to emphasize to me that neither his male agents nor his female ones would ever be asked to complete a private act for the public good—but DeForest ably handled any case where flirting might get us closer to our goal. I knew firsthand how very charming he could be. Suspicious of him as I was, I still found myself smiling under his flattery.
Mortenson, who by his physical presence was both hard to disguise and not particularly suited for seduction, was an excellent functionary. If the case called for an ersatz inspector, Cincinnati businessman, or government representative, all Mortenson needed to be completely convincing was the right suit of clothes. Sometimes, Bellamy added thin, gold-rimmed eyeglasses as a crowning touch. Mortenson’s skill was to blend into the background, and I still had trouble drawing a bead on him.
Even the men I barely knew had their roles, easy to peg. Taylor was the muscle, Dalessandro was the sap, and Paretsky was the gentleman fallen on hard times.
I, of course, didn’t need a specialty. I already had one. I was the woman.