Mariano scans the notes. “Were there any outright threats?”
“They didn’t threaten, no. But they were certainly not pleased.”
“Maybe that’s why Dr. LeVine chose not to mention the Finnegans when we asked about anyone who might have bad feelings toward his family . . . ?”
When Mariano looks at me, I can read the same question on his face that’s occupied my mind all afternoon. Is Lydia’s disappearance about payback?
The thought makes my breathing come in shallow bursts instead of long, even strokes. Father is careful to censor what he says around me about work, but Nick isn’t, and he has a slew of names for the Irish gang that controls the North Side—charmless thugs, brainless brutes, dumb paddies.
“Could I get you some coffee, Piper?” Mariano’s low words are like a life preserver in my sea of fears, calling me back.
“No, thank you.” Something drips onto my wrist. “Oh, blast, I’m crying.”
“You’re allowed to cry, Piper.”
I unfasten my handbag and pull out the handkerchief Mariano had loaned me just a few days before. “I brought this to return. I’m afraid I’m going to need to use it, though.”
Mariano leans back in his chair, his hands laced together behind his head. “Well, that solves the mystery of why you carry such a large handbag.” His lips curl in a smile. “Stolen handkerchiefs, of course.”
When he smiles, lines form on his cheeks. Not like dimples, exactly. More like parentheses, framing in his smile. The effect is charming; I don’t even feel bothered that it’s at my expense.
Mariano brings all four legs of his chair back to the ground. “As a lawyer’s daughter, I’m sure you know that none of this would be admissible in court, since there was no search warrant. Just”—Mariano gestures to the notes I gave him—“creative fact finding. But it does motivate me to stop in on the Finnegans and see what they might know about your Lydia.”
“Is that safe?” My mind holds images of crime scene photographs, men splayed in odd angles.
He grimaces. “As you might guess, my relationship with the Finnegan family isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy.”
“I’m sure they don’t like detectives.”
“Oh, they like some.” His smile is wry. “Not me, though. Not with who my family is in the business.” Mariano shrugs away the implied story, as if he thinks he might be telling me something I already know. Are other men in his family detectives? “But I’ll be fine. O’Malley will be with me, of course.”
The squeeze in my chest eases knowing he won’t be alone. “Okay, good. You can keep those notes, if you’d like. And I did pay a visit to the Barrows yesterday. I’m wondering, did Mr. Barrow tell you where he was at the time Lydia was taken?”
“You’re not asking me to share details of an investigation, are you?”
I make a show of fluttering my eyes several times. “Of course I am.”
Now he smiles. “Why do you ask?”
But his smile fades as I recount for him what happened when Walter and I went over there yesterday. I detail how different Cole was from the boy Lydia had always described, and how Mr. Barrow surprised us by coming home early. And that he made it clear that another visit would be unwelcome.
I hook my thumb around my necklace and trace the length of the strand of pearls. “So, I’m thinking about brushing up on my childcare skills.”
Mariano’s eyes narrow. “Childcare skills.”
“Yes. I’m terrible with kids. Just ask my sister-in-law. And since I’m getting older, and I’m, well, female and all, I think it’s time that I learn how to care for a child.”
I can’t read his expression. He doesn’t seem pleased or angry or fearful or . . . anything, really. He’s just looking at me with those intense eyes of his.
A shadow falls over Mariano’s desk as Detective O’Malley joins us. He tips his hat to me. “Miss Sail, pardon the interruption. Cassano, could I speak with you for a minute?”
“Of course. Excuse me, Piper.”
The two men step away, and I push the damp handkerchief deeper into my bag. My gaze catches on this morning’s issue of The Daily Chicagoan perched precariously on the edge of Mariano’s messy desk. Wealthy Detroit girl found alive in the underbelly of Chicago reads a headline near the bottom of the page. My heart hiccups at the byline—Jeremiah Crane.
Nineteen-year-old Willa Mae Hermann of the Detroit Hermanns went missing last month while on her way to Milwaukee to visit her aunt. Her father, mother, and four younger siblings had given her up for dead when they received a phone call from Willa Mae herself. Willa Mae made the phone call from Johnny’s Lunchroom on Clark Street in Chicago’s North Side—
“Piper, I’m sorry”—Mariano yanks his suit jacket from the back of his chair—“but I’ve got to go. I’ll ring you later. Hey, Jones!”
An officer several desks away looks up.