Impatience bites at me as I drag myself away from the eatery. I had expected this neighborhood would look tired after a weekend full of debauchery. That men would be passed out on the streets and trash would sour the alleys. But instead, the street is quiet and reasonably clean. A bit more broken glass in the gutters and not the same manicured feel as Astor Street, but it seems . . . fine.
“I’m just wasting your time, Mariano,” I say on a sigh. “I didn’t think to check what time Johnny’s opened, and this neighborhood seems perfectly safe—”
“Don’t let its quiet appearance deceive you.” Mariano’s voice is low. “This place is . . . It would not be good for you to be found alone here, Piper. And I don’t care about Johnny’s being closed. In my line of work, you learn to be patient. Let’s find someone else we can talk to while we wait.”
“Okay. I had thought after Johnny’s, I would talk to the police. The station is just—”
Mariano snorts. “Let’s not waste our time. They’ve all been bought.”
“What do you mean?”
Mariano gives me a skeptical look. “Given who your father is, I assumed you would know. This part of town is mostly controlled by the Finnegan brothers.”
“Father doesn’t really talk to me about his work. My brothers know all about it, of course, but he’s careful about what he says to me. Some of his clients are even mobsters, I think.”
Mariano opens his mouth . . . closes it.
Did I say something I shouldn’t have? Maybe that’s not even true. “I don’t know for sure. I could be wrong.”
“No, I . . . I think you’re right.” Mariano’s discomfort with the topic is evident in the way he tweaks his tie back and forth.
“They have as much of a right to legal representation as anyone else, my father says.” I shouldn’t have added that last part. Makes me sound like a little girl who can’t think for herself.
Mariano pulls off his flat cap. Puts it back on. “But your father doesn’t talk to you at all about his clients, then?”
“Not really.”
I wish I hadn’t said anything. If Mariano grew up in a family of police detectives, maybe he doesn’t like defense attorneys? I had never considered the politics that might exist between them. We need a subject change.
“So, if it’s not a good idea to talk to the police around here, where do we start?”
Mariano doesn’t seem to mind the shift in conversation. “Let’s head this way for a couple blocks. We’ll be right by a . . . Well, a place that’s known for . . .” He clears his throat. “The local businessmen might have seen Lydia, if she’s around here.”
It’s charming, his embarrassment. “I promise I won’t be too scandalized if you speak the word bordello to me, Detective.”
He rakes in a breath, a mix of amusement and caution in his eyes. “I know you’re no wilting violet, Piper, but I’ve seen far too much of places like that. It’s hard for me to speak casually about them.”
I turn those words over in my head as we continue up Clark. Mariano isn’t touching me, but he’s walking much closer than he did when we roamed Astor Street. And not like he’s trying to cozy up to me, but like he’s protecting me. Somehow, he manages to strike the perfect balance of shielding me without crossing the line into sheltering.
Mariano gestures to a storefront—O’Connor’s Laundry. “Let’s try here.”
The air inside is hot, damp, and pungent with lye. The whir of machines and the slosh of water make me doubt anyone but Mariano hears the “Hello?” I call out.
But a few seconds later, a ginger-haired woman ambles out to the counter. Her eyes shift from me to Mariano and back to me. “Here to pick up?” Her accent is thickly Irish.
“Hi!” I put on a bright smile before remembering this isn’t like selling raffle tickets for the school carnival. “No, actually. We’re looking for someone.”
The woman rolls her eyes. Rolls her eyes. “Of course y’are. Ever since tat Detroit lass turned up on Clark Street, everyone’s come pokin’ around, looking for someone.”
“Yes, well.” I pull Lydia’s school picture from my bag. “All the same, my best friend was taken from our neighborhood, and I just wondered if you’d seen—”
“How daft are ya?” She doesn’t so much as glance at Lydia’s photograph. “You tink dey let dem girls walk around for us all to see?”
“There’s no need for name calling, ma’am.” Mariano’s words are clipped.
“If you could just look at her.” I move the picture into her line of vision. This woman can call me whatever she likes so long as she looks at the picture. “She’s really sick. It’s important that we find her.”
With a huff, the woman makes a show of looking at Lydia’s photograph. “Like I told ya—no. I ain’t never seen de girl. Only people who does see de girls is de ones who hires tem.”
Why didn’t I think of that? “Of course! Are there men here that I can ask?”
Her eyes become slits. “You want me to go get my God-fearing husband so you can ask him if he’s seen your friend?”
Embarrassment streaks up my neck and blooms on my cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply . . . I’m just very worried about my friend.”