Sarah supposed it was interesting, but just then she realized they were passing Police Headquarters. “Could you ask your driver to stop here for a moment?” she asked anxiously. “I need to leave Detective Sergeant Malloy a message while we’re here.”

Opal looked out the window at the imposing four-story, marble-fronted building with the fanlight over the arched doorway that read NEW YORK POLICE HEADQUARTERS.

“Oh, my,” she said with a smile, signaling her driver to stop. “I really will have something amazing to tell Charles tonight when he asks me how my day was.”

Frank tried to remember back to the time before he’d met Sarah Brandt. Surely, he hadn’t been angry all the time then. He would’ve had apoplexy long before now if he had been. No, he was sure he had never been this angry for this long in his entire life. And he was definitely going to have to forbid her to leave him any more messages at Mulberry Street, or he’d have to quit the force and become a street cleaner. As it was, nobody there could look at him without smirking.

Could a man be henpecked when he wasn’t married? Frank didn’t think he wanted to know.

As if things weren’t bad enough, Mrs. Ellsworth was out on her porch as he came down Bank Street. She waved to get his attention, just in case he hadn’t noticed her there. He waved back.

“Good evening, Mrs. Ellsworth. I hope you’re keeping well,” he said as pleasantly as he could considering how furious he was with Sarah Brandt.

“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Malloy. I knew you’d be calling tonight – either you or Mr. Dennis. I dropped a knife at dinner. Knife falls, gentleman calls, or at least that’s what they say.”

Frank didn’t ask who “they” were. He was too busy gritting his teeth at the thought of Richard Dennis calling on Sarah. “Is Mrs. Brandt at home?”

“Oh, my, yes. She arrived in a fancy carriage a few hours ago. We’ve seen a lot of carriages calling for her lately. Much different from the people who usually come running down the street to fetch her for a birth, I must say.”

A fancy carriage. She’d probably been out somewhere with Dennis again. He tried reminding himself it was none of his concern, but he still felt like somebody had cut out a large chunk of his insides with a dull knife. “How is Nelson getting on?” he asked to change the subject. Mrs. Ellsworth’s son had recently been accused of murder, and Frank and Sarah had helped exonerate him.

“He’s working very hard, even harder than he did before,” she said proudly. “I expect he wants to prove to Mr. Dennis that he made the right decision not to dismiss him.”

“Knowing Nelson, he’ll have Dennis’s job before the year is out,” Frank said, making Mrs. Ellsworth smile. Since Dennis owned the bank, they both knew that was unlikely.

“He’ll be satisfied to become a vice president.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Frank teased her. He climbed the steps to Sarah’s door and knocked more loudly than he’d intended.

Mrs. Ellsworth bade him good night as the door opened.

“Malloy,” Sarah said with the welcoming smile she hadn’t given him the last few times he’d come here. “You must’ve gotten my message very quickly.”

He refused to return that smile and went inside at her silent invitation. “You’ve got to stop leaving me messages at Headquarters,” he said sternly, determined to get this settled.

She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. “Are you worried about my reputation or your own?” she asked in amusement.

“It’s not funny. You should hear what they say about you.”

“Why don’t you tell them Commissioner Roosevelt has made me an honorary detective?” she suggested. “Then you’d have an excuse to consult with me.”

“Maybe I’ll ask him to do that,” Frank said, reluctantly allowing his anger to cool a bit. She always had that effect on him. Until the next time she made him angry.

Which would probably be in about sixty seconds.

“Come into the kitchen. I’ve got a lot of things to tell you,” she said.

Frank followed obediently, leaving his hat hanging in the hallway, as usual.

She’d already made coffee, and a pie sat on the table.

“Did Mrs. Ellsworth make the pie?” he asked.

“Of course. She said she knew you were coming. Something about a knife falling on the floor.” She began to cut the pie.

“She told me she wasn’t sure if it was me or Richard Dennis,” he said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice as he took his seat at the table.

“She only said that to make you jealous,” she said, setting a piece of apple pie in front of him. Apple was his favorite.

He decided not to reply to that. “Does this have something to do with that Italian girl’s death?” he asked instead, neatly cutting off the point of his pie and raising it to his mouth.

“Yes, I’ve found out a lot of important things since I saw you last. I even found the murder weapon.”

Frank nearly choked on his pie. She quickly poured him a cup of coffee, but it was too hot and burned his tongue. By the time he’d stopped coughing, he was good and mad again. “Didn’t I tell you not to get involved with this?” he growled.

“You told me not to get involved with the Black Hand, and then you told me the Black Hand didn’t have anything to do with Emilia’s death. Besides,” she added quickly, when he would have started shouting, “I wasn’t investigating the murder. I just went down to the Mission to volunteer to help.”

“What do you mean, volunteer?” He did shout this time.

She didn’t even blink. “I decided they could use some help, so I offered it.”

“Do they need a lot of babies delivered down there?”

She just ignored his sarcasm. “I’m teaching the girls how to avoid disease,” she said self-righteously. “And last night my mother had a party to help Mrs. Wells raise money for the mission. I already told you about that.”

Frank had to take a deep breath so he wouldn’t shout again. “I thought Dennis was giving the party.” He couldn’t understand why he insisted on mentioning Dennis. It was like rubbing salt in an open wound.

“He helped us host it and invited some of his wife’s friends,” she said, setting her own coffee down on the table beside her piece of the pie and taking a seat opposite him. “I got to talk to two of the girls from the mission last night. I’ve noticed some strange things going on in that house.”

“Like what?” Frank asked skeptically, knowing she’d tell him anyway but willing to do his part. He did enjoy pointing out the holes in her theories, and after what she’d done, she deserved it.

“First of all, Mrs. Wells tends to play favorites among the girls. Emilia was her latest favorite, and that made the other girls very jealous.”

“You think one of them stabbed her to death because she was jealous?” he asked. The pie – now that he finally got to swallow some of it – was delicious, as usual.

“Don’t make fun, Malloy,” she warned him. “And don’t forget where these girls came from. Some of them have lived on the streets. All of them have seen violence firsthand, and they know life is cheap. The mission is the best place they’ve ever been. They have food and clothes and a clean, safe place to sleep. They’re treated with respect, and they want Mrs. Wells to love them. I think if one of them felt threatened, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill a rival.”

“You make it sound like a lovers’ quarrel,” he scoffed.

“It’s more like a large family, with a mother who loves some of her children more than others. Mrs. Wells chooses one favorite girl. That girl is entrusted with big responsibilities, mainly being in charge of all the other girls. She also gets material rewards. Emilia got the clothes I donated. And she got special attention from Mrs. Wells, too. All that made the other girls hate her.”

“How do you know?”

“They told me, or at least two of them did. One of them is the current favorite. She actually said she’s glad Emilia died, and that others are, too.”