“And you’re willing to bribe me into helping you,” he said, thinking of her interest in Brian. “I guess that makes me no better than the Charity Girls.”

“It’s not like that, Malloy,” she said, stopping in the middle of the midway and forcing people to go around them. “Helping your son is something I’d do whether you helped me in return or not.”

Frank didn’t want to believe her, since he certainly wouldn’t be helping her unless he felt he owed her something. He was afraid she was telling the truth, however, so he didn’t press her. Better to leave some doubt in his mind so he could keep a little self-respect.

He touched her arm to indicate they should start walking again. People were becoming annoyed at the way they were blocking the way. “It doesn’t look to me like these girls are very particular who they go with, but if you’re right about them wanting to know the man a little first, then maybe there is a chance we can figure out who the killer is,” he admitted reluctantly.

She smiled at that, recognizing a victory. At least she was gracious enough not to gloat.

Frank refused her entreaties to ride the Flip-Flap Railway, which looked like a very dangerous proposition indeed. A car went sliding down a steep incline, building up speed, until it was going fast enough to propel it around a vertical loop. No matter how many times they watched it go around and saw no one fall out, Frank wouldn’t be convinced it was safe.

They watched the performing sea lions who had been the original attraction of the park and saw the newest addition to the park, an alligator just arrived from Florida. They ate Vienna sausages on rolls, called Red Hots, at one of the sidewalk cafés under a striped umbrella and were allowed to buy beer in spite of the Sunday closing laws Theodore Roosevelt was now vigorously enforcing, because they were eating, too.

Sarah couldn’t help noticing, however, that at many tables the only food was a dried-up-looking sandwich that no one touched.

“That’s to obey the letter of the law,” Malloy explained when she pointed it out to him. “So long as they serve some kind of food, they can also serve liquor. The law doesn’t say what kind of food it has to be or that anybody has to actually eat it.” The same sandwich was apparently served over and over again all day.

After their meal, they allowed themselves to be lured into one of the freak shows to see a bearded lady and a man who could make his eyes bulge nearly out of their sockets. Frank had seen more frightening things on Fifth Avenue.

“Are you a good shot, Malloy?” Mrs. Brandt asked when they passed a shooting gallery. Young men were using the rifles to shoot at moving targets in hopes of winning their companions one of the cheap trinkets on display. “Have you passed the police-department shooting test?”

She was referring to the regulation that her friend Commissioner Teddy had made last December, after a police shooting mishap, that every man on the force must be trained to use a.32-caliber, double-action Colt revolver. It was the first type of formal training ever required of a police officer, and resentment ran high. Tammany Hall had complained because the men were required to buy their own guns, accusing the department of charging them ten dollars for a gun worth only four. Roosevelt countered that the gun actually cost fifteen dollars, and suddenly the controversy had ended.

“I knew how to shoot before your friend made it a rule,” Malloy assured her.

“Prove it, then,” she challenged, gesturing toward the shooting booth. “Win me a prize.”

“Do you need a set of glass beads that bad?” he teased.

“Are you afraid you won’t win?” she teased back.

He couldn’t allow her to think he was, especially when he wasn’t. He stepped up to the counter, plunked down his nickel, and picked up a rifle. He kept shooting for a while, until a small crowd had gathered and the barker was trying to draw an even larger one.

“Step right up, folks, see how easy it is! This gentleman’s already won himself whatever he wants from our vast array of prizes. Just point the rifle and shoot, that’s how easy it is! Take home a treasure for your sweetheart! Step right up^!”

When Frank figured he’d proven his point, he laid the rifle down and turned to Mrs. Brandt with a satisfied smile. She was smiling back, well aware of why he had continued to shoot long after he’d won her the glass beads. “What would you like?” he asked, indicating the “vast array of prizes.”

“That fire wagon, I think,” she said, pointing to the toy at the bottom of the display. It was obviously worth only a few cents and totally unsuitable for a lady. “For Brian,” she added at his surprised look.

Of course. She knew his weakness. He wouldn’t be able to refuse her anything now that she did.

With the toy bulging in his pocket, they continued down the midway until they heard the shouts and screams and thundering splash that told them they’d finally reached the place where Gerda Reinhard may have met her killer.

“It’s the Shoot-the-Chutes,” she said unnecessarily. Frank had already recognized the boats from the photograph.

They watched as one of the boats crested the top of the final incline and went shooting down the water-filled trough into the lagoon below. The angle of descent caused the boat to strike the surface of the water with a bone-jarring crash that sent water splashing in all directions. The passengers screamed with either terror or delight, Frank wasn’t certain which, but from the way they were laughing as they climbed out of the boat, they seemed none the worse for their experience.

“That’s the place where they take the photographs,” she said, drawing his attention to a replica of the boats used on the ride. This one was propped up on a wooden stand, and the photographer was assembling a group of people in it for a photograph.

Frank looked back as another boat went crashing down the chute. “I hope you don’t think you have to ride that thing to find out who the killer is,” he said, but when he looked at Mrs. Brandt, ready for her smart reply, she wasn’t even paying attention. Instead she was staring intently at the people posing in the boat.

“What is it?” he asked, looking, too, but seeing nothing noteworthy.

“That man in the third row. I think I know him.”

“WHICH ONE?”

Sarah looked again. The man was turned away now, speaking to his companion, a young girl who couldn’t seem to stop giggling. Sarah couldn’t be certain, but he looked like one of the Schyler boys. Then he turned to pose for the photographer who had commanded them all to look suitably frightened for the picture, and she was sure.

“Dirk Schyler,” she told Malloy. “His family and mine have known each other forever.”

“Knickerbockers,” Malloy said with disapproval, referring to the nickname for the wealthy old Dutch families who had been the original settlers of New York City.

“Don’t say it like it’s an insult, Malloy,” she chided him. “Some people are proud of being a Knickerbocker family.”

He knew she wasn’t, of course, so he just gave her one of his looks, which she ignored.

They watched as the people in the boat posed, trying to look frightened, and the photographer snapped the picture.

“What do you suppose the son of a Knickerbocker family is doing at Coney Island with a shop girl?” Malloy mused aloud.

Sarah had been wondering the same thing. Dirk was helping the girl out of the boat now, and they could see the cheapness of her outfit and the tawdriness of her accessories. She didn’t appear to be more than sixteen, either. Dirk himself was dressed the part of a Coney Island swain in a plaid suit and a straw boater, which was amazing in itself. Someone of Dirk’s station in life would never be seen in such a costume, or so Sarah would have thought.