Did the police have the power to force someone like Mattingly to answer their questions if he didn’t choose to? Somehow, Sarah doubted it, although she found the thought of the distinguished attorney being slapped around in the filthy interrogation room she’d seen extremely interesting. She thought that perhaps Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy might, too.

Sarah lingered on the sidewalk in front of the VanDamm’s house for a while, walking slowly so Mr. Mattingly might catch up with her when he made his exit. Then she might venture to strike up a conversation with him, if she could think of something sensible to say. But in the next moment a carriage pulled up at the VanDamm’s curb, and Mr. Mattingly went straight down the VanDamm’s front steps and climbed into it.

Too bad his carriage hadn’t been waiting there when she came out. She might have been able to get some information from his driver or his footman. Servants were an invaluable source of information about their employers, as Malloy had learned. But there was an equally reliable source that Sarah had not yet tapped. One from which she had cut herself off years earlier out of anger and bitterness.

When she thought about it now, however, she found her anger and bitterness had faded considerably. Perhaps the time had finally come to reestablish those ties. She had been thinking she should for a while now, but she hadn’t had a reason. Or rather, she hadn’t had an excuse. She’d needed such an excuse to salvage her pride, and now she had the perfect one.

SARAH HADN’T BEEN to the house since Tom’s funeral, and even then it had been strange to her. Although three long years had passed since her last visit, she remembered the way well. It wasn’t far from the VanDamms’s home, just around the comer on Fifty-Seventh Street and a few blocks east, which she walked with determined strides.

The noise from Fifth Avenue faded behind her as she went. There were no tracks or horsecars on Fifty-Seventh Street, nothing to disturb the elegance and serenity of the neighborhood. The house was even more imposing than she had remembered, one of a seemingly endless row of Italianate brownstone town houses that gleamed in the warm sunlight. The neighbors were such luminaries as the Auchinclosses, the Sloanes, the Rogers, and even the Roosevelts.

Malloy would probably make fun of her for even knowing such things.

But as Sarah reached for the perfectly polished brass knocker, she forgot all about Malloy. Anxiety suddenly twisted her stomach, but she refused to acknowledge it. She had nothing to fear, she told herself. She was a grown woman who had her own life, and nothing and no one could change that, certainly nothing and no one in this house, not unless she allowed it herself. And since she had no intention of doing so, she was safe from any attack on her independence.

Besides, she was certain not to encounter the one person she least desired to see here today because he was miles away.

A maid she didn’t know answered her knock, and the girl stared at her in surprise. Sarah didn’t look like the usual visitor to this house.

“I’m Sarah Brandt,” she said, “and I’d like to see my mother, if she’s at home.”

As HE LOOKED at the plush surroundings, Frank figured he’d probably made a big mistake by coming here. The offices of Mattingly and Springer were plainly designed to appeal to people of a completely different social class. Folks like Frank probably came and went by the service entrance, if they came and went at all. From the way the clerk had looked at him when he’d walked through the hand-carved oak door, he guessed it was the latter.

“May I help you?” the clerk asked. Frank noticed he didn’t add “sir.” The fellow was young, not more than twenty-two or -three, and extremely thin. The bones of his face seemed to be straining to get through his tight, pale flesh. That alone would have made him unpleasant to look at, but his expression was pinched, too, like he smelled something bad. Maybe he did. Frank hadn’t changed his shirt in a day or two.

“I’m here to see Sylvester Mattingly,” Frank said. No “Mr.” Mattingly. No “please.” No “if he’s in.” Frank could be rude, too.

“Is this pertaining to a case Mr. Mattingly is handling?” the boy sniffed. Plainly, he doubted this very much.

“It’s pertaining to the death of Miss Alicia VanDamm.”

Frank would have bet the boy’s face was already as white as it could get, but he would’ve been wrong. His eyes even seemed to bulge out a little. Funny how the name VanDamm could get a reaction. Or maybe it was the fact of Alicia’s death.

Whatever it was, it had rattled the skinny clerk. He started fiddling nervously with his paper sleeve protectors, and he ducked his head so that his green eyeshade shielded his face. “Who…? May I tell Mr. Mattingly who is calling?” he stammered, no longer quite so sure of himself.

“Tell him Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City Police.”

At this, the boy’s head came up again, and this time his eyes were definitely bulging. “Please, have a seat,” he offered in a choked whisper before fairly running from the room.

He closed the inner door behind him, leaving Frank alone in the reception room. The place felt closed in, even though the room was large and had a high ceiling. Probably, the illusion came from the depth of the carpets, the thickness of the maroon velvet drapes, and the ornately carved plaster ceiling. Everything seemed heavy, from the oak of the doors to the oak of the clerk’s desk. Probably designed to absorb sound, so that every conversation held here would remain in strictest confidence. Frank figured the people who needed such a high-priced lawyer talked about a lot of things that needed to remain confidential.

Frank seated himself in one of the overstuffed chairs provided for visitors. Across from him hung a portrait of an elderly man who’d had lifelong bowel problems, if his expression was any indication. Frank noticed the elaborate chandelier hadn’t been wired for electricity, as if such a thing would be considered vulgar in this bastion of conservatism. All he could say was, Sarah Brandt better be right about Mattingly knowing where to find that Fisher fellow.

After a few moments, the clerk returned. “Mr. Mattingly is expecting a client very shortly, but he can spare you a few minutes. If you will follow me.”

Frank was sorry he hadn’t been there to see Mattingly’s face when the clerk had announced him. He wondered if he’d been as shocked as the clerk. If so, he’d had enough time to recover, Frank noted when he stepped into Mattingly’s office.

This room was just as plush as the outer room, although the colors were darker and duller, browns and tans this time. Mattingly sat behind a desk that seemed a mile wide and a half a mile deep. He didn’t seem pleased to see Frank, and he didn’t get up to greet him.

Frank couldn’t judge Mattingly’s height since the desk would have dwarfed even a large man, but he seemed insignificant sitting there in the high-backed chair. His hair was thick and white and expertly barbered. His coat was tailor-made and filled out his narrow shoulders with artful padding. His face sagged with age, and his eyes glittered like glass beneath heavy lids. He might be very good at concealing his emotions, but those eyes gave him away this time. Frank’s visit had made him furious.

Mattingly waited until the clerk had closed the door firmly, if silently, behind him before he said, “Detective Sergeant Malloy,” as if getting a feel for the words in his mouth. They seemed to have an unpleasant flavor. “I’m used to dealing with the police, but never with anyone below the rank of captain.”

Just as Frank has suspected. Mattingly wouldn’t waste his bribe money on a lowly detective. “This time it looks like you’re stuck with me. I’m the one investigating the death of Alicia VanDamm.”