After what seemed an age, she heard a clock outside striking nine. Malloy heard it, too. “Is it that late already?” he asked, stretching his shoulders wearily.

“I’m afraid so,” she said, gratefully putting her knitting aside. She’d probably have to pull out all that she’d done tonight, since she’d been paying so little attention, she’d completely ruined the pattern. “Did you see anything interesting?”

“I saw a lot that was interesting, but nothing that somebody’d get killed over,” he said, standing and arching his back to stretch out the kinks. “I’d better be going. The neighbors will talk if I stay too late.”

“The neighbors will talk about you coming at all,” she replied, rising to see him out. “Don’t worry, though,” she assured him when she saw his worried frown, “my reputation isn’t in any danger. They’ll just be speculating on how soon we’re going to be married.”

“Married?” Malloy looked horrified.

“Anytime a gentleman calls on a lady regularly, that is the expected outcome,” she told him, amused by his reaction. “I’m sure our real relationship is beyond their ability to comprehend.”

“That’s because the police don’t usually use midwives to solve murder cases,” Malloy told her, “not even in Teddy Roosevelt’s modem police department.”

“Well, they should certainly consider using women of some kind in solving crimes,” she replied in the same vein. “You see how successful you’ve been the times I’ve helped you solve a case.”

“It’s time I left,” Malloy said diplomatically, “neighbors or no neighbors.”

“You’re right. If we continue this conversation, I’m sure we’ll only argue. I’ll get your hat.”

He settled the bowler on his head and said, “Thanks for supper.”

“Thank you for working on Tom’s case,” she replied. “I never thought anyone would care about it again.”

“Like I said, don’t get your hopes up. You know there’s not much chance we’ll find anything after all this time,” he said.

“I do know that, but it means a lot to me that you’re willing to try.” To her chagrin, she felt tears welling in her eyes.

He was plainly uncomfortable with her gratitude and the remnants of her grief. “That’s my job,” he excused himself. “Keep an eye out for that redheaded lover,” he said to lighten the mood.

“Don’t worry,” she replied with a forced smile. “I’m determined to be the one to solve this case.”

“When you do, I’ll put in a good word for you with Roosevelt. Maybe he’ll make you the first female detective sergeant.”

She was still laughing when she closed the front door behind him. Malloy had, of course, never even met Police Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt, while Sarah had known him all her life. And the thought of anyone, even Teddy, appointing a female police detective was too funny for words.

FRANK HAD NO desire ever to see Amos Potter again, but the man had offered him a generous reward for finding Edmund Blackwell/Eddie Brown’s killer, so he felt a certain obligation to solve the case. If that meant asking Amos Potter a few more questions, then he’d overcome his personal prejudices just this once.

Only when he’d decided he should see Potter did he realize he had no idea where to find the man. He’d never needed to inquire before because Potter had so conveniently made himself available at Blackwell’s house until now. But when Frank stopped by the next morning, Potter wasn’t there. The butler, Granger, reluctantly gave him Potter’s address. Frank thought Granger looked ill, so maybe that had weakened his resolve to be as unhelpful as possible to Frank’s investigation. Whatever the circumstances, however, Frank finally located Amos Potter’s residence in a shabby but respectable street between Greenwich Village and the infamous neighborhood known as the Tenderloin.

Potter lived on the fourth floor of a formerly grand home that had been converted into cheap flats. He opened the door in his shirtsleeves. He was unshaven, and his collarless shirt was open at the throat to reveal a few meager wisps of salt-and-pepper chest hair. His suspenders hung down at his hips, and his trousers were old and wrinkled.

“Malloy, what are you doing here?” he demanded, either annoyed or embarrassed by Frank’s appearance at his door.

“I have a few questions to ask you, Mr. Potter,” he said, exaggerating his tone of respect and making no intimidating moves. Potter wouldn’t like being caught unawares and looking so disreputable, and he probably hated having Frank, of all people, find out where and how he really lived. He was, Frank had noted, a man who liked to maintain the image of genteel respectability.

“How did you find me?” Potter snapped.

“I asked at the Blackwell house,” Frank said, still mild and unthreatening. “I won’t keep you long, Mr. Potter. I just need to ask you a few more things about Dr. Blackwell. I know you want to help me find his killer, and I need a little more information from you to accomplish that.”

“I already gave you all the information I had that would help find Edmund’s killer, and in spite of that, you let your best suspect escape,” Potter said impatiently. A door opened across the hall, and Potter glanced over uneasily. “Come inside,” he snapped, having decided he didn’t want to give his neighbors any more fodder for gossip.

Frank gladly obliged him.

Potter’s flat was sparsely furnished with items that had probably been left by a previous tenant, judging from their condition. If Blackwell had been prospering in his career as a healer, he hadn’t been sharing much of his newfound fortune with his assistant.

“What do you want to know?” Potter asked, making no effort at courtesy.

Frank chose to make himself comfortable anyway and took a seat in what appeared to be the best chair in the place. “Let’s see,” he said, pretending to try to recall why he had come. “I’ve been hearing lots of rumors about Dr. Blackwell and his relationship with his female patients,” he tried.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Potter said, grudgingly seating himself in another chair. He didn’t lean back, though, giving Frank the silent message that he didn’t intend to be sitting there very long. “I have no idea who would be spreading such scandalous rumors about poor Edmund.”

Frank let him get by with the lie. “Some people seem to think that Dr. Blackwell laid more than just his hands on the women he treated.”

“That’s preposterous!” Potter sputtered. “Edmund was a healer. His treatments were revolutionary, but there was nothing improper about them or about him.”

“Then if I question the husbands of some of these women, I won’t find out that they had any reason to be jealous of Dr. Blackwell,” Frank said.

“Certainly not! Of course,” Potter added, backpedaling just a bit, “some men are just naturally jealous of any male who pays their wives attention. Dr. Blackwell’s cures inspired a high level of gratitude and devotion from his clients, so naturally the ladies would be excessively fond of him. I’m sure you noticed how distraught they were at the memorial service.”

“Yeah, like a real close friend had died,” Frank agreed.

“And some men might feel a bit uncomfortable if their wives expressed such affection for another man.”

“How do you think they expressed their affection?” Frank asked mildly.

Potter wasn’t fooled. “Mr. Malloy, your questions are insulting. Although Edmund is beyond being hurt by your innuendos, the ladies in question are not.”

“And speaking of the ladies in question, what do you know about this Mrs. Fitzgerald? The one you were talking to at the funeral.”

Potter seemed surprised. “Why, nothing in particular. Edmund treated her for a back ailment, I believe. He helped her tremendously.”

“And she was so grateful she gave him a house to live in,” Frank said, as if that were the most natural reaction in the world.