“He’s the one,” Frank confirmed.
“Is he any good? As a detective, I mean?”
“When he’s sober.”
“Which isn’t very often, I’d guess.”
She was right about that. No need to tell her, either. “He said the girl was out dancing every night. Went with a lot of men. Didn’t have a steady fellow, so there’s no telling who she was with that night.”
“Even her friends don’t know, the ones who were with her at Harmony Hall,” she confirmed.
He looked at her in surprise. “Harmony Hall?”
“It’s a dance hall on Fourteenth Street, over a saloon. That’s where she went dancing the night she died.”
“If you knew all this, why do you need me?” He was feeling annoyed, although he knew that was irrational.
“Because I didn’t know it when I saw you last. I met Gerda’s friends at her funeral, and they told me all this. I feel sure the police have uncovered a lot more about her, though. What else did you find out?”
“Nothing,” Malloy admitted reluctantly. “You might as well forget finding who killed her. Nobody is going to bother to investigate.”
“They’re giving up already?” she asked, outraged.
“I told you, there’s no way to find out who killed her. There’s just too many possibilities.”
“What if I could help you narrow it down to a few?” she asked slyly.
Frank didn’t like that expression one bit. “How?”
“Someone gave Gerda a hat shortly before she died. His name is George, he spends a lot of time at dances, and he sells ladies’ furnishing. Someone else gave her red shoes, someone who was with her at Coney Island, and I have a photograph of him. Wait right here. I’ll get it.”
Frank felt like he’d been poleaxed. The woman was a caution. How on God’s earth did she get a photograph of the killer?
Before he had time even to form a theory, she was back. She handed him a cheap cardboard cover, the kind photographers used. He opened it to the strangest picture he’d ever seen. “Is this some kind of a boat?”
“It’s a ride at Sea Lion Park.”
“Sea Lion what?”
“Sea Lion Park. It’s an amusement park at Coney Island. Surely, you must have heard about it.”
Frank grunted noncommittally.
“I think this is a picture of the Shoot-the-Chutes ride, from what Gerda’s sister described. I read about it in the paper when the park opened. They have these boats that travel in water-filled chutes, and they pull them up to the top of a steep incline and let them slide all the way to the bottom. They make quite a splash when they hit the pool below.”
Frank looked at the photograph again, trying to picture what she was describing. “And this is the boat?”
“From what I understand, this is a duplicate of the boat. A photographer poses people as if they’re on the ride. See how they’re pretending to be frightened? Then they buy the photograph as a souvenir.”
“And you think this fellow with her bought her the shoes?”
“It’s certainly possible. According to her sister, she got them at Coney Island that day.”
Frank looked at the photograph more closely. “Well, even if this fellow did buy her the shoes, that doesn’t prove he killed her, does it?”
She frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Frank gave her a look that told her that was why she wasn’t a professional detective, and she didn’t like it one bit. “If she’d been killed the day she got the shoes, you might have something here. If,” he added, “you could even identify this fellow from the photograph. It’s not a very clear picture of his face. The shadow of his hat brim is covering half of it.”
She took the photograph out of his hands and looked at it again, very closely. “I’m sure if you knew this fellow, you’d recognize him.”
“But I don’t know him,” Frank pointed out. “Do you?”
“Gerda’s friends will.” She sounded awfully certain, which made Frank think she wasn’t certain at all.
“If they do, are you just going to go find him and ask him if he killed this girl?”
His sarcasm was wasted on her. “I think it would be a better idea to find out if the other girls who were murdered knew him, too.”
“What other girls?”
“I don’t know their names, but three other girls from that neighborhood have been murdered the same way Gerda was.”
“Beaten, you mean?” Frank was getting an uneasy feeling.
“Yes, and their murders are unsolved, too. I think there’s a good chance the same man killed all of them. I’m sure if you questioned their friends, you could find out which men all the girls knew in common and-”
Frank wasn’t listening anymore. He was remembering a case he’d investigated last winter. The girl was from the same German neighborhood near Tompkins Park, and she’d been beaten until her face was practically smashed in. They’d identified her from her clothes and a birthmark on her back. No one had cared much about her death, except her family of course, but they were working folks with no money to spare. She’d been one of those girls who went out dancing all the time, and Frank had soon realized that finding the one man who’d killed her would be nearly impossible. He’d gotten busy with other things, and now he couldn’t even remember the girl’s name.
Why had no one told him there were others?
“When were these girls killed?”
“I don’t know. I guess I should have found out, but I thought you’d know all about it.”
“I’m not the only detective sergeant on the New York City police force,” he reminded her more sharply than she deserved. “There’s no reason for me to know about cases I don’t work on.”
She didn’t take offense. She was too amazed. “Then there’s no way for anyone to realize these four girls’ deaths might be connected somehow?”
“You don’t know that they are,” he pointed out.
This time she gave him a condescending look. “Are you asking me to believe that four different men beat four different young women from the same neighborhood to death in exactly the same way during the past few months?”
“It could’ve happened,” he said, but he didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.
She smiled sweetly. “If you’re that naive, I guess I’ll have to make sure you don’t play any games of chance when we go to Coney Island tomorrow, then.”
“What?” Frank was certain he’d misunderstood her.
“I think we should go to Coney Island, don’t you?” she asked. “We can look around and ask questions and get an idea of what happens out there. Maybe we can figure out how Gerda met this fellow. We might even find someone who recognizes him from the photograph. We should at least be able to find out where she got the shoes. Someone might remember who bought them for her.”
“This isn’t my case,” he reminded her, although his conscience was pricking him. The nameless girl who had died last winter had been his case. If he’d solved that one, this Gerda might still be alive.
“It’s my case,” she said, “and you’d be helping me. As a friend,” she added, taking a sip of her lemonade.
When he didn’t reply, she said, “Did I tell you I left a message for Dr. Broadstreet? He’s the surgeon I told you about, the one I thought might be able to help Brian.”
The lemonade that had been so refreshing a moment ago now felt like acid in his stomach. He hated being in debt to anyone, and Sarah Brandt was dragging him deeper and deeper into her debt every time he saw her.
“Mrs. Brandt, your talents are wasted. You should have been a criminal.”
“A criminal!” she asked in surprise, although she seemed more pleased than insulted. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean you’re awful good at blackmail and making people do what you want them to.”