The Lost Girl of Astor Street(37)

Mariano doesn’t answer. When I glance at him, I find his gaze full of questions. Does he think I’m flirting with him?

Am I?

I look away. “I think I should do the talking.” My voice seems terse to my ears. “It’ll be less threatening to talk to some secondary-school girl like me. Any advice for how to get information out of people?”

“I think I should be asking you. You seem to know what you’re doing.”

I shake my head. “I’m just winging it.”

“You’ve got good instincts.” His gaze is on me again, but I keep my face turned toward the window. “Most young society ladies in your situation would have fallen apart. But you’re too strong for that.”

“Your praise is too lofty, Mariano. I don’t intend to waste time falling apart when we don’t know if anything has happened to Lydia. If that reality changes”—there’s a tremor in my voice that hopefully the train covers—“you will not think me strong at all.”

“Grief is not weakness.” Mariano’s words soothe the rattle of fear in my heart. “And I would never accuse you of it, Piper.”

I don’t mean to look at him, but I can’t seem to not. Mariano’s face is a man’s, no doubt, but there’s a boyish softness to him when he regards me that makes my heart quicken. “Thank you.”

The bodyguard idea was a smart choice. I don’t imagine that anyone who sees us here, staring at each other, would buy that we’re brother and sister.




“Closed,” I groan. “Why didn’t I think of that? I assumed all places like this were open for breakfast too.”

Mariano glances at his wristwatch. “But it opens in thirty minutes. That’s not so bad.”

“We can’t just stand out here.”

“No. We’ll walk around. Experience Clark Street in its Monday midmorning glory.”

Impatience bites at me as I drag myself away from the eatery. I had expected this neighborhood would look tired after a weekend full of debauchery. That men would be passed out on the streets and trash would sour the alleys. But instead, the street is quiet and reasonably clean. A bit more broken glass in the gutters and not the same manicured feel as Astor Street, but it seems . . . fine.

“I’m just wasting your time, Mariano,” I say on a sigh. “I didn’t think to check what time Johnny’s opened, and this neighborhood seems perfectly safe—”

“Don’t let its quiet appearance deceive you.” Mariano’s voice is low. “This place is . . . It would not be good for you to be found alone here, Piper. And I don’t care about Johnny’s being closed. In my line of work, you learn to be patient. Let’s find someone else we can talk to while we wait.”

“Okay. I had thought after Johnny’s, I would talk to the police. The station is just—”

Mariano snorts. “Let’s not waste our time. They’ve all been bought.”

“What do you mean?”

Mariano gives me a skeptical look. “Given who your father is, I assumed you would know. This part of town is mostly controlled by the Finnegan brothers.”

“Father doesn’t really talk to me about his work. My brothers know all about it, of course, but he’s careful about what he says to me. Some of his clients are even mobsters, I think.”

Mariano opens his mouth . . . closes it.

Did I say something I shouldn’t have? Maybe that’s not even true. “I don’t know for sure. I could be wrong.”

“No, I . . . I think you’re right.” Mariano’s discomfort with the topic is evident in the way he tweaks his tie back and forth.

“They have as much of a right to legal representation as anyone else, my father says.” I shouldn’t have added that last part. Makes me sound like a little girl who can’t think for herself.

Mariano pulls off his flat cap. Puts it back on. “But your father doesn’t talk to you at all about his clients, then?”

“Not really.”

I wish I hadn’t said anything. If Mariano grew up in a family of police detectives, maybe he doesn’t like defense attorneys? I had never considered the politics that might exist between them. We need a subject change.

“So, if it’s not a good idea to talk to the police around here, where do we start?”

Mariano doesn’t seem to mind the shift in conversation. “Let’s head this way for a couple blocks. We’ll be right by a . . . Well, a place that’s known for . . .” He clears his throat. “The local businessmen might have seen Lydia, if she’s around here.”

It’s charming, his embarrassment. “I promise I won’t be too scandalized if you speak the word bordello to me, Detective.”

He rakes in a breath, a mix of amusement and caution in his eyes. “I know you’re no wilting violet, Piper, but I’ve seen far too much of places like that. It’s hard for me to speak casually about them.”

I turn those words over in my head as we continue up Clark. Mariano isn’t touching me, but he’s walking much closer than he did when we roamed Astor Street. And not like he’s trying to cozy up to me, but like he’s protecting me. Somehow, he manages to strike the perfect balance of shielding me without crossing the line into sheltering.