The Lost Girl of Astor Street(48)

“But why would he give me that letter if he did it? Why would he have stuck around for so long after she went missing?”

Went missing. The vagueness of those words has infuriated me this last week, and now I wish I could cling to them a bit longer. When she was only missing, there was still a chance of finding her alive. My head throbs with the pain of unshed tears.

“If he had nothing to hide, why leave at all? He had given us an alibi—albeit one that we couldn’t completely nail down. Why not stick around?”

“Fear for his life. Doubt of a fair trial. This is Chicago, after all.”

“That’s a harsh statement from a lawyer’s daughter.”

I hold up the still-folded coroner’s report. “The world is harsh.”

Mariano’s gaze softens as he regards me. “I won’t argue that point with you, Piper.”

Walter sits beside me and rests a large hand on my shoulder. “What happens now, detective?”

“We’ll keep trying to find Matthew. I’d like to get that letter from you, Piper. Doesn’t need to be right now, though.” Mariano folds his notebook shut and tucks it back into his pocket. “We’ll continue to make it clear that we only want him for questioning, but the press will continue to skewer him. After a few weeks of fruitless searching, the case will probably go cold. The LeVines might hire private detectives, but we won’t be able to do anything else.”

Walter exhales long and slow. “You don’t seem to believe in sugarcoating.”

“That’s out of respect for my audience.” Mariano nods at me. “Walter, if you wouldn’t mind giving me and Miss Sail a moment, I have some questions I’d like to ask her in private.”

Walter’s jaw clenches. “Is now really the best time?”

Mariano regards him for a moment. “Yes.”

Walter, who I’ve seen make countless diving catches and hustle doubles, now seems physically taxed by the act of standing. Moments later, the front door clicks shut.

I expect Mariano to sit, but he remains standing and crosses his arms over his chest. Though not broad, there’s certainly something intimidating about him. Even in a moment like this, when I know he’s on my side. “Can you think of any reason why someone might have confused you and Lydia?”

At a different time, I would have laughed. “No. We look nothing alike. Why?”

His gaze is evaluating.

“What is it, Mariano?”

“The Finnegans. It seems to keep coming back to them. I just . . .” Mariano tugs his tie loose. “What do you know about them?”

“Not much. I think I already told you that my father has had a case or two that involved them. But like I said, he doesn’t talk to me about his work.”

“The Finnegans are up-and-comers in town. Brothers. They want to be the next Torrio and Capone.” Mariano retightens his tie. “A few weeks ago, your father was able to get a case dismissed, and that resulted in Colin Finnegan—the younger of the brothers—going to jail. Does that sound familiar at all?”

“Maybe.” Anything that happened before Lydia went missing seems like a lifetime ago. How long has she been dead? How long has my search for her been pointless?

“All I’m trying to say is that your father riled the Finnegan brothers. And they’re not known for mercy or turning the other cheek.”

“What mobsters are?” I trace the hem of my uniform skirt, and my mind drifts to Lydia’s uniforms hanging neat and useless in her armoire.

“Lydia was found still wearing your coat.” Mariano crouches so we’re at eye level with one another. He must sense I’m drifting. “Did you know she had it?”

“She had forgotten hers.” A swell of emotion rises up in my throat and lodges there. I think of handing it to her that afternoon at my house. That afternoon when everything felt complicated and scary, and I had no idea the sky was about to fall. “She said she’d bring it back to me the next day.”

“She also had a handkerchief with your initials in her pocket. It just makes me wonder if maybe . . .”

The breath whooshes from my lungs as I piece together his train of thought. “Lydia’s hair is red and long, though.”

“It could have been under the coat. Or under her hat.”

“But surely as soon as they got close to her, they would see it wasn’t me.”

“One would think so.” Mariano removes his hat, brushes off imaginary lint, and settles it back on his head. “I’m just wondering—combined with who your father is and the way the Finnegans keep coming up in this case—if this actually isn’t about Lydia.”

Mariano doesn’t say the words, but they dangle out there anyway—if it’s actually about you.





CHAPTER


TWELVE


CHICAGO, ILLINOIS



TWO WEEKS LATER—JUNE 5TH, 1924

At St. Chrysostom’s Episcopal Church, on the same stage where Lydia once stood with the choir and sang hymns to her great God, the casket is closed. Mrs. LeVine had wanted it open, but the mortician had called this “inadvisable,” considering the amount of time Lydia’s body spent in the river. Instead, a framed photograph, the same one I showed Johnny Walker in my silly, girlish hope that Lydia was still alive, has been placed atop the casket lid.