Midnight Choir

By Richard Quarry

Seattle, 1907. "The wickedest city in America." — McClure's Magazine.

Honey Jack Gallagher serves as brass-knuckled enforcer for a family of tough Irish cops who maintain law and order in Seattle's wild "Restricted District" — for a price.

Adrienne Cody fled her lumber-town upbringing in search of freedom. Which she finds, in gritty form, as an idealistic young visiting nurse.

These two wholly different people share just one thing in common: Julie Moran, a glamorous prostitute with friends in too many places. And when Adrienne tries to help Julie's secret child, she lays bare a web of corruption and betrayal that starts a parade of bodies crossing the coroner's slab. With herself and the child as prime targets.

A bruising, hard-boiled tale of romance and murder, "Midnight Choir" takes you back to the time when the real-life models for Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe walked the mean streets with brass knuckles in place of shining armor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Quarry
• Release date: Mar 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201456252

Book preview

Chapter 1

SEATTLE, 1907 — THE wickedest city in America.

McClure’s Magazine

ADRIENNE CODY WAS STILL trying to convince Mrs. Anderson that her precious Johnny didn’t have diphtheria when the gunshots rang out.

Clearly Mrs. Anderson was not the sort to heed her inferiors. Had she not seen white spots down Johnny’s throat with her very own eyes?

You didn’t even examine him! Mrs. Anderson protested.

I observed him. While Johnny huddled at the foot of a brass-studded sofa, shouting out in fine defiance of his supposed illness and kicking at Ri whenever she drew close.

Aren’t you even going to give him any medicine?

Not for an illness for which I see no evidence.

Well really. Just look at you. Still wet behind the ears. A real nurse—

She broke off then, with a cry and a little jump, as a stuttering pair of gunshots, followed closely by a third, rolled through the apartment, splitting the air like a chisel.

THE WYCHERLY APARTMENTS was not the sort of place Adrienne Cody would expect to find a patient. The filigreed brass of the lobby mailboxes sparkled under the glow of an electric chandelier. The red carpet showed no tobacco stains or bald patches. No scrawled obscenities marred the wallpaper.

Most of all, the place didn’t stink.

Ri paused to check the address in her notebook while sniffing in vain for the familiar stew of poverty: ham hocks and cabbage steaming on wood stoves, charred gas mantles, overburdened hall toilets, and too many bodies too rarely blessed by tin-tub baths in the living room.

The address matched. Ri hoped Miss Julie Moran would not prove to be another of these comfortably-off women who believed themselves entitled to free nursing visits because they’d once donated a few outmoded dresses to the Associated Charities.

Well if so, Ri would just have to set her right. She climbed the zigzag stairs of the enclosed front stairwell, sweating in the short gray cloak of the visiting nurse. The heavy medical bag bumped against the permanent bruise on her thigh.

The windows at either end of the third floor hallway stood open, gauze veils hanging lifeless in the heavy air. Primed for a reckoning, Ri rapped the heel of her palm smartly against the door marked 308.

The woman who answered shattered all her expectations.

Oh! I wasn’t expecting you for fifteen minutes yet. The appointment was for one. Julie Moran, if so she proved, was buoyantly young, startlingly pretty, and provocatively bohemian, her hair hanging unbound to her waist, its blue-black sheen radiant as a sunlit raven.

Few of Ri’s patients had such pressing concerns that fifteen minutes mattered one way or the other. Adrienne Cody, from the Associated Charities. She stressed the last word.

The woman broke into a smile, white teeth and luminous dark eyes glowing amid a fresh-cream complexion that tempered cherubic fullness with an elegant sweep of cheekbones. And I’m Julie Moran. Pleased to meet you. She flounced, not a quite a curtsey. Well if you’re here, you’re here. Do come in.

Taking Ri’s arm, she grimaced as her fingers touched the cloak. They make you wear wool in this weather? You poor dear! You must be hot as a candle. Come sit at once.

She hauled Ri toward a maroon sofa. I must say, I was expecting someone a little older. She giggled. You’re very tall, though, aren’t you?

Ri, sensitive about both her age and her height, maintained a dignified silence. Julie Moran herself tended rather toward the short side. Her classic hour-glass figure swelled and ebbed alarmingly within a puffed-lace, silk-banded wine shirtwaist tapering to a blue chiffon Panama skirt. Intrigued, Ri wondered if she might be an actress, or a chanteuse. She certainly had the looks. And few truly respectable women wore their hair unbound.

As Ri sank onto the sofa Miss Moran went to the pedestal table in the center of the room to shift a softly whirring electric fan, then came back and thrust forth her hand. Bemused, Ri reached out tentatively and was rewarded with a hearty shake.

There, exclaimed the bustling young woman. If men make such a mumbo-jumbo out of touching flippers, we girls can too, don’t you think?

Captivated by the gesture, Ri could not help but smile. Julie Moran clapped delightedly.

That’s more like it! All these gloom-and-doomers pulling long phizzes all the time, you’d think they were on their way to a funeral. Well aren’t we all? If the ride’s all we’ve got, then I say let the horses prance. She laughed at her own pronouncement. May I get you a cup of tea?

No, thank you. Though fascinated, Ri knew she had no business here.

Oh come now. You look redder than that sofa. A sip of tea would do you a world of good. Here, it won’t take a minute. We have gas.

A bad beginning, when the patients ministered to you. Yet tramping from one lodging house to the next had left Ri wilted as old lettuce. A moment’s hesitation was enough. With another giggle Miss Moran darted off to the kitchen.

Resigned, Ri settled back and let the fan shoo layers of heat from her face. In a day filled with squalor this room formed an oasis, softly scented with fresh flowers in silver bouquet holders and sachet mixed with marbles in sea shells. Brussels lace shifted lazily over the windows, and glossy-bright Oriental porcelain shone from a triangular corner cabinet of cherrywood and bezeled glass.

Ri ran her hand wistfully over the rich maroon fabric of the sofa. Crushed plush. She’d spent much of her girlhood on a sofa like this, book in hand. Another age it seemed, though in truth she’d only left home two years ago.

She twisted around to take in the series of four small oil paintings hanging on the wall behind her. All depicted the Seattle waterfront in the heavy strokes, assertive colors, and rough-hewn yet suggestive shapes of a modernist style so raw you could almost smell the creosote.

Another incongruous note of masculinity came from a framed photograph atop the rich-grained chiffonier in the opposite corner, in which an aggressively muscular young man glared over poised boxing gloves. Ri’s eyes lingered on that torso. Not that she hadn’t seen many strong men in a state of undress, but the boxer’s elegance of line infused even that captive pose with energy and motion.

Adjusting her glasses, Ri leaned forward to read the broad and florid inscription: To Julie with Love.

How she envied a woman so urbane as to know both boxers and painters! All her own friends were still nurses.

Tea will be ready in a jiffy. Sailing out from the kitchen, Miss Moran plopped down onto the sofa, twisting toward Ri and sweeping out her skirts in one smooth motion whose grace belied its quickness. I’m so happy you could come.

Ri steeled herself. Miss Moran—

Oh, Julie, please.

Tempted, Ri nevertheless snapped back to her sense of duty. Miss Moran, I must inform you that we, that is the Associated Charities, have very strict rules regarding allowable resources. Your circumstances as they appear to me would not seem to render you eligible for our services.

Julie Moran fluttered her upswept lashes. Oh. Well. I see. Only .... She glanced toward a golden-winged, porcelain-mounted clock on the wall shelf. Eight minutes to one. You could at least stay and have your tea.

I’m sorry. Ri longed to make friends, to seize a glimpse of the exotic world she imagined Julie Moran to inhabit. Yet what could she offer in return? There wasn’t a book in sight.

Besides, she still had Mrs. Carmichael to see, with her four unwashed children and their dogged croup, and Mr. Jurgenson with yet another finger lost to those savage double-block saws taking over the shinglemills, and poor old alcoholic, hump-backed, ulcerated, wheezing Mr. Daly, all eighty-five pounds of him, who was due a strictly rationed fifteen minutes of conversation, since there was precious little else she could do for him other than plead with the Board that he was not so able-bodied as they kept insisting.

I really must get on with my rounds.

Wait. Julie, for that was how Ri already thought of her, grabbed an ostrich feather fan from the side table, opened it, and snapped it shut again. Setting the fan aside, she touched her fingers to Ri’s knee.

I asked the Charities for you, by name I mean, because, well, where I heard of you ....

She folded her hands in a demure pose quite at odds with her irrepressible, full-bodied beauty and defiant hair. You used to work at Wayside Emergency Hospital, didn’t you?

Why, yes. Ri was surprised that such a glamorous woman would know about Wayside, no more than an old steamer fitted with rows of beds and moored at the foot of Jackson Street to serve those who could afford nothing better. I did my nurse’s training there.

Two years with only Sunday afternoons off, and the alarm bell shattering her precious, precious sleep because while an ex-prizefighter maintained order during the day, at night the nurses were on their own.

I heard about you, said Julie, from some girls I know. They said you knew your stuff, and were a regular good sport besides.

Other nurses? Most of the girls had come to respect Ri for her relentless application, while others spent the entire two years sneering about her nibs because she so obviously came from a higher social class. But whether they liked her or not, Ri could hardly imagine any of the nurses calling her a sport.

Julie shook her head. No, not nurses.

Ri was puzzled. We didn’t have many female patients. No, Wayside was given over to alcoholics, opium hounds, transients, victims of brawls, shootings, industrial accidents, and more rarely....

Julie looked up. Her crystalline brown eyes beguiled with a look of chastened yet oddly knowing innocence. I got in trouble when I was fourteen. I ran away. Rode the train west till I hit Seattle.

She gazed around the apartment, as if marveling how far that train had taken her. I tried stitching, but I couldn’t sleep for the way it made my hands hurt. Then factory work, but the floor bosses kept touching me. Poor but honest be damned. The Klondike strike was still going strong, and the whole town looked to be on a drunk. Men were throwing money around like there was no tomorrow. So I went playing the queen.

She gave Ri a glance that while not quite brazen, was certainly not blushing. Do you know what I’m saying?

Yes, I believe I do. Ri willed herself not to look away as fascination and embarrassment tumbled over each other like kittens.

Julie Moran did not fit Ri’s idea of a prostitute. At Wayside they arrived in stupors from whiskey and opium, ravaged by syphilis, bleeding from stab wounds inflicted by other girls, or poisoned in suicide attempts that failed only slightly more often than they succeeded. Most horrifying were the bite scars. Ri, a dutiful agnostic in other respects, could not help but see the devil leering at her from the crescent-shaped, white-ridged etchings on shoulders, breasts, buttocks and legs.

If Julie Moran was a prostitute, she must be a veritable mogul of the trade.

The kettle whistled. Julie whisked off to the kitchen. Silverware rattled, and she came out balancing two sets of cups and saucers.

I would understand if you refused to take it from my hand.

Ri reached out, took the cup and saucer, and sipped. Ah, that’s most refreshing. Thank you.

Julie smiled down at her, a much softer and more subdued expression than the overpowering train lantern of a grin with which she’d introduced herself. Something, some misty beguilement of dark eyes or a moist hint of parting between those full lips, rendered the smile inviting as a caress.

Ri was moved by Julie’s gratitude. And as so often when she was moved, she found herself lurching into declamation. Men rob women of all power in the world, then have the gall to blame us for Original Sin. All because Eve refused to humble herself before a God made in man’s image and sought knowledge. They justify their tyranny by claiming to protect us. Yet when one of them takes advantage of our trust, it is the woman who is cast out and denounced, while the man’s sin is dismissed with jokes about wild oats. If some coward betrayed you, and left you to flee from pointing fingers, a friendless girl with no other resource than ... than her own flesh, the shame is his, not yours.

Immediately Ri despaired of her stiff Jane Austen-ish style, another legacy of the fervent reading that, just as her mother had warned, doomed her to wear glasses.

Goodness. Julie’s dark eyes, already pried open in seeming fascination with everything Ri did, widened further. You certainly have a way with words, don’t you? And a good heart, too. I thought you looked a little, well, schoolmarmish at first, but that’s just the glasses. Really you’re very sweet.

She glanced again at the clock. The scroll-worked hands pushed closer toward one. Julie’s brows drew down. Then she brightened, and flounced down onto the sofa. Oh, but we are getting along famously, aren’t we?

Indeed we are. And I hope we may extend our acquaintance in other circumstances. Truly I do. Only now I really must attend to my work.

But surely, just a minute or two.... Julie stared off toward the picture of the boxer on the chiffonier. The clock chimed. She gave a start, then swallowed.

What if it concerned a child?

Apprehension bunched like storm clouds. You had better tell me.

Julie stared past her to the pictures on the wall behind. I told you I got in trouble. Well, I gave birth here in Seattle. To a boy. By then I was fifteen, barely. I couldn’t take care of a baby. I couldn’t take care of myself. So when the child was born, I.... Her fingers began to chase each other around her lap. I left him on the steps of the police station. I abandoned my son.

One of Julie’s hands balled into a fist, which she squeezed in the other. I shouldn’t be telling you this.

Ri was thinking the same thing. If you wish, I can give you the name of a private nurse—

No! Julie set her tea down so gently the light reflecting off the surface barely jiggled. You really do have a good heart, don’t you? I can feel it.

She straightened into that perfect and apparently unstrained erectness of carriage which Ri well knew was instilled by a mother who made you spend half your girlhood balancing a book on your head. My son was adopted. I read about it in the newspaper. His family, his adopted family I mean, lives up north, out by Green Lake. I take the trolley up there sometimes. No more than three or four times a year, when the weather’s good and I might see him playing outside.

Ri concentrated on maintaining what she hoped was professional poise. There was no surer way to wreck a decent foster home than to introduce the birth mother. Especially a mother such as this.

I walk by the house, Julie said, just to get a glimpse. Or twice I’ve seen him at Woodland Park. You know, at the south end of the lake? That’s best, because I can stroll beneath my parasol without drawing attention to myself. He’s such a pretty child. Especially for a boy. I never watch for long, though, because someone might notice.

Someone always did. Then came the fears of kidnapping, calls to the police, and exposure.

It’s a pretty enough little house. A bungalow really, picket fence and all. The Stricklands, that’s their name. They have two other children, so that Ben — I read in the paper they named him Benjamin, it’s not what I’d have called him but beggars can’t be choosers — Ben has a brother and sister. I think that’s good for a child, mostly. Do you have brothers or sisters?

Yes. Go on about Ben.

You won’t breathe a word of this to anyone, will you? It would be too terribly cruel for him to find out his mother was ... well, me. You will promise?

Of course.

No, but really? I couldn’t bear to think—

Miss Moran, I give you my word.

Julie peered into Ri’s eyes with a steadiness and intensity that belied her somewhat flitting manner. That really means something to you, doesn’t it? Women don’t often take promises so seriously.

They sat listening to the steady tick of the clock. Julie squeezed her eyes shut. The last two times I saw him, Ben didn’t look right. He was limping. No, it’s more than that. He was lurching around like a bear on two legs. He’s normally such a graceful child. It’s wrong. I know it is.

Ri took one or two seconds, no more, to collect herself, as she’d learned to do at Wayside when her mind screamed I can’t do this! Infantile paralysis. Always the first fear that struck when you saw a child’s legs go stiff.

You said the last two times. When exactly were they?

The first was a couple of weeks ago. I told myself it was nothing. Then I simply had to go back. That was the day before yesterday. He wasn’t any better, not at all.

And you didn’t observe any obvious signs of injury? Skinned knees, one shoe knotted loosely around a sprain, long pants or any bulges that could conceal dressings?

No, nothing. His family, they’re nice people of course, but hardly wealthy. And they do have two children of their own. What if something’s wrong, and they’re hoping it will just go away? I can’t bear to think that Ben might have, you know.... Julie sniffed and set the back of her hand against her mouth. I’d be so relieved if you could just go and take a look.

Just go and take a look.

Ri lifted her cup and took several slow, equivocating sips.

She could not possibly justify such activity to the Associated Charities. Aside from hardly being a charity case, Julie had lost all rights and consideration the moment she abandoned her child. If Ri chose to help, on her own head be it. Along with the responsibility for any disaster that might befall. Any one of myriad possible missteps might burden the boy with his mother’s disgrace. His adoptive family might even turn him out, to be raised in an orphanage. So many respectable people had a horror of tainted blood.

And if she wore her uniform, as she’d have to do to ferret out any real information, she’d lose her job if the Stricklands ever questioned the Associated Charities.

Outside, the steady clop, clop, clop of hooves and the nervous rattle of iron-shod wheels over the paving bricks of Third Avenue merged into the ticking of the clock, pressing for decision.

Julie had asked for her by name. Had spoken to her. Weighed her. Then shared her most intimate secret.

If the child truly was ill, something must be done. Quickly.

Ri set down her cup. Give me the address. I shall go tomorrow.

Oh, thank God! I’m so grateful. You’re a saint.

Not hardly, and please don’t go expecting miracles. First we must learn the truth about your son’s condition. Then we can go on from there.

Not wanting to commit any part of this meeting to paper, Ri listened to the Strickland’s address, going over it several times in her mind. Julie kept sneaking quick glances at the clock, which now showed seven after one. Ri wondered at her preoccupation with the time. Could she have a — what would you call it? — a customer, due? To think that Julie could move from concern for her son to such an assignation struck Ri as shocking. But then we all had our living to make, and less choice about it than we’d like.

Very well, I think I have it. Ri adjusted the short gray cloak squarely across her shoulders. Sometimes it felt heavy as a soldier’s musket, but comforting too, in much the same way. She started to rise.

Julie looked alarmed. You’re not leaving?

From her concern with the time, Ri had supposed that was exactly what Julie wanted. I’m afraid I must.

But you’ve been here this long ... are you sure you wouldn’t like—

I really must get cracking. She’d need to work in some extra visits to free up time for the Stricklands tomorrow. So much for her hopes of for once completing her day in the allotted ten hours.

Distress dragged Julie’s eyes and mouth down into a pout. She reached out and took Ri’s hand as though to detain her by main force.

Then, with another of those sudden shifts that characterized her, she sprang up, all bustle and resolve. Yes, you had better go. Yes, by all means. Thank you. Thank you ever so much.

Ri barely managed to grab her satchel as Julie practically dragged her toward the door, just as she’d dragged her in. Even as they stepped into the hall Julie hooked Ri’s arm and escorted her toward the front stairwell, all the time proclaiming her gratitude with a lavishness that made Ri feel quite inadequate to the task she feared lay ahead.

RI PRACTICALLY HAD her hand on the lobby door when a woman chatting in the hall caught sight of her gray cloak and stiff white cap. Rushing up, the matron, stuffed somewhat precariously into a black mohair dress with Cossack blouse and velveteen waist, the very picture of mid-afternoon idleness with nothing better to do than waylay harried nurses, grabbed Ri by the arm and implored her to come examine my poor Johnny.

Chapter 2

GUNFIRE WAS SO OUT of place, so impossible in these respectable apartments, that Ri grasped for some other explanation — a recalcitrance in the coal chute, or one of those alarming noises made by motorcars sometimes — before Johnny jumped up, pie-eyed and eager.

That’s a gun! Is somebody killed?

His mother clutched him to her.

Julie.

Ri’s breath pressed against squeezing ribs as she recalled Julie’s mercurial shifts of mood and nervous glances at the clock.

Compose yourself. You must attend to things one step at a time, and nothing overlooked. First summon the police.

Mrs. Anderson, do you have a telephone?

The woman shook her head, mouth hanging open.

A moan ghosted up the hall, then pinched into silence.

I am needed. The thought rang strident as the alarm bell at Wayside Emergency Hospital, calling all hands to the locked ward.

Ri ran her hands over herself, the two-second primp hard-eyed Miss Everson had seared into her students: white cap straight and true, gray cloak square across the shoulders, shirtwaist tucked. Dress like a sloven, you’ll nurse like a sloven. Wait, medical bag. Ri hoisted the heavy leather satchel and floated, for that’s how it felt, toward the door.

Mrs. Anderson grabbed her arm. You’re not going out there?

I must help. Pulling her arm free, Ri paused for one deep breath, then stepped into the hallway.

NOTHING. CLOSING THE door softly behind her, Ri edged further down the hall. The air had turned so thick the whole scene seemed to shimmer. The shots, and the moan, had sounded from the back, toward the enclosed rear stairwell.

A few doors opened and heads peered out, cautious as ground squirrels.

Please, Ri called to them. If any of you has a telephone, will you please call the police? No one moved. Ri remembered you must assign each task to a specific person. She addressed a woman leaning further out than the others. You. Go find the manager and call—

Another groan. Footsteps clomped heavily, unevenly down the rear stairs.

Doors slammed shut. All of them.

Ri dream-walked down the hall.

The door of the rear stairwell banged open. A man swung into view, gripping the jamb. Seeing Ri, he made a garbled attempt at speech. Failing, he shuffled crab-like toward her, pressing himself against the wall. His palms slapped smack-smack-smack against the wallpaper. They left wet red splotches against the green diamond check. The viscous air seemed to magnify details: a thick walrus mustache of the sort going out of fashion among the middle class, rakish wide-brim Stetson tilted back by the wall, a purple drape suit that defied respectability.

She closed on the wounded man. Blood rimmed his lips. She touched his shoulder. I am going to help you. You must lie down now.

The Stetson toppled as he twisted around, his face a straining, unholy red. Middle-aged, strong-jawed, thick-browed, tough. His eyes bulged with the desperation of a man watching death close over his head.

He tried to form words, but they died in a gurgle of blood. He coughed, gasped, tried again. Ri leaned closer. The man should lie down and lessen the strain on his heart, but when a patient struggled so hard to talk, you had best listen.

He muttered two words. She believed two, anyway.

Help me? She wanted to be sure. It might be important to his loved ones.

Please, what was that?

He pitched sideways to the floor.

IT WAS HARDLY THE FIRST time Ri had seen blood. As the man collapsed she fell to her knees beside him. Grabbing his shoulders she shifted him onto his back and tilted his chin to prevent the tongue from blocking his windpipe. Then she spread the extra-wide lapels of his purple suit.

A red stain spread slowly across the soft yellow of his shirt. Blood frothed with a hissing sound around a hole in his right chest.

Open pneumothorax.

Despair rose like bile. Pushing it down, Ri unlatched her bag, shook the contents onto the carpet, and grabbed a compress. With her left hand she pressed it over the gurgling hole, trying to seal as much air as possible in the lung. With her right she pulled the man’s tie loose of its diamond stickpin, then popped the buttons of his shirt. Blood welled lazily from a second hole almost directly in the center of his chest.

The few heart wounds she’d seen in still-living victims pulsed in small urgent fountains. This looked different, and the location was not quite right. Ri tore off the celluloid collar. Swollen neck veins bulged.

Cardiac tamponade.

She couldn’t remember where she’d heard the term, whether straining after doctors’ conversations or staying up late at night poring over texts a nurse was never supposed to read. The certainty just struck her. Blood was filling the man’s chest, constricting his heart like a corn snake squeezing a mouse. And there wasn’t one single thing she could do about it.

No! You must always do something. Ri tried to order her thoughts as the man’s life drained away beneath her hands. Wayside Emergency was only a few blocks from here. While the police ambulance, if it ever came, was hauling the victim over, she could rush to a phone and have a doctor standing by with an aspirating needle. A long shot at the best of times, but even a minute or two might save his life.

Keeping pressure on the lung wound, she swiveled around and saw heads once more peeking out. Please, if none of you have a phone, will someone get the manager? We need to call the police at once.

Someone said the manager wasn’t in. A woman ran to the front of the hall, threw open the lobby door, and shouted loudly for the police. Curious pedestrians began to filter in.

The man’s face grew redder than roast beef from pooling blood that could no longer drain back to his beleaguered heart. Ri’s left hand started to cramp from holding the compress tight. She reinforced it with her right, and watched blood creep up the white wrists of her shirtwaist as a small crowd gathered around her.

Don’t any of you have a phone? she demanded. Tell me!

I called the police. A woman’s voice, from the back of the thickening crowd. They said they’ll send men over right away.

They need to send the wagon to take him to Wayside. Please, call back and make sure they understand that. He’ll die if he doesn’t get to the hospital immediately.

She pressed the compress tighter against the man’s chest, trying to feel some movement through her numbing hands. She had to call Wayside. Yet pressure had to be maintained on the lung wound, and none of the shocked or gaping faces around her inspired confidence.

A young man dressed in a flashy yellow sack suit and Panama hat elbowed his way through and knelt on one knee beside her. Ri thought he meant to help. Instead he jostled her aside. The compress pulled away.

Stop that! she yelled. What are you doing? Even as she pushed the compress back into place she saw that the blood oozing from the bullet hole no longer frothed around leaking air.

The sport twisted the victim’s face around and whistled. Say, that’s Al Dugan, isn’t it?

Another loudly-dressed young man stooped to take in the swollen face. Jesus. That’s him, all right. Looks like someone shot him good.

Al Dugan. The man had a name, then. A life.

Rage surged up. Ri slammed her fist against the sport’s shoulder. You brute! Get away from him!

Her blow swayed him sideways. Righting himself, he stared in shock at his jacket. Look! Blood! Stinkin’ frail got blood on my suit.

He shoved her flat.

The next second he was jerked to his feet and spun around by a man in a brown suit and derby. The sport cocked his fist. Hey, who do you think you’re—

The brown-suited man must have hit him then, very quickly, because as Ri pushed herself up she saw the sport grab his belly and fall to his knees.

The man in the derby shook his head. You’re wantin’ sense and manners both. The declaration issued forth in a strongly cadenced brogue. He swung around on the sport’s companion. Friend of yours?

Uh....

Get him out of my sight. Ten seconds, or it’s the bucket for the both of you. Turning on the crowd, the newcomer pulled back his lapel to reveal a silver badge pinned to his vest.

All right, clear the hall. If anyone actually saw something, stay put. If you’re just here to gawk, you’re sorely trying my patience.

A flurry of bodies slid around each other, doors slammed, and in less than a minute the hallway was empty except for Ri, the policeman, and Al Dugan. Ri lifted the compress. She saw no frothing of blood. No movement at all.

The policeman squatted beside her. He contemplated the fallen man, the red face already easing toward gray.

He’s gone. His voice, so harsh and threatening a moment before, had softened.

Ri nodded. She took up a clean compress and began to wipe her hands. Al Dugan. She’d touched him. Now he was dead. She rubbed the compress over her hands until the blood was only a thin dull layer of red.

The policeman rose and gathered her equipment, which had been kicked and scattered about by the crowd. He assembled it in a neat pile by her bag. Still on her knees, Ri kept wiping her hands. The policeman touched her shoulder. She felt his hand but could not stop rubbing. He squatted down again and took her wrists in his fingers.

Easy now. His touch was firm but gentle. Like a nurse. It’s finished. You did all that could be done. She found his purring brogue oddly soothing.

Ri bit her lip to forestall tears. The policeman released her wrists. He held out a fresh compress.

Your face. When she stared, not understanding, he brushed her cheek with the gauze. You’ve blood on the side, there. Such an easy grace to his hands. Not used to this, are you?

I’ve seen men die before. Only this time there was no one else, and I— She braced against a spasm of grief. I wanted so badly to save him.

Ever much chance?

Ri shook her head. No. He had an open lung wound, and internal bleeding. That’s what killed him. The blood squeezed his heart until it couldn’t pump any more.

She began to stuff her futile little stock of supplies back in the satchel. A nagging vacuum pulled at her, as if the dying man had grabbed onto a piece of her own heart as he tumbled toward death.

The policeman glanced at the button on her cloak. Associated Charities, eh? Now where would a visiting nurse learn so much about bullet wounds, I wonder?

I did my nurse’s training at Wayside Emergency.

Ah. So you’ve been through the mill, then. His quiet nod acknowledged a bond of experience. Well look now. It’s a fine brave thing you did, and I’m sure it comforted Al’s last moments to know there was someone caring by his side. Even if he was beyond the showing of it. May we all be so fortunate when our time comes. But he was dying sure, and nothing to be done. Whoever shot him knew their business.

Ri found herself growing calmer under the steady and reassuring gaze of his eyes; strikingly blue, marbled, and for all his earlier bluster, not unkind. She became aware of the two of them kneeling together in the peculiar intimacy of mourners.

The policeman rose lightly to his feet. He reached out a hand to help her up, not minding that her skin was still lightly stained with blood.

Jack Gallagher. His fingers lingered a moment to steady her as the blood rushed to her head. Seattle police, plainclothes division. His hand fell to his side.

Adrienne Cody. Associated Charities.

Miss Cody. He offered a small bow, lifting the brim of his derby. I know you’ve had a bit of a shock and all, but if you’re up to it, there’s questions I need to ask.

She clamped her lips against another, unexpected burst of grief. Don’t be a big baby, she scolded herself. Yes, of course.

Were you the first to get to him?

Yes.

And why was that?

Excuse me? Oh, I see. Well, there were others looking out their doors, but....

But they chose to stay there.

Yes.

Not you, though.

No. I heard the shots, then a groan, so I went to help.

He raised an eyebrow.

It’s my job, she explained.

Of course it is. Sure you did it, too. His hand rose as if to pat her shoulder, then stopped and went back to his side. Describe the shots, if you would.

I heard.... That was funny, she didn’t remember. She could clearly picture herself standing shocked, and Mrs. Anderson’s frightened eyes and open mouth, but the moment before had vanished. She tried to squeeze her memory down to that one single point. First came two shots, close together. So close there was no real space between them. Then a slight pause — very slight — and a third.

Ah. That’s interesting, now. So you heard the shots, and.... He gestured for her to go on.

Then came a moan, like I told you, and I went out, and he came out from the stairs there. Seeing the bloody palm-prints along the wall, she quickly looked away. So I went to him, and just as I got here, he fell.

He was alive when you got to him.

Yes.

Did he have much to say?

Ri thought back to the mumbled words. It seemed hours ago, in a different world. He tried to say something. I think it may have been ‘help me’.

Ah. Well that would make sense now, wouldn’t it? ‘Help me.’ Yes, no doubt that’s it in a nutshell.

She looked down. Al Dugan’s skin was still puffy with blood, but the flesh had dulled further into the pale gray putty of death. His legs were spread, the knees partially upraised, as if right to the end his feet had tried to drive him past the chasm he saw looming before him.

Miss Cody?

Ri gave a start as the detective lightly touched her arm.

Listen to me, if you would. It’s a hard shift you’ve been put to. You need a bit of a rest and a freshening up. Go home now. I’ll call and fix it with the Charities.

I have appointments. It seemed important.

Not any more today, you don’t. You’re my witness. I’ll take your full account later. Right now there’s other matters bear looking into. If I ask you to meet me at six o’clock this evening, will you be up to it?

All she wanted was to get home, shed her bloody clothes, take a bath and not stir from her apartment. Ever again.

Yes, certainly. At the police station?

Ah well, there’s no need to be dragging you down to the Castle. It’s a dour place, and affording little privacy.

Ri didn’t follow at first, then recalled that so many additions had been piled willy-nilly onto the wood-frame police station and jail at Third and Jefferson that the papers had taken to calling it Katzenjammer Castle.

No, said the detective, meet me, if you’d be so kind, at the Wilbur Café. That would be on First, this side of Yesler. Not far from here. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I’ll be bustling about all afternoon. Can you do that?

The Wilbur Café at six. Yes, I’ll be there. She stared down at the corpse. They said his name was Al Dugan.

Aye, that’s himself, all right.

You knew him?

He ran a gambling den in the Restricted District. The detective shook his head, dismissive. I’ll ask you not to talk to anyone about what happened here. Especially not reporters. Nor even other police. See, people have a way of hearing things different, and remembering them more different still. Small things, in the main, but by the time they get to court there’s some lawyer harping about every comma, and carrying on how his client’s been framed. So say nothing before you and I get a statement all signed and regular. If anyone pries, you tell them to talk to Jack Gallagher. Agreed?

I’ll speak to no one.

Two uniformed policemen entered the building, the second one pausing to yell at someone who attempted to squeeze in after.

Jack! called the first man, surprised. You’re timely. We just got dispatched.

I was down the street when I saw the crowd. I’ll be with you directly. He turned back to Ri. Just one more item, and you can be on your way. This apartment would seem to be off your beat. Who was it you came here to see?

Good God, she’d forgotten about Julie! Ri recalled the way Julie had fretted over the time. First urging her to stay, then hustling her out. Could Julie be involved in this? Even if not, her vocation was in violation of the law.

Sure you remember, the detective prodded.

Ri couldn’t decide what to do. I’ve been told to respect my patients’ confidence.

And quite proper, too. Only this — he pulled back his lapel to show again the silver star nested within a ring marked SEATTLE — is a badge, and when I see someone kneeling over a man with bullet holes in him, I naturally get curious about where they were a few minutes previous.

Whether it brought trouble to Julie or not, someone had to see if she was all right. Someone capable. Jack Gallagher appeared capable to a fault, and not without sympathy.

I came to see a Miss Julie Moran.

Miss Moran, right. And what room would that be?

Oh, sorry. Room 308.

Thank you. He called up the hall. Ryan, the young lady will be leaving. Are there still a bunch of gawkers outside?

As ever, the ghouls.

Escort Miss Cody past, if you will. See that none get forward. And don’t repeat yourself. If they don’t hear you the first time, open their ears with your magic wand.

Sure thing, Jack, acknowledged the stout policeman, tapping his nightstick against his palm.

The detective gave her a slight bow, again touching his derby. Six o’clock, then.

I’ll be there. Ri found herself wanting to see him. Once she told him everything, the responsibility would be his, and she could, hopefully, start to forget. She picked up her satchel.

Oh, I left my handbag in Mrs. Anderson’s apartment. I’ll just pop in and get it.

Jack Gallagher’s reassuring smile turned quizzical. I thought you said you came to see a Miss Moran.

I did, only Mrs. Anderson was concerned that her son might be sick, so I stopped in to take a look. That’s where I was when I heard the shots.

I see. And how long might you have been there, at all?

It couldn’t have been very long. Five minutes, perhaps a trifle less.

Five minutes, you say. Well, you best go collect your bag. See you at six.

Answering her knock, Mrs. Anderson announced loudly, Oh my yes, you left your bag in the parlor. Come in, come in.

As soon as Ri was inside, Mrs. Anderson slammed the door shut and drew her close. Do you know who that policeman is? she asked in a husky whisper.

Why yes, he said his name is Jack Gallagher.

Indeed it is. Honey Jack himself. Don’t you trust that man. He comes here all the time, to see— She peered around, making sure her Johnny was not in sight. That hussy, Julie Moran. Sneaking up the back stairs as if we were all too blind to notice. Shameful, a so-called man of the law and a common ... well, you know. That isn’t who you came to see, is it? Julie Moran?

Ri had no real emotion. Only a sudden prying unease, like hearing a board squeak as you drifted into sleep, and wondering if you’d remembered to lock the door.

What are you trying to tell me, Mrs. Anderson?

I’m just saying you had better watch yourself. If there’s been a shooting here, you may be sure Julie Moran is at the bottom of it. Only Mr. Honey Jack Gallagher will make it hot for anyone who tries to say so.

Chapter 3

AS RYAN ESCORTED ADRIENNE Cody from the Wycherly Apartments, Jack Gallagher waved the other uniform over. Tripp, right? Got your notebook?

Yes sir. Only the Protestants called him sir.

Then write down everything you hear. Jack knelt by the dead man. Two bullet wounds. He patted him down.