“I’m listening,” she said.

“A woman called Eula Schmitt was found dead in her hotel room this morning.”

“Not the Gilsey House again.”

“The Windsor. A lot of valuable jewelry and a wardrobe full of expensive clothes. Better off than Mrs. Liljeström.”

“What did the coroner have to say?”

“At first he thought it was”—he paused to take a notebook out of his jacket pocket—“an ectopic pregnancy, but they did a postmortem at Bellevue this afternoon.”

“Abortion, then.”

He inclined his head. “Maybe two days ago. She died of the same thing as Janine Campbell, peritonitis. Did I get that word right?”

Anna nodded.

He said, “But all we have on her is a name, and that may not even be real. No identification, not even a monogram on a handkerchief or a label on her luggage. A few dollars in her purse, no train or steamer tickets, nothing. I asked the doctor who did the autopsy—McNamara is his name—if there was any sign of previous pregnancies, and he said yes, ample evidence. The hotel staff doesn’t know anything about her except that she paid for her room a week in advance, four days ago. She hasn’t stayed there before, that anybody remembers.”

Anna closed her eyes to think for a moment. It was getting harder to dismiss the idea that the cases were related. “What does your captain think?”

“He gave us a couple days to look into it. Oscar is already going through the newspaper ads; he’s got a couple of the new patrol officers working with him.”

“The newspaper advertisements? There must be hundreds of them.”

“Try to stop him when he gets an idea in his head. Anyway, the man never sleeps.”

Anna said, “I can’t imagine why somebody would be doing this. There’s no logic to it.”

“No logic that you see, or I see. But whoever it is, he’s settling in now for the longer haul.”

Longer haul. The phrase struck her as particularly brutal, the idea that someone had set himself a lifelong task that involved condemning women to terribly painful deaths.

Jack was saying, “It’s the worst kind of situation. He’s dedicated. He doesn’t rush.”

He was still assuming the guilty party was a man, which was likely, after all. Women killed with poison; men made a science of inflicting pain.

“Do you know other cases like this one?”

He glanced at her. “It’s not something the police are proud of, but there are at least a couple others, and not just here. There’s an unsolved case in Texas with five dead over two years, and a couple in England; one of those has been going on for five years at least. Men who get a taste for a certain very specific kind of crime. The ones who can control themselves and stick to a plan are almost impossible to catch. Unless they get sloppy, most of them will live to a ripe old age and die in their beds. The scientists working on fingerprints seem to think they can come up with a way to identify and keep track of suspects, but nobody knows when that will be.”

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “So you’ll be working tomorrow.”

He read her thoughts, as he did so often, and leaned over to kiss the corner of her mouth. “Just in the morning. Couldn’t miss the June picnic. Even if you didn’t mind, Oscar would. So where do we sleep tonight, Mrs. Mezzanotte?”

“I don’t mind,” Anna said. “But we do have a lot to move, clothes and all the rest.”

“Then not tonight.” He kissed the other corner of her mouth, nibbling softly until she laughed and pushed him away.

“Also, there’s the small matter of food. We need to talk about a housekeeper, Jack. I don’t have the time for cooking or any of the rest of it.”

He sat back. “I promised your aunt that we’d have supper with them, every evening.”

There was nothing to do about that but laugh. “And she made me promise her that we’d eat breakfast with them.”

“She’s determined,” Jack said.

Anna hummed. “I could think of a few other words that might serve better. And still, we will need someone for the laundry and cleaning and all the rest of it. Really, this is something we should have thought of to start with.”

“Anna,” Jack said, slipping his hand to the nape of her neck, threading his fingers into the twist of her hair and tugging, so that gooseflesh ran down her spine. “It won’t take much effort to find a solution, and think what we’re getting in return. A place of our own. Family close by, but real privacy, the kind we haven’t had yet, not even on Staten Island, with maids coming and going and walls too thin for your—enthusiasm.”

“Why, you—”

He caught her hands to protect himself, pulled her closer to put his arms around her shoulders and hold her still. Laughing like a boy very satisfied with a prank.

An older couple walked by, the lady making her disapproval known by clucking her tongue. A spasm of irritation passed over Jack’s face and she felt him tense, and so Anna did the logical thing, damn the disapproval on a beautiful summer evening. She kissed him, and, getting up, she pulled him onto his feet.

“Let’s go try out the privacy. See if it lives up to your expectations and my enthusiasms.”

Jack said, “Did you notice the size of the bathtub?”

35

ELISE HAD A free day, though she had protested she needed no such indulgence. The matron had insisted, and so that morning she woke to the sound of church bells, thinking of mass. She should get up now, and dress, and go with Mr. and Mrs. Lee and the Russo girls. She had left the convent, but not the Church.

She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in one of the fat pillows that she had so quickly come to appreciate.

They wouldn’t badger her if she stayed behind. They wouldn’t need to badger her, because she would be doing enough of that for all of them. With a groan she rolled out of bed and set about getting ready.

One thing at a time, she told herself. One change at a time. They would walk to church, the little girls skipping ahead with spring hats pinned firmly in place. She liked walking, and being out in the city when the weather was so fine. She liked Mr. and Mrs. Lee. What she dreaded was the sight of the confessionals in a row along one wall. She hadn’t left the Church, but neither had she been to confession since she got on the train for the city, and that in itself was something to atone for.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . . I miss nothing at all about the convent; I miss none of the sisters who taught me and cared for me; I love this world, and the place I have in it, the work I do and the things I’m learning, and I go all day without praying or even thinking of it.

She heard Rosa and Lia burst out of their room. Margaret called after them, a litany of manners to be remembered. They called back, agreeing cheerfully to anything and everything in the need to be moving. Elise followed them, smiling to herself.

•   •   •

ANNA WENT IN on Sunday morning to check on a patient who, as it turned out, had died in the night. It was not unexpected, but sad nonetheless. She spoke to the husband, an old man who shuddered with palsy and grief while she wrote out the death certificate, asking questions with the help of one of the nurses who spoke Italian. He answered in a wavering voice: Anna Maria Vega had been born on the first day of March in the year 1810 in Ragusa, Sicily, to Emilio and Anna Theresa Vega. To this Anna added the fact that she died in New York on a mild summer night of an abdominal aortic aneurysm, one that had been plain to diagnose, and inoperable.

Before Anna left the ward, another nurse stopped her and she wrote three more death certificates and then walked down to the clerk’s office, where she would sign them in his presence so that he could file them with the coroner.

The office door stood open, but there was no sign of the clerk. Anna sat down to wait. If she went back to the wards she would be drawn into one case or another and might not get away in time for the picnic. She was actually looking forward to finally meeting the Mezzanottes she had been hearing about. It would be easier in this setting than any other; the picnic and all the rest of it would come to an end, and she could escape. It was the word that came to mind. She wondered if Jack realized how unsettled she was by the prospect of so many new relatives, all at once. She wondered too if he had engineered the previous evening, if he realized that her muscles would still be twitching, overstimulated from a single hour in the bath. It was hard to worry about much at all when her mind kept wandering back to him, wrapped around her, hot water and soap and sliding skin.

She stood up to go to the window and noticed a newspaper on the desk, folded open to the advertisements. Thinking of Oscar Maroney, she picked it up and began to scan the small print, column after column of breathless announcements for cocoa, short pants, pianos, beer, seaside vacations, miracle cures, straw hats, Makassar oil, crocodile handbags, vaporizing inhalers, musicales, calligraphic pens, Brussels lace, cigars, felt tooth polishers, and hair renewers. When she came to the listing of physicians in private practice she sat down and glanced through the announcements: addresses, office hours, areas of expertise, educations. Interspersed with the legitimate offerings were the questionable ones: