"Then look at home. What about that creepy guy on her floor you told me about?"

Dead girls didn't interest Heather, who interrupted with: "Is that hostage-negotiator guy still chasing you?"

Theresa leaned against the table to give the muscles in her b.u.t.t some relief from the onslaught of gravity and considered this. Chris Cavanaugh called her rarely and inconsistently, which hardly const.i.tuted chasing. And yet nothing gave her the impression he had stopped calling. "I suppose."

"Are you going to let him catch you?"

"Actually"-Theresa sipped and inwardly agreed that the punch did need some rum-"I've been seeing another man. Older. Distinguished."

Behind Heather, Frank rolled his eyes.

"Likes trains," Theresa went on.

Perky didn't equal dumb. Heather apparently suspected a put-on and left to steer her toddler away from the punch bowl as he poised himself to fish for the floating lumps of sherbet. Theresa and Frank escaped for some fresh air.

The backyard of Frank's mother's house ended in trees, and Theresa watched the setting sun turn them into an inferno of reds and golds. Forty years old, and still the only person she wanted to talk to was her cousin. Maybe Leo and Irene Schaffer and everyone else was right. She had a gap in her life and needed someone to fill it.

She asked Frank, "Did you find out any more about James Miller's work history?"

"Not much. Hired in 1929, made detective in '32. His partner's name was Walter McKenna. Human Resources did find a few reports relating to Miller's disappearance; they were in with the paperwork to dismiss him from the rolls for apparent dereliction of duty. The partner had no idea what had happened to him. They had been working on the investigation of the third victim, the one killed in June 1936."

"The Tattooed Man. The one who should die tonight. I mean, the murder our current killer should be planning to re-create tonight."

"I know what you meant. Anyway, at the end of the day McKenna went home to dinner and they parted ways. He never saw Miller again. Miller's wife said he never came home. End of report."

"So he ran into the killer by coincidence, or he followed a lead he didn't tell his wife or his partner about."

"Or the partner's lying," Frank supposed.

"Why would he?"

"Cleveland was pretty wild then. Organized crime ran the city and most of the cops were helping them do it. That's why they hired Ness, to clean up both the city and the department."

Clouds were creeping up to block out parts of the sunset and she hoped it wouldn't rain on tonight's stakeout. "You think Miller worked for the mob and they killed him?"

"Or he didn't, and dirty cops killed him."

It surprised her that he would suggest such a thing, but then, it had happened a long time ago and it would hardly reflect on today's police force. "You think so?"

"No, not really. I can't see a cop cutting someone's head off. The mob would at least have had a little more practice at it. Maybe they intended to plant the body in a way that would make everyone think the Torso killer did it, and lost their nerve or changed their minds. Or it really was the Torso killer. Who knows? If they couldn't solve it in 1936 I doubt we can now."

"Maybe we can. At least we've narrowed the suspects down to the tenants of that building," she said, aware that she was echoing Brandon Jablonski's earlier words.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, thinking. A V of geese flew above them, heading for the dusky southeast sky with a round of startlingly loud honks.

"Weird, isn't it?"

Frank lit a cigarette. "What?"

"This case has fascinated Cleveland for three-quarters of a century. I just keep wondering what Grandpa would say if he knew we were working on it."

Frank said nothing and puffed, staring at the trees. "We used to watch The Untouchables all the time," she said. "When I got older and started reading true crime I'd tell him about every case I read. Most of them he already knew."

"And I'm the one who became a cop," Frank said.

His words settled through the air like a layer of dust, and suddenly she heard what he had been trying to say, possibly for years. He had been one of the boys in a sea of girls. He had listened to Grandpa's tales and had gone into the same line of work. If anyone became their grandfather's favorite, it should have been Frank. Not her.

Frank had spent as much time with him as Theresa had, at least before her father died. After that no one had been around Grandpa as much as she had, or rather, no one had been around Theresa as much as Grandpa.

It would never have occurred to her that Frank resented that relationship, never in a million years, but now it seemed so obvious that she felt stupid.

"But you had a father," was all she could think of to say.

He ground the cigarette into the gra.s.s, twisting hard as if to make sure the embers were out. "Not much of one."

That was true.

"Frank-"

He didn't look at her. "Come on, let's go in. You have presents to open so we can get out of here and back to the stakeout. I got you Scott Joplin CDs; sorry to ruin the surprise."

"But, Frank-"

"It's a boxed set. Better rip into them now." The sun, beginning its nightly dip, turned his face to scarlet. "We're going to have to go."

CHAPTER 34.

MONDAY, JANUARY 27.

1936.

James and Walter had to wait until the following day to find the doctor in. To James's frustration, they had neglected to get a home address for him during the Irene Schaffer investigation and he had no listing in the city directory. But Monday, despite the cold, found the building at 4950 Pullman full and bustling.

Odessa, of course, not only denied being Flo Polillo's Dr. Manzella but denied knowing a Dr. Manzella. He showed no concern over the name, merely added a new bottle to the spa.r.s.e collection on his shelves, moving the items already present so that there would be equal s.p.a.cing among them all. "I don't wish to be crude, gentlemen, but I don't include common wh.o.r.es among my patients."

"As opposed to uncommon ones?" Walter asked.

"She wasn't a wh.o.r.e," James said, though he knew this to be largely untrue. "She held a job, most of the time."

Odessa said, "I'm not trying to be elitist, but you've seen the type of lady who leaves my office. If any of them needed to work they wouldn't be able to afford my services. It's a pity, really, for the lowest cla.s.ses are the ones who need nutrition counseling the most of all. If we had a government that cared for all its citizens equally-"

"So you don't know a Dr. Manzella?" James cut in.

"No." The bottles arranged to his satisfaction, Odessa turned. "Never heard of him."

"And you don't have any drugged young girls in your closet?"

The man actually laughed at that. "No, Officer, I do not."

"Mind if I check?"

"Jimmy...," Walter said with a note of warning.

"Not at all." Odessa gestured toward the closet door with a gracious sweep of his hand. "Though if you continue to make a habit of this, I will make a report of hara.s.sment to your superiors."

Now Walter bristled. "Go right ahead, mister. Our superior has a daughter about Irene Smith's age."

James didn't bother to correct the girl's last name in light of Walter's sudden support. He pulled the door open and entered the storage room, flicking a switch to illuminate the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. He didn't really expect to find a girl. What he wanted to look for was blood.

The room appeared much as he had last seen it, bottles of pills and herbs with handwritten labels, a short stack of towels, and a supply of writing paper. No dark spots stained the rough wooden walls or floor. Two spots appeared on the edge of the cot frame, and James could only pray they did not belong to some poor girl with less luck than Irene. But he saw no signs of Flo Polillo's body having been brutally dismembered in that small s.p.a.ce.

And yet he swore he could smell it, that damp and rotting odor of blood. Murder, war, it all smelled the same.

"Satisfied, Officer?" Odessa asked when he emerged.

"Detective."

The man came close to rolling his eyes. "Detective. Then I will bid you good day. I have a client due to arrive in a few minutes. Take a look at her, and you will see why I would not waste time with the Flo Polillos of the city."

"You know our victim's name," James pointed out.

"The papers have written of nothing else. Everyone in Cleveland knows her name."

They emerged into the hallway as he said this, and a woman unlocking the door across the hallway said, "Whose name? Mine?"

"Sorry, Auralina. The detectives were speaking of that woman found so brutally murdered."

The gla.s.s in the door read AURALINA DE MORELLI-MEDIUM and the woman dressed the part in an outlandish getup of flowing purple and crimson that did not even resemble a dress, per se, and yet still managed to hint at a perfectly feminine figure. Her face, while coated in too many colored powders, had a similarly pleasant shape. "I read all about it. You need my help, gentlemen. I can contact the dead woman and ask her who tore her limb from limb."

"Really," Walter said with a less-than-convinced air. James didn't bother to respond but surveyed the rest of the hallway. A burst of laughter sounded from the architect's firm. The door to the railroad man's office remained closed, with no light behind the gla.s.s.

But de Morelli knew her business and qualified her statement. "That is, if she wants to tell us, if she even knows. But you can't be sure until you ask. It could solve the whole case for you."

Walter's gaze did not budge from her bosom. "Just like that."

She braced her back against her open doorjamb, the better to display herself. Auralina de Morelli had become schooled in the finer arts of salesmanship, James could see. "As I said, you can't know until you try. The spirit of this troubled woman will be straining to find expression in this world."

"Thank you anyway, ma'am," James said. "Let's go, Detective McKenna."

"Sure." Walter did not move, however, still captivated by the straining b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the de Morelli woman, and meanwhile the front door opened to allow in a burst of arctic air.

The medium smiled at Odessa in a way that made James think the man did not have to drug all his partners. "A client comes for you, Louis, or perhaps for me."

But only Arthur Corliss entered. He carried a paper parcel that smelled good. "Hullo. Are we having a meeting in the hallway?"

Odessa introduced the two cops, as if they were his guests at a party. Corliss's gaze rested with more recognition on James, but he said only, "I've been out getting provisions. Would you gentlemen be needing some lunch? It's the best corned beef in the city."

"From where?" Walter asked, of course. Only food could get his attention from a female body.

"Mike's."

"Oh, yeah. Good stuff."

"No, th-" James began to say. Then he stopped himself. "Actually, that would be great."

Walter stared. "You don't even like-"

"Always thinking of you, partner. Let me help you with that, Mr.-Corliss, isn't it?"

"Yes."

James left the other three people in the hallway and followed Arthur Corliss back to his office. In the time since James had seen it last, the man had acc.u.mulated more items: more papers, more books, more newspapers in separate stacks (apparently he read all three: the News, the Press, and the Plain Dealer), a good supply of Mission Orange soda pop in their signature black bottles, a large table now crowding the desk and scattered with reports and diagrams. Unlike his fellow tenant, Arthur Corliss did more with his office than rape young girls and sell pills to society ladies.

The dog remained. He opened one eye at James's entrance but chose not to leave his spot in front of the radiator.

"Well, Detective, what brings you by?" Corliss asked as he unwrapped his parcel.

"Just keeping an eye on your neighbor, that's all, making sure the good doctor's lady friends are all of legal age."

"The ones I see are well above that, I can a.s.sure you. Louis never lacks for lady friends."

James did not press this. "I had a question for you as well. If a man wanted to work for the railroad, would he come here to talk to you or go to the station?"

Corliss straightened from his task as if both astounded and delighted by the prospect. "Are you considering the railroad police? Excellent! We can always use experienced men. I used to be one, you know, a detective like you are."

"With the railroad?"

"In my younger years. I wasn't much good at it. I felt too sorry for the unfortunates in this country who couldn't afford a ticket-and there's so many more now." Corliss found a knife in a drawer and sliced one of the sandwiches with an agitated whack! "Of course too many of them can afford it; they simply don't want to part with the cash, and the railroads have to protect themselves. Once I grew into a man I learned that it takes a great deal of money to establish a railroad and even more to run it, and I can't let that all fly away because criminals think a depression is an excuse to appropriate my property for their own uses. It's a battle out there every day, you know. Practically a war. Sandwich?"

"No, thank you, but I'll take a slice for my partner." The man's face fell, so James explained, "I've never cared for cured beef. My father cured everything when I was a boy. He considered it the only trustworthy way to preserve food."

"Your partner doesn't understand, does he?"