by Rhys Bowen
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Outstanding praise for
Rhys Bowen’s Mysteries
In Like Flynn
Absorbing… Well-plotted.”
—Publishers Weekly
Bowen’s best.”
—Toronto Globe & Mail
An evocatively recreated picture of New York City’s Greenwich Village in 1902 and the city’s rich upstate suburbs … [A] colorful series, a worthy extension of the Maan Meyers Dutchman books about historical Gotham.”
—Chicago Tribune
For the Love of Mike
Compelling … Rhys Bowen continues her evocative look at the immigrant experience in her third Murphy novel”
—Hartford Courant
The strong double mystery is blended perfectly with feisty Molly’s determination to make a place for herself in a man’s world. Add to it the fabulous backdrop of New York City’s seedy underbelly and you have a compelling tale that draws readers into Molly’s world.”
—Romantic Times
MORE…
“Nail-biting suspense… Molly’s voice is a marvelous one to tell us her story… Here we have turn-of-the-century New York in all its wealth and poverty, its excitement and enchantment, and we have a woman who refuses to be forced into a mold to be what society wants her to be. It is an irresistible combination.”
—Mystery News
“Add brutal city gangs, seamy politics, bribed policemen, even a sweatshop fire, and you have the usual mix that makes Bowen’s books so entertaining.”
—Tampa Tribune
“A livery period re-creation … Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“Molly grows ever more engaging against a vibrant background of New York’s dark side at the turn of the century.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Death of Riley
“An evocative trip through old New York—including the poets, painters, playwrights, and private investigators of Greenwich Village, 1901—in the company of Irish immigrant Molly Murphy, a spirited and appealing guide.”
—S. J. Rozan, author of Winter and Night
“Entertaining.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“Rhys Bowen’s wit makes Death of Riley more than equal to her award-winning first book, Murphy’s Law”
—Maan Meyers, aka Martin and Annette Meyers, authors of the Dutchman series
“A fresh and irrepressible new heroine.”
—Romantic Times
“Bowen nicely blends history and fiction … [A] light, romantic mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Bowen’s highly detailed picture of New York at the turn of the century is a delight.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Murphy’s Law
“History-mystery fans should add Molly to their list of characters to follow.”
—Booklist
“Entertaining.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“[We] look forward to Molly’s return.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Irish humor and gritty determination transplanted to New York, but with more charm and optimism than the usual law attributed to Murphy.”
—Anne Perry, author of The Wbitechapel Conspiracy
“Bowen tells a phenomenal story, and it will be a real treat to see what fate has in store for Molly and Daniell”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
Also by Rhys Bowen
For the Love of Mike
Death of Riley
Murphy’s Law
Available from
St. Martin’s/Minotaur Paperbacks
In Like Flynn
Rhys Bowen
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
IN LIKE FLYNN
copyright © 2005 by Rhys Bowen.
Excerpt from Oh Danny Boy © 2006 by Rhys Bowen.
Cover photo of woman © Bob Osonitch; Photo of house and road © Brown Brothers, Sterling, Pennsylvania; Photo of child © Hulton-Deutsch Collection / Corbis.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004057031
ISBN: 0-312-99700-0
EAN: 9780312-99700-7
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / March 2005
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / December 2005
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
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This book is dedicated to my friends in the mystery community, especially to my not-so-evil twin Meg Chittenden, who has to suffer being mistaken for me, and to Lyn Hamilton, with whom I have shared touring adventures ranging from pigs to lobsters.
The mystery community is composed of warm, witty and in-credibly generous people. I consider it a privilege to be part of it.
As always my special thanks to Clare, Jane and John for taking the time and trouble to help me polish my work.
One
Spring? Was there any spring this year?” the man in the jaunty brown derby asked. “Oh, that’s right. I remember. It was on a Wednesday, wasn't it?”
This remark produced titters of laughter from the women standing in line at Giacomini’s Fine Foods. The speaker was the only man in the store, other than old Mr. Giacomini behind the counter. He stood head and shoulders taller than the rest of us and his presence had caused quite a stir. It was unusual to see a man in a grocer’s shop, seeing that cooking was women’s work. He was well turned out too, with a smart hounds-tooth jacket, white spats and well-polished shoes, unlike the short, round peasant types who frequented this little store in what was still mainly an Italian neighborhood just south of Washington Square. However he seemed quite happy to join in the chitchat as we waited our turn to be served.
“He’sright,” the woman ahead of me said, nodding her head. “There was only one springlike day that I remember this year. In my recollection we had howling gales until the middle of April.”
“Then overnight it got hotter than Hades,” the man finished for her.
There was general agreement to this last remark, although there was also a gasp from some of the ladies at this almost-cuss word. It had been a terrible spring, followed by a hot spell for which we were unprepared. Usually I didn't mind waiting in line in Giacomini’s cramped little store where the smell of spices and herbs stirred half-forgotten childhood memories. But today it was almost too hot to breathe and the smells were overpowering, especially when mixed with the not-so-pleasant odors of stale perspiration and garlic.
“They say there’s typhoid over on the Lower East Side,” one woman said, lowering her voice.
“You wouldn't catch me going over there, even when there’s no epidemic,” another woman muttered. “Packed in like sardines they are in those tenements. And they never wash. Serve themrightif they g
et sick.”
Mr. Giacomini poured sugar into a paper triangle, twisted it shut and handed it to the woman at the front of the line. “Anything else then, Signora? That will be one dollar forty-five, please.
Money exchanged hands. The stout lady loaded her purchases into her basket, then attempted to squeeze past us down the narrow center aisle. Good-natured chuckles were exchanged as close contact couldn't be avoided. As each person in turn attempted to flatten herself against the bins and shelves, I saw something I could scarcely believe. That man had reached into die open basket of the woman just behind him in line and taken her purse. My heart started racing. I wondered if I had imagined it and what I should do next. He was clearly too big and strong for any of us to tackle.
The line moved forward. The next customer made her purchases. I had to act soon or the man would reach the front of the line and be out of there before the poor woman discovered her purse was missing. I couldn't just stand there and do nothing. It went against my nature, even though similar bold and imprudent actions had landed me in hot water more than once in my life. I leaned across to the woman and tugged on her arm. She turned and stared at me in surprise.
That man just stole your purse,” I whispered.
She looked at me incredulously, then down at her basket.
“You're right. It’s gone,” she whispered back in a horrified voice. “Are you sure he took it?”
I nodded. “I saw him.”
“What should I do?” She turned to stare up at the big fellow.
“You stay where you are. 111 go and find a constable and well have him trapped like a rat.” Before she could answer, I muttered an excuse about leaving my shopping list at home, then I pushed my way out of the store and ran all the way to Washington Square. There were always policemen to be found on the south side of the square, because that was the home of New York University, and stu-dents were known to be of unpredictable behavior. I found one easily enough.
“Come quickly,” I urged. “I've just witnessed a man stealing a lady’s purse. If we hurry hell still be in the store.”
“Looks like another pickpocket, Bill,” he called to another con-stable who was standing across the street. “Back in a jiffy. Listen for my whistle in case I have trouble with him. Is it far, miss?”
“Giacomini’s on Thompson. Hurry, before he gets away.” I fought back the desire to grab his arm and drag him. But he set off with me willingly enough at a trot. Sweat was running down his round, red face by the time we reached Giacomini’s. We stepped into the warm, spicy darkness of the store just as the man was paying at the counter.
“Is that him, miss?” the constable whispered.
This was hardly a necessary question as he was still the only man in the store, but I nodded. “And the lady behind him—the one in the blue skirt—she’s the one whose purse he took. I told her to act naturally until I came back with you.”
“Nice going, miss. Don't you worry. Ill surprise the blighter on the way out.” The constable positioned himself in the doorway just as the big fellow turned and made his way past the queue.
“Not so fast, sir.” The constable stepped out to block his progress. “I think you have something on your person that doesn't belong to you.”
“I do? Now what might that be?” the man asked with feigned surprise.
“You were seen taking a lady’s purse.”
“A lady’s purse? Me?”
“My purse,” the woman in the blue skirt said.
The remaining women in the store spun around to stare.
“Ridiculous. How dare you suggest such a thing.” The man at-tempted to force his way outside.
“Well, my purse has gone from my basket and this young lady says she saw you take it,” the woman said. The man’s gaze fastened on me.
“She did, did she? And did anybody else see this brazen act? Did any of these other women standing in line with a good view of me?”
Nobody answered. Some women averted their eyes. The man turned to glare at me again.
“I don't know what you hope to gain from this,” he said, “but you can wind up in serious trouble from making false accusations against upright citizens. Go on then, Officer. Search me if you must.”
“If you'd just step outside, into the light, sir, and don't think of making a run for it. There are plenty of other officers close by.”
“I'm certainly not about to make a run for it until I've cleared my name.” The man stepped out through the door and spread out his arms. “Go ahead then. Search me.”
His complete confidence unnerved me. He had an insolent smirk on his face as the constable began searching. He knows the purse isn't on him, I thought. And then in aflashit came to me: He must have already hidden it somewhere, to be picked up later.
I slipped inside the store and looked around frantically. If I were he, where would I stash a stolen purse? He could have dropped it on the floor easily enough and kicked it under one of the shelves, but he'd have to get down on all fours to look for it—which would make him most conspicuous. So he must have made good use of his height. On therightside of the aisle there were shelves of bottles and cansrightup to the ceiling. I stood on tiptoe, reached up with myrighthand to the top shelf that contained canned tomatoes and was rewarded as my fingers touched a softer, slimmer object. I stretched and reached even harder and managed to knock it down. Then I pushed past the women and ran outside, waving it triumphantly.
Only just in time too.
“There. I hope you're satisfied,” the man was saying. “And believe me, your chief’s going to hear about this.”
“I'm sorry, sir, I was only doing—” the constable began as the man turned on his heels.
“Don't let him go,” I shouted. “Here’s the purse.” I waved it at the constable, who grabbed the man by the arm. “He put it up on the top shelf where it was too high for anyone else to see it. He was going to come back for it later.”
“Very smart,” the constable said. “Unfortunately for you, this young lady was smarter.” His grip tightened on the fellow, who wasn't looking smug any longer.
“You can't pin anything on me. You've only got her word. Anyone could have taken it and put it there. She could have taken it herself,” he blustered.
“Nobody else in the store could have put it on that shelf,” I said. “I was the tallest woman in there and I had to stand on tip toe to reach that high. Everyone would have noticed me if I'd tried to reach up there. But you—all you needed to do was pretend you were adjusting your hat or brushing your mustache.”
“Come on, I'm taking you in,” the constable said. “Jefferson Market Police Station is where you're going.”
“I'm not going anywhere with you.” The man broke away, shoved at the constable and started to run off. Instantly the constable blew his whistle. Two other policemen appeared from the direction of Washington Square. There was a scuffle and the man was grabbed and held fast.
“What’s he done, Harry?”
Tried to steal a lady’s purse in the grocer’s shop,” my constable said, “only this young lady was onto his tricks. She’s a sharp one if you like.”
“Allright, get him back to the station,” one of them said, looking at me appreciatively. “And you'd better come along too, miss, to report to our sergeant.”
I didn't like to admit that I was loathe to go anywhere near the Jefferson Market Police Station, as I had once spent a night there, having been mistaken for a woman of a very different profession. I trotted along beside them, feeling pleased with myself. I was getting rather good at this investigation business, wasn't I? More ob-servant than the average person, with sharper senses and quicker reactions. It was about time the police realized how useful I was. It was a pity that I couldn't tell Daniel Sullivan of my expertise.
“You guys is wasting your time,” the pickpocket said, reverting to a more common way of speech. “Ain't no way you'll make this stick.” And he glanced back at me as if giving me a warning. I met hi
s gaze and gave him my famous Queen Victoria stare, still feeling rather proud of myself.
We crossed the square and made for the market complex on the far side of Sixth Avenue. Squashed fruit and straw littered die side-walk and a barrow was pushed past us piled high with cabbages. In the afternoon beat the smells of rotting produce and manure were overpowering. The triangular complex housed a fire department and the police station beyond it. We were about to go in to the latter when the door opened and a couple of men came out, so deep in conversation that they didn't notice us until they almost collided with us.
They were not wearing uniforms, but they reacted instantly to our little procession.
“What have you got here then, Harris?” one of them asked. “Caught the fellow stealing a lady’s purse,” my constable said. I noticed the half-amused look on the plainclothes officer’s face as he observed the prisoner, heldfirmlybetween the other policemen. “Been a bad boy again, Nobby?” he asked.
“Go boil your head,” the man said easily enough. “No way youse guys will pin anything on me. It’s only her word against mine.”
Then they noticed me for thefirsttime. I tried to remain calm and composed, even though I had been very aware of one of them from the moment he stepped through the door. It was Daniel Sullivan, my ex-beau. Captain Daniel Sullivan, of the New York Police. 1 saw his eyes widen as he recognized me.
“The young lady spotted this gentleman helping himself to an-other lady’s purse,” my constable explained. “And she was smart enough tofigureout where he'd stashed it.”
“Was she now?” I could feel Daniel still looking at me, although I didn't meet his gaze. “Allright. Take him inside and book him, boys. I'm sure he knows the way as well as you do.”
When I went to follow them inside, Daniel grabbed my arm. “Are you so cocky about your skills as a detective that you've decided to take over the duties of the New York Police?” he asked in a voice that wasn't altogether friendly.