This struck me as a rather roundabout way to investigate. “It seems to me this would be a perfect case for the Italian Legion. Surely, they’d stand the best chance of getting to the bottom of it.”
“You’re probably right, but from what I hear, Petrosino’s squad is spread pretty thin dealing with the Black Hand. And now that this girl’s death has been ruled a suicide, there isn’t even a murder involved.”
I gaped at him. “I would think that kidnapping a girl and forcing her into prostitution warrants their attention nonetheless!”
He threw up his hands. “I’m not saying it doesn’t. But Petrosino’s men have to sleep and eat, just like everyone else.”
I drew a calming breath. “I’m sorry, I just find this all very…disturbing.”
“Of course you do. I understand.”
I wondered if he really did understand—if a man was even capable of the awful, empathic sense of violation that this girl’s vile treatment had evoked in me. Although he didn’t say so, I suspected he thought I was taking the thing too much to heart. Maybe if I had seen as much senseless cruelty as he had, I could view her destruction more objectively, understanding it as part of the tapestry of tragedy and triumph that was urban life. Maybe if I hadn’t experienced tragedy in my own past, I could convince myself that I lived in some separate, protected reality and needn’t concern myself with the misfortunes of others. Instead, something seemed to be taking root inside me, turning my horror to anger, pushing me to take a stand against whatever dark forces had run roughshod over an innocent girl.
“Mr. Shaw?” Billie called through the door. “Ralph Cameron’s here to see you.”
“Thanks, Billie,” he called back. “That’ll be about his son,” he explained. “He was picked up for vagrancy this morning.”
“I should be getting along anyway,” I said.
He walked me back to the entrance. I turned to face him, realizing it might be some time before I saw him again, feeling a stab of loss that cut all the way to the bone.
“You all right?” he asked, peering at my face.
“I’m fine. Will you telephone me if you learn anything more about Lucia?”
He frowned at me. “You ought to try to forget about her, Genna,” he advised. “There’s nothing anyone can do now about what happened.”
I heard him in dismay, feeling more alone than ever. After my ordeal last winter, when I’d nearly been killed myself while trying to save my client, all I’d wanted was to hunker down in my protected corner of the universe and lead a life of work and simple pleasures. I certainly had no desire to become involved in another police investigation. But I couldn’t turn a blind eye to what poor Lucia had evidently been forced to endure—and I didn’t see how Simon could either. I wanted to challenge him, to make him see that forgetting wasn’t the answer. But it had become clear that it was no longer my place to question Simon’s actions or beliefs. So instead, I forced a noncommittal smile and hurried out the door, leaving him frowning in my wake.
• • •
I walked blindly down the sidewalk, reeling from the day’s discoveries. Was there no end to the cruelty in the world? Little Frankie’s battering had been bad enough; what Lucia appeared to have endured was almost beyond comprehension. Confinement, rape, torture—this was a very different sort of violence than that carried out by an alcoholic father who’d been raised by the fist and was carrying on the tradition. Nor was it a simple crime of impulse, triggered by random opportunity. It took planning to do what Lucia’s captors had done. Planning, and a terrifying insensibility to her suffering. I couldn’t forget about it even if I wanted to.
An elevated train rumbled out of the station at the end of the block, bound for Harlem and points north. I stopped short on the sidewalk and stared up at it. It was true that I couldn’t undo what had happened to Lucia, but perhaps there was a chance I could keep it from happening to someone else—someone whose fate, for whatever reason, seemed to have been delivered directly to my door. According to Detective Norton, women were still being abducted in New York City on a not infrequent basis, despite attempts to make the ports and terminals safer. Simon’s assurances notwithstanding, it didn’t strike me as farfetched to think that Teresa Casoria might be one of them. Teresa was from the same part of Italy as Lucia. Like Lucia, she had come alone to America to marry. According to Rosa, she had disappeared without a trace. What if she was in trouble and I was the only person in a position to help? What if, this very second, someone was torturing her the way they’d apparently tortured Lucia? Could I just sit by and hope it wasn’t so?
I swiveled on my heel and strode back into the saloon. Simon had already returned to his office, but Billie fetched me the business directory from under the counter. Rosa had told me that the name of her friend’s fiancé was Fabroni, and that he lived with his mother above his shop. Leafing through the pages, I found Fabroni Painting listed at 317 East 109th Street, smack in the middle of Italian Harlem. That had to be him. I was going to speak with Mr. Fabroni and find out once and for all if Teresa was missing. If she wasn’t, I would have wasted a few hours of my time. If she was…well, I didn’t know exactly what more I could do if my fears were confirmed, but at least I would have done something.
A few moments later, I bounded up the steps to the El station, where I paid my nickel, dropped my ticket into the chopper, and joined the dense crowd waiting on the platform. It was the end of a hot summer workday in Yorkville, and the odors of sweat, pickling brine, and cigar smoke hung heavily in the humid air. The press of bodies only added to the heat, and by the time the train arrived, I was perspiring through all my under layers. Luckily, I was able to grab a spot in the forward end of the first car behind the motorman’s box, where a pleasant breeze blew back from the open doorway. I declined a young man’s offer to give me his seat, grabbing onto the overhead strap instead as the car rumbled into motion and peering with interest out the windows.
Except for my recent jaunt the day of the rowing race, I hadn’t been north of Yorkville in years, and as the train rattled uptown, I gazed with astonishment at the vista unfolding before me. Thirty years before, the Harlem Flats had been nothing but empty fields, crisscrossed by rivers and streams. While I was growing up, the stagnant pools that festered in the lower-lying areas had been gradually filled in with ashes and covered with a layer of clay, in the dim hope that someone might want to build there in the future. Now, it seemed, that future had arrived. I’d expected to see a mix of vacant lots and row houses and old frame dwellings dotting the landscape; instead, the dense development that had once been confined to the river’s edge seemed to have spread across the entire East Side.
It was not, alas, an appealing sight. The tenements lining the avenue and side streets were of the cheapest sort, doubtless thrown up in a hurry to capitalize on migration to the area when the elevated train lines were built. There were no parks or fine buildings to break their flat-faced monotony, nothing to lead the eye skyward except spindly legged cisterns on the tenement roofs and the occasional belching chimney of an electric plant. As block after block of the cheerless landscape rolled past, it was hard to feel anything but pity for its inhabitants.
And yet, when I disembarked at 106th Street and descended from the platform, I seemed to enter a different world altogether: a noisy, crowded, colorful place that, though littered with trash and pierced by the screech of the elevated trains, pulsed with an intriguing energy. I joined the flow of pedestrians up the avenue, watching sharp-tongued women haggle with vendors hawking fruit and hats and oilcloths from pushcarts under the tracks. A weary-looking group of laborers in hobnailed boots and jaunty red scarves ambled past me, their blue shirts dusted with powdered schist, calling out to old men playing cards on the sidewalk. My ears caught on passing fragments of foreign conversation, while my nostrils twitched at tantalizing aromas that drifted from the open windows.
I was so b
usy taking everything in that, at first, I took no notice of the man walking a few yards ahead of me. When he reached the next corner and turned right, however, I realized he was Simon’s friend Patrick Branagan. Although he wasn’t wearing his police uniform, his profile was unmistakable. By the time I arrived at the corner, he was already a dozen yards down the side street. I watched as he stopped to speak to a group of young boys spinning tops on the sidewalk, dropping a coin into one of the boys’ hands and then pointing to the saloon next door. The boy jumped to his feet and started back in my direction, while Patrick continued into the saloon.
As I wasn’t inclined to follow him into a drinking establishment just to exchange what would likely be some awkward hellos, I continued on through the intersection. A moment later, the boy passed me and trotted ahead to the next corner, turning right onto 108th Street. I reached the corner and idly watched his progress while I waited for the intersection to clear.
Some tables and chairs were set up in front of a café halfway down the block. The boy slowed as he approached them, scanning the customers enjoying coffee and pastries, before turning toward an elderly, bearded man in an old-fashioned felt hat who was sitting at one of the outer tables. The two exchanged a few words. Slowly, as if his bones were creaking in protest, the old gentleman drew a black leather satchel from under his seat and held it up to the boy. The boy grabbed the handle and ran back toward the corner where I was standing. The old man watched him go, then pushed himself up from the table with the help of a cane and limped down the street in the opposite direction.
I stared after the boy as he dashed past me and back the way he’d come, disappearing around the corner onto 107th Street. What was that all about? I wondered. The officer in the intersection blew his whistle, signaling it was safe to walk. I joined the pedestrians surging across, my thoughts returning to Teresa Casoria and the task at hand.
At the next block, I turned right and started toward the river. Although the light was beginning to fade between the buildings, drifts of barefoot boys were still out on the street, batting balls with broom handles or pitching bottle caps on the sidewalk, their shouts echoing off the walls and hanging in the still evening air. Here and there, a woman nursed a baby on a stoop or leaned out a tenement window to watch the boys at play. I supposed I ought to feel anxious, walking in such unfamiliar environs, but no one bothered me as I made my way across town. Indeed, the whole neighborhood exuded an air of weary relief, punctuated by the distant hoot of factory whistles signaling the end of the day shift.
I was halfway between Second and First Avenues, swerving to avoid a boy pushing a cartload of shavings from the ice house floor, when, from the corner of my eye, I saw the gilt lettering on the side of a truck parked at the curb. Fabroni Painting, 317 E. 109th St., N.Y., the letters read. Looking to my left, I saw Fabroni Painting applied in the same gold lettering across the bottom-floor window of the four-story brick building directly opposite. I approached the window and looked in.
Though it was dark inside, I could make out a small desk with a telephone on one side and a stack of paint-splattered ladders and folded tarpaulins on the other. I stepped back a pace and looked up, feeling a quiver of apprehension. What would Mr. Fabroni think of a total stranger bursting into his home and asking questions about his bride? Belatedly, it occurred to me that my unsolicited visit might not be well received, despite my good intentions. I hesitated, and even considered turning around. Rosa’s face swam up in my mind again, however, urging me onward.
I entered the building foyer and read the names on the letter box. The Fabronis lived in number 2A. Straightening my hat, I started up the steps to meet them.
Chapter Seven
From the landing, I could see that the door to apartment number 2A was ajar. I crossed the hallway and looked in. The door opened onto a small kitchen with a stove and sink along the back wall. A modest parlor adjoined it on the left, where two men and a young woman were eating supper. The parlor windows were open, allowing a current of air to flow through the apartment to the open entry door. I cleared my throat and knocked tentatively on the doorjamb.
A middle-aged woman all in black, whom I hadn’t even noticed at first, detached herself from the stove and stepped toward me. “Sí?” she asked with a frown, looking me up and down.
Although I knew some Italian from my travels abroad, it had been a while since I’d used it, so I decided to try English first. “Good evening. I’m looking for Antonio Fabroni. I understand he lives in this building?”
The three people in the adjacent room all turned at the sound of my voice. The younger of the two men rose from the table and started toward me. He was quite a handsome fellow, with a confident gaze and a slight swagger to his step.
“I’m Antonio Fabroni,” he said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
“How do you do,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Dr. Genevieve Summerford. I saw your truck outside and was hoping I’d find you at home.”
He took my hand, his face brightening at the mention of his truck. “So you are in need of a house painter?” he asked with a smile.
“Oh, no. Actually, I’m here to inquire about your fiancée, Teresa Casoria.”
The woman in black froze behind him, while a fork clattered onto a plate in the parlor.
Antonio’s grip tightened on my hand. “What do you know about Teresa?” he asked, his smile evaporating.
I licked my suddenly dry lips. “Only that a friend of hers was expecting to see her a week ago and was concerned when she didn’t arrive. She’s been terribly worried that something may have happened to her.”
“Who is this friend?” he demanded.
“Is it true then? Has she gone missing?”
“Please, who is this friend,” he asked again, “and what does she know about Teresa?”
“Her name is Rosa Velloca. I met her by chance in Jefferson Park, during the holiday celebration. She told me Teresa had befriended her in Italy and asked me to help find her.”
He spoke briefly in Italian to the woman, who shook her head in response. “I don’t understand,” he said, turning back to me. “Why would this Rosa think you could help?”
“It’s rather a long story,” I said, trying to extract my fingers from his grip. “Perhaps if I could come in and explain?”
He looked down, seeming surprised to find that he was still grasping my hand. “Forgive me,” he said, releasing it. “I have forgotten my manners. Of course, you must come in.” He turned to the woman. “Mama, set a plate for our visitor.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I protested.
Ignoring me, he called out something in Italian to the man and woman already seated at the parlor table, which I roughly translated as You go. We’ll talk later.
The man rose, taking the arm of the young woman and lifting her from her chair. He was a big man, about twenty years older than Antonio, with a bushy mustache and a deformed or mutilated ear. The woman was a few years younger than me, with hollow cheeks and downcast eyes. The two walked past me out the door without a word and continued toward the rear apartments.
“Come, miss,” Antonio urged, gesturing me toward the table, where his mother was already spooning a stew of some sort onto a fresh plate. Seeing that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, I crossed into the parlor and sat down.
He sat beside me, palms on his thighs and eyes flashing with barely contained impatience as he waited for me to begin.
I dutifully spooned a morsel of stew into my mouth while his mother hovered in the background. A medley of flavors and textures, spicy and salty, chewy and tender at the same time, exploded over my tongue. “Oh my, this is delicious,” I said with a gasp.
“My mother is an excellent cook,” Antonio agreed. He lifted a half-full wineglass and drained its contents while I savored another, larger spoonful. “And now,” he said, putting down the glass, “you
will please tell me what you know of Teresa.”
Laying down my fork reluctantly, I told him about the discovery of the drowned girl, the events that had inspired Rosa Velloca to confide in me, and the immigration bureau’s confirmation of Teresa’s arrival.
He listened closely, his brow furrowed. “I should have been there to meet her, at the boat,” he said when I was done. “But I was late. For this I will never forgive myself, if she has been harmed.”
“You haven’t seen or heard from her then, since she arrived?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Hesitantly, I asked, “Do you have any reason to believe that she might have changed her mind about the marriage? Gone to stay with someone else, perhaps?”
He frowned at me. “I almost wish that that were true. At least then, I would know that she is safe. But she sent me a letter the morning she left, telling me that she loved me and was on her way.”
I nodded, remembering that Rosa had also received a letter sent on the morning of Teresa’s departure. “I understand you paid for her ticket,” I said after a moment.
“Of course.”
“I don’t suppose she might have been deceiving you as to her intentions, to gain passage to America?”
His eyes flashed with indignation. “Teresa would never do such a thing!”
“I meant no offense. I’m only trying to consider every possibility.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “That is not a possibility.”
I glanced from him to his mother, who was watching us intently, her face puckered with worry or disapproval. She stood next to a sort of altar set back against the wall, which contained several half-burned candles, a statue of the Madonna, pictures of assorted saints, and a framed photograph of a young girl in a white dress and veil, flanked by Antonio, his mother, and a handful of others. “What about her family in Italy?” I asked, turning back to Antonio. “Have you been in contact with them?”
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