by Delynn Royer
“N-n-no.” Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t keep her teeth from chattering.
She still sensed his doubt, but he didn’t ask again.
From there, they worked their way as far west as Eleventh Avenue before turning back to close the loop to 42nd Street. It was an hour later when they finally reached their last stop, Holy Cross Church, where a young, bespectacled priest, Father Geraghty, greeted Sean amiably by name.
When provided with Maggie and Danny’s names and their old address, Father Geraghty excused himself to make a telephone call to the Sisters of Charity Foundling Hospital.
He returned with a sheet of notes to confirm what Trixie and Sean had gathered from more than one witness that afternoon. Maggie O’Roarke—oh, she of the bonny bubs—had immigrated with her sister from Ireland, married a longshoreman, and had two children. She’d died of pneumonia.
“The father’s name is Daniel O’Roarke,” Father Geraghty said. “He’s serving life at Sing Sing for killing a man in a bar fight.”
“So, when Maggie died, there was no one to take the children?” Trixie asked. “What about the father’s family or Maggie’s sister?”
“No one on the father’s side and the sister was nowhere to be found. Danny and Leah were taken to the Foundling Hospital.”
Trixie winced at hearing the heartbreaking facts that she dutifully jotted in her notepad. The O’Roarke children had later been shuffled from one orphanage to another for almost a year before being sent out of the city on something called an orphan train.
“What’s an orphan train?” Trixie asked Sean after they’d left the church and were retracing their steps back up 42nd Street on their return trek to Bickford’s.
“It’s a program run by the Children’s Aid Society.” Sean spoke grimly as he pulled his hat brim down against a new onslaught of rain. “When the orphanages get overcrowded, they send kids out of the city, usually to the Midwest where there are more families willing to adopt.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. If Danny was sent out west, what’s he doing back here?”
“My guess? He’s a runaway who found his way back home. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to ask the kid himself.”
Trixie hoped so, but her earlier certainty that they would find Danny was gone. They’d found plenty of people who knew the child, but no one who’d seen him today. Was that simply bad timing? It didn’t feel that way. She didn’t like it at all.
“Do you think that he saw John Murphy’s murder?” she asked.
“Maybe.” Sean sounded somber, and Trixie almost wished he’d stonewalled her to save her having to think about what that meant. She’d read enough stories about gangsters to know they thought nothing of executing each other, sometimes in shockingly public and brutal ways. But...kids?
“Then there could be someone out there who wouldn’t want him to be found...right?”
He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
By then, they had reached Bickford’s. As another pedestrian brushed by them to open the door, Trixie caught a whiff of hot food that practically caused her knees to buckle.
Sean surprised her by uttering seven words that, under different circumstances, she could have married him for. “How about I buy us some lunch?”
As famished as she was, she shook her head. “Thanks, Detective, but I don’t deserve it. I was no help to you. We’ve just wasted a whole day and got nothing to show for it.”
Something subtle passed behind his eyes, something that might have been a glimmer of respect. He opened the door for her. “Welcome to police work, Miss Frank.”
The cafeteria wasn’t as busy as earlier but still doing a brisk business. If the mingled aroma of roasting meats and baking pies was any testament to the tastiness of its lunch offerings, it was no wonder.
After Trixie selected her menu items—Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, peas and a slice of apple pie—Sean made a wry comment about small dames with big appetites and sent her ahead to find them a table.
She found one in the back where she was glad to finally peel off her sodden coat and give her throbbing feet a break. Soon, Sean brought a tray full of steaming food and joined her.
She was too starved to make any pretense of daintiness when she delved in. “Oooh, yum. Out to lunch and gone to heaven.”
Sean eyed her dubiously as he lifted his sandwich. “Not quite what you’re used to, is it?”
“By which you mean, what? My father’s house or the chop suey place around the corner from my apartment?”
He smirked and took a bite of his sandwich.
Trixie smiled. He was as full of misconceptions about her as she was about police work. “Either way, you’re right. This is loads better than all that pesky old caviar and crumpets.” She stabbed another forkful of Salisbury steak and winked before popping it into her mouth. “Just don’t tell Cook.”
Sean smiled at the joke but his gaze remained steady. She should have known he wouldn’t be so easily deflected. “So, why do you do all this?”
His question was so direct she was caught off guard. “Why do I do all what?”
“Why do you work for a tab?”
“Why not a tab?”
“Don’t be funny. You know what I mean. Why work at all?”
This close, she noticed for the first time that his eyes were the same rich color as the Long Island Sound just before a slow, lazy summer sunset. “If I weren’t Wil Frank’s daughter, would you still be so curious?”
“Maybe not.”
“Okay.” She set down her fork, put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “If you must know, one day I asked myself a question. Who would I be if I weren’t Wil Frank’s daughter?”
“And?”
“This is she.”
Sean said nothing, but something warmed behind his eyes. He seemed to be waiting for more.
“I just want to make a difference.” Trixie added this before she could stop herself. She shouldn’t care what he thought. “On my own and in my own way. Don’t you? Isn’t that why you’re a cop?”
He looked surprised and she felt satisfaction at turning the tables on him. It was clear that he wasn’t accustomed to being the one to answer questions, but he weighed her inquiry before setting down his sandwich and wiping his hands on his napkin. “Yeah, I guess that’s part of it.”
“And what’s the other part?”
He shrugged. “My dad was a cop. My uncle too. I wanted to be like them. You saw some of the neighborhood today. It’s rough. Even the cops are rough, but what you don’t know is that not everyone who grows up there turns out like John Murphy. Most are good people. People who can barely pay their own rent but who’ll share their three-room flat with neighbors who just got evicted. If you live alone and get sick, there’s a neighbor to take care of you. If your kid gets up to no good on the next block, there’s three mothers ready to box his ears. A bum off the street gets a cup of hot tea on a cold day.”
His expression didn’t change and he didn’t raise his voice, not at all, but there was an undercurrent of conviction that humbled her. He was describing a world she’d only glimpsed today, a world she knew nothing about. “These are the people you grew up with,” she said.
“Yeah.” Sean picked up his sandwich again. “Seems like they should be able to walk the streets without getting stuck up by some punk or open a grocery without paying protection to some goon with a boss who wears a diamond stickpin in his lapel. Maybe that’s not much, but it’s something.”
“It’s more than something,” Trixie said. “It’s—”
Before she could go on, a stylish, slim-figured woman entered the cafeteria. She wore a plush sable coat and a red cloche hat over shoulder-length raven hair. She was the kind of woman who turned heads when she entered a room. It didn’t matter if
that room was a 42nd Street cafeteria or the old Delmonico’s. She paused by the door and swept the crowd with her cool gaze.
All of this occurred behind Sean’s back, but he must have seen something on Trixie’s face. He turned just as the woman headed in their direction.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“Who’s—?” Trixie didn’t finish. She was too busy staring. The woman’s complexion was flawless and unusually sun-kissed for this time of year. She had a beautiful mouth, full-lipped and sensual, and astonishing violet eyes that fixed on Sean with warm recognition as he rose to his feet.
“Sean,” she said softly.
He looked stunned. “Nell.”
Chapter Eight
Sean Costigan and Nell Murphy stood motionless in the crowded lunchroom, their gazes locked for no more than a minute, but to Trixie it felt like five.
Or an hour.
When she could endure it no longer, she injected brightly, “Say, Detective, are you going to introduce us?”
Sean tore his attention from Nell. “What?”
“Introduce us?” It was a challenge to keep the edge out of her voice.
“Uh, sure.” Sean cleared his throat. Though he’d been looking for this woman all morning, Nell’s appearance had clearly rattled him.
Why? Trixie could feel her journalist’s instincts stirring at the same time she felt something else—something that warned she might not want to know the answer.
“Nell, this is Trixie Frank,” Sean said. “She’s a reporter for the Morning Examiner. Trixie, Nell Murphy.”
Nell gave Trixie the once-over. No smile. “A reporter?” Her voice was smooth and softly feminine with little trace left of her West Side roots. “For what paper did you say?”
“The Morning Examiner.”
“I never heard of it. What do you write about?”
“Current events.”
“Mmmmmmm.” When she looked back at Sean, it was a dismissal. “I hear you’ve been asking around about me.”
“Word travels fast.”
“You know it does. What do you want?”
“I want to be sure you’re safe.”
Nell’s lips curved into a wistful smile. “I don’t deserve your concern.”
“And I want to ask you some questions.”
She looked amused. “Now that’s more like it.”
“You willing to talk?” Sean asked.
Trixie rolled her eyes as Nell paused and a wealth of silent communication seemed to pass between the two old acquaintances. Finally, Nell nodded. “Maybe to you.” She looked at Trixie. “Sorry, sister. I don’t talk to reporters.”
Trixie knew she shouldn’t take umbrage but, woman to woman, it was im-possible not to react to Nell’s patronizing tone. She had to dig deep for a breezy comeback. “Sure, sister. No harm. Maybe you’ll change your mind. If you do, Sean knows where to find me. I’ll give you a fair shake, tell your side of the story... Whatever side that turns out to be.”
As the words tripped off her tongue, Trixie knew Mr. Merryweather would skin her alive if he found out she’d squandered a chance to interview John Murphy’s widow. Still, it felt good to score a hit.
Nell’s eyes narrowed. “Gee. Thanks.”
Before Trixie could open her mouth again, Sean gave her a warning look. “So, kid, why don’t you finish your lunch? We won’t be long.” Then he addressed Nell. “Let’s sit over there.”
Nuts. Trixie watched them leave. By the time they settled at another table, she’d picked up her fork and stabbed a piece of her steak hard enough to kill it all over again.
“Hey, doll. What’s cooking?”
Trixie looked up to see Joey Mack grinning at her. “At this table? Not a thing.”
“No luck finding the kid, huh?”
“Not yet,” she said, then a thought occurred. When Sean had wanted information, he’d gone to Joey first. How much did Joey know about Nell Murphy?
“We have company,” she added and inclined her head toward Sean and Nell.
“What?” Joey’s bemused tone changed to one of understanding when he caught sight of the other pair. He let out a low whistle. “Whoa. When did she get here?”
“Not long. I can’t believe you missed the grand entrance.”
“Say again?”
“Only Cleopatra in her barge could have turned more heads.”
“Oh.” Joey smirked. “Right.”
Trixie pointed to Sean’s empty chair. She had information to mine. “Say, why don’t you take a load off your feet?”
Joey chuckled. “Sure, why not? What’s the use of being the boss if you can’t take a little break now and then, huh?”
“You bet.” Trixie gave him her best let’s-talk smile as he sat. “So, what’s the story on those two anyhow?”
“You mean Sean and Nell?” Joey fished around in his shirt pocket and produced a pack of Lucky Strikes. “They go way back.”
“And how far is that?”
“Back to when we was kids. Me, Sean, Johnny and Nell. There was a bunch of us lived on the same block. Nell’s name was O’Hara then. We used to play ‘Johnny on the Pony’ and ‘Cat and Stick.’ In the summer, we’d find an empty pier and go swimming in the river.”
“Hmm.” Trixie took a bite of her apple pie then reached for her coffee. “Nell too?”
Joey lit his cigarette. “Sure, that was when we were eight, ten, like that. Nell was a tomboy back then. Me? I was the funny one. Sean and Johnny were the leaders. Sometimes they scrapped, sure, but they had respect for each other. That’s how it works. Then, time passed, we got older, and Nell... Well, let’s just say, one day she wasn’t one of the boys no more.”
“I guess not. Is that when she and Johnny became an item?”
Joey looked suspicious. “Say, you ain’t going to write about this, are you?”
Trixie scooped up an apple chunk with her fork. “Why? Is there something secret about Nell and Johnny’s past?”
“Nah, no secret. It’s just that Sean, he’d whack me if he found out I was telling you this stuff.”
“All right. No quotes, and anything that goes into print is pure fact. ‘Nell Murphy was born Nell O’Hara in the West Side.’ How’s that?”
Joey frowned. “Sure, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Understood.” Trixie took a sip of her coffee. “Nothing goes to print that I don’t also get from another source. Deal?”
“Deal, ’cause you ain’t getting any of this from another source.”
Trixie had to suppress a smile. She liked his attitude. “You drive a tough bargain for a company cook. Tell me about Nell and Johnny.”
“What do you wanna know?”
“Everything about how they got together. They knew each other when they were kids, I get that, but when did all that kid stuff turn to love?”
“Love?” Joey snorted. “Love between who? Johnny and Nell? Or Sean and Nell?”
Trixie stared at Joey and slowly set down her fork. Her appetite had fled. Had she heard him right? He seemed clueless that he’d just dropped a bombshell in her lap. She wished she could toss it back. “I, uh, didn’t know that Sean and Nell were—”
“Yeah, well, that all started back where I left off before,” Joey took a drag off his cigarette. “We was fourteen or so and Nell turned into a dish overnight. You think Sean and Johnny took notice? Hell, yeah. After that, everything started to change.”
“They had a falling out over Nell?”
“Nah, not exactly. Nell wasn’t the problem between them guys. Everything was changing. Johnny was getting into more than just sneaking cigarettes and stealing fruit off carts and Sean came from a family of cops. Them two was bound to go their separate ways. It happens.”
> Despite herself, Trixie was drawn in. “And what about Nell? Which way did she go?”
Joey shrugged. “Nell went her own way. Smart cookie. On Saturdays, she used to hoof it uptown, watch how the girls dressed on Fifth Avenue. During the week, she minded her p’s and q’s, didn’t miss school. As for Sean and Johnny, she stayed friendly with them both, but she never picked between them. Then Johnny got into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Trixie asked.
“The kind you’d expect. His ma died young and his pop was a drunk, but he had an older brother that ran with the gangs. Johnny wanted to be just like him. When he was sixteen, he got caught breaking into a warehouse. That landed him in the reformatory for two years. That’s what ended up clearing the way for Sean.”
“You mean, clearing the way to go after Nell?”
“Yep.” Joey jammed his cigarette out in an ashtray. “Sean went for the prize.”
Trixie didn’t like the direction this story had taken. She’d expected to uncover history on Johnny and Nell, not Nell and Sean. She forced a stiff smile. “And so, did he get it? His prize?”
“Oh, yeah. Those two was inseparable. Sean had it bad for her.”
“And her?”
“Yeah. Or at least I thought so in the beginning. Later I wasn’t so sure.”
“Why?”
For the first time, Joey looked pained. “I don’t know. Sean’s different than most. His loyalty runs deep. Nell, she’s a good girl too, just—”
Trixie waited as he tried to work out what it was he wanted to express, but he shook his head and waved it off. “Ah, never mind her. Who knows what’s in a dame’s mind? The point is, Sean wanted to marry Nell as soon as he could scrape up the dough. He quit the docks and joined the department and gave her a ring right before Johnny came home.”
“From the reformatory?”
“Yeah, except Johnny wasn’t much reformed. He went to work on the docks and got in tight with the union guys. Next thing you know, he’s wearing fancy rags and flashing wads of dough, and there’s Sean, walking a beat, making a patrolman’s pay.”