Micah, who had spotted several policemen’s helmets in the crowd, made a noncommittal sound as he maneuvered the buggy down a side street, pulling up in front of an empty hitching post. “We’ll have to walk from here.”
He helped her out of the buggy, noting with a tinge of masculine satisfaction the color that bloomed in her cheeks at the touch of his hand. At least the attraction appeared to have buffaloed them both. She quickly freed herself and stepped onto the sidewalk—directly into the path of a newsboy racing pell-mell down the sidewalk. Boy, cap and newspapers tumbled to the ground. Jocelyn staggered, and Micah swiftly clasped her elbows, swinging her off her feet.
The feel of her exploded through him like a tempest. He managed to gently set her down on the sidewalk, then knelt to help the newsboy to give himself time to recover, no mean feat since his hands tingled, and his fingers still twitched with the memory.
Streams of people flowed around them, glancing indifferently at the boy’s plight as they hurried along toward the corner.
“Thanks,” the newsboy said, his voice breathless. “Didja hear what folks is saying? A murder. Right down the street! I ain’t never seen nobody dead, so’s I was hurrying.” He gawked at Jocelyn while he stuffed newspapers under his arm, then flashed Micah a quick grin. “I never met nobody what had more freckles than a salamander, either.” He grabbed the last newspaper, leaped up and scooted down the sidewalk with the agility of a squirrel darting up a tree.
Micah stood, dusting his hands, a frown between his eyes.
“I’ve heard less flattering comparisons over the course of my life,” Mrs. Tremayne offered with a rueful smile. She glanced down the walk. “Operative MacKenzie…”
“Why don’t we stick with ‘Mr.’? It’s less of a mouthful.” Forcing a smile, he casually stepped in front of her. “Crowd’s a tad unruly. How about if I take you home? I can talk to Mr. Hepplewhite another time.”
“I’m not deaf. I heard what that child said. He was probably exaggerating. People don’t get murdered in downtown Richmond.” She darted a quick glance up into his face, stubbornness darkening her eyes. “We’re already here, and I’d like to see Mr. Hepplewhite. If you want to wait in the buggy, I’ll go by myself.”
Micah lifted a hand, stroking the ends of his mustache to hide a reluctant smile. “I’m sure the masses would part like the Red Sea for you, Mrs. Tremayne. But my mother would nail my hide to the door if I neglected my duty.” He gestured with his hand. “Shall we?”
By the time they reached the millinery shop two doors away from Clocks & Watches, the crowd swarmed eight deep, sober business suits mingling with day laborers, shop workers and a surprising number of ladies.
“Can’t believe it…shocking…”
“…in our fine city…”
“…murdered…lying on the floor…”
“Who would…atrocity…such a nice man…”
Micah casually moved closer to Mrs. Tremayne, whose complexion had turned sheet white. Her lips moved soundlessly, and he leaned down, even as his gaze remained on the crowd of people hovering around the doorway of Clocks & Watches.
“Who…” She cleared her throat, tried again. “Who was murdered?”
A burly gentleman standing beside them glanced around. “The old watchmaker, I heard,” he muttered.
“Here.” Micah pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “Breathe deeply. You’ll be all right.” Concerned, he watched her sway, watched her struggle for composure, and fail. Consigning propriety as well as his profession to the nether regions, he slipped a supporting arm about her waist, and all but carried her backward, out of the milling crowd, to the edge of the sidewalk, where he propped her against a telephone pole.
Eyes wide, unblinking, she dabbed at her temples with his handkerchief, its deep indigo-blue color a startling contrast against her red hair. After several deep breaths, a tinge of pink crept back into her cheeks. Solemnly she looked up at Micah as she returned the handkerchief. “I’m all right now. It’s a dreadful shock. I behaved like a silly goose. Thank you for…” Her voice trailed away and she bit her lip.
“Violent death is always a shock—for most people.” When her body shuddered, Micah debated with his conscience for the space of two heartbeats before giving in to the overwhelming urge to protect. “Come along.” He took her hand, surprised by the way her fingers tensed, then clung. “There’s nothing you can do now. I’ll take you home. A lot has happened to you in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Mr. MacKenzie? Do you believe M-Mr. Hepplewhite’s death is connected with that man, the one who dropped the pocket watch in my shopping bag?”
Before Micah could scramble for an answer, they were interrupted.
“Operative MacKenzie! Been looking for you for going on two hours now.” A burly policeman approached, looking annoyed. “Who’s this?”
“I’ll be along in a moment, Sergeant Whitlock,” Micah said as Mrs. Tremayne pulled her hand free.
He watched in admiration as she metamorphosed from fright to fearlessness, spine straight and chin lifted, her lips stretching in a social smile aimed between the two men. “I won’t take any more of your time. Obviously, you both have more pressing matters to attend to. Don’t worry about me. I’ll take a streetcar home.”
“No, you won’t,” Micah contradicted, only to be interrupted by Whitlock again.
“Coroner’s been ordered to wait until we ran you to earth. If I’d known you were out courtin’, I’d have told him not to bother.” His hand tightened on his billy club. “Now you’re here, you git yourself inside and do your job, Mr. Government Agent, else you can whistle for any more cooperation.”
“Sergeant…Whitaker was it?” The widow Tremayne focused on the police sergeant, who seemed to suddenly shrink in size. “For your information, Operative MacKenzie has been about his duties. He was considerate enough just now to attend to me, which is more than I can say for any other gentle man in this motley crowd. All of them preferred to satisfy their prurient interest in a man’s death instead of coming to the aid of a lady. You may tell the coroner that Operative MacKenzie will be on his way—shortly. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to express my appreciation without you looming over us.”
His face red as a brick, the sergeant glowered at Mrs. Tremayne, then swiveled to shoulder his way through the crowd.
“Well.” Micah scratched behind his ear. “You certainly put him in his place.”
“He was rude. And something of a bully. I’ve never had much use for bullies.” A forlorn uncertainty settled around her like a creeping gray fog. “Am I likely to be arrested now?”
“No.” At least not in the immediate future. “You’ve committed no crime, you handed over the evidence and you have cooperated fully. However—” he hesitated, the internal debate waging a bloody war “—I think you, and Katya, should pack your bags. Until we learn the circumstances surrounding Mr. Hepplewhite’s death, I’m going to need to keep an eye on you.”
“You think I’m somehow responsible for his murder?”
“I’ve changed my mind.” He reached for her hand once more, tightening his grip when she tried to wriggle free. “Apparently you can be a silly goose. Or hasn’t it occurred to you that, if Mr. Hepplewhite’s murder is connected to the forged currency Benny Foggarty gave you, you might be in grave danger?”
“You want…Are you saying you’re trying to protect me?”
“Don’t look so astonished. You’re a widow, living alone, with only a mute maid who doubtless, like most day servants, returns to her boardinghouse at night. Why wouldn’t I want to protect you?”
She’d looked less traumatized when she thought he might be about to arrest her. “Because—” her voice turned tremulous as a young girl’s “—because the thought never occurred to me.”
“Well, get used to it, Mrs. Tremayne. I don’t know yet whether your involvement is by happenstance or design. But either way, you’re now under my protection.”
�
��As an operative for the Secret Service?”
“Partly.” He held her gaze with his as he slowly lifted her hand until it was inches from his lips. “But also as a man.” Every nerve ending in his body rioted as he fought the urge to bring her hand those last two inches. “I’ll take you home, then I’ll return here. I hope you and your maid are efficient packers, Mrs. Tremayne. I have a ticket on the Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac leaving Byrd Street Station first thing Friday morning. You and Katya will be accompanying me back to Washington.”
Chapter Five
Washington, D.C., 1894
Through the window of the ladies’ hotel on F Street, Jocelyn and Katya watched Operative MacKenzie swing aboard a streetcar. He was on his way to a meeting with the chief of the Secret Service, and Jocelyn’s muscles were skeined together in painful knots. “Do you think he’s an honorable man?” she asked Katya, who nodded with more decisiveness than Jocelyn felt. She waited in silence while the maid wrote on her tablet.
Is very good man. Likes you.
“Rubbish. He’s behaved like a gentleman, but he’s no different from anybody else. I’m under investigation, that’s why he brought us to Washington with him.” The knowledge chafed, yet not once during the six-hour train journey from Richmond had he treated her like a criminal.
Of course, neither had he accorded her the familiarity he’d extended when she’d all but swooned in front of Clocks & Watches. Since Chadwick, Jocelyn had not handled death with any degree of equanimity. Swallowing, she tried to banish the memory of the faces of the crowd, ghoulishly craning for a view of Mr. Hepplewhite’s body, found sprawled in the stairwell that led to his upstairs apartment. Operative MacKenzie had refused to share any further details, but Jocelyn’s vivid imagination needed no embellishment.
Katya scowled and wagged a sheet of paper in her face. Is differernt. Sees YOU, not hare.
“Dear Katya, it doesn’t matter, especially if Operative MacKenzie’s chief believes I’m involved with some notorious counterfeiting crowd.” She stared blindly down to the street below, watching the soothing motion of a white-coated street sweeper pushing his broom. Perhaps if she went for a stroll…
Katya followed her, and Jocelyn sensed her reluctance to end the discussion. “By the way, you misspelled two words,” she said, hoping to divert her. When it came to reading and writing, Katya was a perfectionist.
She could also be as contrary as a goat. Don’t spelling matter. He likes you. Sees more than red hare. You lissen. Be careful. Should tell me things. I take care of you.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the watch,” Jocelyn retorted wearily.
She fretted over how easily she’d refused to confide in Katya, who after two years knew more about her than any other living soul. Yet with little effort Micah MacKenzie managed to wrest from her secrets she had never shared with anyone.
Of course, Micah MacKenzie was also the first adult male in ten long years to touch more than her gloved hand. Hating the sick sensation swimming about her middle, Jocelyn tormented herself by imagining his reaction had she plonked down beside him on the train seat. He would have been courteous, of course. But she would only have shamed herself and embarrassed them both, acting on that frenzied need for connection, however ephemeral, to someone other than Katya, who offered a dollop of comfort.
No doubt he’d offer that comfort when he slapped his handcuffs on her wrists, after being ordered by his chief to arrest her.
God in heaven, she longed to hurl the angry cry, what did I ever do to make You hate me so?
Micah took the steps up into the Treasury Building three at a time.
Nodding, occasionally speaking to people he passed in the maze of hallways, he tried to juggle his mounting uneasiness with the conviction that he would be able to do the right thing, for everyone.
Especially Mrs. Tremayne Bingham. Regardless of the mounting evidence against her, he could not bring himself to believe she was guilty of anything but an ill-advised marriage. A faint memory surfaced, something his mother once mentioned about the Tremaynes, about why an old, distinguished Southern family married their daughter off to a Yankee from New York City. Next time he visited her, he might risk asking.
A fellow operative was just leaving the chief’s office when Micah reached the top-floor offices of the Treasury Department.
“You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, MacKenzie,” he said. “Best put on some armor.”
“Thanks, Welker.” Confidence dissipating, Micah stepped inside the office with a sense of impending doom.
Chief William Hazen, appointed to head the Service earlier in the year, greeted him but remained seated behind his ornate walnut desk.
“You’re late, Operative MacKenzie.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“Humph. Well, I have a meeting in ten minutes, so let’s see what we can accomplish with the time we’ve got.” Rising, he came around the desk to stand in front of Micah. “According to your telegram last night, you confiscated the watch you loaned Benny Foggarty, along with some hopefully vital evidence. Let’s see it.”
Micah removed the watch case from his coat pocket, flicked it open and withdrew the bill and coin, handing them to Chief Hazen. “Bill’s damaged bogus goods, as you’ll see, but the front is some of the best work I’ve stumbled across in years. Paper’s hardly distinguishable from ours, including the silk fiber. Possibly made in England, or Connecticut.”
Beneath a thick handlebar mustache, Hazen’s lips compressed in a thin line. “Most troubling. I believe the ten-dollar gold piece is from one of the coin mills operating out of New Jersey.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “Though the amount of gold wouldn’t cover half a filling in a tooth. Most likely underneath the shiny gold surface we’ll discover a blend of copper, antimony, possibly tin. Just last week we seized a sizable quantity of those materials, which, by the way, included a stack of bona fide silver dollars.”
Micah nodded. “Milling’s good but not top rate, and I thought the weight wasn’t quite right.”
“What about the handwriting on the back of this bill?”
“Obviously, it will require thorough examination downstairs, but if you’re asking my opinion…” Micah hesitated, then finished honestly, “I didn’t recognize the handwriting. Benny could have forged it, or it could be the work of the person he stole the goods from. It’s also possible the network has found someone new in Richmond….” His voice trailed away. No sense stating the obvious.
“A fortunate happenstance, your securing the evidence after losing Foggarty.” His movements deliberate, Hazen set the watch, coin and bill on top of his desk, then turned back to Micah. “Let’s talk about this woman—your telegram gave Tremayne as her name, right? Tell me about her.”
Loyalty, honor, integrity and faith all clashed as Micah waged an internal battle with his conscience. Mrs. Tremayne might have resumed using her maiden name for any number of reasons. Yet the extremity of her self-imposed isolation, and her fear, struck a false note. An innocent citizen who discovered obvious forgeries would have instantly conveyed them to the local police. An innocent citizen would have greeted an operative of the Secret Service with relief, and immediately handed over the evidence.
Jocelyn Tremayne Bingham—and he could not ignore the connection—had only been willing to part with the watch, bill and coin after practically passing out at his feet from fear.
Yet a complicated personality did not make her a criminal.
Until Micah thoroughly checked out her story, he was reluctant to reveal her ties to the Bingham family. But as a sworn operative for the United States Secret Service, he was balancing his way across a fraying tightrope.
“MacKenzie!” Chief Hazen barked. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Sorry. Yes, as I explained in the telegram, her last name is Tremayne, Christian name Jocelyn.” God, forgive me for lies of omission. “She’s a widow, but lives in a comfortable town house in a well-to-do neighborhood.
From my initial interview, I’m prepared to presume innocence instead of guilt. I do not believe she knows Benny Foggarty, nor had any idea that he had passed her stolen and forged goods.”
“Humph. Under the circumstances I’m not sure a single visit can support such a conclusion.” Face inscrutable, he tugged out his watch, checked the time and cleared his throat again. “In my brief tenure as chief, I’ve heard a lot about you, Operative MacKenzie. They say you have an instinct about people. Call you the dragon slayer of lies. Claim you can convince counterfeiters to forsake their evil ways and work with us instead.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, studying Micah’s discomfiture. “For the past several years you’ve been tireless in your pursuit of a family most everyone between here and New York would swear in a court of law are upstanding citizens. Philanthropic do-gooders whose hearts as well as pockets are lined with gold.”
“Yes, sir. There were those who praised William Tweed for his contributions to New York City’s railways, despite all the graft and corruption. I believe the Binghams are worse than Boss Tweed. My father—”
“I’m aware of your father’s part in bringing our attention to this family,” the chief interrupted testily. “I’m equally cognizant that his murder was never solved and information he promised would clinch the case against the Binghams was never delivered. In eight years we’ve been unable to verify that proof ever existed.”
“If we had more men working on the case now…”
“At the time of your father’s murder, we did. Two of them were fired, and rightly so, for their unsavory methods.” Lips pursed, Hazen contemplated Micah for an uncomfortably long moment. “My predecessor informed me that although your father’s death was the primary motivation for your decision to join the Secret Service, your first allegiance has always been to the Service, not revenge. You’re an exemplary agent, MacKenzie. Don’t do anything rash to jeopardize my opinion of you.” He crossed over to stand directly in front of Micah. “Now. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
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