At the station house, Una was dragged before the sergeant. He sat behind a railed enclosure in the main hall. Gas lamps sat on either end of his broad desk, casting him and his open blotter in a jaundiced glow. His mustache was unevenly trimmed, one side bushier and the other trailing beyond the corner of his thin lips as if he’d been in his cups while shaving.

He dipped his pen in the inkwell and gazed up at her with a bored expression. “Name.”

Una’s hands were fastened behind her back with rusty handcuffs. The copper she’d so unceremoniously met with in the alley still held tight to her arm, his fat fingers sure to leave a bruise.

“I haven’t done anything wrong, Sergeant,” Una said, speaking with the same slow, Southern sway Traveling Mike had. “Your officer simply accosted me on my way home for no apparent reason.”

The copper released her arm and dug inside a leather satchel strapped to his belt. He pulled out a fistful of objects and tossed them onto the sergeant’s desk. Una’s brass knuckles. Her matchbook. The rumpled magazine. Barney’s silver pin. The ruby cuff links, however, made no appearance.

Back in the alley, he’d pushed her against the rough brick wall, pinning her hands above her head as he frisked her. The bricks were damp from the snow and smelled of soured vegetables. He’d pulled his leather glove off with his teeth and searched her barehanded, groping his way over her breasts and between her legs before fishing through her pockets. “Can’t be too thorough with you tramps,” he’d said into her ear, his breath a sweaty cloud against her skin. And thorough he had been, finding all of the secret pockets sewed into the folds and flounces of her skirt. He’d taken everything, including the cuff links, before wandering his hand back to her breasts for a final squeeze.

By then, the stale beer in her stomach had risen up her throat and into her mouth, tinged with acid. Instead of forcing it back down, she vomited on

the copper’s brass-buttoned arm. He shrank away, cussing. Lucky for him, she’d drunk only a half pint of that rancid beer, not a full one.

Looking back, that had been her opportunity to run. But thoughts of Traveling Mike and his killer, of the copper’s sticky breath and rough hands, still muddled her mind. Before her muscles could quicken, the copper pushed her back against the wall—that too would leave a bruise where her cheek struck the brick—and wrenched her hands into cuffs.

Now, the sergeant poked at her belongings with the end of his pen, clearly still disinterested. “Name,” he said again.

“Dorothea Davidson,” Una replied. She may not have had the sense to run from the alley when she’d had her chance, but she spent the handcuffed walk to the station coming up with her ruse. First and foremost was thinking up an alias she hadn’t used before. “And like I said—”

“What’s the charges?” the sergeant said, looking beyond her at the officer.

“Disturbing the peace, vagrancy, and theft.”

Una looked back and scowled at the copper. These were the type of charges two-bit officers leveled against prostitutes when they wanted to make trouble for the women. Never mind that they helped themselves to these women off duty just as much as other men. Never mind that some, like this goddamn copper, helped himself to any woman, on duty or off.

She turned back to the sergeant, struggling to hold back the flurry of profanities ready on her tongue. A Southern gentlewoman who’d come to the city with the innocent intent of visiting a sick friend wouldn’t cuss, after all. “Why, that’s preposterous! I’ve not stolen anything. And unless you Yankees find it a crime for a lady to be out on her own after dark, I’ve not broken any other laws either.”

The copper behind her snorted. “And that silver pin? What use does a

lady like yourself have for that?”

“It belonged to my late husband, thank you very much. I keep it with me always. As a memento.”

“How come you got so many secret pockets about your person, then?”

“The crime in this city is legend. Pickpockets, street urchins, confidence men. I had my servant girl sew in these extra pockets as a precaution.” Una turned to face the copper who’d dragged her here from the alley. “Safe from all but the most prying hands.”

He glowered down at her. Una smirked in return. If he didn’t cough up the cuff links, the case against her was thin as Thursday soup.

The sergeant held Una’s magazine by its spine and shook it. When nothing fell from between its pages—no stolen bank certificates or counterfeit bills—he frowned and dropped it back onto the desk. “Remove this woman’s handcuffs, Simms, and give her back her things.”

“But there was a commotion back in the alley off Pearl Street, and I caught this woman fleeing.”

The sergeant’s dull expression held.

“She smashed my toes and vomited on me too!”

Instead of indignation, the sergeant responded with a tired chuckle. “Smashed, did she?” He looked Una over from head to foot and chuckled again. Then he returned his pen to its rest and closed his blotter.

The roundsman, Simms, grumbled, but did as he was told, wrenching her arms up to unlock the cuffs. As soon as she was freed, Una wasted no time scooping up her things and stuffing them back into her pockets. The cuff links were a loss, but one she was happily willing to eat, considering how close to arrest, perhaps even for murder, she’d come that night. Good thing the copper hadn’t investigated any farther into the alley before hauling her to the station. The retched-up beer might have had something to do with that. She smirked again and started for the door.

Before she managed more than a few steps, a bell rang from the far side of the room. A small, bespectacled man rushed to the telegraph receiver beside the bell. Una quickened her pace.

“Sergeant!” the man called, waving a thin strip of paper that the receiver had spit out. “There’s been a murder. Two-seventy-six Pearl Street tenement. Rear yard.”

“Wait a minute,” she heard that lug of a copper Simms say behind her. “We was just there.”

Una kept her eyes on the door. She was already halfway there. Once outside, she would run. The commotion of voices and stamping feet rose. Only a few more steps.

A meaty hand grabbed the back of her coat and spun her around. “Not so fast, missy.”

* * *

Una scarcely had time to case her cell for weak bars or rusted-out hinges before footfalls sounded down the cellar steps. She knew better than to hope it was the guardsman come to set her free, but when she saw Deidre being led to a cell catercornered to her own, Una’s stomach tightened. Deidre’s cheeks hadn’t regained any of their color. Her red hair was a tousled mess, and she’d lost her hat. The jailer locked her inside with a grating twist of his key, then stomped away.

“Deidre,” Una whispered, pressing her face between the bars of her cell door. “Deidre!”

Deidre appeared at the door of her cell. “Una? I thought you got away.” “Thought the same of you. You didn’t blow the gab, did you?”

“’Course not,” she said, but something in her expression gave Una pause. “Good.”

The air in the cellar was musty and cold. It smelled of rusting iron, damp earth, and the sharp, sweat-like stench of despair. Deidre drew her coat tightly around her and kicked at the cracked stone floor. “Some mess you got us into.”

“I told you not to come.”

“Marm Blei is gonna be so mad she’ll be pissing blood. You never should’ve—”

“Shh,” Una hissed. No telling how many of the cells were occupied and who was listening. “Just keep your yapper shut, and we’ll be fine.”

The stairs creaked again. Two coppers, neither of whom Una recognized, descended from the main hall above. One stopped before Una’s cell. The other at Deidre’s.

“Miss Davidson?” the man in front of Una said.

She answered in the same Southern lilt she’d used with the sergeant. “Yes?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Una’s gaze flickered to Deidre’s cell. Damn her for following Una. Everything tonight had gone awry. They need only keep their heads, Una reminded herself, and tomorrow they’d be back on the streets diving pockets. Deidre’s eyes met her own, her dark pupils crowding out the green of her eyes. Not a reassuring sign. This was exactly why Una worked alone. The copper unlocked Una’s door and stepped inside, blocking her view of Deidre’s cell. His cheeks were clean shaven despite the late hour, his mustache, unlike the sergeant’s, impeccably trimmed. Instead of a

roundsman’s uniform, he wore a suit with a shiny detective’s badge pinned to his lapel. He set the lantern he carried on an upturned crate by the door. Fingers of light crept up the dank walls. “You know that other woman?”

“No, sir,” Una said, seating herself on the splintery bench at the far end of her cell. She smoothed her skirt and crossed her ankles in a ladylike fashion.

“One of our officers said he saw you two together in the alley off Pearl Street.”

“My dear detective, just because two women are walking astride one another in the same direction does not mean they’re acquainted.”

“I see. Why did you run from him?”

“It was dark, and I did not realize he was an officer of the law.” “And how did you come to be in the alley in the first place?” “I was lost.”

“Lost?”

“I’m a stranger to this city, you see. Only here to visit a sick friend.” “And the charges?”

Una gave a simpering laugh. “Do I look like a thief and vagrant to you?” “I learned long ago, miss, not to be deceived by appearances.” He took a

few steps closer. “For all I know, you could be a cold-blooded killer.”

Una tried to laugh again but managed only a thin croak. “Killer? Why, whatever do you mean?”

He moved the lantern to the floor and dragged the crate over to the bench, sitting down in front of her. “Listen, I know it wasn’t your idea. It was your friend’s idea, right?” He nodded in the direction of Deidre’s cell. “She had something illicit to sell and brought you along in case things went sour. Maybe offered you a share in the profits. But Mr. Sheeny wasn’t interested. They argued, and before you knew what was happening, she was pinning him down and telling you to strangle him.”

Una drew back. Despite his tidy appearance, the detective’s breath stank of rot. He didn’t really think she and Deidre had something to do with the murder, did he?

“Or was it the other way around? You had the goods and brought your friend along. Safety in numbers. A woman can’t be too safe. Not on these streets. Am I right? Or maybe you’re the type who works as a team. Maybe murder was your plan all along so you could get your hands on Mr.

Sheeny’s case. I hear they found over five hundred dollars in fenced goods inside.”

Una held his steely gaze, knowing if she looked away he’d read that as guilt. But she didn’t speak. Rule number twenty-three: When a lie isn’t working, don’t complicate things with the truth.

The detective leaned back. “That’s all right. No need to say anything. I’m sure your friend is jabbering enough for the both of you.” He stood and slowly pushed the crate across the cell with his foot. It scraped atop the floor—a loud, rasping noise that blocked out whatever snatches of sound Una hoped to hear from across the jail in Deidre’s cell. Despite the chilled air, sweat gathered along the seams of her corset. Clever bastard, this detective.

The accent disappeared from her voice. “You can’t possibly believe either one of us had anything to do with Traveling Mi—er—anyone’s killing.”

“Here’s the deal, Miss Davidson, or whomever you are: You admit that your friend there committed the murder, and I’ll take down your statement and let you go free.”

Una crossed her arms and looked pointedly away. He must think her an idiot. There was no evidence connecting her and Deidre to Traveling Mike.

He shrugged and picked up his lantern. “Suit yourself. But you’d better hope your friend is as quiet as you are. Otherwise you’ll spend a lifetime on the Island wishing you’d piped up.”

The mention of Blackwell’s Island made Una’s skin tighten around her bones. She’d spent ten long days there once thanks to a trumped-up charge and bad-humored judge. (She had, in fact, been prospecting for wallets, but the witless copper couldn’t pin her with the crime, so instead hauled her in for disorderly conduct, claiming that no respectable woman would be found on the streets at so late an hour without an escort. The police justice had agreed.) She’d been sentenced and shipped off to the Island before Marm Blei could intervene. Ten days at the workhouse with its vermin-infested cells and Una had vowed never to return.

But Deidre wouldn’t turn on her. They’d been friends for years. Made it through dicier scrapes than these. If they both kept quiet, these coppers wouldn’t be able to pin them with anything. Certainly not murder.

Why, then, couldn’t she suppress the shiver prickling its way down her back? She recalled Deidre’s pale skin and her fear-filled eyes. Una’s

trembling worsened.

“I’ll just go see how my partner’s questioning is going. He’s a real hardnose, that one. Probably got himself a sworn statement already.” The detective reached for the door.

Una leaped to her feet. “Wait!”