She got up and purposefully strode to the copy kept for the reporters. She slid her finger down the Ts until she found a garment factory called Tiatelli’s. A front, possibly. Unrelated, perhaps.
But it was worth a shot. She gazed at her desk on the other side of the bustling room. Since Ellerbee needed the fashion article for the morning edition, she had to finish it in the next few hours. She sighed. The Tiatellis would have to wait just a little bit longer.
***
When Cassie arrived at the factory’s address late that afternoon, the quiet surprised her. At this time of day, a garment factory should be noisy, machines running and girls tending to their work. The factory was a small building on a side street, but still. Something was off.
A man walked out and leaned against the doorjamb. He slowly lit a cigarette, watching her the whole time. It looked suspicious to stand in the street staring back, so Cassie forced her feet into motion. As she neared him, she saw the man had a long, jagged scar crossing one cheek.
Before she reached him, a group of men walking casually down the street surrounded her, dragging her along with them. When they reached an alley, one of the men grabbed her elbow and shoved her down the narrow passage. The rest stood behind her, blocking the exit.
“What are you—” She halted as a man emerged from the shadows. He strode toward her, hands in his pockets. A slice of light fell across his eyes.
She relaxed.
“Detective O’Neill. What on earth is going on? Your men—”
“My men just saved you, Miss Woods. You don’t want to draw the attention of one of the Tiatelli henchmen.” He took another step closer. She smelled a faint waft of cologne. “I thought I told you not to interfere in my investigation.”
“I’m not interfering—”
“What do you call waltzing into the middle of my stakeout, then?”
She gulped and looked at the men, five of them besides O’Neill, all plainclothes, all glowering at her. She straightened to her full height, so she was taller than two or three of them.
“I thought you weren’t concerned with the disappearance of Mrs. Walker.”
“I don’t want you to be concerned with the disappearance of Mrs. Walker. We’ve been tracking the Tiatellis for two years now, and we’re so close to catching the head honcho in the act, I can’t have some woman messing it up.”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“Miss Woods. I will gladly have one these men escort you home. Now should it be Mr. Ruiz—” he pointed to a pleasant-looking man who tipped his hat to her—“or Mr. Keller?” He indicated a rough, muscled man who grunted at her. “Your choice. As long as you make a decision now.”
“I can find my own way home, thank you very much.” She pushed through the men and hurried down the alley the opposite way they had come.
As she turned onto the next street, footsteps hurried to catch up to her. She sped up, not wanting either of those dreadful men to be seen walking her home. A moment later, she stopped short as a man darted in front of her and stopped, causing her to nearly run into his chest.
She looked up—not something she often did with men—to see Mr. O’Neill’s green eyes peering down at her.
“Allow me to accompany you home, then. We can’t do any more work today any way, thanks to your performance.”
“Mr. O’Neill, I’m quite capable—”
“I’m not a brute, Miss Woods. Just a man trying to do his job.”
“That’s all I’m trying to do as well.”
“Is it? I saw your article this morning. Recipes, was it? Not exactly hard-hitting stuff.”
Cassie frowned. “That was a filler piece.”
“Of course it was.” He turned, and they started walking sedately side-by-side down the sidewalk.
She glanced at his profile but looked away quickly when he returned her gaze. Instead, she focused on navigating through the crowd. She kept her elbows tight to her sides, an unnecessary precaution since O’Neill made no attempt to take her arm.
After a long silence, she asked, “Where are you from, Mr. O’Neill?”
“Dublin. Why?”
“My grandfather was from Galway.”
“Is that supposed to make us friends?”
“No, I—Are you always so rude?”
They reached a corner. “Which way, Miss Woods?”
“I can certainly make my way from here. Thank you, Mr. O’Neill, for providing me with your charming services.”
She elbowed her way through the crowd and dashed across the street just before a carriage came careening past. Mr. O’Neill made no move to follow her.
Three
The next morning, the scar-faced man leaned against the façade of the News Desk building. She wondered if he was capable of standing upright as he seemed permanently tipped over smoking a cigarette.
How had he found her?
There was only one way to know.
