sense of the word. If she came back…
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Walter ambled into the room and crouched next to Dorian, a half-empty whiskey bottle dangling from his hand. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “I can guess. She’s quite a peach, ain’t she?”
Dorian sighed. There wasn’t any point in reasoning with Walter. For all his easy nature, he was as irrational as any other human. In fact, he was worse than most. He saw everything through a prism of optimism and goodwill.
“She is an unusual woman,” Dorian admitted, resigned to an awkward conversation. “I would like to think that she won’t venture here again without a proper escort.”
“Ha,” Walter snorted. “You don’t know women, Dory. Though I never could understand how a man like you could turn out so ignorant of the fair sex.” He scratched his shoulder. “You’d better get used to the fact that she’s taken a shine to you.”
“I doubt that her interest will be of long duration.”
“Saving someone’s life tends to make a body grateful.”
“I made it clear that I don’t desire her gratitude.”
“You just can’t tell someone what to feel, Dory. Did you ever consider she might do you some good?”
“I would hardly wish to save her life only to ruin it.”
“Your problem is that you don’t have any faith in yourself. Just because you have a problem don’t mean it ain’t fixable. Maybe all you need’s a little encouragement.”
“I get plenty of that from you.”
“It ain’t enough. She’s the type you’d listen to. She’s brave and smart. I’m just an ignorant old man.”
And as harmless as a scorpion, Dorian thought. “Perhaps I won’t be here when she comes back.”
Walter got to his feet. “Oh, you’ll be here. You got nowhere else to go.” He took a swig from the bottle, offered it to Dorian as he always did, and shrugged when Dorian refused. His walk was a little unsteady as he returned to his own dark corner.
A muffled silence fell in the warehouse. It was empty now except for Dorian and Walter; other men came and went, but most felt uneasy in Dorian’s presence even when he was perfectly sane. They moved on after a few weeks, leaving him to his welcome solitude.
Solitude he could only pray Gwen Murphy would never break again.
THE CITY ROOM WAS busy when Gwen arrived, as it was at almost any time of day. Reporters at their desks shouted into telephone receivers or punched at typewriters, pencils tucked behind their ears. Eager copy boys rushed back and forth doing errands and carrying messages for their superiors. Mr. Spellman, red in the face, was gesticulating at an assistant editor behind the glass walls of his office.
It was all comfortingly familiar. No one had noticed her arrival. Mitch wasn’t at his desk, but then again, he seldom was. He preferred legwork to the labor of composition. Gwen waved at one of the friendlier reporters and left the city room for the small office to which she and the less privileged employees were relegated.
Lavinia was filing her nails, watching the melée across the hall with a vaguely amused expression on her long face. She caught sight of Gwen and waggled her fingers. Gwen wound her way between the desks to Lavinia’s quiet corner and fell into a chair.
“What is it, honey?” Lavinia said, subjecting Gwen to a pointed inspection. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
Gwen laughed. “That’s exactly what I feel like.”
And that was putting it mildly. She could still taste river water and feel it in her hair, in spite of a quick bath and change of clothes. In the taxi back to the office she’d gotten the shakes, finally realizing how close she’d come to death.
“That bad, huh?” Lavinia said. She offered Gwen a cigarette. “Take this, honey. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Thanks, Vinnie, but you know I don’t smoke.”
“Pity.” Lavinia lit her own cigarette and took a drag. “Where have you been all day? I was beginning to worry.”
“You know I went down to the waterfront—”
“In spite of Spellman’s lecture about sticking to your own beat.”
“The society pages are your bailiwick, not mine.”
“You mean they aren’t good enough for you. No, I’m not scolding. It’s boring as hell, even for an old lady like me.”
Gwen planted her elbow on the desk and leaned her chin in her palm. “No one does it better than you, Vinnie.”
“Sure.” The older woman stubbed out her cigarette. “So how did it all come out?”
“My contact didn’t show.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I might have found another lead, though.”
“Do tell.”
Gwen’s shoulders prickled. She hadn’t really stopped thinking about Dorian Black since she’d left the warehouse. “We’ll see how it pans out.”
“You mean you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Don’t take it personally, Vinnie. It’s Hewitt I don’t trust.”
“You still think you can scoop him?”
“Even if it kills me.”
“Or until Spellman kicks you out.” Vinnie gave a lopsided smile. “Keep your secrets. I’ll find them all out eventually.”
“I know you will, Vinnie.” She got up. “Listen, I’ve got some research to do. Let’s plan on lunch sometime soon.”
“You just let me know, honey.”
“See you then.” Gwen pushed the chair back in place and walked across the office to her desk. It was every bit as cluttered as any of the men’s, with only a small debris-free space around a framed photo of Eamon Murphy perched on the corner.
Tossing her pocketbook on a precarious stack of papers, Gwen sat on her hard chair and glanced at the headlines of the late edition that had been left on her desk. More on the Ross Kavanagh trial. Gwen shook her head. Dad had always said that Kavanagh was one of the few good cops in Manhattan. He’d been handed a raw deal for sure. There was no doubt in Gwen’s mind that he’d been framed for the murder of Councillor Hinckley’s mistress, almost certainly because he hadn’t agreed to play along with the corrupt administration.
Well, there was nothing she could do about that but pray for Kavanagh’s acquittal. She shoved the paper aside, settled deeper into her chair and opened the desk drawer. Inside were Eamon’s clippings, articles and notes carefully preserved by her father during his long years at the paper. She glanced
