“Elsie Paroubek wasn’t murdered in summer at an amusement park.” Hickey heaved himself from his chair, walked to the window, and raised the shades to stare at the crowds outside. “I bet there’s a hundred thousand people here today.”

He turned back to Francis. “Well, not much we can do but wait. Cabell give you any guff?”

“What you would expect.”

“Well, there’s no reason you should spend the rest of the day here,” Hickey said. “We have enough Chicago men on duty to hold a parade. Report tomorrow as usual.”

Francis clapped his helmet back on his head and stood. As he turned to leave, Hickey said, “What do you think the odds are of this killer attacking again?”

“Not good. It would be like lightning striking twice. And he would have to be a fool. He could be in Minnetonka by now.”

Francis headed for the door. He hadn’t won a bet since 1906, when he’d wagered that the Hitless Wonders White Sox would win against the Chicago Cubs in the World Series. He’d considered telling Hickey that, but had thought better of it.

Chapter 51

Chapter 51

THE BLACK BROTHERS Lodge turned out to be a weathered barn behind a sprawling white house on Roscoe Street. A nice part of town, not the sort of area where she’d expect to find a secret society holed up.

“This is it?” Pin gave Henry a doubtful look as they hurried down the sidewalk. He’d had to pay her streetcar fare—she was flat broke.

“Yes,” he said. He kept glancing stealthily over his shoulder, in a way guaranteed to draw attention if anyone happened to notice a very short, scruffy-looking man and an even-scruffier boy walking in a respectable neighborhood early on a Sunday evening. “We need to get inside before anyone sees us.”

Pin wondered if they were doing something illegal. She began to look around nervously as well. On the streetcar, Henry had stared at her with such a strange, intense expression that she began to feel frightened.

Goddamn sissy. What’d I say? He’s a punk.

What if Henry was a fairy? She’d contemplated hopping off the streetcar and running back to Riverview, but next thing she knew he was gesturing at their stop.

There were no streetlamps here, only large old trees and green lawns in front of houses all but hidden behind rhododendrons and azaleas and hydrangea bushes. The air smelled different from Riverview’s—no trace of river-bottom stink or dust raised by the passage of thousands of feet. The wind stirred the trees, and their branches made a sound like people whispering overhead. Lights glimmered in some of the houses, but not at their destination.

“Is anyone home?” she wondered.

“I told you, he’s gone to Decatur. Traitor.”

“This is Willhie’s house?” She looked at him in surprise. “Do you live here, too?”