GINA!” FRANCIS CALLED her name urgently, hoping she wasn’t already asleep inside, hoping he didn’t wake the boy. “Mrs. Maffucci, it’s Francis Bacon, can you come out, please?”

The door cracked open and Gina stared at him, clutching a silk kimono around her thin frame. “Sweet Jesus, now what is it? Pin?”

“No! I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. But I need to speak with you, Gina, can you please step outside?”

She peered down the dark alley, disappeared back inside and returned, holding the hurricane lantern. “What’s happened?”

“This.” He held up the notebook. “How did you come by it?”

“I told you, a man came in. I told his fortune, and he left it behind.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Describe him? Why? Where’s my child? Where’s Pin?”

“I have no idea where he is,” snapped Francis. “Listen to me, Gina. What do you remember of the man who left this book?”

He reached for her arm, but she slapped it away. “What man? I’ve told you what I know!”

Francis drew a deep breath. “Gina, take a minute and think on it. This notebook…”

He opened it and held it up so she could read the word Hellgate. She stared at it blankly. “Hellgate? What does it mean?”

“I think it belongs to him. The murderer. Almost surely it does.”

“What? How would you know?”

“There are…other things, written inside.”

“What other things?”

“Things you don’t need to know, Gina!”

“Who are you to say what I need to know?” Her voice grew shrill, furious and also despairing. “What are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing!” His frustration veered into anger. “Damn it, Gina—I have to bring this notebook to the station house! It’s evidence and they’ll need to question you. I’m trying to help you. So please, tell me now—do you know this man? Do you know anything about him?”

Gina shook her head, ashen faced. “No. I never saw him before, he just walked in like everyone else.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. He came in alone.”

“Do you remember what he looked like? Anything he said? Was he a colored man?”

“No!” She set the hurricane lantern on the ground and began to pace, arms tightly crossed against her chest. “I can’t think, let me think.”

She stopped and stared at the lantern. “He was a white man, in a light-colored suit. Seersucker. And a straw hat, a boater hat.”

Francis groaned softly. Was he the only man in Chicago who wore a derby? “Do you remember what color stripes?”

“No.”

“What else? How old was he, what color hair?”

“Thirty or thereabouts, I’d guess. His hair…” She rubbed her arms, thinking. “I believe he had dark-colored hair.”

“A mustache or beard?”

“No, I’d remember that.”

“What about a wedding ring?”

“No. I always check.”