She squinted at the boys snatching hats from shrieking girls who were obviously delighted to be picked on. No sign of any kids she knew, though she recognized the beefy man who stood a few yards from the arcade, watching the goings-on with a detached expression, like he was pretending he was somewhere else. Sergeant Morgenstern, one of the Riverview cops, though he wore a natty brown suit and derby rather than his uniform. She skirted him, annoyed. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she still didn’t want to be recognized.

Why had Lionel even visited her mother’s booth? First Fatty Bacon, now Lionel, who always spoke of Riverview with contempt, like he’d never be caught dead in an amusement park.

So why had he come here? Probably had some crazy idea for a movie, the way he had about fires a month ago, and that story about the black cat in the wall. He’d gone through four notebooks so far this summer. Now what?

The murders, she realized with a sick feeling. He was here because of the dead girls.

Chapter 77

Chapter 77

LIONEL EDGED THROUGH the crowds, hot and out of sorts and apparently the only person uninterested in joining an endless line for the Tickler or Witching Waves, Shoot-the-Chutes or the merry-go-round or—well, any of them. All he wanted was to be back in his own apartment, with a tumbler of whiskey and one of Max’s hand-rolled cigarettes and his Royal Upright, “The St. Louis Blues” playing on the gramophone. Instead, he was wasting his afternoon, retrieving his damn notebook.

Overhead stretched a threatening line of anvil clouds. The near-constant rolls of thunder had grown indistinguishable from the coasters’ roar. The wind carried a whiff of acrid smoke from Bricktown. Policemen were everywhere: he spied a brawny fellow with a walrus mustache and a pair of opera glasses, obviously a plainclothesman. The Hippodrome theater remained closed, but the line for Hell Gate stretched all the way to the Velvet Coaster. Even with tens of thousands of free admissions, the park’s owner would make a killing today.

He avoided the stretch of midway in front of the freak show, where foot traffic had come to a standstill. Craning his neck, he spied a tall figure in formal wear and a top hat, holding aloft a birdcage as he threaded his way through the wall of rubberneckers. That black magician they’d arrested for the first girl’s murder, out of jail and obviously back to playing to full houses.

Ahead of him the Pike curved toward the Miniature Railway and balloon sellers, Merry Ann the mechanical pony and the duck pond. Beyond were the Woodland Cabaret and burlesque stalls, Max’s She-Male tent, and the booth that sold French photographs. Past those was the penny arcade where Madame Zanto held his notebook hostage.