“It can’t be a coincidence, Bennie,” he said as they crossed the street. “Two girls, two murders inside the same kind of dark ride—what are the odds?”

“Not good,” admitted Bennie.

“Have you heard of any other girls disappearing?”

“Girls are always disappearing. Especially in Little Sicily. And Gypsy kids. They run away, or their families marry them off when they’re twelve or thirteen years old.”

“Those girls don’t show up dead in amusement parks.”

“They don’t show up at all. That’s my point. Maybe your two girls aren’t a coincidence, but you can’t prove that. And there’s only two of them. Two crimes, what was it—four years apart?”

“It’s queer, Bennie. You can’t argue with that.”

“Of course it’s queer. That’s my job—following every bit of queer news I come across, and making it up when I have to.”

Francis laughed. It was true: a few years back, Bennie had faked a story about an earthquake in Lincoln Park, and another about pirates on the Chicago River, paying a tugboat captain to dress up like a buccaneer. “But really,” he said, “can you think of another crime like this? It could be a big story.”

“It already is.”

Francis halted. “The Daily News is a big paper. Do they keep records of crimes like this? Not just in Chicago—other cities.”

“Like Boston?”’

“Boston, Minneapolis, New York—anyplace that might have an amusement park.”

Bennie shook his head. “You’re not a detective anymore, Francis.”

“Doesn’t mean I stopped thinking like one. Do me a favor—look through your paper’s records, see what you can find and let me know.”

“And? Can you get me a copy of the coroner’s report?”

“You know I won’t get close to that, Bennie.”

“What about photos of the dead girl?” Francis scowled. Bennie went on, unruffled, “Okay, so how’s about that kid who found the girl’s body? You know who he is, right? All you need to do is point him out to me, I’ll do the talking. What time’s your shift start?”

“I should be there now. I appreciate this, Bennie.”

“Beats counting corpses—that’s what I was doing a few weeks ago with the Eastland.” Bennie stuck his notebook into a pocket and turned toward the streetcar stop. “If I find anything, I’ll track you down at the park. This could be a great story, Francis. Like Dr. Holmes.”

Francis gazed at the Hippodrome’s angel gleaming in the summer haze. “I sure hope not,” he said.

Chapter 47

Chapter 47

SHE PASSED THE Wild West Show, Henry a dozen yards behind her with his head bowed, talking to himself. Pin kept an eye on him, increasingly unnerved.