The commissioner moved stiffly to the door, hollering down the hallway until a scrawny man in a suede suit and straw boater hat popped into view. The two of them disappeared from view around a corner, and the sound of the commissioner’s booming voice faded away.

Marlowe slowly shut his notebook and slid his chair back from the table. “This isn’t over,” he said. Collecting the bloody tuning fork and Bragg’s map, he walked out the door.

The dirty uniform escorted me back to my cell, and I plopped down on the bench. A barred window on the wall across from us had been opened to let in some fresh air. It had begun to rain while I was in interrogation, and the pitter-patter from the window was pleasant, if a bit chilly.

“Did you have a nice time?” Jackaby asked, leaning against the bars between our adjoining cells.

“Did I have a nice time? Being interrogated for a double homicide at a police station on my second day of work?”

“That’s a ‘no,’ then?”

“It was . . . illuminating,” I conceded. “I shouldn’t have thought a young lady would fit the role of murder suspect for a man like Marlowe. It’s almost refreshing to be mistreated equally.”

“Oh, not at all,” Jackaby said. “Culture and lore shape our societal expectations—and Marlowe has no doubt internalized countless archetypes of wicked women. La Llorona and her slaughtered children, Sirens and their shipwrecks, Eve and the apple.”

“Thanks, that makes me feel much better.” I slumped against the wall.

“So, Marlowe has his vigilant eye on you, as well, does he? I suppose he’ll even have poor Douglas pilloried before this is over.”

I proceeded to tell him about the commissioner’s dramatic entrance and exit, and the extension of our custody.

“I should have liked to see Marlowe sweating for once.” Jackaby chuckled.

The wind was picking up and it whistled against the buildings, spattering the windows with rain. Apparently the weather had grown too warm for more snow, but only just. I shivered involuntarily, but not from the cold. The processing officer had taken my long, fitted coat, but the heavy shirtwaist Jenny had lent me was thick and warm, and suited for the cold weather. Something else was sending tremors down my spine. It could not be more than midday, but the sky was growing dark as more clouds rolled in.

“Well, I guess we’ll be here for a while,” I said, trying to remain light. “I suppose we should make ourselves comfortable. At least they feed you in jail, right? It’ll probably be the first proper meal I’ll have had since making port.”

Jackaby looked focused on his thoughts. His eyebrows were knit in concentration. “Hmm? Oh yes. It’s not bad, if you’re partial to creamed corn.”

“Should’ve gotten myself arrested sooner—could’ve saved us the trouble of clearing out a room for me, eh?”