“Capone?” Lizzy blinked, startled. “Al Capone?”

“You bet.” Mr. Moseley leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. “You’re not to talk about this outside the office, Liz—not to Verna, not to anybody. I especially don’t want Charlie Dickens to get his paws on the story. There’s a strong local angle, but our client doesn’t want the exposure.”

“A local angle?” Lizzy asked urgently. The picture was beginning to emerge, like a partially finished puzzle. But she still lacked a few pieces. “What local angle? Which client?”

But Mr. Moseley was just getting warmed up. “The Feds have been working this case for over five years, Lizzy. They managed to get Capone’s brother Ralph, and they sent him to Leavenworth. They’ve put Jack and Sam Guzik and Frank Nitti behind bars. Louis Lipschultz is waiting trial.” Excitedly, he hit the desk with his fist. “Al Capone is next, by damn. And we’ve got the witness who’s going to nail him, right here in Darling, Liz! Our client!”

Lizzy sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Our client” was the last piece in the puzzle. “You’re talking about Miss Jamison,” she said. “Lorelei LaMotte.”

“Exactly. She’s a burlesque dancer from Chicago—” He stopped, frowning. “Hey. How did you know that? And how in hell did you know her stage name?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.” Lizzy waved her hand. “Go on.”

“Huh.” He regarded her, still frowning. “Well, I guess there’s no reason not to tell you the rest of it, as long as you keep it under your hat. Miss Jamison is a former associate—no, make that a former girlfriend of Al Capone. She had an inside track with that guy for at least two years. But they had a serious falling-out, and she decided to get even. She is now cooperating with the Feds to help them fill in his financial picture.” He chuckled drily. “That creep has never paid one penny of taxes. Never had a bank account, never signed a check, never let his name appear on any business records. And all the while the money has been coming in like Noah’s flood.” He shuffled the papers on his desk, fished one out and held it up. “Here’s an example. For years, Capone has owned a bookie joint in the Smoke Shop at what is now the Western Hotel, on Twenty-second Street in Cicero—although of course he’s not listed as the owner.”

The Western Hotel, Lizzie thought. That was the clue that had first alerted Verna to the connection between Miss Jamison and the Capone gang. And if Verna hadn’t made the connection, Frankie Diamond might have gotten away with murder.

“Just listen to this, Liz,” Mr. Moseley was going on. “In 1924 alone, that one joint raked in some three hundred thousand dollars in profits. And there are other joints like that one, all over Chicago and Cicero. Every penny of profit went into Capone’s pockets, of course, after it was thoroughly laundered. Tax-free income—or so he thinks. But he’s got another think coming, believe you me. He may be able to skip out on a murder charge, although he’s behind God-only-knows how many murders. But Treasury has got him dead to rights on tax evasion.”