So Smoke was a free man. And a reasonably healthy one. Luther played it back in his head for the umpteenth time—Smoke lying in a growing pool of blood on the stage. His arm outstretched, the back of his head to Luther. Even now, knowing what he knew would come of it, he still doubted he could have pulled that trigger. Deacon Broscious was a different thing, a different circumstance—looking Luther in the eye, talking his bullshit talk. But could Luther have shot what he’d believed was a dying man in the back of the head? No. And yet he knew he probably should have. He turned over the envelope and saw his name and nothing else written across it in a male’s blocky handwriting. He opened the envelope and looked at the second clipping and decided to remove “probably” from his thoughts. Should have. Without question or regret.

A photo clipping reprinted in the January 22 issue of the Tulsa Sun described the great molasses flood under the headline “Boston Slum Disaster.”

There was nothing special about the article—just one more on the North End disaster that the rest of the country seemed humored by. The only thing that made this clipping special was that every time the word Boston was used—a total of nine times—it had been circled in red.

Rayme Finch was carrying a box to his car when he found Thomas Coughlin waiting for him. The car was government issue and was, as befit a government department that was underfunded and undervalued, a heap of shit. He’d left the engine idling, not only because the ignition often refused to engage but also because he secretly hoped someone would steal it. If that wish were granted this morning, however, he’d regret it—the car, shit heap or no, was his only transport back to Washington.

No one would be stealing it for the moment, though, not with a police captain leaning against the hood. Finch acknowledged Captain Coughlin with a flick of his head as he placed the box of office supplies in the trunk.

“Shoving off, are we?”

Finch closed the trunk. “’Fraid so.”

“A shame,” Thomas Coughlin said.

Finch shrugged. “Boston radicals turned out to be a bit more docile than we’d heard.”

“Except for the one my son killed.”

“Federico, yes. He was a believer. And you?”

“Sorry?”

“How’s your investigation going? We never did hear much from the BPD.”

“There wasn’t much to tell. They’re hard nuts to crack, these groups.”

Finch nodded. “You told me a few months ago they’d be easy.”

“History’s ledger will judge me overconfident on that entry, I admit.”

“Not one of your men has gathered any evidence?”

“None substantial.”

“Hard to believe.”

“I can’t see why. It’s no secret we’re a police department caught in a regime change. Had O’Meara, God rest him, not perished, why, you and I, Rayme? We’d be having this lovely conversation while watching a ship depart for Italy with Galleani himself shackled in her bowels.”