“I’ve never understood the superstitious attitude people have toward the Westside. An empty street is just that—empty. Nothing to harm you. Nothing to fear. Don’t you agree?”

“I did, until last night.”

She flicked her fingers across her paintbrush and found the bristles had gone stiff. With an irritated little “hmph,” she tossed it onto the deck.

“I’d like to talk to you about your father,” I said. “Our fathers.”

“There’s blood on your cheek, Miss Carr.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She looked away, scanning the horizon to make sure no one respectable could see what she was about to do.

“I may have some peroxide belowdecks. Come aboard and I’ll clean that wound.”

She lowered the gangway, and I made my way unsteadily across a yard of murky water. She sat me in the cockpit, my back to the wheel, and disappeared below. I felt the first tightness of sunburn creeping up the side of my face.

Juliette returned with a tidy first aid kit. She swabbed my cheek, ignored my whining, and bandaged the cut. Beside the peroxide was a flat pint of brandy. She cracked the seal and offered me a sip.

“I don’t drink alone,” I said.

“I hardly believe that.”

“Even so. A toast, to two dead fathers?”

“Yours too?”

“Mine too.”

We drank. The brandy hit her like a kicking mule. When she finished coughing, she came close to a smile.

“They knew each other,” I said. “Your father and mine.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Where did Galen grow up?”

“In a tenement on Sixth Avenue, just north of Houston. I don’t know much about it. My mother preferred he keep those old stories to himself.”

“My dad was born on Bedford Street. Right around the corner.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a cop. But before that, he was a thug.”

“Papa did not consort with thugs.”

“Maybe not when you were watching. I’m learning that our parents got up to all sorts of things when we weren’t around. Yours, for instance . . .”

“Yes?”

“He was a smuggler.”

“And he was killed for it?”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“I wish I were.” Another long drink. Another cough. “I keep the company’s books. A few months ago I noticed some irregularities. We lost a ship in a storm off Tierra del Fuego. By all rights, the loss should have sunk us, but just after it happened, a few of our regular accounts started paying off a little bit extra—just enough to cover the gap.”

“The captain was padding the payments.”

“Rather clumsily too. I wonder—did he think I wasn’t looking? Or did he not believe I was clever enough to find him out?”

“Maybe he trusted you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Or maybe he just didn’t care. What was he smuggling?”

“Guns and liquor. What else?”