At the river, Copeland turned north. The Westside docks were empty, the wharves abandoned, the piers rotted through. The sun was hot enough to strip paint, and the river made no noise. A few blocks north was a half-sunken trawler that had gone unclaimed since a winter storm shredded it on the pilings of Pier 22. Through the gash in its hull, I saw a motor yacht tied up on the pier’s far side. I moved closer.

The sun shone blindingly off the yacht’s white deck. Everything at the docks that could rust had rusted long ago, but from fifty yards, I could tell this ship was spotless. Its engine roared, and the little ship pulled out into the river with Copeland behind the wheel. From the shore, it looked as though he might be having fun.

The ship sailed north, alone on the river, and disappeared around a bend after it passed the Borderline. I had nothing to do but wait. I settled onto the pier, gathering my black skirt around me, and basked like a lizard on a rock. The situation demanded vigilance.

Within seconds, I was fast asleep.

I was awoken by a boot prodding my chin. I craned my neck, yawning more deeply than a genteel lady should. Above me, blocking the sun, was the stern face of Galen Copeland.

“Oh,” he grunted. “I thought you were dead.”

“Not today.”

“This is a private dock,” he said, turning back to his yacht, which bobbed ever so slightly higher on the water than it had before. “No derelicts.”

The sky had given up any pretense of blueness, opting instead for a bacon grease haze. The dying breeze carried the suffocating stink of garbage. Beneath my dress, an unspeakable amount of sweat collected between my thighs. A detective’s life is ever so glamorous.

“You’re an Eastsider,” I said.

“And how can you tell that?”

“Your ship is clean. So are you. What brings you to our blighted district?”

He finished coiling the rope and tossed it onto the deck. Without turning around, he said, “You’re the detective.”

“How did you know?” I handed him a card:

G. Carr: Tiny Mysteries Solved

He tossed it aside, reached into his pocket, and whipped open a scrimshaw knife. I began to worry that he wasn’t enjoying our conversation.

“Those foolish women I live with. Think I’m so stupid. Think I’m blind. Well I can still read a ledger, damn them, and I still track my own accounts. I saw the entry yesterday—‘Detective, private.’ They’re using my own money to spy on me! What’s worse? That my family betrayed me, or that they were too stupid to hide their treachery?”