“Oh yes. And there’s no point wasting your money on ridiculous lies. You care nothing about my father, nor should you. You are wrapped in an all-encompassing self-pity that will consume you for the rest of this year and most of the next. This murder was senseless. All murder is senseless. Who did it, why they did it—these answers will not ease your grief. Don’t waste your time. I certainly won’t waste mine.”

At this, her cheeks grew hot. For the first time that day, she felt something. She wrapped her fist around the iron railing, trying to rip it from the concrete to club me into silence.

“If you won’t find my husband’s killer,” she said, choking on the word, “then you will find my glove.”

“You don’t really mean that.”

“You took the case! Aren’t you bound by some kind of detective’s code to see it through?”

“Thankfully, no. It would slow things up considerably.”

“If you are not bound by honor, then neither am I.”

She dug into her purse and slipped out a long, narrow wallet. Inside was a check that I needed more than I could admit.

“It’s not very much, is it? But that dress is frayed, Gilda Carr, and you are hungry. I could tear this into strips and feed it to the ducks, or you could do the job I hired you for. Forget the killer. Find my glove.”

“Very well,” I said. “My investigation will continue. At double my original rate. That will serve as a down payment.”

Mrs. Copeland handed me the check, and walked away, her spine as stiff as the iron railing. The ducks looked up at where she had been, hungry for another pittance.

Copeland’s company occupied the third floor of an ancient brick building that sagged forward on its foundation, nodding its head toward the Ward Line’s Pier 15. Mrs. Copeland had neglected to give me a key. It wasn’t a problem. I kicked the door, and its latch ripped through the damp wood like a cleaver through lace. The way she spoke of Copeland Imports Ltd., I had expected a tenth-story office in a sparkling new skyscraper, every surface coated in polished wood and bloodred leather, every chair groaning under a cigar-gobbling plutocrat. This company didn’t look fit to ship an envelope. The windows were filmed with salt, letting in a dim silver light that barely showed the puddle of standing water beside the coatrack. The walls rattled with amorous wharf rats. I felt at home.