I pushed open the door to Copeland’s private office. The chaos stopped here. On one wall were a thousand tiny cabinets, each labeled according to its purpose. The walls were freshly whitewashed, and the window had a clear view of the river, where a tug was passing by. Only a madman could work in such a clean office. I opened cubby after cubby, dropping anything interesting on the floor, then attacked his desk, spilling papers and charts and chewing tobacco across its immaculate surface. Anything that caught my eye, I stuffed into my bag, to be examined later.

Copeland’s datebook was filled with jagged handwriting, but on the date he died, there was just one word written: “brass.” I tore out that page, stuffed it in my pocket, and dropped to my knees to sift through my mess.

I found a receipt from a corset shop, and a stack of letters wrapped in twine. The corsetry was Madame Marguerite Fournier’s, on Twelfth Street, in the heart of the Westside. The letters were signed “Margie,” and they were the filthiest I’d ever seen. Margie promised to bathe the captain in lilac oil, to swaddle him in freshly laundered sheets, to coat his body in hot wax, and dig her fingernails so deep into his back that they would come out the other side. She referenced past assignations, in her parlor and in this office, on his yacht and in her bed. She called him, for reasons I did not wish to contemplate, her “briny Bunyan.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Copeland’s heaving, mirthless body, when a soft cough sounded from the doorway. Juliette Copeland, in a starched black dress with a high, stiff collar, inspected me with a look hard enough to cut glass.

“You’re that detective,” she said.

“With insight like that, you could be a detective yourself.”

“Why are you polluting my father’s office?”

“Your mother, as you may recall, engaged my services.”

“My mother is a dear woman, but she is in no state to be making any decisions, particularly financial ones. Leave now, or I’ll have you branded a swindler.”

“What do you know about your father’s murder?”

“His accident. That horrible policeman told us it was an accident.”

“The police haven’t half my wit. Come to the docks and I’ll show you what happened—that is, if you’re not afraid of the Westside.”

“You’re searching for his killer?”

“I don’t look for killers. They’re very dangerous.” I dropped Mrs. Copeland’s glove on her husband’s desk. “I’m looking for its mate. You wouldn’t happen to know where he bought it?”

“Of course not.”

“Why did your father keep a yacht at the Westside piers?”

“I have no idea. Unlike my mother, I respected Father’s right to privacy.”

“Can you explain why he was shopping at a corsetry in the Lower West?”