I wanted to tell her about the shadows, about the gunman, about the dead eye of Madame Fournier. She would have swept me into her arms and told me everything was fine, but I wouldn’t have believed a word. I was too far along to start seeking comfort. I had work to do.

“Near enough,” I said.

“Have you ever mixed the wrong colors together, and you try to add a bit more of something else to fix it, and you keep mixing and adding and mixing and adding until you’re left with the sickliest, most unpleasant gray-green-brown?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s what your skin looks like. Do you want me to walk you home?”

“I have a date.”

“With what lucky gentleman?”

“The back door. I’ll see you this week. Tonight, Bex . . . don’t leave alone.”

“I’m proud to say I never do.”

I kissed her on the forehead and set my empty glass on the bar. I pushed through the crowd, past the band, to the double-wide iron door at the far end of the room. There was no knob to turn, no lock to pick. I was looking for another way in when I caught the unmistakable odor of gin and cabbage that clung to the Fourth Precinct like pine tar.

“No customers back there,” said Lieutenant Thorne, slumped against the wall in a broken wing-back chair.

“Edward. And I thought this bar was only for people who could afford to pay.”

“I drink on the cuff. Privilege of the job.”

“And does that job also grant you a key to this most impressive door?”

“Go home, Gilda.”

“Not until I’ve seen Barbarossa. Simply unlock the door, and I shall leave you to your stupor.”

“What do you want with her?”

“Galen Copeland was murdered for smuggling liquor. I believe she might be involved. I wanted to give her a chance to plead her case.”

“You got any proof?”

“I wouldn’t bore you with it. I’m much more tempted to take it across the fence and hand it over to a real cop. Or better yet, a Volstead agent.”

“She’s a dangerous woman to provoke.”

“I’m counting on it. Unlock the door.”

Thorne killed his drink. His face twisted up like he wanted to belch, but couldn’t. When that discomfort passed, he reached down to the floor and tugged on an overflowing ashtray, and the door popped open.

“Cute,” I said. “What happens if someone tries to empty the ashtray?”

“In this dump? They’ll declare a national holiday.”

The steps were steep, and they stretched far into the dark. I took the first step, and Thorne followed.

“I need no escort,” I said.

“If anything happened to you, Gilda . . .”

“Don’t pretend you’d cry for me.”