I knew every crack in its sidewalks, every dip in its gutters, every rusted fire escape. I had celebrated birthdays on its stoops, ice cream dripping through my fingers as Virgil knelt on the asphalt, dragging his fingertips across the blacktop, seeking answers in the grain. I had not stepped onto Forty-Eighth Street since before his death, his disappearance, his murder. It was time to renew the acquaintance.

In the short block between Eighth Avenue and the stem, there were no businesses, no charity. Here, the street sweepers who kept the Upper West spotless did not bother to peel back the vines. I retraced Alice’s steps, starting where she died and walking all the way to the fence. I pressed my cheek against the peeling iron. It was hot, and there was traffic on the other side. I rapped on the gate, but no answer came.

Had the shadows leapt for her? Had they dragged her into the world with the white night sky? Had one of those creatures turned the girl to smoke? I tried to see it happen, but my imagination faltered. In all my father’s research, he had never turned up a photo of poor Alice. I did not know her face.

I dragged my knuckles across the asphalt’s grain, unsure just what I was looking for. My fingers found nothing, but I smelled something strange. Before me was the Longacre Theatre, whose marquee advertised the last show that ever played there—a melodrama evocatively titled “The House of Bondage.” The lobby doors had been stolen, and from the house came a faint, impossible breeze.

The breeze did not carry the Westside’s rotting jungle stink. It smelled of hot dogs, hot asphalt, sweating commuters, and gasoline. It came from the other side.

I bypassed the lobby and made for the stage door. It was fireproof steel, but the lock put up no protest as I let myself inside. Before the door swung shut and trapped me with a theater full of shadows, I lit a match and pushed the darkness back. I shut the door and held still. The shadows did not move. Whatever dangers awaited me in the Longacre were strictly of this earth.

I climbed a narrow flight of rusted, swaying steps and found myself in the costume shop, surrounded by racks of gaudy gowns. I eased open the door to the backstage. Light came from the orchestra pit. I heard men—and it sounded like quite a few of them—working, grunting, but not saying a word. Another of Van Alen’s charitable projects? What might it be this time—an orphanage? A leper colony? I simply couldn’t resist seeing for myself.