Time of Fog and Fire: A Molly Murphy Mystery (Molly Murphy Mysteries)

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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

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This book is dedicated to my friend, touring partner, and writer extraordinaire Cara Black. Thank you for turning book tours into fun adventures.

Also as always a big thank-you to my agents, Meg and Christina, and my team at Minotaur, Kelley, Sarah, and Elizabeth. And to John for being my first (and most critical) editor as well as my chauffeur, bodyguard, and travel companion.

Prologue

North Texas, Spring 1895

A fierce wind swept down from the north across the desolate landscape with nothing to stop it except for the barbed wire fence that had trapped the tumbleweed. He turned his back on it, shielding his eyes from the harsh light as he stared out across flat nothingness.

“Are you sure this is the right spot?” he asked.

“I’m sure.” The other was a man of few words, talking through clenched teeth to keep out the grit and dust in the wind. They stood together, the prospector and the city slicker, saying nothing for a while. Staring together at featureless scrub with not a tree or bush in sight.

“And there is nothing? You’re sure there’s nothing?”

The other shook his head. “Not a trace. Sorry.”

“Then I’ve been hoodwinked.” The first man spat out the words.

“You and a lot of others, pal.”

“He won’t get away with this, you know.”

“I’d like to bet you he will. Ain’t got your big-city law out here, pal. That guy is long gone and I bet he’s spending your sweet cash right this minute.”

“Not all of it,” the man said. “I wasn’t a complete fool. I have ways of finding him and when I’ve hunted him down, I’m going to kill him.”

“Good luck,” the other said. “You’re going to need it.”

The Texan turned and started to walk away, his cowboy boots leaving neat and distinct prints on the dry crust.

One

New York City, March 1906

It had been an unsettled spring, both in the weather and in my life. We had experienced an early warm spell that encouraged blossoms and narcissus to appear, birds to chirp loudly in mating calls, and New Yorkers to cast off layers of clothing and emerge from hibernation. Even the beggars and crossing sweepers managed a smile and a cheeky reply for the odd coin. Then no sooner than March had come in like a lamb it turned into a lion, blasting us with frigid winds that stripped blossom from trees and then with snow that sent us all scuttling indoors again.

My own life had been just as unpredictable and unsettled as the weather. We had started the year with Daniel still recovering from a bullet wound, shot as he tried to stop a new and keen recruit from taking on that dreadful new Italian gang called the Cosa Nostra. Daniel had survived but it had cost the young recruit his life. To make things worse the current police commissioner did not like Daniel. He and his cronies at Tammany Hall found Daniel too straight for them, not willing to toe the party line, and not open to the occasional bribe. So I suspect they’d been looking for a way to get rid of him, which wasn’t easy as he was one of New York’s most respected police captains. But while he was out recovering from a bullet in his shoulder dark forces had been at work, trying to besmirch his name when he was not around to defend himself. Some unknown source had spread the rumor that Daniel had ordered the young recruit to go and arrest the boss of the Cosa Nostra—a foolhardy move, as he surrounded himself with more bodyguards than the emperor of China. The truth had been quite the opposite. Daniel had found out what the young man planned to do and rushed after him. Unfortunately Daniel couldn’t stop him in time and he had been shot and killed. Daniel had taken the second bullet himself, but survived. But now half the police force believed Daniel was to blame. My husband, as responsible and brave a man as you could ever meet, was desperately unhappy about this and unable to set things straight. Now, for the first time, he talked about resigning, about becoming a lawyer or going into politics as his mother had been suggesting. I hated to see him silent and brooding, picking at his meals, hardly noticing his young son. It had almost reached a stage when I was tempted to go down to that police headquarters myself and give them a piece of my mind.

Luckily it didn’t come to that because John Wilkie came back into our lives. As the wife of a police captain, I suppose I should have learned not to be surprised by any unexpected twists of fate. But opening the front door and finding John Wilkie on the doorstep certainly caused my jaw to drop. For one thing it’s not every day that the head of the U.S. Secret Service comes to visit, and for another, we had not parted on the best of terms the last time I had encountered him. When I found out he had used me as bait to catch my brother, who had come to America trying to raise money for the Irish Republican Brotherhood, I had not been able to contain my anger. The result had been my brother’s death, for which I blamed John Wilkie.

Mr. Wilkie seemed to have forgotten this unpleasant episode as I opened my front door onto our quiet little backwater called Patchin Place to see him standing there on a blustery March evening. Snowflakes swirled around him and it took me a second or two to recognize him, muffled as he was in a big red scarf.

“Good evening, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Mr. Wilkie,” I replied, not returning his smile. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“I hope I don’t call at an inopportune moment,” he said.

“Not at all. I take it this is not a social call on such a cold and miserable New York evening?”

He smiled then. His mouth was still hidden under the scarf but I saw his eyes smile. “I hoped for a quiet word with your husband. Is he home?”

“He is just finishing his dinner,” I said. “Won’t you come in and I’ll go and tell him you’re here.”

I had just closed the front door behind him when Daniel came out of the kitchen, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin. It had been Irish stew for dinner, Daniel’s favorite.

“Who was that at the front door, Molly?” he asked, then I saw his eyes register surprise. “Mr. Wilkie. This is an unexpected honor, sir. Let me help you off with your overcoat. And Molly, would you be good enough to take Mr. Wilkie’s gloves, hat, and scarf?”

We divested Mr. Wilkie of his outer garments.

“I’m afraid we’ve no fire in the front parlor so it will have to be the back parlor, which also serves as my study these days, now that all the bedrooms are occupied,” Daniel said as he led Mr. Wilkie down the hall.

John Wilkie smiled. “Of course. You need a nursery now, don’t you? You’ve had a child since I saw you last. Boy or girl?”

“A boy,” I said. “He’s eighteen months old now. We called him Liam, after my dead brother.”

I saw Daniel shoot me a warning look, but Mr. Wilkie seemed unaffected by my comment. Perhaps he had already forgotten how my brother died. Perhaps he didn’t care.

“Congratulations,” he said. “A fine son to start your family.”

“Can we offer you something to drink, Mr. Wilkie?” Daniel said as he paused to turn up the gaslight in the back parlor. “I believe I’ve still got decent whiskey left, or I’m sure Molly would be happy to make you coffee or tea.”

“I wouldn’t say no to the whiskey.”

“Then please take a seat near the fire and I’ll see what we can do,” Daniel said. He looked at me again. “Molly, could you bring us two glasses?”

That was indeed making it clear that I was not to be included in the conversation, especially since Mr. Wilkie said nothing as he pulled up a chair to the fire. Fair enough, I thought. The further I kept away from John Wilkie’s kind of business, the better. I went back to the kitchen, where Liam was protesting about sitting in his high chair when there was clearly company in the house, and Bridie, the young girl I had brought across from Ireland all those years ago, was starting to clear the table. She was currently living with us so that she could go to school in the city, and was proving to be a grand little helper.

“Leave those for now, Bridie love,” I said. “Could you take Liam out of his chair and get him ready for bed? Captain Sullivan has a visitor.”

She put down the plates she was stacking. “Come on, Liam,” she said. “We’re going to get you ready for bed.”

Liam let out a wail. “Mama,” he cried.

“Bedtime, young man,” I said firmly. “And if you’re good Bridie will tell you the Three Bears story and then Dada will come up to tuck you in.”

Bridie carried him upstairs, still protesting. But then she whispered something in his ear and he smiled at her. She was becoming quite the little mother, I thought. So grown-up. Ready to blossom into womanhood. I took two of our good glasses from the cupboard, wiped them clean, added a dish of cheese straws I’d baked the day before, and carried them through on a tray.

As I opened the door Daniel was saying, “I admit you’re not wrong about what your spies tell you and I think I might be wise to look for…”

Conversation was broken off as I came in. I placed the tray on Daniel’s desk. “Is there anything else I can get you before I go to put Liam to bed?” I asked.

“No, thank you. It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Sullivan,” Mr. Wilkie said.

“I’ll leave you then.” I went out and closed the door behind me. In the past Mr. Wilkie had told me I was a fine detective and wanted to recruit me to work for him, but clearly this time I was to be excluded from whatever they were discussing. Unfortunately I could hear nothing through the door although I confess that I did try pressing my ear to the wood. My mother always told me that my curiosity would get me into trouble one day. So I was forced to go back to wifely duties and wash up the dishes.

I had cleaned up the kitchen and still they were closeted in that room. I went up to check on Liam only to find he had already fallen asleep. Bridie was sitting beside him, reading a book in the dim gaslight.

“You don’t have to stay up here, my darling,” I said. “Come down and keep me company in the kitchen. It’s nice and warm in there.”

“All right.” She followed me down the stairs.

“What are you reading?”

“
Little Women,
” she said. “My teacher lent it to me. She knows I like to read.”