you then.” Gwen pushed the chair back in place and walked across the office to her desk. It was every bit as cluttered as any of the men’s, with only a small debris-free space around a framed photo of Eamon Murphy perched on the corner.
Tossing her pocketbook on a precarious stack of papers, Gwen sat on her hard chair and glanced at the headlines of the late edition that had been left on her desk. More on the Ross Kavanagh trial. Gwen shook her head. Dad had always said that Kavanagh was one of the few good cops in Manhattan. He’d been handed a raw deal for sure. There was no doubt in Gwen’s mind that he’d been framed for the murder of Councillor Hinckley’s mistress, almost certainly because he hadn’t agreed to play along with the corrupt administration.
Well, there was nothing she could do about that but pray for Kavanagh’s acquittal. She shoved the paper aside, settled deeper into her chair and opened the desk drawer. Inside were Eamon’s clippings, articles and notes carefully preserved by her father during his long years at the paper. She glanced around, pulled out a folder and opened it, holding it half-hidden in her lap.
Brown-edged newsprint crackled between Gwen’s fingers. The story had been buried in the back pages of the morning edition on June 5, 1924. A man had stumbled into a hospital, badly injured and mumbling about crazy people who drank blood. He’d died not long after. No one had bothered following up on the man’s bizarre claims.
The rest of the articles and clippings were in a similar vein. Stories about strange murders attributed to certain notorious gangs. Interviews with witnesses who’d seen or heard things no one in their right mind would believe. Paragraphs gleaned from every newspaper in New York, most of them meaningless to anyone who didn’t know their collector’s particular interest.
By the end, everyone at the Sentinel had known something was wrong with Eamon Murphy. He’d lost his edge. He was distracted, late with his assignments, always shuffling papers he wouldn’t let anyone else see. Spellman had called him in for a long talk, but nothing changed. Eamon Murphy was a man obsessed.
“If something happens to me,” he’d told Gwen, “don’t let an old man’s fixations end your career before it’s begun. Find your own stories, Gwennie. You’re as good a newsman as I’ll ever be. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
He’d been right. She’d dreamed of becoming a reporter ever since her fourteenth birthday, when her father had brought her to the Sentinel offices. There hadn’t been a single woman reporter there at the time, but that didn’t worry Gwen. She’d gone to college, absorbing every available course in writing and journalism. She’d spent hours composing mock stories on her second-hand Remington, and applied for dozens of jobs.
No one had hired her. But Dad wasn’t about to let his daughter’s dream die. Two weeks after Eamon’s death, Spellman had offered Gwen a position as a cub reporter. Sure, her assignments had been the ones every man in the office considered unworthy of his attention, but she’d clung to the memory of her father’s encouragement, his unwavering belief in her abilities. She’d continued to study and observe. And when the three bodies had been found on the waterfront, every one of them drained of blood, she’d gone back to his files and read them all over again.
I’m sorry, Dad, but I can’t let this go. If it was important to you, it’s important to me. And I’m going to find the answers.
“I see you’re back from the beauty shop, Miss Murphy.”
Randolph Hewitt’s booming voice swept over Gwen like a foghorn.
She turned slowly in her chair and smiled sweetly. “Why, Mr. Hewitt. I see you’re back from the Dark Ages.”
Her chief rival’s mocking grin lost a little of its joviality. “Very funny, Murphy.” He shifted his bulk forward, hovering over her desk. “What have we here? More of your father’s crazy theories?”
Gwen shoved the clippings back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “You can rag me all you want, Hewitt, but leave my dad out of it.”
Hewitt held up both hands. “Pull in your claws, missy. I had the utmost respect for your father.”
“Sure you did—until you saw a way to stick a knife in his back.”
“Such intemperate accusations. I believe you’ve picked up some very bad habits, Miss Murphy.” He shook his head. “It would seem to be an unfortunate consequence of a woman attempting to compete in a man’s world.”
Gwen stood up, knocking a stack of papers onto the floor. “I don’t consider you competition, Hewitt.”
The reporter’s belly jiggled with his laughter. “I wouldn’t want to shatter your illusions.” His round face hardened. “Just remember what Spellman said. Keep your pretty hands off my story.”
He sauntered away, clearly satisfied with his part in the exchange. Gwen fumed silently. It didn’t do any good to lose her temper; Hewitt only viewed such lack of control as further evidence of a woman’s natural weaknesses. If she was going to prove him wrong, she would have to stay cool and use her head.
She picked up her father’s photo. I could really use your advice, Dad.
His face, darkened by the sun, smiled back at her. There’ll be times you’ll want to quit, he’d said. It isn’t an easy job, even for a man. But you’ll do just fine. And someday you’ll find a fellow who recognizes all the fine qualities you inherited from your mother. Just don’t settle for less, Gwennie.
Dad had guardedly approved of Mitch, who’d come to work at the Sentinel a year before Eamon’s death. He hadn’t objected when Mitch started pursuing his daughter.
Gwen set down the photograph. It had almost slipped her mind that Mitch was taking her to dinner tomorrow night. She felt more resignation than anticipation at the prospect. She didn’t feel any differently than she had months or weeks ago. Mitch was a good friend, but she wasn’t ready to marry a man she wasn’t sure she loved.
With a sigh, she began work on the inconsequential stories Spellman had assigned to her. She would do her best with them, as she always did. They wouldn’t have any excuse to discharge her. And when she could prove her father’s story, they would know she was truly worthy to compete in a man’s world.
Tomorrow she would go see Dorian Black again. The thought absurdly cheered her. Even if he couldn’t help her with the murders, her reporter’s instincts told her that his story might be well worth the telling.
And as for those “nasty spells” that apparently afflicted him every few weeks, she would just remember to watch her step.
THE BELT SLAPPED against Sammael’s back for the twentieth time. His flesh quivered in protests, but Sammael welcomed the pain. He raised the scourge again and brought it down with all his strength.
Forgive me, he prayed. Forgive me for my foolishness, my overweening pride. You have set me a test, and I have faltered. Let me earn Your favor once again.
He counted out another nine beats and let the belt fall, working the knots from his hands. His back was on fire…the holy fire, the promise of redemption that would come only with pain and blood. He got slowly to his feet and moved to the basin in his tiny cell, splashing water on his face. His back he would leave untouched. There would be neither scabs nor scars in the morning.
Tomorrow he would begin all over again.
He shrugged on his shirt, leaving the collar undone, and sat at his desk. The book lay open before him, ready for amending. But as he lifted his pen, someone rapped on the door.
“Come,” he said.
The guard who entered was young and strong, as were all the new recruits…unquestioningly loyal to Sammael and the synod. He inclined his head to his master and stood at attention.
“We have a new report on the girl,” the younger man said. “She has been seen at the waterfront with one of Raoul’s former enforcers.”