In that time, she’d remained busy, as always, taking care to circumvent the blocks that Mulligan claimed. She could have almost forgotten about him altogether if not for the incessant questions from Mamie and Frank.
Those, and her dreams at night. Mulligan had starred in more than a few, his touch hot and knowing, leaving her sweaty and shaken in the morning. It was mortifying. She was nearly afraid to fall asleep at night.
A familiar figure lingered outside a five-story building at the end of the block. He was tossing a baseball back and forth with a young boy when Justine arrived. “Thank you for meeting me,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “Have you been waiting long?”
Detective Ellison patted the boy on the head, gave him the ball and turned to Justine. “Not long. Only a few moments.”
“Well, I appreciate you taking the time. Your case, the politician’s son, is it over?”
“Yes. We’ve made an arrest, so I have some free time today.”
“Who was responsible?”
“A friend of the deceased. Nothing sordid, just two drunken idiots fighting. One ended up dead. So, this is the shirtwaist factory you were telling me about.” He glanced at the structure behind her.
“Yes, on the fifth floor. I’ll show you the way.”
They went inside, the dark interior serving as a blessed respite from the outdoor heat. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead with a handkerchief. Bustling about the city in the summer was not for the faint of heart. Which probably explained why most of high society left for Newport in June and didn’t return until after Labor Day.
Not Justine, though. She stayed in town. The beach was boring and tedious.
“The usual plan of attack?” Ellison asked as they climbed.
“Yes, I think so. I have already seen the conditions. You are welcome to the owner, Mr. Bay.” One of the legal aid clients had mentioned this shirtwaist factory, complaining of the cruel conditions and long hours, and Justine had come to see the horrors for herself. It had been easy to gain access to the floor after telling the secretary she was there to interview for a position. Mr. Bay had asked her to leave, of course, but not before she saw what was happening inside.
Then she’d waited outside after hours and approached a few of the workers. Employees often had a lot to say when their employer wasn’t around, such as the hours and conditions, the wages and requirements for keeping their positions. Using this information, Justine would bring Detective Ellison for a visit with the owner. Ellison was quite good at intimidating these men. Shaming them into doing better by their workers. A badge helped, of course.
At the top of the fifth flight of stairs, Justine bent over and put a hand to her stomach. This was her third climb today above four floors and her legs were growing tired. “The door is just over there.”
Ellison went first, not bothering to knock before he entered. His detective badge was clipped to his lapel, visible to all. Justine followed and closed the door. A secretary looked up from her desk in the reception area. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” Ellison said. “We’d like to see the owner.”
She eyed his badge and returned her gaze to his face. “Mr. Bay isn’t available at the moment. Perhaps you’d care to come back another time?”
“When will he return?” Justine asked.
“I could not say,” the woman answered.
“Is there someone else we may speak with? A manager or supervisor?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Frowning, Ellison exchanged a look with Justine. Without another word, he walked around the desk toward the factory. The secretary popped up and tried to stop him, but he was already over the threshold. Justine trailed him, darting around the girl and into the corridor. The workspace was a long dark room in the back of the building, the windows having been boarded up at some point. Owners often did this, claiming it prevented employee theft. What it really prevented was proper airflow and respiratory health.
When they arrived, however, an entirely different scene greeted her.
Gone were the dark windows and gloomy interior. Today, the windows were open, allowing in a slight breeze, and the overhead bulbs were lit. The terrified silence of her previous visit had also disappeared. Workers were chatting and laughing, sewing while socializing. A few even stood, stretching their arms and shoulders, before walking to the washrooms in the back—washrooms that had been locked the last time she’d been here.