In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,1

domestic disputes or drunken brawls since, if the altercation were in progress, we could intervene more effectively than the portly but diminutive doctor. The affluent classes of Dobson preferred Dr. Adam Whittier, who catered to their whims with absolute discretion. While rumor had it their homes were not immune to violent disputes, they tended to handle such matters behind a wall of secrecy. The police, certainly, were never involved.

“Did Cyrus say what’s happened?” Joe asked. A stout man in his early sixties with bushy white hair and a normally pleasant, ruddy face, today he glared at the young man as though it were his fault Joe’s dinner would get cold.

“He says there’s been murder done.” Charlie whispered the words as though he were frightened to utter them.

In an instant, I recalled the reason why. His mother had worked for Mrs. Wingate as a house keeper for years. He would have practically grown up in the Wingate house hold. In fact, the one time I had met the elderly Mrs. Wingate, she had come by the village offices to vouch for Charlie’s character and recommend him for the secretarial job he now held.

“Who’s been murdered?” Joe’s voice thundered more loudly than he must have intended.

“The doctor said it was a young lady. A visiting relative. But he gave no details.” Charlie’s face blanched. For a moment, I worried he might faint.

“He told you nothing more because your mother is fine. Not to worry.” I patted his shoulder and tried to smile reassuringly. I knew Charlie was eighteen already, but right now, he seemed little more than a boy. “And not a word to anyone, okay? Not yet.”

He nodded in agreement as I grabbed my coat and worn leather satchel. Joe and I then sprinted to the corner of Main and Broadway, where we hailed one of the waiting calashes that hovered near the trolley stop. It was not far to the Wingate house. However, it was situated at the top of a steep hill—and we were in a hurry.

Once we were seated, I glanced over at Joe, the “chief” of our two-man force. Tight lines framed his mouth as he drew his oversized black wool coat closer to him in a futile attempt to ward off the icy gusts of wind from the Hudson River that buffeted the carriage.

“When did you last see a murder case in Dobson?” I asked. My voice was quiet so the driver would not hear.

“Why? You’re worried I’m not up to it?” He bristled and gave me a withering look that I did not take personally. My hiring five months ago had been the mayor’s doing, part of his plan to modernize Dobson’s police resources by adding a younger man with newer methods. I was thirty years old and a seasoned veteran of the New York City Police Department’s Bureau of Detectives, specifically the Seventh Precinct. But Joe had been Dobson’s sole police officer ever since the police department was first created. After twenty-seven years on his own, he did not welcome the addition of a new partner, believing I was the replacement who would force him into retirement. His dark suspicions often strained our relationship.

It was several minutes before he spoke again, and when he did, his answer was grudging.

“In the winter of ’93, a farmer was shot dead,” he said. “We never solved it.” He shrugged. “But we also had no more trouble of that sort. Always figured the culprit was someone from the man’s past with a personal score to settle.”

Then he looked at me sharply. “I’m sure you’ve seen your share of murder cases in the city. But maybe I should ask if you’re sure you’re up to it? You look a bit out of sorts.”

I searched Joe’s expression, looking for some indication that he knew more of my recent past than I had thought. But there was no sign. His question had reflected his own concerns; he had not expected it to hit a particular mark.

I swallowed hard before I said, “I’m fine,” with more confidence than I actually felt. I had a weak stomach, especially for certain kinds of cases, and I feared this would prove to be one of them.

What Joe did not know was that I had come here this past May in search of a quieter existence with fewer reminders of Hannah, a victim of last year’s General Slocum steamship tragedy. I was not alone in my grief; nearly every family in my Lower East Side neighborhood