In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,6

hanging in the closet. But I found no letters, diary, or notes—in short, no personal item that connected Sarah with anyone, much less the person who had wanted to kill her.

I went on to explore the first floor of the house, checking whether anything appeared to be amiss. In the kitchen, I lingered a few moments; amid the odors of mulled spices and baked fruit, I could almost forget the stench of death that seemed to cling so tenaciously to my skin and clothes. I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that I was startled to hear Joe’s voice calling me, insistent and loud.

“Ziele!” His voice echoed through the back hallway. “We need you over here. You’ve got to take a look at this.”

I followed the sound of his voice to a rear exit near the back porch, where I became aware once again of the coroner’s wagon as it rumbled over the cobblestones of the Wingate drive, departing for the county morgue. Through the door, I saw a full moon gleaming in the stark November sky. A number of glowing lights bounced up and down in the yard; they were lanterns carried by our neighboring police reinforcements, who had recently arrived and were searching the grounds outside the house.

Joe met my gaze, and I noticed how his lined features reflected the grim events we had endured this day. With a flash of foreboding, I had the unsettling sensation that we were being drawn into an even more complicated case than I’d originally thought—one that would draw upon our every power of deduction to unravel.

CHAPTER 2

“We’ve found something outside.” Joe motioned to me, pointing toward the rear porch as I approached, indicating that I should follow him. He opened the door and gestured to what appeared to be a number of muddy footprints, each consistent with the tread of a man’s boot. The prints were remarkably clear: well defined at the toe, if slightly smudged near the heel. One set led into the house, while another led back into the yard.

“Large enough to be a man’s footprint,” he explained. “And they are not yet dry, so they can’t have been here long.” He stepped back so I might see more clearly.

“Maybe these were left by the killer,” he said, stating the obvious, “but how is it possible that there are no prints inside the house?”

“He removed his boots, I’d say,” I commented dryly.

I was far more interested in the smudges around the heel of each print, which could indicate that the man had a limp or some other walking impediment. Or perhaps the heel was simply so encrusted with mud that the tread was wholly obscured. I glanced into the expanse of wooded forest behind the house, which was certainly as muddy as the walking path that I had taken to work this morning. Though today had been dry, the past several days had seen heavy rain and the ground was saturated.

Leaving that issue aside for the moment, I noted how unusually large and wide the prints were. “We should do our best to mea sure one of these. Not an easy thing to accomplish in the dark,” I said, with a glance toward the evening sky, “but important in case someone should disturb this area overnight.”

Joe nodded in agreement as we stepped back into the house. “I also need to show you this,” he said quietly. “We found it outside, as well.”

He pulled a small item out of his breast pocket. He was careful to use his handkerchief, and I realized that—despite his own skepticism about fingerprints—he was trying not to jeopardize whatever evidence the object he held might provide. Nestled within the cloth lay a silver locket that was threaded onto a pale blue ribbon. The ribbon was slightly mottled with what I took to be smudges of blood and dirt. As I carefully lifted it, also by means of the clean handkerchief, I noticed it was of superior workmanship, with a filigree pattern bordering its smooth body. On the back, I could barely make out finely engraved letters, which appeared to identify the name of the craftsman. Above this unintelligible writing was an inscription: For S.W.

“And inside?” I asked.

“See for yourself,” Joe said.

My fingers were thick and clumsy as I pried open the locket, still making use of the handkerchief so as not to touch the silver myself. Inside were two small portraits: one man and one woman. I presumed the woman pictured on the left to