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After the service, the funeral procession made its slow, mournful passage down Broadway. The Elks Club had paid for the burial, and they’d insisted on a proper good-bye. They walked in front wearing their sashes, Papa Charles leading the way, his hat held to his chest. Behind him, several of Harlem’s best musicians played a mournful dirge on their horns and a choir of women in black dresses sang. A flatbed truck carried Gabe’s coffin through the streets to its temporary resting place at the Merrick Funeral Home. Later, his family would bury him. Reporters ranged along the sidewalks taking notes and pictures, reaching up in the nick of time to remove their hats as the casket passed by. Memphis walked behind the casket with slow, dutiful steps all the way to the funeral home. He hadn’t been inside since his mother’s death, and he couldn’t face going in now.

“I’m just going to get some air,” he explained to Octavia, who patted his cheek, called him poor child, and waved him on. Memphis slipped unnoticed into the throngs of people trying to get a glimpse of the Pentacle Killer’s latest victim. Some were just curious onlookers. Some were angry and shouted at the line of police for answers. Hadn’t they caught the killer? Wasn’t he behind bars? What now? What were they doing to protect the citizens of New York? When would they feel safe again? The police remained silent.Advertisement

At the corner, Memphis spied the girl from the museum. Weren’t they supposed to be helping to catch this killer? Why hadn’t they caught him yet? Memphis was overcome with anger, and he marched up to Evie O’Neill and tapped her on the shoulder. It took her a second to recognize him.

“It’s you. Mr. Campbell.”

“You know who the killer is yet?”

“Not yet.”

Memphis nodded, his jaw tight.

“Did you… did you know the deceased?” she asked.

“He was my best friend.”

“I’m so very sorry,” she said, and Memphis thought she sounded sorry, too. Not like these reporters, who would say “sorry for your loss” and then follow with a question about whether your best friend was a dope fiend or ask whether you thought jazz music was to blame.

“Memphis!”

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At the sound of Theta’s voice, both Evie’s and Memphis’s heads turned. She was running down the street, her stage makeup still on, a coat thrown over her costume. Evie could see the sequins peeking out. Theta gave Evie a quick hug, then turned to Memphis.

“I came as soon as I heard,” she said.

“You… you two know each other?” Evie asked.

“He’s gone,” Memphis said, his voice cracking on the last word. “Gabe’s gone.”

Theta spoke soft, soothing words to Memphis, and Evie felt odd standing by without saying anything at all.

“I’m so sorry about your friend,” she offered, though it seemed hollow.

Memphis turned to her, his face gone hard. “I want to help you find Gabe’s killer.”

“There is something you can do,” Evie began uncertainly. “It would help our investigation if we could have something of the deceased’s… um, of Gabriel’s. Preferably something he had with him the night of his death.”

“How’s that going to help?” Memphis challenged.

“Please,” Evie pleaded. “Please trust me. We want to catch him as much as you do.”

Memphis reached into his pocket and pulled out the rabbit’s foot. “It was his good-luck charm. He was never without it.”

“Thank you. I promise I’ll take very good care of it,” Evie said, but Memphis wasn’t listening. Theta had slipped her hand in his, and they were looking at only each other. Evie walked away, leaving them to their private, silent conversation.

The press jammed against the barricades, calling for comments, trying to tease out quotes, while the cops stood firm, mouths shut. T. S. Woodhouse was front and center. Evie tried to sneak past.

“Well, if it isn’t the Sheba,” he said, blocking her escape. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

“So why don’t you leave?”

“You aren’t sore about that story, are ya?”

“And how! I asked for a favor and you repaid me by stealing my tip and printing it in the papers.”

T. S. Woodhouse spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m a reporter, Miss O’Neill. Let me make it up to you. Tell me what you’ve got on this and I’ll do a whole feature on you. Maybe even give you some column inches to write up whatever you want. You’ll be the most famous flapper in Manhattan.” pqdm.com