Free Darktown by Thomas Mullen Page A

mother—financial good sense and practicality meant that he still lived with his parents—while Smith paid a woman on his block to do his.
    Boggs was on his way out, nodding a good morning to Eakins at the front desk, when he heard the basement phone ringing. He stopped, considered for a moment, then jogged down and unlocked the precinct door. The phone was on its sixth ring by the time he lifted the receiver.
    â€œOfficer Boggs.”
    â€œThis is Records.” It was a woman’s voice, so hushed he could hardly hear her. “Did you call about Underhill?”
    â€œYes. Yes, that was me.”
    â€œWell, we never had this conversation, but what do you need to know?”
    It had been hard to tell because of her whisper, but now he was sure of it: this wasn’t the same lady who’d told him off earlier.
    â€œI had thought he was cited for a traffic violation the night of the ninth, but she told me there wasn’t anything—”
    â€œI know, I heard that part. But what else? You’d best hurry, she’ll be back soon.”
    â€œHis arrest record. Any priors. And his address, occupation. Anything.”
    â€œHe’s ex-APD.”
    Boggs sat down. “When was he on the force?”
    â€œUntil ’44 or ’45. Toward the end of the war, I remember.”
    The facts and ramifications were coming too fast for Boggs to assemble at once. If Underhill was ex-APD, then Dunlow must have known him. Which at least partially accounted for the easy rapport between the two of them that night, the way Underhill’s singing taunt had won a familiar smile from Dunlow.
    But also: McInnis likely knew Underhill. Which would explain the look on the sergeant’s face when Boggs had said the name a few hours ago.
    â€œHe looked a little young for retirement,” Boggs said.
    â€œHe didn’t retire. He was forced out.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œShoot, I gotta go. I’ll try and get you something.”
    â€œWhat’s your name, ma’am?”
    But she’d already hung up.

5
    THE NEXT NIGHT, Rake was filing a report at headquarters when he heard someone say “Dead girl.”
    â€œWhat dead girl?”
    Girl used to make him think woman but now that he had a daughter the word had forever changed. He heard “dead girl” and thought of a toddler in a pink dress. A car accident, a stray bullet, a drowning. One little life ended and so many others permanently scarred.
    The other cop clarified: “girl” as in nigger adult female.
    Rake read the report. In a trash heap. Yellow dress, locket. One bullet wound in the chest. No name or ID, nothing physically distinguishing save for a birthmark on her right shoulder. Filed by Negro officers Boggs and Smith.
    â€œAnybody been to the brothels?” Rake asked out loud, to no one in particular.
    â€œNot tonight, but maybe later,” someone joked. Laughter from the others.
    â€œI mean, is she a whore or just somebody who got shot?”
    Another beat cop sighed as he walked past and said, “She came in all covered in garbage. I don’t imagine any detectives will be lining up to take that one, but I’m sure you’re welcome to sniff around.”
    â€œWe are born naked and covered in shit, and so shall we exit,” someone else mused.
    â€œShe wasn’t naked, according to this,” Rake said.
    â€œWell, she’s naked now.”

    Hours later, Rake and Dunlow sank into their chairs at the Hotbox, a diner two blocks from Terminal Station. It catered mostly to rail yardworkers but became a de facto police cafeteria in these post-midnight hours, as it was one of the few places in the city legally allowed to stay open all night.
    â€œIf it isn’t Grits Rakestraw!” Brian Helton’s voice called out.
    Laughter from all over the dining room. Rake willed that his cheeks not turn red, though they probably did, as Helton and his partner, Bo Peterson, walked