Free Murder on Marble Row by Victoria Thompson

intersection in the city more than made up for everything else. Frank and Sarah had only a few minutes to consider all they’d been discussing before the train stopped at Bleeker Street in Greenwich Village.
    â€œWe need to get off here,” she told him, and they left the train.
    â€œWhen are you going to tell me Creighton’s address?” he asked, trying not to sound impatient as they made their way down the long stairway to the street level.
    â€œAs soon as we get there,” she replied innocently. “I can’t risk having you run off and leave me behind, can I?”
    â€œI’d never think of doing that,” he informed her righteously. “You might’ve given me the wrong address.”
    She couldn’t help grinning at that, and Frank grinned back.
    They had to walk two blocks in the light rain before they found a Hansom available to take them up. Then the driver balked at going into the Lower East Side. When Frank heard Sarah give him the address, he didn’t blame the man. “Just go down Houston Street and get us as close as you can,” Frank said, climbing in beside Sarah.
    Still grumbling, the man snapped his whip, sending the scrawny horse into motion before Frank had a chance to get settled properly in the narrow confines of the vehicle designed for one passenger. He ended up sitting on Sarah’s skirt, and it took them a few minutes of struggle to get untangled. He spent that time trying desperately not to notice how good she smelled or how close her soft, golden hair was to his face.
    Their progress through the rain-wet streets was slow, but at least they were relatively dry in the shelter of the Hansom.
    â€œWhat are you going to say to Creighton?” he asked her when they’d achieved some level of comfort on the seat.
    â€œI’m going to tell him what happened to his father, and ask him to answer all your questions honestly.”
    Frank managed not to roll his eyes the way she had to him earlier. They’d be lucky if Creighton Van Dyke didn’t flee over the rooftops the instant he saw Malloy’s big Irish figure turn the corner onto his street. Everyone in this section of the city would recognize him instantly as a cop, in spite of his ordinary business suit. No one would trust him for a second. Truth to tell, no one in this section of town had a reason to trust a copper, either, which didn’t help the situation.
    After what seemed like an eternity, Frank figured they were close enough to get out and walk the rest of the way. He paid the cabbie and let him go on his way after helping Sarah down. He couldn’t help noticing the hem of her dress was wet, even though the cape seemed to be keeping the worst of the rain off her head and shoulders. She should be home where it was warm and dry, he thought angrily, not slogging through the rain looking for anarchists.
    â€œIf you’ve seen enough of my ankles, we should be going,” she said with a smirk and started on down the street.
    Stung, he hurried to catch up to her, jostling pedestrians who got in his way.
    The streets in this part of the city were lined on either side with the carts of peddlers selling everything anyone could need and a lot they probably didn’t. No one living in the four- and five-story tenement buildings looming above ever needed to cook a meal or walk more than a few steps to purchase whatever they might require for survival. Money brought home by fathers and husbands quickly disappeared into the hands of the merchants camped at their doorsteps as women bartered for goods. The air smelled of the pungent odors of cooked meats and pastries and vegetables past their prime and the offal of the animals and the refuse of the humans. Shouts from the peddlers, advertising their wares, mingled with the shrieks of mothers calling their children and the squeals of children playing in the puddles below. Neighbors called to neighbors and women laughed,