The Marshal's Pursuit Read Free

Loskowitz, his greatest competition for the promotion.
    Though New York boasted too many mobsters to keep straight, every U.S. marshal knew about Van “the Shadow” Kelly. The mafiosi boss never left a paper trail and never talked on phones out of fear of being recorded. The Secret Service had been on Kelly’s tail for months in connection with counterfeiting, but the man excelled at keeping in the shadows. The file the Southern District had on Kelly contained half a page of information, amounting to almost nothing. Not even a description of what the man looked like.
    “Any charges against Kelly?” He noted the hope underlining his tone.
    “It sounded like none, but Daly looked worried.” Winslow checked his pocket watch. “I think I’ll head back to the courthouse and make a few calls.”
    “About the girl?” A pointless question, yet Frank hadn’t been able to stop it from sliding off his tongue. His pretty-boy partner had never made it through a day of work without stopping to flirt with a lady.
    Winslow adjusted his hat. “I’d be lying if I said no. She’s a looker. So...you want to give me her name?”
    “Not really.”
    While Winslow chuckled, Frank eased around the column. The mafiosi informant they’d been trailing all morning was halfway to the front entrance. “Let’s see where Daly’s headed. He can’t be taking Kelly’s arrest well.”
    Winslow fell into step with Frank. “I say anyone connected to Kelly should be nervous.”

Chapter 2
    A first rule for behavior in society is: “Try to do and say those things only which will be agreeable to others.”
    —Emily Price Post, Etiquette
    Central Department of the Metropolitan Police
300 Mulberry Street
9:42 a.m.
    “I did not kill Mad Dog Miller.” Her brother’s words broke the eerie silence in the dank and stuffy meeting room. Giovanni’s gravelly voiced insistence did little to abate the sinking feeling in Malia’s stomach. Good thing she was sitting.
    This was not a conversation one could have standing up.
    “I believe you,” Malia insisted. He wasn’t— couldn’t —be a murderer. Vaccarellis weren’t criminals. Yet the police believed Giovanni was, which was why they’d brought him in for questioning and kept him in custody since yesterday evening, even though the witness who claimed to have seen him with Miller right before the shooting was now dead. Or so she’d been told three times already by the officer at the front desk; by Giovanni’s lawyer, Mr. Sirica, as he walked her to the meeting room; and finally by her brother.
    Giovanni’s dark brows drew together. “You look petrified.”
    Tears suddenly brimmed in her eyes. “I am. For you.”
    “Don’t be. They have no evidence.”
    “Two people are dead, and you’re the only connection.”
    “I was at the wrong place, wrong time,” he assured her.
    “It’s a frame,” Mr. Sirica added.
    “Malia, you can’t trust a copper. Ever. They’re all corrupt.” Giovanni rested his arms on the table, stretching out to her. “Believe me.” He sounded just like Papà and Nonno. Because of the mafiosi, Nonno had fled Sicily fifty-six years ago to create a life in America free from crime and corruption.
    Malia stopped her head from shaking. “The dailies said Roosevelt cleaned up the department.” She didn’t know whom to believe anymore.
    Under the intense gaze of the guard standing at the door and Mr. Sirica sitting at the table too, Malia gripped her brother’s cuffed hands. The polished mahogany table against her bare wrists chilled her flesh, like the marble slab at Purity’s Ice Cream Parlor on Broadway. Still, the room was sweltering. What she’d give for a cool breeze from the open yet barred windows to her left.
    “God is in control,” Giovanni whispered.
    “And great is His faithfulness to us.” Malia recited the words they’d often heard their parents and nonni speak, yet her faith never felt more fragile.
    Giovanni’s gaze shifted to the armed