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  "I caught the bad guys, didn't I? And regained ten thousand dollars worth of stolen jewels, to boot."

  He harrumphed, knowing it was the truth but too blasted stubborn to admit she'd done a damn fine job.

  "I still want to know what the hell happened out in Missouri,” he said, “but for now I'll settle for finding out what happened on the train."

  "I don't know what happened,” Willow answered honestly. “When Charlie stopped to talk to me, he seemed nervous. He kept looking over his shoulder, watching everyone around him."

  "Did he tell you what was wrong?"

  She shook her head. “I asked, but he said it was just a case.” She met Robert's shadowed brown eyes. “What was he working on?"

  "I can't tell you, you know that, Willow. A client's privacy—"

  "I know, I know,” she said, waving off the much-used line. “'No operative may be privy to the information of a case in which he is not directly involved.’ Well, Bobby, me boy,” she said, switching to the brogue of his Scottish heritage, “I'd say I've been caught right in the thick of things.” She stood to pace, eating up the length of the office with long, agitated strides.

  Robert watched her for several long minutes, letting her burn off a good amount of energy and anger. Then he cut to the quick of the matter. “Did you see anything?"

  "No.” She stopped in front of his desk, resorting to the impatient tapping of one leather-clad foot. “He didn't seem to want to take the time to talk, and I didn't want to disturb his cover. Then some woman started screaming. The only thing I saw was Charlie lying in a pool of blood."

  "Did you check the crowd?"

  "For what? A man standing there with a bloody knife? My bet is, the murderer was gone before Charlie hit the floor. But, yes, I checked me crowd. As best I could without knowing what in blue blazes I was supposed to be looking for.” She fixed Robert with a glare that conveyed her feelings in no uncertain terms. If he would only tell her what Charlie had been working on, she could answer his questions with more detail.

  Willow noticed a strange light in Robert's eyes, a light that told her his mind was racing miles ahead of hers. “What?” she asked skeptically.

  "How do you know the murderer used a knife?"

  She rolled her eyes. “Because I didn't hear a shot, and the hole in Charlie's gut was leaking blood faster than Niagara Falls leaks water. When are you going to stop testing me with these paltry schoolgirl questions?” she asked.

  "When you no longer mess up on simple assignments like the one in Missouri."

  Her mouth fell open. “Oh, now that's cruel, Robert Allan Pinkerton. You know dam good and well this is the first and only time I have lost a suspect. Ever."

  "Then let's hope this isn't the start of a new propensity for you."

  "It isn't,” she told him.

  "Good. Care to explain how you lost Samuel E. Triton?” he asked, flipping open a file on his desk.

  "Let's just say that Sammy the Snake slithered out of my grasp.” She didn't bother explaining about Brandt Donovan's interference. Robert would only see it as an excuse. And she knew that if there was one thing Robert Pinkerton hated more than fouled cases, it was excuses for fouling up to begin with.

  "Let's not,” Robert ordered sternly. “Details, Willow. I want them now, and then I want to see them in your written report."

  "I had Sammy cornered in an alley. Someone saw us, and Sammy got away."

  "That's all?"

  "That's all. I looked for him the next day, and every day after that until I heard from you, but he was long gone. I'll be happy to go back and finish the case,” she offered hopefully.

  "No."

  "But—"

  "No.” Robert's voice softened. “You know what's going on around here, Willow. Because you're a woman, and because my father is no longer alive to fight for you, your position with the Agency is in jeopardy. I'm doing my best to keep them from inventing an excuse to let you go,” he said, referring to his higher-ups, “but it isn't easy. And this latest job isn't going to help matters. An incomplete case in your file will draw them like a pack of hungry wolves."

  She swallowed, returning to her seat. “I know,” she said quietly. “Robert, you know how much this job means to me. How much I need it."

  "I know. And I'm going to do my best to keep you with us.” He tapped the Triton file against the desktop. “So from now on, you're going to be extra careful. About what you say, what you do, with whom you associate. Understood?"

  "Yes."

  "Also, from this moment on, you're being taken off active duty."

  "What?” Willow couldn't believe her ears. Not Robert. Robert would never do this to her. Investigation was her life, her livelihood. He couldn't take that away from her.

  "I'm sorry, Willow. Believe me, I am. But if I assign you another case now, everyone will be salivating, just waiting for you to foul up. I think it's best if we let things simmer down a bit before putting you back in the game.

  "Don't worry.” he continued. “You'll still be on full salary. We'll find something for you to do in the office."

  "I suppose you want me to assist Mrs. Girard? Perhaps I could bring you another draught of coffee, Mr. Pinkerton, sir?"

  "Willow. . ."

  "This isn't fair, Robert. I have a sterling reputation, a flawless history with this company. And you know damned well that I'm a better detective than half of the men you have on the payroll."

  "I would never argue that point, Willow."

  "Then why are you putting me on the shelf?"

  "I'm not putting you on the shelf. I'm taking you out of the field—temporarily. Until the Triton case isn't an issue."

  Stalking to the door, she put on her wrap and grabbed up her carpetbag. Her parasol popped open in a flurry of whispering black fringe, and she fought to close it without setting down her valise.

  "I'll be at the Astor House.” She had given up her old apartment before going West and knew the company would cover the hotel bill until she could find a new place to stay. And she wanted to hurt the Pinkerton Agency, if only in its bank account.

  "Let me know when you decide where I might be most valuable as a mere office clerk.” She turned to the door, then stopped. “And Robert . . . I'll have to send the receipt over later, but . . . add fifty dollars to my expense account."

  Robert's eyes narrowed. “For what?"

  She threw him an engaging smile, lifting the hem of her gown. “Why, for a new dress, of course. This one is positively ruined."

  Chapter Six

  Willow checked into the Astor House around suppertime, asking for the most luxurious—and most expensive—room available. She ordered dinner and a bath, and prepared herself for an enormous dose of relaxation.

  But foremost, she had to see what was in that note. When the bellboy left her alone, she quickly removed the bodice of her gown, separate from the skirt. For the first time, she noticed smears of blood on the page, dark red now that they'd had time to dry. The thought of Charlie lying in her arms almost made her drop the note. She took a deep breath and steeled herself not only to touch the bloodstained paper, but to read whatever information rested inside.

  She unfolded the square. Then stared blankly at the one word written there. Gideon.

  "Gideon?” she said aloud. What did it mean?

  She finished undressing, tucking the paper into the toe of her boot for safekeeping, and got into the bath. While she soaked, she thought about the word Gideon. And what it might have to do with Charlie's murder.

  Was it a last name? She could think of no families by the name of Gideon in New York. But then, her investigating radius wasn't necessarily confined only to the city.

  Or was it a first name? The first name of the man who stabbed Charlie and left him for dead? Perhaps Charlie had suspected that he would be harmed and wrote the name as a clue to his killer's identity.

  What if it wasn't a name at all, but a place—a town or theater or club of some kind?
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br />   She stepped out of the tub, about to change for bed, when a knock sounded at the outer sitting room door. Still wet, she grabbed up her red oriental robe to cover herself.

  Expecting the hotel staff with her dinner, she pulled open the door. Only to find Robert standing there, a dark scowl on his face.

  "Robert. Come in.” She stepped back to allow him entrance. “What's wrong?"

  "Nothing,” he said shortly. He took off his bowler cap and overcoat, tossing them onto a nearby chair while he folded his long frame onto the settee.

  "Don't lead me on a merry chase, Robert,” she said, clutching the folds of robe at her neck to ward off the chill on her damp skin. “Something is bothering you, now what is it?"

  "Nothing,” Robert said again. “Our agents and the police both went over every inch of that railway car and came up with nothing. None of the passengers heard or saw a thing."

  Willow bit her lip, wanting to tell him about the note but still possessing the insane desire to keep that tiny piece of evidence to herself. Especially now that she had been put on inactive duty.

  And yet she didn't feel right keeping something—something as vital as this might turn out to be—from him. If he would open up to her, then she would be more than willing to share her knowledge with him.

  Folding one leg under her, she sat down beside him. Her hand rested on his knee. “Will you tell me now what Charlie Barker was working on?"

  He closed his eyes on a sigh. “I can't. It's Agency policy. Unless you're involved in the case, I cannot give you information from the case file."

  "Then let me work on this case."

  His head snapped up. “What? No. It's too dangerous."

  "It's my job, Robert. I'm a detective. If you're not going to let me investigate, then I might as well hang up my derringer and call it a day. I know you're disappointed that I messed up with Sammy Triton. Let me prove myself. Let me show you that I'm still a good operative, worthy enough to carry a Pinkerton badge."

  He looked at her for a minute. When he spoke, it was in a soft, serious tone. “I trust you, Willow. Maybe more than any other agent under my supervision. And I know you can handle any case I assign to you. But I'm not talking about your job being in danger, Willow. I'm talking about your life."

  She shook off the involuntary shudder that coursed through her body. “I've taken on dangerous cases before. Or are you forgetting the time I was kidnapped and held hostage by a band of renegade army deserters?"

  His brow wrinkled. “I'm not forgetting anything."

  "Then put me on this case. Let me catch the bastard who killed Charlie."

  * * *

  He turned her down. Flat.

  Two days later, she was still fuming over Robert's dismissal of her request. So she decided to give him one more chance at redemption. She dressed in her best day gown, a peach and white vertical-striped concoction she'd picked up on her last trip to Indianapolis. The jacket fit her form snugly, leaving a vee open at the neck for the lace of her snow-white blouse. The long, straight skirt pulled into a large bustle in back. She slipped on a pair of peach satin slippers with two-inch heels and topped off the outfit with a tall, extravagant bird nest bonnet, a dozen orange and white plumes fluttering in every direction. A few tiny ring curls framed her face, intentionally left out of the tightly coiled braid atop her head.

  With an air of optimism, parasol balanced elegantly on one shoulder, she left the hotel and marched her way down Fifth Avenue

  toward the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

  Mrs. Girard greeted her with a pleasant hello when Willow requested an audience with Robert.

  "He's in a conference with Mr. Warner just now, Miss Hastings. If you'd care to wait in Mr. Pinkerton's office, I'm sure he wouldn't mind. I'll let him know you're here just as soon as he's available."

  "Thank you.” Willow sauntered into Robert's small but quaint office, making herself at home in his leather-back desk chair. She propped her slippered feet on the corner of the desk and tapped them in an irregular, staccato rhythm with the tip of her closed parasol.

  A few moments later, the door opened and in walked Robert, wearing a hunter green morning coat and tan trousers.

  "Willow,” he welcomed her warmly. “What brings you here on such a sunny day?"

  'Round and ‘round and ‘round they go, she thought. Robert definitely had something on his mind or he wouldn't be making small talk. She slid her feet from his desk and stood.

  "I thought I would pay you a little visit,” she answered in all honesty, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Any new developments in Charlie's case?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes."

  His answer surprised her. Biting back the myriad of questions swirling through her brain, she watched him walk around the desk and take a seat.

  Robert focused on her, his lips drawing together in what could only be a smile held in check. “You'll get your petticoats all in a bunch if you keep your curiosity bottled up. Would you like me to explain?"

  She released a pent-up breath. “Yes."

  He laughed. “Take a seat and I'll tell you everything, from the beginning."

  Willow moved to the nearest chair, forgetting all about her protruding bustle as she leaned closer to Robert.

  "The police have turned the case over to us."

  Willow inhaled sharply. The police were often willing to work with Pinkerton, but she had never heard of them actually turning a case over to the Agency.

  "They're leaving it open on their end, mind you, but because Barker was one of ours, they're letting us take the reins. Yesterday we got a telegram from Union Pacific headquarters in Boston. Because the crime occurred on a train belonging to the Union Pacific Railroad, they've asked that we cooperate with the security agent being sent to conduct his own independent investigation."

  "You aren't going to, though, are you?"

  "I'm not going to what?” he asked.

  "Let them investigate simultaneously. You don't know what kind of incompetent lummox they'll send. He'll impair our investigation, maybe even unknowingly destroy evidence."

  "Come now, Willow, I'm sure Union Pacific hires very skilled men. Not as skilled as our people, of course,” he added, “but competent enough to conduct a case without mistakenly overlooking a murder weapon, I hope. Besides, Francis and I have already discussed the matter and decided to cooperate fully with the Union Pacific officer."

  Willow swallowed. If Francis Warner had been brought into this, her powers of persuasion mattered little. The superintendent had no time for her point of view or ideas. Robert, who trusted and believed in her, weighed the pros and cons, thought over her requests and propositions, and made a decision based on the merit of her argument. Warner, however, often made his decisions based on her gender rather than her reputation as a detective.

  "Then at least let me get a head start. Let me see what I can come up with before the UP man gets here. That way he won't be stepping on any toes."

  Robert shook his head. “The fact is, Willow, he's already here."

  She sat in stunned silence, wondering when her life had begun to spin so out of control. Two weeks ago she'd been lurking around Jefferson City, keeping a close eye on Sammy the Snake. Now here she was, back in New York, officially taken off active duty, about to be stuffed into a windowless basement office, she was sure. Her next assignment would probably be dusting off old case files and putting them in alphabetical order. Maybe sweeping the front stoop on particularly leafy days.

  Well, she had been a Pinkerton agent too long for such mundane chores. If she couldn't be a detective—investigating real crimes and not just “who took my sliced turkey on pumpernickel?"—then she would not investigate at all.

  She straightened her spine as she stood, glaring at Robert with a no-nonsense look on her face. “Robert Allan Pinkerton, I have only two words for you. I quit."

  "What?” He jumped to his feet, racing past her to the door before her hand could grasp the kno
b. “You can't quit."

  She took in his startled expression, eyes wide, mouth lax. A small smile touched her lips. She kissed first one cheek, then the other. “You are a precious, precious man, Robert Pinkerton. I love you dearly. But I most certainly can quit, and I have every intention of doing so."

  Still, he blocked her exit. “Willow Elizabeth Hastings,” he said in the same tone of voice. “You are a beautiful, outrageous, obstinate woman who sometimes makes my teeth perspire. You are also a wonderful friend."

  "Robert,” she interrupted, “I hope you know that whether I work for the Agency or not, you will always be my dearest confidant. I wouldn't lose touch with you for all the heather in Scotland."

  "I know. But you didn't let me finish. Aside from being a beautiful woman and a wonderful friend, you are an even better detective. The gravest crime of all would be to let you slip through our fingers."

  "Do you mean it?” she asked, holding back a smile.

  "I'll do whatever it takes to keep you with the Agency."

  The room fell into silence. A knowing grin spread across her face. “I guess that leaves you only one choice then, doesn't it?"

  His eyes narrowed warily. “And that is. . .?"

  "Put me on the Barker case."

  Robert stared at her blankly. “Excuse me?"

  "Your hearing isn't failing, Robert. I said that if you want me to stay with Pinkerton National Detective Agency, you'll assign me to Charlie's murder investigation."

  He shook his head and made his way back to the desk. “You drive a hard bargain, Hastings."

  "I'm a good detective, Pinkerton,” she stated boldly.

  Robert tapped a finger against his chin, in deep thought. After several long minutes, he raised his head and met her eyes. “I'll let you go after Charlie's murderer on one condition."

  Uh-oh. Her staunch certainty slipped a notch. A condition. This could mean trouble. Nonetheless, she opened her mouth and heard herself ask to hear his bargain.

  "A simple one, really,” Robert said, a bit too smoothly for her peace of mind. He went to the door once again, calling for Mrs. Girard to send in the railroad security officer. “All I ask is that you work with the Union Pacific investigator."