The newspaper on Katherine's desk was crumpled and thin, the edges of the newsprint faded. The headline, though, was just as bold and black as the day it ran: Mayor Innocent! Accusations Fraudulent!

Katherine didn't like keeping it around. It reminded her of her old dreams that one day she'd have a bright corner office at the New York Sun from which she would change the world. She was going to take New York City by its gleaming hand, but then the city decided it preferred a story that left feathers unruffled, a peace-keeping lie. Justice was dead.

But desiring fiction over fact was human nature, she had come to realize since changing her profession. People came to a private detective to know the truth, but she found, once she delivered it to them, that they preferred ignorance.

She stowed the newspaper in its drawer, cursing herself for keeping it. This was her life now, her dingy office above a tailor's shop, her clients, and their cheating spouses. Those cases were the bulk of her income and usually fell into one of two categories: either the spouse was a serial two-timer, or her client was paranoid. Either way, the cases rarely had happy endings. Occasionally something a little more exciting came along, but nothing that earned her the title of muckraker.

Those days are over. Get used to it.

A silhouette slid over the frosted glass of her office door and startling her. Clients' knocking used to make her jump when she was still green, but now silence caught her off guard. An outline of a fist appeared as the visitor knocked twice, and then the silhouette warped and disappeared entirely as the visitor opened the door.

And again Katherine was caught off-guard, because he was distracting.

He was tall and proud, with a handsome face, broad shoulders, and kind green eyes. Men like him didn't get cheated on, so what the hell was he doing here?

She gave a tiny shake of her head to clear it and then got on with her once-over: his clothes were rumpled but clean, save for the curious smears of paint around the cuffs of his sleeves. He sported a day's growth of scruff on his jaw but his thick black hair was combed, which she noticed after he took off his gray cap and started wringing it within an inch of his life. His hands were splattered with paint, too, working into the calluses and cracks of his skin.

"'Scuse me," he said, with a slight quake in his voice. "You's the detective? Detective Plumber?"

"That's me." Katherine gestured to the chair before her desk. He came in, sat down, and put his cap back on, though his hands kept busy in his lap and picked at the stray threads of his clothes. He couldn't keep still for a second.

He cleared his throat. "I heard you is good at findin' folks."

"I am." She reached into another desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. She tried not to enjoy his puzzled gaze on her as she half-filled the glass and pushed it towards him. "This will help after a bad night's sleep."

He stared at her, bewildered, and didn't touch the drink. "How'd ya know?"

"Well." She gestured to his clothes. "Forgive me, but your clothes look like you tried to sleep in them. And I know you didn't get a wink because you didn't shave this morning. You just splashed water on your face to wake yourself up." Her face softened, as did her voice as she said, "And between you and I, most folks come to a private detective because there's something keeping them up at night."

"Damn." He reached for his glass of whiskey, eyebrows lifting to his hairline. "You ain't gonna have any? You wouldn't be as scary if ya did."

Katherine gave him a tight-lipped smile. "I don't drink on the job."

"Worth a shot." His R sounds would sometimes dip into Y's. Katherine found it charming. "Medda said ya wouldn't touch a drop."

She perked up. "Medda Larkin sent you?" Medda Larkin, owner and star of a theater in the bowery, had hired Katherine a while back to root out a tip thief. Medda was an absolute doll and shrewder than she let on, which was the shrewdest kind of shrewd to be.

Her visitor smiled just a little, a pinprick of hope shining through the chink in his armor. "She's an old friend o' mine. Said ya could help me better than anyone else."

Katherine leaned forward. That was a challenge, plain and simple, and she had always loved challenges. "What's your name, sir, and what's your trouble?"

He cleared his throat and he sat up straighter, his shoulders squaring. He was steeling himself. "My name's Jack Kelly. My brother's gone missin'."

"I'll find your brother, Mister Kelly," she said, pulling out her notebook and a pencil. Runaways were typically easy, thanks to a conductor at Penn Station with a sweet spot for her. "Any suspicions who your brother ran off with? Possible aliases would be helpful, too."

Jack's face fell and the steel disappeared, revealing his softened edges. "He didn't run off, he got taken. Kidnapped."

"You think he's been abducted?" She shook her head and picked up her telephone receiver. "The police should be helping you. They have the manpower and the resources—"

Jack's hand shot out suddenly and desperately and slammed down on the hook, preventing any outbound call. A moment later he caught himself and withdrew with an apologetic shrug.

"Ya can't call the police!" His voice was bitter and brittle, but his eyes darted all over the place until his words found calmer footing. "We's just a coupla kids who can barely afford rent. The police don't care none 'bout folks like us. Goin' t' them is just wastin' time."

Katherine's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Mister Kelly, active abductions are not my specialty."

"Please, Miss Plumber. Detective Plumber." He leaned forward, his hands lacing together as if in prayer. "Medda was ravin' 'bout you. Pointed me in ya direction soon as I told her wha' happened. My brother don't got time fo' me t' go shoppin' around."

This felt like a trap the universe had set for her, another opportunity to show how colossal a failure she could be. Her incompetence might cost someone his life, and shatter those of his family's.

This line of work required her to be heartless. She forced people to learn unsavory truths about their loved ones. Sometimes she wondered if she had lost her heart entirely, but now she knew she hadn't because it was declaring loud and clear: he's depending on you.

"I'll take your case."

Relief swept over Jack's face, a sleepless night's worth of tension vanishing before Katherine's eyes. "I don't know enough words ta thank ya, Detective."

"No thanks necessary. Let's begin." Katherine flipped to a fresh page in her notebook and said, "I have to ask you some difficult questions, Mister Kelly. Are you prepared?"

Jack nodded, his eyes clear for the first time since he'd walked in. "Whatevah can help."

"Tell me about your brother."

He cleared his throat. "His name's Charlie Morris, but most folks call 'im Crutchie. Blonde, 'bout five-foot-four, bad leg. Got the nickname on account o' his walkin' 'round with crutches.."

Katherine's pencil tore across the page. "Do you know why anyone would take him?"

"He's innocent. He couldn't hurt a soul."

Katherine's lips pursed. People often looked much more innocent to their loved ones than the rest of the world. "Mister Kelly, you need to be totally honest with me and with yourself."

"I was. I am. Crutchie didn't do a damn thing." Jack's jaw tightened. "Whatever's goin' on, he don't deserve the blame."

Katherine nodded slowly. Abductions didn't happen for no reason, even if Jack wanted to pretend the opposite. The reason for Charlie's would take some digging, but the routine line of questioning would have to do for now. "When and where did he disappear?"

"He didn't come home from work last night, so I called an' got the news from them. Crutch has a job at the Sunset Lounge as a busboy."

She scribbled down the name of the lounge. "That's my first stop, Mister Kelly."

"Call me Jack." Jack stood, putting his cap back on finally. "Sorry, I gotta run. Medda's expectin' me—I's a set painter fo' her theater. If ya find anythin', you can find me there."

"Sure thing." She stood with him, already feeling the jitters of duty in her bones. She had a life to save. "I'll do everything in my power to get your brother back."

Jack nodded. "Thank ya from th' bottom o' my heart. I's countin' on ya, Detective." He started to wring his hands again. "He's all I got."

"I'll bring him home." Katherine kept her grimmer thoughts to herself. Even if he's in a coffin.