Chapter 1

…earlier today, Secretary Stimson announced that a reshuffling of Army personnel will place five to six million fighting men overseas by the end of the year. Furthermore many of the officers over 38 will be placed on the inactive list … and finally, it is with a heavy heart that I say, New York City is shining a bit dimmer today as one of our stars fade away. All of the Big Apple is buzzing at the news that James Michael Maclay, famed owner of 'Le Beau Cosmetic Company' which was founded right here in New York City was found dead in his home by his eldest child, the glamourous Tara-Rose Maclay. Mr. Maclay is believed to have succumbed to a heart attack early Friday morning. The deceased was husband to the late Margarete Rose Maclay, who passed away due to complications during childbirth in 1926 following the birth of their youngest child. Mr. Maclay is survived by daughter, Tara-Rose, and son, Donald. This morning, the beloved Mr. Maclay will be laid to rest next to his wife at Green-Wood Cemetery. Tara-Rose Maclay is slated to take full control over her father's business, LBCC and the entire family estate. She has some big shoes to fill but New York has every confidence in this little lady. This is truly a sad day in our great city.

This is Daniel Osbourne signing off. I leave you know with Duke Ellington and John Coltrane's "In a Sentimental Mood".

WPOV

I was tempted to turn off my Victrola radio as I stood in my small studio apartment in my undershirt and slacks, slowly pouring myself another glass of bourbon on the rocks. The news on the war had been bleak and I didn't really give a crap about some dead blueblood and his family's so called problems. Unfortunately, it was my job to know what was happening with New York City social set; sometimes they came to me to solve their rich blueblood problems, and hell, they paid damn well. Automatically, I filed the names away in the drawer of my mind reserved for useless bullshit I'd probably never need. I sat down at my desk, unfolded my copy of the New York Times and eagerly spread it out in front of me. I quickly found the sports pages and began studying the baseball section intently as I tossed a tumbler of Wild Turkey with a practiced flick of the wrist. The ring of the telephone prevented me from reaching my goal; finding the score of the Yankees game would have to wait.

I reached over lazily and picked up the receiver, "Rosenberg," I say just as lazily, once the black plastic met my ear.

"Is this Rosenberg Investigations?" a husky feminine voice asked.

"Yeah, that's right girlie," I drawl out as I chuck the newspaper onto my desk.

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Ira Rosenberg, please."

"You and me both, kid." I replied as my brows drew together in suspicion. "But you're about two years too late. The old man went belly-up on a job a long while back."

"Oh," her voice held a distinct note of disappointment. "Are you his receptionist?"

"You could say that," I keep my words short and precise, not keen on giving away too much.

"I would like to speak with the Detective in charge then," she demanded, her tone verging on annoyance.

"You're speaking with 'em," I replied back snidely. "The name's Red."

"Red?" she asked dubiously. "Well, are you taking new cases, Mr. Red?" she inquired, obviously unaware of my proper title.

I had to smirk at that. A broad in this line of work was rare but not unheard of. Take Jeanie Halliday or Miss Marple for starters. We were few and far between, the lot of us. So when a Jane or Jobbie called for service, they were always in for a surprise when they caught sight of my mug.

I chuckled softly into the receiver at what I imagined this dame's reaction would be upon meeting; only stopping when she spoke again. "Well, are you?"

At her words, I purse my lips together in thought and relax back in my chair. "Could be," I allowed nonchalantly as I leaned back and propped my sock clad feet up on the desk. "Depends on the case. As a general rule, I don't decide to take a case until I've met the client," I answered, grateful again I had made that personal policy. Anything could be a set up, you can't trust anybody.

I heard her sigh. "Perhaps if you knew with whom you were speaking with, you might reconsider," she returned.

Well La-di-dah! "Look doll, I don't care if you're Veronica fucking Lake, no dice. We meet first. Why not come to my office? That's usually how this works," I offered. My eyes darted around the room and noted the several pairs of shorts and socks hanging up to dry only ten feet away from my desk.

"No thank you," she retorted and I sighed with relief that I wouldn't have to hurry and make the place presentable. "Can we meet somewhere in public?" she asked.

I shrugged, "sure, why not. Any place in particular?"

"Furest Bros Restaurant, in an hour."

"I'll be there, doll." I said; I knew the place fairly well. It was in the Jewish section of New York's lower east side. "And, just for the sake of propriety, with whom am I meeting?" I asked with a sarcastic smirk, my voice heavily laced with mockery.

"Tara-rose Maclay," she answered flatly and then hung up.

Oh. It was my turn to be shocked.

I put the receiver down, scratched the back of my head and then snatched up my pack of Lucky Strikes, pulling one out gingerly from the pack and bringing it slowly to my lips. From the pocket of my slacks, I took out my silver Zippo lighter that once belonged to my grandfather and flicked it open with a snap of my fingers. I took a long, luxurious draw as I lit the cigarette and pulled open that creaky drawer in my head reserved for bullshit that I apparently needed after all.

Tara-Rose Maclay. Of course I've heard of her, long before today's news. You can't grow up in this town and not know about the Maclay's. The radio had said that she stood to inherit the entire estate and her father's cosmetic company. Lucky broad. But why would she be calling me … or my dead pops to be more accurate? For Christ's sake, Rosenberg, why do they always call? I chuckled blackly to myself. Because they're usually guilty.

I stood and went in search of a clean shirt to put on. As I was putting my cuff links in; the ones I found in a drawer in my father's desk while cleaning it out after his death, I remembered another snippet of useless bullshit. This dame was supposed to be beautiful, absolutely stunning, the toast of the town at one time. I cringed. Beautiful broads were trouble.

Nothing but trouble. The kind of trouble and the kind of dame that get a fella nothin' but a black eye and a broken heart. Or in my father's case, two slugs to the chest. Yeah, broads like them; they were to be strictly avoided at all costs.

After I made sure my Colt .32 revolver was loaded and secured in my holster, I deftly knotted my black tie around my neck and shrugged into my weathered gray double breasted suit jacket. Carelessly, I tossed my jet black fedora hat on my uncombed head and walked out the door for my rendezvous with New York's sweetheart.

Thirty-five minutes later, I got out of the cab on the corner of Orchard St. and Stanton and squinted up at the red neon sign of Fuerst Bros Restaurant that buzzed above me with an electric hum. Nothing had changed since the last time I was here. A decade ago I lived on this side of the city and Fuerst's was where my pop and I stopped every morning to get a cup of joe before he hit the streets. After being gone for so long, I'm not surprised that I don't recognize any of the faces in the joint; but I saw the same cheap red vinyl chairs, the tabletops that were scuffed and carved from years of servitude and the same bell over the door announcing my entrance.

Not seeing anyone that looked like a blonde heiress Betty Gable type either, I got a table in the back and ordered a coffee and a slice of apple pie from the diminutive strawberry-blonde haired woman that came to wait on me. I could hear the cook's radio playing the Andrew Sister's "In the Mood," mingled with the satisfying sizzle of bacon frying on the grill.

"Ma'am," I called to the waitress just as she turned to leave, "forget the pie, steak and eggs over easy instead." Heck, I haven't been a practicing Jew in years, "with a side of bacon." It just smelled too damn good. She nodded and headed towards the kitchen.

I took off my hat and ran my fingers through my unruly hair, feebly trying to push back the messy red mop, before lighting a smoke. Wonder what makes her think there's more going on? The radio said heart attack, I mused, my thoughts falling back to the Maclay case. I took a long deliberate pull on my cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air as I eyed the waitress walking towards me with my coffee.

"Cream?" she asked as she held up a small jar of the milky substance. I shook my head no and she left me to myself. Reaching inside of my suit, I pulled out my little silver flask and quickly topped off my cup. As I brought the cup to my lips, my eyes went to the door of the diner where a customer was walking in, making the little bell that hung over the door ring insistently.

I nearly choked on my coffee as my eyes drank in the sight of what I could only assume was doll-face herself. I mean, who wouldn't. And you're a damn liar if you say otherwise. Regardless, I couldn't have helped it if I wanted to. Her presence demanded a reaction. Her golden wavy hair framed her porcelain face like a gilt frame around a priceless painting. Her eyes were brilliant sapphires as they searched the faces of the patrons in the diner, searching for me, I assumed. Rosy cheeks perfectly complimented by luscious red lips that you just want to have on you … Anywhere.

I stood up slowly, honestly in awe of her, and her eyes flew to me. I shot a closed lip smile at her to show her that I was who she was looking for. I caught the look of shock that briefly washed over her magnificent features as she took in the sight of me; a thin framed, shaggy haired detective and a female to boot, before her demeanor returned to its normal regal pose. Her chin tilted up ever so slightly as she started towards me. Saunter was the only way to describe it; there was no way what she was doing could be called walking. Every man in the room, and even some women, felt the searing burn of her smoldering sensuality.

The creamy white fabric of her dress trimmed with red roses swayed seductively around her calves as she came towards me. I caught a glimpse of a set of long, muscular gams that would put a derby winning thoroughbred to shame. Her feet were encased in a tiny pair of red heels and her fingernails were painted fuck-me-red to match. I was pretty sure Le Beau didn't have a color called that, but they needed to, and call it Tara-Rose.

"Red Rosenberg?" she purred like a kitten and put out her hand for me to shake. She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theatre curtain. I was to get to know that trick. The one that was supposed to make me roll over on my back with all four paws in the air.

"Tara-Rose Maclay," I said and took her hand, turning it over to kiss the top of it. "It's my pleasure," I murmured and smiled wryly at her.

The radio broadcaster never did this dame justice; she was more beautiful then descried. I sighed internally as I looked deeply into her glistening cobalt eyes. I could feel it. Absolutely nothing but a fistful of trouble right smack in the kisser would come from helping this broad.