by
In 1914, Hell’s Kitchen is an apt name for New York City’s grittiest neighborhood, as one of the city’s first policewomen, Louise Faulk, is about to discover when the death of a young prostitute leads her on a grim journey through the district’s darkest corners...
November 1914
The Thirtieth Street police station was no place to spend Thanksgiving. Across town, my aunt's house would be filled with music, laughter, and the warm companionship of friends and family. Thursday evenings chez Irene Livingston Green were always an event, with guests both invited and uninvited filtering through the house on Fifty-Third Street, but Thanksgiving was the zenith of her social calendar. Here, on the other hand, my company in the chilly basement where I worked consisted of two gum-smacking prostitutes and a woman hauled in on vagrancy and public inebriation charges who was currently on the cot in the second cell, snoring like a bulldog with adenoids. My thankfulness was at its lowest ebb.
The bell above the stairwell door clanged, raising a snort from Sleeping Beauty before she resumed her buzz-saw wheezing. That bell was my summons to go upstairs, most likely to bring down another prisoner for the women's cells. I stood.
READ MORE"Her master's voice," one prostitute cracked to the other, with an especially loud snap of Beech-Nut gum on molars.
At least going upstairs would get me away from the nerve-jarring basement serenade. I was stiff from cold and sitting too long in the same position. "I'll be right back with a new friend for you."
"Hope she has cigarettes," one of the women said.
"Hope she don't snore," the other wished.
I was definitely going to demand Christmas off.
COLLAPSE"Freeland makes her lead’s successes and missteps plausible, and captures the feel of a city skittish about the war in Europe. Maisie Dobbs fans will be pleased."
