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receive protection? He should have been given an escort to and from judge’s chambers, as well as a police guard here at his home.”
    Alistair’s face filled with regret. “He likely reported all threats. But Hugo Jackson was an independent man, loath to accept help from others. And that was how he would have seen police protection.”
    I passed him the final letter, marked by finer quality paper than the rest.
    Alistair turned it over twice, noted its lack of a postmark, and then frowned.
    A look of amazement spread over his face.
    “What is it?”
    Stunned, he seemed not to have heard me. I moved my chair closer, peered over his shoulder, and saw—music.
    He handed the sheet to me, still lost in thought.
    It was a musical score of four bars, written on thick cream paper. The bars of the grand staff as well as the individual notes were handwritten with precision.
    “The judge was a musician?” I asked.
    “He played the piano. This was likely mixed with the others by mistake.”
    Alistair stood. “We’d better return these letters to the deputy commissioner, and we’ll request copies. I’d like to keep this one, though.” He motioned to the musical score, adding with a sideways wink, “I daresay he’ll never miss it.”
    I groaned inwardly, for Alistair’s willingness to bend the rules of procedure always sat uneasily on my conscience.
    I grabbed the letter, saying only, “For this one, it’s easy enough to get permission.”
    I approached Harvey, assuming my most confident manner. “Say, would it be all right if we kept just this?” I flashed the letter in front of him. “We’re returning all the others, but as you can see, this one is unrelated.”
    He eyed me warily weighing his decision. “Are you officially part of the case now?”
    “As soon as the paperwork is signed in the morning,” I said to reassure him, adding, “If you prefer, I can ask Mrs. Jackson or the deputy commissioner for permission.”
    His eyes flickered with doubt. He had witnessed the deputy commissioner’s disagreement with Mrs. Jackson earlier, and fortunately for me, he decided it was not something he wished to risk repeating. If he incurred the deputy commissioner’s censure, it could derail his career entirely.
    “If it’s just music, then I guess it won’t make a difference,” he said finally.
    I smiled broadly. “We’ll return it to Mrs. Jackson when we finish with it.”
    I watched him breathe a sigh of relief, since the final disposition wouldn’t involve him. I stuffed the letter into my pocket and motioned to Alistair, and we left in haste before Harvey could change his mind—or Deputy Commissioner Saunders could intercept us.
    As the pink glow in the eastern sky announced the dawn of a new day, we found a public hack to carry us uptown to a change of clothing and breakfast before our investigative efforts truly began.
    It was only once I was home, unpacking the items Mrs. Jackson had given us, that I noticed something unusual about the music.
    I frowned. It was odd that Alistair had missed observing it himself—or had he? Of course, Alistair had not been himself last night.
    At the bottom of the score on the last bar, where the bass clef normally appeared, was, instead, a different image: a solitary white rose.

 
     
    CHAPTER 3
The Nineteenth Precinct, West Thirtieth Street. 8:30 A.M.
     
    “If it isn’t himself, sure as the devil. Not like you to sleep half the morning, Ziele.” A man with a smile as broad as his six-foot frame and a thick brogue turned in surprise as I walked into the overcrowded and dilapidated precinct station house on West Thirtieth Street.
    Declan Mulvaney, the burly Irishman who had been my partner when I was a patrolman on the Lower East Side, was now my captain here at the Nineteenth Precinct. And while official department hours started at nine, he knew that I usually arrived at my desk well before seven each morning.
    “If you consider half past eight to be late, you can