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finished?"
    "I am." Then, as if reading the attorney's thoughts, Valentin said, "You can hire yourself another detective, if you like. You'll likely get someone who will drag it along and milk the widow out there for as long as she'll put up with it. And then he'll come to the same conclusion I did. So I just saved her a good bit of time and money."
    The lawyer grimaced with distaste. "Thank you for that advice," he said acidly. "You may show yourself out."

    After Miss Antonia dismissed her, Justine went upstairs, eager to draw her bath and wash away the previous night's amours.
    Since it was still early, there was plenty of hot water and a thick cloud of steam filled the bathroom. She slipped out of her nightdress and hung it on the back of the door. As she drew the long pins to let her hair down, she studied herself in the mirror on the wall. Her African and Cherokee blood had given her features an exotic cast that sometimes drew stares on the street. Her skin was au-lait brown, her eyes oval and slanted over high cheekbones. Her nose had a gentle Indian curve and when she smiled her mouth was a full bow.

    She had kept a good body, too. Her hips and bust were full curves on a short and slender frame that carried little fat. It was such a fine figure that she could have rested on it alone and earned herself a good living. But unlike most of the Storyville doves, she wasn't a shallow woman. She had gone to school; she knew how to read and she could write with some skill. She had finished every book Valentin had kept in their rooms, and she regularly bought penny novels from the sellers on the street. Valentin had even discussed his cases with her, and had asked for her opinions. He was the only man who had ever treated her that way.
    The bathtub was full. She tested it before slipping into steaming water that was all fragrant with the scent of camellias. She sank down and put her head back until all but her face was submerged, and house and the world outside fell into a watery silence. She closed her eyes, felt her muscles flow away from her bones. It was always at times like this that her musings drifted to Valentin. After her little chat with Miss Antonia, those thoughts made a beeline.
    She had gone away from him after the Black Rose murders, and then they were thrown together in a terrible dance during the jass killings. A few days after that case ended, he got on a train and left New Orleans. Justine's sadness at his departure was tinged with relief that all her anguish over him was finished. She went back to the sporting life. It was her profession, for good or ill; and for the first time in a long time, she felt a little peace.
    Over the months that followed, she would sometimes sit at her window on quiet nights, looking out into the darkness and wondering where he was. She pictured him walking down the back street of some dirty city or along a narrow, dusty country road, and always alone. As time went by and he didn't return, he seemed to dim in her mind, grow smaller, more distant.

    Then, five weeks ago, he reappeared. He made no effort to find her, and part of her didn't want to see him, either, so she stayed away. It appeared they were settling into an unspoken agreement to avoid each other, even as they walked the same banquettes every day.
    For a few seconds she dropped into the deeper silence beneath the water, then pushed her face out again. She knew it couldn't go on like that forever. Sooner or later they would meet, by choice or accident. She tried to imagine the look on his face and what words might come out of his mouth when it finally did happen and came up with nothing, as if he really was a stranger.

    When Valentin got back to Marais Street, the kid who went by the moniker Beansoup came rushing out the front door of Mangetta's Grocery to intercept him.
    "Mr. Valentin!" Beansoup yelled, louder than was necessary. "Hey, Mr. Valentin!"
    The detective saw that the kid, now a professional street Arab of