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“I agree.”
    “Why would she tamper with evidence?”
    “She’s a sheltered twenty-five-year-old socialite who has no clue. From what I’ve learned so far, she attended Miss Porter’s School before earning a degree in history from Vassar. She’s a volunteer at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A mere portion of the interest from her trust fund allows her to support half a dozen artists in the New England area alone.”
    Frank shifted in his chair, relaxing his grip on the armrests. Edwin Daly wasn’t interested in Miss Vaccarelli because of their joint love for art. He knew she was Van Kelly’s sister. For someone who wanted to lengthen his tentacles in the mafiosi, a marriage to a mafiosikin would do it. Much like Society.
    “According to the girl’s lawyer,” continued Henkel, “Miss Vaccarelli believes the police are corrupt.”
    “Some are.”
    “Her lawyer managed to persuade her to go to Cady.”
    The black desk phone rang.
    Henkel picked it up. “Yes?” His gaze shifted to the opened window as he listened to whoever was on the other end. “I’ll have someone there in an hour.” In his usual abrupt manner, he hung up the phone without a goodbye. He looked to Frank. “Cady can’t charge Kelly with murder because the witnesses are dead, but he can bring him up on counterfeiting and, now that we know his real name, money laundering, which Cady wants to use to pressure Kelly into turning state’s evidence. Cady isn’t satisfied with one fish. He wants the whole pond.”
    And the pond was full of bigger fish than Van “the Shadow” Kelly.
    Frank glanced again at the wall clock to the left of Henkel’s desk. He needed to get back to his files. One way or another, he was going to arrest Billy O’Flaherty and the corrupt prosecutor Daly.
    “Louden,” Henkel said in that agonizingly slow voice of his, “your record is spotless, schooling exceptional and marksmanship perfect. I can’t find a single person in the courthouse not convinced you’re the best and brightest deputy I have. If you were a female, you’d be the most sought-after debutante at the ball.”
    And then there was that but coming...
    “But,” Henkel drawled out, “you’re not living up to your potential.”
    Funny, his father had put it a different way: Relying on your wit and a charming smile isn’t going to get you appointed chief marshal.
    Frank leaned forward in his seat and ensured his face was devoid of all amusement. “What is it you need of me?”
    “I need you to get Miss Vaccarelli out of Cady’s offices without anyone noticing her and hide her somewhere safe until she can return to testify at the hearing deposition in three weeks.”
    Three weeks?
    Frank sat very still, as a gentleman should. No wincing or fidgeting despite his annoyance. He could have Daly and O’Flaherty arrested in that time. Nannying a witness for twenty-one days sounded as enjoyable as grooming his grandmother’s Pomeranian.
    “Oh,” Henkel continued, “and find out if she knows anything else.”
    “Wouldn’t Norma be better suited for this job? My skills are more suited to arresting criminals than being a witness nanny.”
    Henkel’s brows rose, yet the corner of his mouth indented slightly. “A fitting word choice. Nevertheless, because Miss Vaccarelli removed the counterfeit bills from the family safe, without her testimony, the prosecution has nothing to connect her brother to the sourdough. Van Kelly will go free, and I will do anything I can to stop that from happening.” He rested his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled together, his gaze intently focused on Frank. “This is the type of high-profile job that can ensure a deputy his—or her—choice of promotions. Would you rather I offer it to Miss Hogan?”
    Although Henkel had no intention of promoting Norma Hogan as the next chief marshal of the Southern District of New York, Frank understood the message. The job was his if he pulled this off. His heart, like that of a