Lowe grunted vaguely as anger rolled over him in waves.

Houston thumbed through files with one hand as he stubbed his cigarette out with the other. “Anyway, if she said it was a mistake, that’s her problem for lifting her skirt. I enjoyed myself. I mean, come on. Have you gotten a look at the ass on her? Now that’s something to—”

Fury blotted out good sense, and Lowe finally snapped. He shot forward on a growl and savagely slammed the file cabinet drawer shut on the man’s hand. Bone cracked. Houston cried out. Lowe released the drawer, and the curator fell back, holding out his injured hand in horror.

“My fingers!”

Indeed. At least three were broken, judging from the grotesque way they bent back at the knuckles. Bright red blood pooled in his palm. Tears of pain flowed as he grimaced and hollered again. “I’ll have you arrested, you lunatic!” he bit out between sobs.

“What’s my last name?” Lowe said. “Heard of my family? Go on, have me arrested. I dare you. In fact, I dare you to tell the entire museum that this wasn’t a self-inflicted accident.”

Realization flooded the man’s face. He said nothing in response, just stumbled backward and shuddered violently while cradling his hand.

Lowe tugged on his cap and headed toward the door as people stampeded toward Houston’s office. He reckoned he should be able to slip into the museum corridor before anyone saw him. “And if you say another crude word about Hadley—one fucking word—I’ll break more than your fingers.”

SIXTEEN

THE FOLLOWING DAY, HADLEY boarded a streetcar a little before noon. Because it was usually faster than calling a cab, she often took public transportation during lunch, so she knew her father wouldn’t suspect anything amiss. Lowe had called to suggest a meeting place; he had the list of names.

After changing cars that climbed in and out of thickening fog, she ended up at Fisherman’s Wharf and immediately spotted Lowe on the sidewalk, standing heads above hurried pedestrians flanking Jefferson Street.

They strode toward each other and met near a newsstand. She was breathing far too hard for ten paces—could she look any more eager to see him? Good heavens.

“You managed to sneak out,” he said, looking terribly pleased and terribly handsome in his long blue gray coat and matching fedora.

“I wouldn’t call it sneaking, exactly. I told Miss Tilly I’d be gone a couple of hours.”

“The best lies are half truths,” he quipped. “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Me, too. I’m taking you to one of the best places to eat in the city.”

She glanced around the wharf’s warehouses, lumberyard, and boats. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it. Do they serve lemon pie?”

He laughed. “No, but it’s on my list of favorites. Trust me. Come on.”

The scent of sharp ocean brine filled her nostrils as they made their way down the promenade. A row of Tin Lizzies and delivery trucks lined the curb to their left while fog-wreathed trawlers and seiners bobbed in the Bay on their right. “Did you take Lulu?”

He shook his head. “Bo dropped me off.”

“You know, I did wonder what would happen if you’d driven the motorcycle and it rained.”

“I’d get wet.”

She squinted at him and smiled.

“How’s the office?” he asked.

“It’s calmed down since yesterday.”

“Oh?” he said, the personification of innocence. “What happened yesterday?”

She lifted her mink coat collar to shield her neck from the nippy breeze. “Mr. Houston was rushed to the hospital. Word today is that he’s resting at home with four broken fingers.”

“You don’t say.”

“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it,” he said cheerfully.

“So that wasn’t you I saw racing through the back door into the museum.”

“You know I never run out the back door, Hadley.”

“Of course.” She glanced at a trawler chugging closer to shore. “George didn’t say anything about me, did he?”

“A jackass like that? Who would bother listening?” He straightened his hat brim. “But I’ll tell you what, when you get your father’s position? The first thing I’d do if I were you is fire dear old George Houston.”

Hadley didn’t respond, just lifted her collar higher to hide the smile she couldn’t repress.

At the foot of Taylor Street, they strolled by wholesale fish stalls. Here, on the sidewalk over wood-burning stoves, peddlers stirred bubbling cauldrons of crab fresh off the boats and sold them to passersby for twenty cents each. But Lowe was headed to stall number eight, where an Italian couple was serving clam chowder. Dockworkers and a few middle-class businessmen sat at plain wooden tables with benches under a covered area. Lowe gave one of the diners a friendly wave and marched up to the counter.

“Lowe!” the pretty dark-haired woman said, coming around the counter to embrace him, kissing both his cheeks. “We saw your photograph in the newspaper. Struck it rich in Egypt, didya?”

“Not yet, but I’m trying,” he said, shaking the man’s hand across the counter.

“Famous archaeologist,” the man said with a grin. “Be careful—you might give your family a good name.”