Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) Nick Wisseman (best management books of all time txt) 📖

“I’ll ask, but the more I mention your name, the more likely Copeland is to call you in for questioning next.”

“I don’t care. I need to speak with Mr. DeBell. One way or another.”

“Right ... I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Brin squeezed Neva’s arm as Wiley waded back into the river of uniforms. “How can I help?”

She studied the Administration Building for a moment, trying to guess where Mr. DeBell was being held. “Think he’s in the drunk tank?”

“Likely.”

“Can you get me in?”

Brin wrinkled her nose and gave Administration an examination of her own. “If it were built of metal, I could mold you an opening. But I expect it’s mostly staff plastered onto wood, like the rest of the Fair.”

“If I cut an opening, I could stay in the walls—bend around the laths until I found a safe exit point.”

“Hard to say where you’d end up, though, and who’d be there to watch you wriggle through ... What if you just walked in?”

“I’d love to, but why wouldn’t they just throw me out?”

“They won’t if you look the part.” Brin jerked her thumb at the Machinery Hall. “Wiley snagged a few extra Guardsman uniforms when we were planning something for the 4th of July. Never came to anything, but we’ve still got the duds. Right now, I’d say you’d fill them out in all the wrong places. But you being you ...”

Neva nodded. “I’ll make it work.” She wouldn’t be able to hide her skin tone. Yet if she compressed her hips and pulled in her ribs to conceal the swell of her breasts, maybe the dim lighting would help her pass for Arthur Johnson, the only colored Columbian Guard. Hopefully he was off tonight.

Brin grinned. “Let’s make you a lad, then.”

Moving briskly, they went back into the Machinery Hall, which would remain open for another few minutes. Fairgoers still teemed around the exhibits, but the storage room was empty—Quill, Roland, and Pieter had apparently decided to finish their plotting elsewhere.

Brin motioned to the rear. “The uniforms are in a crate marked ‘Stray bolts.’ I’ll watch the door. You go bend yourself into a bloke.’”

Neva had to cast around a bit before she located the correct box. The smallest coat was big on her, and the slimmest pants several inches too long. She folded them where she could, stretching as much as she was able without tearing her skin or collapsing from pain. Squaring her jaw hurt even worse—almost as bad as expanding her nose—yet both alterations would make her look more masculine. The overall effect probably wouldn’t have been believable in the daytime. But if she pulled her cap low, avoided the Court of Honor’s roving colored spotlights, and kept to the shadows, she might just make it inside the Administration Building.

“Impressive,” Brin judged when Neva emerged. “If a bit ugly.”

“Ugly’s fine—I’ve never done this before.” Pain aside, the process had been surprisingly easy. No visualizing a supple bamboo shoot, or an elastic spiderweb, or some other overwrought metaphor. She’d simply pictured Arthur.

But it was the uniform that made the impersonation possible.

“Thank you for this,” Neva said quietly. “Truly.”

“Sure.”

“There’s no envelope, you know.” Reaching down, she shortened her pant cuffs another few inches, folding them on the inside so the adjustment wouldn’t be as obvious. “What I said to Roland ...”

“I know why you said it, and I don’t fault you for it.” Brin crossed her arms. “Roland’s an arse. Good in a fight, but Wiley and I have been thinking on cutting him loose for a while now.”

“I wish you already had.” Neva straightened. “What he said about Wiley, though, about him loving a Zulu girl before—is that true?”

“As far as I know. But you’d do better to ask him about it.”

“Fair.”

Brin looked at her a moment longer before squeezing her arm. “Keep your fever in check.”

“I’ll try.”

They parted after exiting into the Court of Honor, Brin heading back to the Columbian Fountain and Neva circling around to approach Administration from the west. Just before she lost sight of Brin, Neva saw Wiley striding up to the Irishwoman, his handsome face already scowling as he realized she was alone.

Brin would cover for her, though. Right now, she had to focus on weaving through a mess of agitated, twitchy men while passing as one of them. So that she could speak with her father. Who’d been imprisoned for murder—and might well be guilty of it.

Jesus.

Gritting her teeth, Neva threaded her way through the crowd and into Administration. No one paid her a second glance. The Columbian Guards seemed at a loss as to how to respond to a situation they clearly hadn’t been trained for; the Pinkertons and Chicago Policemen were only compounding the confusion by shouting orders and trying to supersede each other’s authority. The commotion had already drawn one reporter, and even as he was bodily thrown out into the Court of Honor, another two appeared with notebooks in hand.

It was a useful mess, though—aside from providing cover, the multiple arguments revealed more information than Neva had been able to glean from Wiley:

“DeBell’s mind is all a fog,” a swarthy Pinkerton noted to his colleague. “Or at least, he’s pretending it to be.”

“He confessed to the killings, didn’t he?” the other noted.

“Some of them, with details we didn’t make public. But he says he can’t remember the rest. Why give yourself up if you’re not willing to tell all?”

“Maybe he’s gone mad. Or mad-der, more like.”

“No, he’s playing at something. Just you wait.”

Such speculation was rampant throughout most of Administration. But the conversations faded to whispers as Neva drew closer to the drunk tank—the men in the adjoining hallway seemed to be straining to hear as much as they could through the closed door. She was beginning to debate the best method for getting nearer when a wiry Columbian Guard opened the door the minimum amount necessary to step through, slipped into the hallway, and shut the door behind him.

“For God’s sake,” the guard