Autumn 1904 – The Sea is Made of Tears

 

Inspector Glass scrutinized me. “You haven’t changed a bit, Rose,” he said. 

I smiled despite my exhaustion. It was only polite. I said, “Ten years isn’t that long, Ira.”

He ran a hand through his hair and said, “It’s long enough for the shingles to start falling off. But you haven’t a wrinkle.”

I patted his shoulder. I said, “Your flattery needs work. Now tell me how a rich man drowned in Golden Gate Park.”