With the little competition she’d thrown together gathering all the attention, no one was the wiser of what she had going on behind the scenes.
And she was right in the middle of it all.
They were all blind.
And stupid.
But if she’d learned anything from her own papa, it was that pulling a con meant staying in control and knowing everything that was happening. The best way for her to accomplish that was to be one of the players on the chess board.
An innocent, harmless, beautiful player.
Walking up the steps to the museum’s entry, she had to laugh at her own thoughts. Innocent and harmless.
How many people had she duped over the years?
It never got old.
SATURDAY, JUNE8, 1889
For more than six weeks, Cole had followed the trail. All over Colorado, Wyoming, and even into Utah. Some of the leads had turned out to be nothing. But a few gems had stood out. Three other murders with a lady’s white kid glove over the man’s chest. Spread years apart. With nothing connecting them.
Mr. Gilbert was willing to do whatever it took to catch his son’s killer. But convincing Hart—Cole’s boss—to give him more money and time had been torturous. It wasn’t until he mentioned the multiple murders that Hart agreed to at least keep him on the case.
The last two weeks had been discouraging. One dead end after another. Even so, he’d come back to Denver to see what else he could find out, specifically about Edwin.
He was missing something. Something important. But what?
Perhaps he just needed to get out on foot and interview anyone and everyone he could. It would give the town gossips plenty of fodder and get the word out that he was investigating. Besides, at this point, what other choice did he have? He was a Pinkerton. And a good one too.
A half an hour later, Cole walked into the McGovern Tavern. It was the middle of the afternoon, so the clients were scarce. The barkeep chatted with a portly man at the end of the bar. Two men sat at a corner table on the opposite side of the room, a card game spread between them. Someone played the upright piano opposite the two men, but the person was obscured from view.
Cole sat on a stool a few down from the portly man at the bar.
“What’ll ya have?” The bartender slapped a towel over his shoulder and leaned forward.
Cole waved a hand. “Too early in the day for me. But I did have a few questions about a man who used to come here. If you have a moment.”
The man pushed off the bar. He glared at Cole. “You the police?”
“No. Just a friend of someone who is concerned about his son.”
“Who?”
“Edwin Gilbert.”
“Ah.”
That response was about as helpful as a buggy on a sand dune. “Did you know him?”
“I did. He came around few times a week for different poker games.”
Cole pulled the photo from his pocket. He wanted to be sure. “This him?”
The man leaned forward and nodded. “Gilbert was good people.”
“Was he a drunk?”
“Nah. He loved his cards, gambled away most of whatever money he had for the week. But he wouldn’t touch any drink.”
