The Edge of Dreams by Rhys Bowen

said. “There is a mail drop in the main station area. As you can imagine thousands of people pass it all the time. But we set a man to keep watch there day and night and the next note was posted at the main post office.”
    “He’s one step ahead of you all the time,” I said.
    “It certainly seems that way.”
    “When did these notes start coming, Daniel?”
    “The first one came in May, right after you’d sailed for Europe. Right before the first murder.”
    “And what did it say?”
    “It said ‘When I was alive I was unjustly accused of a crime I didn’t commit. Now I am dead I can exact retribution with impunity.’”
    “Holy Mother of God!” I exclaimed. “We’re dealing with a ghost.”
    I stared at Daniel not knowing what to say.
    “Now you see why this is complicated.” Daniel said. “I can’t help feeling that someone is having a good laugh at our expense. Obviously I don’t believe in ghosts and I certainly don’t think that they can mail letters from Grand Central Depot. Or use typewriting machines, for that matter.”
    “So it has to be a living person claiming to be someone else, someone who has died,” I said slowly, considering each word as it came out. “Maybe someone who feels a relative or friend was punished unjustly and wants revenge on his behalf?”
    “That’s possible, I suppose,” Daniel said.
    I was warming to this idea. “And he feels you were responsible for the wrongful conviction and death of this person. That should be easy enough to trace, Daniel. You need to come up with a list of people who were executed based on your investigation and evidence. There can’t be that many.”
    “I’ve been in the police department for fifteen years, Molly. I’ve been involved in quite a few murder investigations.”
    “But not hundreds, surely. How many murder trials are there each year, for the love of Mike? And how many result in a death sentence?”
    He nodded. “Yes, I suppose it’s not an overwhelming number. But it may not necessarily have been a murder trial followed by an execution. It may have been as simple as someone dying as a result of a disease he caught while in prison, or being murdered by another inmate. Or even someone who died of shock or grief after a trial. How could I ever check on those?”
    “You could start with what I suggested,” I said, quite animated by the challenge now and forgetting the twinges in my side. “A list of all your murder trials, especially the ones that resulted in a death sentence. That gives us somewhere to start. I’m surprised you haven’t done that before.”
    A spasm of annoyance crossed Daniel’s face and I realized I shouldn’t have said this. Daniel liked to think of himself as the superior detective, with me as the lucky amateur.
    “To be fair, Molly,” he said, “it was only today, after this last note, that I began to take seriously the notion that these killings could have anything to do with me in particular, rather than the police in general. I still don’t know that to be true.”
    I was about to say that I had been the one who suggested that he might be the link between the crimes, but this time I wisely kept quiet. Men are easily upset over such matters, I’ve noted.
    “We do know a couple of things about him, don’t we?” I went on.
    “And those are?” He still sounded testy.
    “We know that he’s an educated person. He knows how to use a typewriting machine and he uses words like ‘retribution’ and ‘impunity.’ That is not the vocabulary of a man in the street.”
    “And the other thing?”
    “He is right here in New York City. On the spot, ready to hand a note to a street urchin. That’s something I could do for you when I’m a little better—”
    “What?” He was looking at me warily.
    “I could question some of the street children in the area around Mulberry Street. They’d never talk to the police but they might see me as less of a threat. And the man may have paid the boy