“You’ll do no such thing, Sam Lloyd! You got us into this mess. Now we’re stuck.”
“Is that so? Tell me why I shouldn’t fess up to the news boys.”
“Do you know how many calls the radio station got today about us? One thousand!”
“A… thousand?”
“One-oh-oh-oh, brother. And they’re still calling! Mr. Phillips wants to put me on two nights a week. This is going to make me famous. More famous.” She glared at Sam. “You, too, I suppose.”
Sam rubbed his chin, grinning. “I bet I’d be good at being famous.”
“How lucky for us all,” Evie snapped. “The point is, if you tell them it was just a joke now, I’ll look like a joke, too. Nobody wants to back a joke. Makes people grumpy. There’s only one solution, I’m afraid. We’ve got to play out this hand for a bit.”
The waiter delivered a plate of rolls and Evie dove for it. Being anxious made her hungry. She could’ve eaten ten rolls. Sam laced his fingers and leaned his elbows on the table, inching his face closer to Evie’s. “Yeah? What do I get out of this deal, Baby Vamp?”
“I agree not to kill you,” Evie said around a mouthful of bread. She twirled the butter knife between her fingers.
“Your terms are generous,” Sam said. “But I have two conditions of my own.”
Evie swallowed her lump of bread. She narrowed her eyes to slits. “I will not pet with you. You can cross that one off the list right now.”
Sam smirked. He dabbed a spot of butter from her face with his napkin. “Doll, I have never had to make petting part of a contract. Every girl in my rumble seat has been happy to be there. I had something else in mind.”
Evie didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. “What?” she said, wary.
Sam’s smirk vanished. “Project Buffalo.”
Project Buffalo. Sam’s obsession. According to him, it was some secret government operation during the war, and his mother, Miriam, had been a part of it. She’d left home when Sam was only eight and never returned. The official record said that she’d died of influenza, but two years ago Sam had received a postcard—no return address—with the words Find me, Little Fox on the back in Russian. The handwriting was unmistakably his mother’s. Sam had run away from home and made it his mission to find her.
“Sam,” Evie said as gently as possible, “don’t you think maybe it’s time to let that go? You say you don’t believe in ghosts, but Project Buffalo is a ghost. And you let it haunt you.”
“Evie, Project Buffalo took my mother away from me. And I will not rest until I know what happened to her.”
Sam’s expression was one of grim determination, but Evie could see the hurt there. She knew what it was to lose someone you loved so dearly. If there had been a hope that James was still alive, Evie would’ve followed every lead until she found him.
“Fair enough,” Evie said. “What’s the matter? You look like somebody put hot peppers in your Burma Shave.”
Sam drummed his fingers on the table. “Evie, did your uncle ever mention Project Buffalo to you?”
“No. Why on earth would you think Will would know anything about that?”
“I got a tip.”
Evie raised an eyebrow. “Tips are for cabdrivers and horse races, Sam.”
“Hold on. I need to show you something.” Sam fished out his wallet and extracted a folded napkin. “There’s a fella, used to work for the government. Knows all sorts of secrets, and occasionally, he coughs something up for me. I asked him about my mother and Project Buffalo. He told me it’s still going on. And he got me a name of somebody he said knew about it.”
Sam slid her the napkin. Evie stared at the name written there: Will Fitzgerald.
Evie bit her lip. “When did you say your creepy man gave this to you?”
“He’s not a creepy man.…”
“Fine, your ‘clandestine acquaintance,’ then.”
“About two months ago.”
“Two months ago,” Evie repeated.
“Yeah. Two months ago. Why’re you making that face?”
Evie shook her head. “Sam, Sam, Sam. I never thought of you as gullible.”
“I’m a lot of things, sister, but gullible isn’t one of them. And since when did you become an expert on informants?”
“I don’t know anything about spying,” Evie said, pouring milk into her coffee. “But I do know human nature. Think, Sam: two months ago? The Pentacle Murders?”
