A .38, a nip of gin, and sensational legs get Depression-era private investigator Maggie Sullivan out of most scrapes—until a stranger threatens to bust her nose, she’s hauled in on suspicion of his murder, and she finds herself in the cross-hairs of a crime boss with connections at City Hall.
Moving through streets where people line up at soup kitchens, Maggie draws information from sources others overlook: the waitress at the dime store lunch counter where she has breakfast; a ragged newsboy; the other career girls at her rooming house.
Her digging gets her chloroformed and left in a ditch behind the wheel of her DeSoto. She makes her way to an upscale bordello and gets tea—and information—from the madam herself.
A gunman puts a bullet through Maggie’s hat. Her shutterbug pal on the evening paper warns her off. A new cop whose presence unsettles her thinks she’s crooked. Before she finds all the answers she needs, she faces a half-crazed man with a gun, and a far more lethal point-blank killer.
If you like Robert B. Parker’s hard boiled Spencer series and strong women sleuths, don’t miss this one-of-a-kind Ohio detective from a time in United States history when dames wore hats—but seldom a Smith & Wesson.