8:22 p.m.

He touched her things.

She was locked up a block away. He parked at 1st and Hill, so he’d be close. He couldn’t go home. Whose purse is that? Helen Parker, meet Kay Lake.

He filched the purse from the property room. He got in and out, unseen. Claire De Haven’s slaves fomented. The Queen herself looked sedated. Miss Lake swapped jokes with the jailer. The man thought she was a sketch.

Joan Conville’s picture sat on the dashboard. Miss Conville, meet Miss Lake.

Parker went through the purse. It was scotch-grained leather. Miss Lake owned a cheap lighter. It was a fight-night souvenir. Bleichert versus Saldivar, 4/12/39.

Lipstick-blotted tissues. A paisley scarf. A ticket stub for the Carthay Circle Theatre. She’d gone to the first L.A. showing of Gone with the Wind.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. They were supposed to work together all through the war. She was supposed to gain Claire De Haven’s trust and slowly come to know her perfidy. They were supposed to work together as the Allies won the war and the Queen worked to further the Kremlin’s agenda. They were supposed to build evidence and drink Russian vodka to toast the impaneled grand jury.

A cross on a chain. All too Protestant. A tortoiseshell comb and barrette.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. She was supposed to snap photographs at two dozen locations. They were supposed to dissect the subversive mind-set in a thousand late-night talks.

The cross was chipped at the four corners. She’d clutched it in girlish prayer or skeptic’s frustration. Her hair brush matched the comb and barrette. Auburn strands were laced in.

A lipstick tube, a compact, a blue handkerchief.

He held the fabric up to his cheek. He recalled her scent that first Monday in the rain.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. They were out to create a decorous courtroom document. They were out to destroy a barbarous ideology. They were supposed to exchange letters and call each other Katherine and William in due time.

Parker emptied out the purse and put everything back in perfect order. He saw a rip in the lining. He felt something inside it.

He reached in. He touched a slick surface. He pulled out two film strips.

They were both two feet long. One was fully developed. One was a white-on-black negative.

He flicked on the dashboard light. He held the strips up, side by side. The developed strip showed images of two men talking. The negative strip showed a still figure.

Parker squinted at the white-on-black. He recognized the cut of her dress. It was her speech yesterday.

Blood libel.

“We are thus charged to the near-impossible task of enacting love that much more ruthlessly, and with a self-sacrifice that would have been unknowable had History not summoned us. At this moment, our options become do everything or do nothing.”

Katherine, the valiant and foolish.

He ran his eyes down the strip. She barely moved. The picture run encompassed just seconds. He saw her in mute white on black. He heard her every word.

Blood libel. Moral duty and small-minded fear. Sioux Falls and Deadwood. Sodden Indians and nativist fiends.

He studied the developed strip. He recognized details and followed them, frame by frame.

1st and San Pedro. He knew that building. He knew that tall man, with that hat. It’s Ed Satterlee. There’s a small Chinaman. It’s Ace Kwan’s toady, Quon Chin.

Quon ran bag to Call-Me-Jack. Quon pimped Chinese girls to Brenda Allen. Quon laid bribes on the County Zoning Board.

Quon killed sixteen rival tong men. Quon purportedly beheaded four hundred Jap soldiers after the Rape of Nanking.

Parker studied the strip. Bravos to Kay Lake. She knew what she saw.

A bagman, a rogue Fed, a payoff. An evidential hole card—nailed on film.

He prayed off The Thirst. Sunday Mass would mark five days sober. He heard sirens running eastbound on 1st Street. It was ambulance pitch.

He saw cherry lights spin outside the station. Something said NO—

Christmas shoppers swarmed Hill Street. Buses blocked the north-south lanes. Some loudspeaker blared “Jingle Bells.”

He ran. He left his prowl car unlocked. He ran and got winded inside two seconds. His holster flopped and almost flew off. He ran across Hill Street. He sideswiped a thin Santa Claus.

An ambulance was parked outside the station. Two men rolled a gurney up. A big woman was strapped in. She wore Sheriff’s green. She was nothing but slash wounds and blood.

She shrieked. She shrieked for Ruthie and Huey. Parker sidestepped the gurney and ran up the steps.

He went through the door. The desk sergeant saw him. Oh shit, Whiskey Bill, what’s this here—

Parker tumbled up to the desk. He got “Katherine Lake” out in one breath. The desk man got the heebie-jeebies. He double-clutched and slid a key across the desk.

He said, “The bin.”

Parker grabbed the key. He wheeled and saw a dozen plainclothesmen, all huddled up. They cordoned off the hallway and looked straight at him. He looked straight back.

Those looks traveled. Those looks talked. Parker caught his breath and walked toward them. They looked at one another and passed signals. They stood aside and let him walk.

He walked. He walked to a bisecting hallway and turned right. The padded cell—it’s that white door.

He jammed in the key and turned it. The door was dead-heavy. He shouldered it in.

She wore a straitjacket. Her arms were laced tight. Her face was blood-crust swollen. Her hair was patched black and matted red.

Parker went to her.

Her eyes told him to untie her.

Her eyes told him to brush that one crust off her cheek.

Her eyes said Lift me. You can do it. I’ll be light for you.

He did all of it.

Her eyes said Carry Me Now.