“Look, Rico,” Jenny said, as they met at the end of a quiet hallway in the police station. “You don’t need to know who it belongs to. Can’t you just run it and let me know what you find?”
“Listen, Jenny. You want to drop off an anonymous tip? Fine. I can keep your name out of it. But these things have registration numbers, you know. Come on. Don’t make me play Dick Tracy. Just tell me who you got it from and I can tell you if it’s even their gun.”
Jenny balked, not wanting to involve Kathryn if she didn’t have to. “It’s just a friend that may be in trouble. I need to know, and I’d rather not provide a name.”
Rico opened the large mustard colored envelope in his hand and then suddenly looked up. “Not that singer?”
“What?” Jenny said a little too quickly.
“The singer down at The Grotto?”
“How do you know about her?”
“Are you kidding? Forrester’s moll? Bernie.” He didn’t have to say any more than his name for Jenny to know that Bernie had opened his big mouth. “She was booked in here a few months ago,” Rico went on, oblivious to the breach of confidence, “caught in a gambling raid. Forrester and his group slipped through the cracks, as usual, but he left her here overnight, cooling her heels. Can you believe that? He had his fancy lawyer spring her in the morning, pretended he was shocked—shocked to find her in an unlawful gambling establishment. What a swell guy.” He shook his head as he numbered the envelope and stuck the gun inside. “I’ll never understand why lookers like her fall for shady characters like Forrester.”
“Maybe they don’t have a choice.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t forget a dame like that. Surly broad. But when they look like that, who cares, eh?” He nudged her arm and winked. Now Jenny remembered why she let Bernie deal with Rico.
“Four thirty, Rico,” she said. She pointed a warning finger at him as she turned to leave. “It’s imperative that I have that back by four thirty.”
“Sure thing, doll.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“I might just hold you to that.”
As Jenny walked down the hallway, she knew Rico was watching her ass. “Bernie comes next time,” she said to herself. “That is, if I don’t kill him first. Blabbermouth.”
Jenny found the office in upheaval when she arrived. An editor was out with the flu, which meant their workload fell to her; the pressroom moved up her column deadline; and her uncle chewed her out for being late. The hectic workday was a blessing. It took her mind off wondering whether Kathryn was a murderer, and it took her mind off becoming a murderer herself when she got a hold of Bernie.
She looked at her watch as she rushed to the production department to turn in her assignment. One thirty. Surely Rico would know something by now.
“Jenny!” Bernie yelled from behind as he bounded down the hallway.
“Can’t stop for lunch now, hon.” She kept walking, waving her papers. “My day has been insane.”
“Jenny.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her off to the side.
“Honestly, Bernie …” She paused, remembering she was mad at him. “Say, listen.” She put her hands on her hips. “What’s with the gossip report to Rico? I don’t—”
“Where is it?” he frantically interrupted.
“Where’s what?”
He looked conspiratorially both ways down the hallway, and Jenny leaned in, giving his tone the proper respect.
“The gun,” he whispered. “Where is it?”
“I gave it to Rico.”
“Oh, nuts.”
She leaned back. “What do you mean, oh nuts?”
He put his hands to his head. “Nuts, nuts, nuts.”
“Bernie. What?”
“I think you’ve been set up.”
“What?”
“The guy who was killed …”
“Yeah,” she drew out hesitantly.
“Vincent LaPaglia.”
Instant recognition widened her eyes, as horror, then confusion, took over. Scenes from her past played in her head as, piece by piece, the trail of events leading to the man’s murder pointed squarely at her. Last night was a year to the day of her father’s death. Vincent LaPaglia was the small-time criminal behind the wheel of the car that took his life.
The police report said that a blown tire caused Vincent LaPaglia to lose control of his car. The vehicle careened off the road, crossed the sidewalk, and plowed directly into the telephone booth where Daniel Ryan was killed. No charges were brought. It was deemed an accident. Jenny was outraged. Someone had to pay! Without another scapegoat, her father’s death fell on her shoulders for keeping him on the line with her juvenile argument. She couldn’t bear that weight. She marched into the police station and argued loudly with anyone who would listen that LaPaglia was no choir boy; he had a record as long as her arm and was far from innocent. He must have been speeding, or drunk, or distracted. There must be a witness—it’s New York City, for crying out loud!
Her protests fell on deaf ears, so she moved on to plan B. She contacted engineers and physicists at the university, professors and students, and tried to get them to mathematically recreate the scene to prove the driver was speeding, or that the angle was wrong for an accident—anything! It couldn’t be her fault. It couldn’t.
In the end, she had to accept responsibility, and she buckled under the weight of it. The anonymous phone call blaming Forrester gave her a reprieve from her guilt, but only briefly. The lack of evidence connecting Forrester to her father revealed the futility of her quest, and the danger she’d put Kathryn in pushed her to finally accept the truth. It was an accident. Her guilt was self-inflicted, a product of the very human need to find answers. Especially answers that exonerate.
It was an accident. It was an accident right up until Bernie said the name Vincent LaPaglia. The guilt came rushing back, and with it the hope of a connection to Marcus Forrester. It couldn’t be a coincidence. There must be something there. She’d caused Forrester a headache, and now he was going to get rid of her by pinning LaPaglia’s murder on her. No one, especially the police, would doubt her capable after the public show she put on last year. She could see the scandalous headlines now: Doctor’s Daughter Exacts Revenge.
Her knees went weak, and Bernie grasped her arms to steady her.
“Jenny, you didn’t do anything. They can’t possibly connect you.”
“I was there last night, Bernie. The whole bar saw us. You stood on the table and made them sing “Happy Birthday” to me, remember?”
“So what? You never left the bar.”
“I was in the bathroom for a while. The window leads right out to the street, and I was the last one out of the bar … my fingerprints are all over that gun. They’re probably at my house right now, digging bullets out of my backyard … powder burns on my coat sleeve … God.” She slumped against the wall.
“It’s all circumstantial. That singer was with you too … the same bar, bathroom, fingerprints, powder burns.”
“Yeah, but she’s had time to cover her tracks.” Jenny anxiously tried to recall the details of the morning. “You know, she wouldn’t touch my gun? She concocted some lame story, but now I see she didn’t want to leave fingerprints.”
She was on the verge of crying. She’d stumbled into the middle of a murder, and she was the prime suspect. So typical. She’d laugh if it weren’t so serious.
“How could I have been so stupid? Like Kathryn Hammond is going to want me?”
“Cut it out,” Bernie said. “Call Rico. Get that gun back.”
Rico wasn’t at his desk when she called, and Jenny was growing frantic. She imagined the police on the way over to arrest her; they were just getting all of the paperwork in order first. She tried to concentrate on work but wasn’t very successful. She was thankful that she had gotten most of it done before Bernie made her a paranoid suspect. It was three thirty by the time she finally made her way back to her desk, and she couldn’t imagine what she’d say when Kathryn walked in the door in an hour.
She still tried to hang onto the hope that she actually was going to walk into the office, everything would be fine, Rico would give her good news, Bernie’s crazy, and she was crazy for listening to him. They’d have a good laugh over it, and he would owe her dinner times infinity for taking years off her life and giving her an ulcer. The thought of it made her smile briefly, but the longer Rico didn’t call, the more unlikely the happy scenario seemed. Her mind was working overtime.
Every minute that ticked by proved Kathryn Hammond had set her up, with Forrester pulling the strings. She couldn’t get the morning’s events out of her head. Kathryn pretended she didn’t want to leave the gun, that she didn’t want it cleaned. Jenny played into her hands by insisting, and then her fingerprints would be gone and Jenny’s would be all over it. Jenny was starting to feel sick again. Played like a damn fiddle.
She slumped into the chair at her desk and closed her eyes as paranoia swept over her. She listened to the last sounds of freedom: the collective clatter of busy typewriters, indistinct phone calls, and shuffling paper drifting through the office.
“Message for you, hon,” the gum-snapping girl from the message board said, dropping a note on her desk. “Urgent.”
It was from Rico, in the code they had decided on: Laundry’s clean and will be delivered before the close of your business day.
Jenny threw her head back and almost laughed out loud.
“Yes!” she said to the ceiling.
The gun was clean. Kathryn Hammond was clean. She had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown all day for nothing. Bernie would be off the hook for the dinners because she was definitely going to kill him. He had started the whole rollercoaster ride with his phone call in the morning. She didn’t think anyone had a more vivid imagination than she did, but he outdid her today.
She put her head down on the desk and let the ridiculous day drain away.
“You okay, kiddo?” her uncle asked as he passed on his way to his office.
She lifted her head. “Heck of a day, Uncle Paul. Heck of a day.”
“Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?”
“I feel alive, all right.”
“Are you almost through?”
“Yeah, I’ve got another half hour, then I’m meeting someone here at four thirty.”
“Oh? That handsome soldier?”
“Not exactly. Just a friend.”
Forrester’s business partners talked carefully in coded words like product and expiration dates. Kathryn feigned moderate disinterest while she nursed a cigarette and took mental notes of export dates and hit lists, the meaning of the aforementioned code words. It amused her to no end that Forrester thought her oblivious to his illegal activities. At first, she was surprised that he invited her to these business meetings at all and wondered what his partners thought of it, having to speak in tongues, as it were, to keep their dirty dealings under wraps. But it was soon apparent that she was a useful tool in his negotiations, and she was glad, because some of the most valuable information had come from such occasions. She was never invited to legitimate business meetings—he needed respectability there—and flaunting his mistress just wouldn’t do, but his shady dealings had their own brand of respectability, and Kathryn definitely served a purpose.
“Cigarette me, will you, sweetheart?” Forrester said, interrupting the one potential partner who was not playing well with others today. This was her cue, the reason for her attendance. She afforded the wealthy industrialist the extra push some partners required and allowed him to gleefully exact his machismo. What I want is what I get, was his message—I will tame you as I have tamed this exotic creature, and you will succumb to me and my wishes as easily and completely as she. All of this he conveyed in a hooded sneer to the man disagreeing with him.
Kathryn would have rolled her eyes had she been able to get away with it. With these men, it was nothing more than a glorified pissing contest, not far removed from chest thumping cavemen with clubs and a woman over each shoulder.
She began her show. Her moves were deliberate, seductive, a film played at half speed. She removed a cigarette from her slim silver case. She smiled, ever so slightly, eyeing Forrester through the amused corners of her eyes as she tapped the cigarette on the case. His smirk acknowledged her routine, one he loved, as he watched it through the eyes of the men around him. It started innocently enough; she brought the cigarette to her waiting lips, while she took her time retrieving the lighter on the table. The whole time, she stared directly at the disagreeable man across from her. He was distracted by her gaze, as was the intention. There was no mistaking her message as she lit the cigarette, took a drag, and let the smoke drift slowly from her lips.
The man saw lust in her half-lidded eyes, and he nervously looked to Forrester before drifting back to the magnetic blue eyes behind the eventual exhale. Forrester just smiled, bringing the man’s focus back to him. He loved that part: the indecision in the man’s eyes, the hope, then the fear, then Forrester’s smile that told him not a chance in hell, and Kathryn’s confirmation as she smirked and removed the lipstick-stained cigarette, bringing it obediently to Forrester’s lips.
As he took a drag, she caressed his face with her retreating hand. The men around the table shifted uncomfortably.
The disagreeable man lost his train of thought. All in all, a successful cigarette, according to Forrester’s standards. The game went on as the sputtering conversation got back on track, and Kathryn leaned back in her chair, out of Forrester’s peripheral vision. She continued to look the man slowly up and down with unmistakable desire. He was distracted again. He recognized Forrester’s game but wondered if Kathryn had her own agenda. She’d seen it time and time again: just the slightest glimmer of hope, the off chance that she would be interested, that she’d, perhaps, put in a good word with Forrester, would keep men like these coming back, and in line. It occurred to her that hope must be in short supply, because it made people do the craziest things.
Kathryn once wondered what Forrester would do if someone stepped outside the game and actually made a move on her. It didn’t take long to find out the answer. He’d kill them. It made the game safe for her, and Forrester got the pleasure of seeing his associates burn with frustration and envy.
She watched the beads of sweat dot her target’s brow, as he finally had to ignore her in order to carry on a coherent conversation with his future partner. Kathryn looked away at last and smiled under her slightly bowed head, her job done. She ignored the glare of Forrester’s lawyer, Lloyd Robeson, a man she knew despised her. She always felt it was because he secretly held a torch for his boss, and he knew she knew. Forrester’s unusual sexual proclivities often made her wonder if he’d acted on the attraction at one time, something that would ruin him if exposed.
The mutual loathing between Kathryn and the lawyer was interrupted by two men entering the restaurant, and from their disheveled appearance, they were not customers. Anyone with a pair of eyes could tell they were police detectives, the way they looked around, the serious expressions, and, finally, the telltale hands on hips, seeking respect as they parted their overcoats to reveal badges clipped to their waistbands.
Kathryn exhaled. This would effectively end her lunch. Police made Forrester furious, never more so than when he was in the middle of a delicate negotiation. Bad for business, cops sniffing around with one more accusation they would never make stick. They did it on purpose, of course, and as part of Forrester’s misguided sense of propriety, he would send her away at the first sight of the law. It was automatic now; Kathryn no longer waited for the customary, “Would you excuse us, darling?”
The detectives weaved their way to the table. Kathryn made her excuses and stood to go to the ladies’ room.
“Ugh. Where is it?” Jenny hissed under her breath as she sat at her desk and looked at her watch. Rico had promised the gun would be returned before four thirty. It was four twenty-five and nothing yet. She wracked her brain for an excuse as to why she didn’t have the weapon to return. I forgot it, seemed daft, since it was ostensibly the reason for the meeting.
She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. The din of the room fell away, and she was amazed at her ability to focus until she realized it wasn’t the power of her concentration; the room really had gone significantly quieter. She opened her eyes and caught sight of her uncle in his office as he rose from his chair and removed his reading glasses. He wasn’t pleased.
Jenny turned to follow his gaze and found her four thirty appointment slinking down the aisle.
She smiled, wondering where Kathryn learned to walk like that, each step precisely in front of the last, forming a straight line, broken only by the sway of her gorgeous hips. Kathryn was commanding all attention in the office, with her stylish tailored powder blue suit and matching pillbox hat, perched at the perfect forward angle on her head, with the netting pulled mysteriously over her face. A runway model had nothing on her.
Jenny had an ear-to-ear grin, and she didn’t care who saw it. As Kathryn approached, she swore she was sneering at her uncle, who had now made his way to his office window, hands on hips.
“Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes,” Jenny said. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
“You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,” Kathryn countered, as she pulled a large mustard colored envelope from under her arm and threw it on the wooden desk with a resounding thud. She pointed at it. “Do you know what that is?”
Jenny had an idea, but she was afraid to look. Her eyes were involuntarily stuck on Kathryn’s face, which she could now make out through the netting of her hat. She was angry. Very angry. Her angular face was even more defined, which she didn’t think was possible. Her chin was down and her glare burned from under the shadow of her brow. Her lips were tight and her nostrils slightly flared—a bull seeing red.
“Do you know what that is?” Kathryn repeated impatiently.
Jenny swallowed and slowly turned her eyes to the package on her desk. She recognized the writing as Rico’s, and her eyes were drawn to the huge red stamp in the middle of the envelope.
“Evidence?” she said, not trying to be a smart ass, but at a total loss to explain what happened without it sounding absurd.
“Open it.”
Jenny reached for it but knew what she would find there, so she withdrew her hand. “I know what it is.”
“Would you care to tell me how and why it wound up at the police station?”
The office around them had begun to shift uncomfortably back to their own business, as they realized the paper’s favorite daughter had managed to get herself into trouble—again. Jenny bit her lip and tried to look anywhere but Kathryn’s direction. She glanced up at her uncle, who was very interested in the whole scene.
“Well?” Kathryn said, almost a whisper. Jenny would have rather she yelled at her. Controlled anger always scared her, because you never knew when it would boil over.
“Let’s take this elsewhere,” Jenny said, slowly rising from her chair and sliding the envelope with her.
“Fine,” Kathryn said, and then she followed her down the aisle to a vacant outer office.
They entered the office, and Jenny jumped as Kathryn slammed the door shut behind her.
Jenny raised her hand. “Before you say anything ...”
Kathryn lifted the netting from her face, placing her full anger on display. Jenny was unprepared for the fury in her stare. Eyes remembered as a soothing blue were now ice grey. This was one facet of Kathryn’s personality she hoped never to see again. On further reflection, from the looks of the situation, she may never see any facet of Kathryn’s personality again.
“Before you say anything,” Kathryn countered.
“I’m sorry,” Jenny quickly interjected, realizing this may be a hit-and-run scalding, with no opportunity to say anything.
“You’re sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where I’ve been all afternoon?”
“Well, I have a pretty good idea.” Jenny didn’t mean to make light of the situation, but if she didn’t laugh, she might just cry.
“I’m glad you’re so damned amused, Jenny, because Marcus Forrester sure wasn’t amused when I was led away from his table by the police, in a crowded restaurant, in front of his associates, during a delicate business transaction.”
Jenny hadn’t thought of Forrester. She wanted to speak, but the realization that she’d put Kathryn in such a compromising position tied her stomach in knots and stole her breath.
Kathryn’s voice was in full shout. “How do you think it makes Forrester look to have his mistress arrested? Do you think he’s ever going to trust me again? Do you think the people he does business with are ever going to trust him?”
Jenny wanted to say she didn’t give a hang what Forrester’s dirty associates thought of him. If anything, she did Kathryn a favor. “If he no longer trusts you, then maybe he’ll dump you and leave you alone.”
“Oh, yes,” Kathryn said. “He’ll dump me all right … right into the East River, replete with a new pair of concrete shoes! And if I’m lucky, he’ll slit my throat first so that he doesn’t have to listen to me screaming as I go under!”
Jenny’s eyes widened, visualizing the horrific scene.
Kathryn’s icy wrath glared at her down an accusing finger. “You have no idea what you’ve done!” She snatched the evidence envelope from Jenny’s paralyzed hand and offered one more glare before leaving. “No idea.”
“Kathryn, please. I’m sorry. What can I do?”
Kathryn didn’t turn around as she opened the door with a forceful jerk. “Just stay the hell away from me.”
Jenny stared at the back of the slammed door, afraid to breathe. Necessity forced an exhale, and she raised a hand to her forehead, feeling lightheaded. “What have I done?”