Long after she and her sisters had met in the alleyway, ran to catch the trolley, walked through the yard of the abandoned house on the edge of Hollywoodland, hiked up the road, and snuck through their own backyard to climb up the trellis and into the bathroom window, Betty’s heart still fluttered.
She had truly believed she’d never see him again. Had most certainly thought she’d never kiss him again.
But she had.
Met him and kissed him. Right there in the middle of the dance floor. It had been like before, on the beach. Her lips, her body, had instantly reacted to his lips touching hers and kissed him back.
Her heart began to thud.
She had broken more than one of the rules she’d set down for her and her sisters.
Neither Patsy nor Jane had questioned her about kissing him, and she hoped like she’d never hoped for something before that they hadn’t seen that happen.
If they had, she’d blame it on the dancing. She hadn’t had to think about the steps of any of the songs, just follow his lead up and down the dance floor and around and around. The dancing might have made her dizzy, light-headed. She hadn’t even realized what was happening, that they were kissing, until his lips left hers.
Yes, she had. She’d wanted him to kiss her, and when he had, she hadn’t wanted it to end. But it had, and then, just like he had on the beach, he’d left. Disappeared.
It hadn’t been until someone had handed her the mug that she’d spun around, expecting to see him at her side.
He hadn’t been there. The piano man had been, and told her that her partner had left, but that he’d be back tomorrow night.
Tomorrow night.
Well, she wouldn’t be there. She’d convince her sisters that they needed to visit a different joint. One he wouldn’t be at.
An odd sense of disappointment formed in her chest, right behind her breastbone.
Disappointed or not, she couldn’t take the chance of ever seeing him again. That, too, was against all the rules she’d set down that she and her sisters had to follow in order to continue sneaking out at night.
As the oldest, she’d always been charged with setting a good example for her younger sisters. Although she hated the strict rules they’d always had to live by, she did understand that rules were a part of life. If everyone was allowed to just go about doing what they wanted, the world would be in chaos. Therefore, she rarely broke rules and when Jane had first come up with the sneaking-out plan, she had strongly forbidden such an idea.
Which hadn’t helped. Jane had snuck out anyway.
When Patsy had joined Jane the second night, and they’d both come home exuberant, Betty had known she wouldn’t be able to stop them from doing so again. A part of her had been envious, and wanted to see the things they’d seen, do the things they’d done, but she’d also been concerned about the consequences that could arise.
The first few nights she’d joined her sisters in sneaking out, she’d observed, listened, and anticipated all that might possibly go wrong. She’d then taken all she’d learned, paired that with predictions, and came up with a solid set of rules that if any were broken, their night excursions would end. In order to make her sisters understand why they needed the rules, she’d pointed out things such as going blind—or, worse, death—from drinking certain beverages, as well as going to jail if a joint they were in was busted.
In the end, her sisters had agreed to follow the rules she’d set down and had.
She was the one who had broken rules tonight, and going to the Rooster’s Nest again tomorrow night would break another one—because he’d said he’d be there.
Therefore, it couldn’t happen.
Satisfied with her conclusion, she rolled onto her side, telling herself it was time to fall asleep. Her gaze, though, caught sight of the mug on her dressing table. The moonlight coming in through the window seemed to be shining directly on it. She’d set it there earlier, and dropped her hairpins into it.
A wave of guilt churned in her stomach. That was another rule she’d broken. If Patsy or Jane had won a mug, she would have made them leave it at the joint or discard it on the way home. She hadn’t been able to do that. Instead she had clutched it to her breast all the way home, telling herself her parents would never see it because they rarely came upstairs.
Frustrated at herself, she got up and buried the mug in the bottom of a drawer.
Once back in bed she told herself to completely forget about the mug, the dance-off, and the kissing bandit, and willed herself to fall asleep.
She fell asleep but awoke with her heart pounding due to dreams where she and the bandit danced, laughed, and, of course, kissed.
That frustrated her, how her dreams had deceived her. Made her feel as if all her efforts of trying to be dutiful, of following all the rules, were for naught. She still didn’t have any control over any part of her life.
She lay in bed for a moment, eyes closed, and chided herself for ever thinking that she did have any control. Not even of her future.
Last week Father had requested her presence. That was how he’d put it—her presence was requested in his office. Like their family was royalty or something. Some days it felt as if she lived in a dozen different worlds, and she got dizzy hopping back and forth between them.
There was Mother’s world, where the sky was always blue, everyone spoke softly, did their chores, and pinched pennies wherever possible.
Then there was Father’s world, where he was the ruler of all. He’d owned all of Hollywoodland at one time. Inherited the land from his grandfather, who had tried to farm it, but it was too hilly. Father first sold acreage to several film studios who needed space to film their movies, and that was what had given him the inspiration for Hollywoodland. An elite real estate division that only the rich could afford to live in. He had a large sign erected that could be seen from downtown and took out advertisements in the newspapers about the elite property for sale. In his world, he was a land baron—called himself that all the time—whereas in reality he was a land tyrant. He had so many rules and regulations about everything, not only the property he sold, but life, that Betty truly felt sorry for him because no one liked him. He didn’t allow them to.
Which led to her world of being one of his three daughters. There was no fun in being one of William Dryer’s daughters. On the outside, it appeared as if they had everything. A beautiful home, more than ample clothing, a new car, plenty of food—after all, they were rich. But what no one on the outside knew was that she and her sisters were practically held prisoners in their own home. Being the oldest, the one where his hand lay the heaviest, was so stifling there were days she dreamed of running away from it all.
She couldn’t do that, though, because that would bring down Father’s wrath on Jane and Patsy and she couldn’t do that to them. She was the oldest; protecting them, keeping them safe, and orderly at times, was her burden to bear.
So she’d set down her own rules in order to make her life more bearable. One of those rules was to accept what was and to not dream about what would be better because that only led to disappointment.
Although they were the daughters of one of the richest men in the county, she and her sisters had already had plenty of disappointments. They had the clothes, closetfuls, but they were demure housedresses, suitable for shopping and attending church. The ones they wore for their nightlife were homemade from material they’d secretly purchased while on their weekly shopping trips with Mother and hidden in the backs of their closets. Coming out only at night, after her parents were asleep.
Dressed as flappers, in fashionable short skirts, wearing makeup and strings of pearls—which also had secretly been purchased—they’d climb down the trellis and hightail it to the nearest speakeasy to laugh and dance the night away.
They were all aware that their nights out wouldn’t last forever. They couldn’t. And last week had proven that. When Father had requested her presence in his office, it had been to inform her that she would be marrying James Bauer before the end of the year, which was only five months away.
Her sisters knew about that meeting and despised the idea of being married to a man of Father’s choosing.
They also knew they couldn’t defy him. None of them could. Especially her. She had to set a good example.
She climbed out of bed, and dressed, checking her reflection in the tall mirror carefully to make sure there were no traces of mascara or lipstick on her face from last night.
Then, wearing the somber, controlled expression that she’d mastered years before, she left her room. She’d mastered her decorum as a child, having discovered her place, her role, as the oldest to be a serious, studious one. That had been her role all through school and beyond, having graduated five years ago, and it would continue to be. Even though she loved her nights out with her sisters, she knew that was only playacting, like she used to do when she was a child, pretending Patsy and Jane were her children instead of her sisters. Someday it would all come to an end. She would miss it, but she would accept it. That was life.
It was baking day, which meant they were all in the kitchen, along with Mother for the majority of the day. Staying busy helped, but her mind kept drifting off, to last night, the dance-off, and...to him.
Despite her best efforts, her determination of not going to the Rooster’s Nest again tonight dwindled. She couldn’t help but think about seeing him again. Find out more about him. When Patsy secretly announced that would be their destination, Betty didn’t disagree.
Instead, as soon as the baking was completed, and the kitchen was in order, she slipped upstairs to press the dress she’d wear tonight. A royal blue one, trimmed with white piping. She also plumped the white floppy-brimmed hat, fluffed out the white feather boa, and shined her white shoes.
She would find out more about him, simply because that would make not seeing him again easier. Just like she’d found out more information about the speakeasies, and alcohol. Knowing more about him, she’d have a reason as to why the Rooster’s Nest should be taken off the list of places they could visit.
Supper was as somber as ever. That was how Father liked it. Silent. No one spoke unless spoken to. Not even Mother. She was a beautiful and kind woman, and a dutiful wife. She not only followed every rule Father set down, she reinforced them.
Betty had once asked her mother about that, about being a dutiful wife. Mother claimed that Father had provided her with far more than she’d ever dreamed of having and that she couldn’t possibly be happier.
Once the meal was complete, she and her sisters cleaned the dining room and kitchen, and as soon as the last dish was done they bade their parents good-night. Adults or not, they were expected to be in their upstairs bedrooms by seven thirty every night.
Father and Mother were in their bedroom by eight. Downstairs. Which played into her and her sisters being able to sneak out at night. As did the large fan Father used to keep his bedroom cool throughout the night.
As soon as they were upstairs, she and her sisters entered their bedrooms, to change their clothes, apply makeup, and prepare to sneak out by eight thirty.
Betty found herself more excited than usual. Her heart was thudding and she had to keep taking deep breaths to settle her trembling hands enough to apply mascara and lipstick.
She finally dropped the lipstick in her pocket and took a long look at herself in the mirror as she draped the white feather boa around her shoulders and flipped one end around her neck. The blue dress was one of her favorites. Blue, all shades, was her favorite color. That may be part of the reason she’d never forgotten the bandit’s blue eyes.
Concluding tonight would be the last night she’d ever have to think about those eyes, she clicked off the light and quietly opened her door.
Patsy was already in the bathroom, and Jane entered the hallway a second after Betty had shut her bedroom door.
Betty gave Patsy a nod as soon as they were all three in the bathroom, with the door locked. Her youngest sister silently stepped up on the stool, slipped out the window and disappeared.
Jane went next, just as quietly, and then Betty. She slipped out the window and quickly climbed down the ivy-covered trellis that went from the second floor to the ground.
As always, she gave both of her sisters a quick once-over, to make sure that they were dressed appropriately, including that their blond hair was completely hidden beneath their stylish hats, before giving a nod of approval. Then, excitedly, they all three scurried across the backyard, and through the line of trees that grew alongside the road. Patsy and Jane chatted quietly as they walked down the hill to the abandoned house.
Betty listened, and nodded now and again, but for the most part, she kept an eye out for headlights, so she could instruct all of them to jump into the trees.
There was no traffic tonight, and soon they were crossing through the yard of the boarded-up house that had once been owned by a mob boss, but had been confiscated in a raid and was now owned by the government. Father had tried to buy the house several times, even protested against it being abandoned at city hall meetings, which had gained him more enemies.
The red line of the city’s electric streetcar system stopped at the corner across the street from the lot the house sat upon. She and her sisters arrived just as the trolley rang its bell, signaling its approach.
There was no talking now, not to each other, or anyone else. That was another one of the rules she’d set down. No one could know they were sisters. There were people who knew Father had three daughters and they had to be careful to not be recognized.
Several blocks later, they stepped off the trolley, one at a time, and in single file, as if they didn’t know each other; they walked down the block to the Laundromat. The door led to an entranceway that had another door that led down a set of steps where they had to knock and give the password.
The Rooster’s Nest was busy again tonight, and Betty scanned the area, looking for a flat brown hat, black hair, and blue eyes. He wasn’t at the table in the corner, nor sitting at one of the many stools along the bar.
She moved slowly, searching the people sitting at tables and those on the dance floor. Not one of them was him. A sickening feeling formed in her stomach by the time she’d made a complete round of the room, including the narrow hallway that led down to the powder rooms.
There was no reason for her to be sick over not seeing him, or even disappointed. She hadn’t wanted to see him. Not ever again.
She sat down at the nearest empty table, the one that was behind the piano player. That just so happened to be same one he’d been sitting at last night. She’d sat at this table because it was handy and not because she could see if he walked through the door.
Actually, if he did walk through the door, which she could clearly see from where she sat, she would move. Find someone to dance with so she wouldn’t have to talk to him. That was what she was here for. To dance. Have fun.
Thinking that was exactly what she was going to do, she stood, and jolted slightly as someone laid a hand on her shoulder. Twisting, her heart somersaulted and started pounding at the set of unique blue eyes.
“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t be here tonight,” he said.
Willing her heart to slow down, she said, “It was a last-minute decision.”
“Why?”
How? was the question in her mind, specifically how he’d suddenly appeared at the table.She’d searched the entire joint for him. It wasn’t that large of a place, and there had been no sign of him anywhere. She’d been facing the door since she’d sat down and he had not walked through it. There was another door, behind the bar, but it led into a narrow alleyway and only deliverymen used it. Murray, the bartender, kept it locked.
Too curious not to, she asked, “How did you get in here?”
“A door.”
She shook her head. “I was watching the door.”
“I said a door, not the door.” He grasped the back of her chair. “Would you care for a drink?”
“What do you mean ‘a door’? The only other door in this joint is behind the bar and it’s locked.”
He lifted a brow. “You seem to know a lot about this place.”
“I made it my business to.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons.” She was trying her best to act aloof, because that was what he seemed to be. Aloof and mysterious with how he’d suddenly appeared.
“I know.”
A shiver rippled down her spine. “You know what?”
“About you.”
Her insides shrank and so did she, but she managed to land in the chair as her knees gave out. All she could hope was that he hadn’t yet told her father. That had to be what he meant. There was nothing else to know.
“I’d like to talk to you about that,” he said while lowering himself onto the adjacent chair.
Her sisters were going to be so upset. So very, very upset. Betty closed her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. “What about it?”
He glanced around the room, then leaned closer. “Perhaps we can make a deal.”
It was over. Her father was going to be so angry. Her mother so disappointed. Her sisters so mad. Betty glanced past him, at Jane on the dance floor and Patsy sitting at a table talking to Lane Cox.
Sorrow filled her insides. This, going out at night, was the only fun they’d ever had, and they’d deserved to have that fun. She had, too, and she hated that it was all about to end.
“We need to find a quiet place to talk,” he said.
She glanced up as he stood. The music had started up again and the crowd was lively and loud. There wouldn’t be a quiet place anywhere in the room. She shook her head and shrugged.
“I know of a place.” He held out his hand. “It will be of your benefit to hear me out.”
Nothing had ever been to her benefit, but if it would benefit her sisters, she would listen to what he had to say. She was responsible for them, right down to their happiness.
Henry wasn’t surprised she followed without question. He’d seen her expression when he’d said he knew about her. Besides the way she’d gone white and sank into the chair, her eyes had been as big and round as silver dollars. A sure sign she knew she’d been found out.
He’d felt bad for a moment, at shocking her, but he wanted answers and she had them. Nothing was going to stand in his way to get them. The tunnel was his only option for a place to question her with Lane Cox sitting at a table near the door. Lane had been there most of the night, and that had Henry wondering if Lane was looking for him. Lane was a good guy, but he couldn’t tell him anything; there was too much at stake.
Making sure that no one saw them, Henry led her behind the gold brocade curtain that went from floor to ceiling next to the wall, and into the storage room. The two lightbulbs hanging down from the ceiling shone on the shelves and crates full of bottles containing various forms of alcohol from wine to gin and whiskey.
She tugged on his hand, whispering, “We can’t talk in here.”
He understood her apprehension but wasn’t going to let that stop him. “We aren’t—we are just passing through.”
“Passing through to where?”
“A quiet place to talk.” Still holding her hand, he led her through the long room, then pulled the shelf away from the wall. As he opened the door in the wall and stepped through it, he said, “It’s safe. I promise. Just dark, but I have a light.”
She shook her head.
“You’re used to sneaking around.”
Her lips pursed but she didn’t budge, until a thud sounded behind her.
Knowing someone was entering the storage room, he quickly pulled her forward, through the door and onto the top step of the short set of stairs leading to the tunnel. He pulled the shelf back in place and the door shut just as the door to the storeroom flung open.
The area was instantly dark. He released her hand and pulled out his flashlight and clicked it on, shone the beam upward, lighting up his and her faces as he held a finger to his lips.
Trepidation was in her eyes, on her face. He took ahold of her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, hoping that eased her fears. Hurting her physically was not in his plan, but he understood she didn’t know that.
A moment later, he heard the thud of the storage room door closing, and knew whoever had entered it had left it. He released the breath he’d been holding and handed her the flashlight.
“Hold this, please.”
She took the light and held it as he removed his jacket, stepped down the stairs, and tossed his jacket over the top two steps.
“There,” he said. “You can sit on that so you don’t get your dress dirty.”
“Sit on it why?” she asked.
He sat down. “So we can talk.”
“Where do these steps go?” she asked, holding the flashlight so the light shone down the long tunnel with wood-planked walls and a ceiling.
“It’s a tunnel.” There was no risk in telling her the truth. In fact, he was going to tell her plenty, and expected her to be just as truthful. “It goes for several blocks, through basements and under streets until it comes out at a house near the Santa Monica Mountains.”
“What house?”
“Just a house.”
She was still standing and shining the flashlight down the tunnel.
“No one knows about it but me.”
“Why?” She shone the light on him. “Why are you the only one to know about it?”
“Because I work for the government—the government owns the house.” Just like he’d been a ward of the government. The day he’d been adopted, he’d thought that would end for him. It had in some ways, but not in others. He’d been fifteen when John and Esther Randall had adopted him from the orphanage. A shocking event because no one wanted older children. The headmistress had tried to convince them otherwise, stating a younger child would be much more suitable, but the Randalls had insisted he was who they wanted.
He had soon discovered why. John Randall had needed an experiment, and due to his academic grades during his time at the orphanage, he’d been exactly what John Randall had been looking for. Instrumental in starting a newly formed junior college in Virginia, John had wanted proof that this new opportunity at higher education was exactly what the majority of the youth in America needed. What better proof than a son?
So Henry had gone from living behind the walls of an orphanage to living behind the walls of a college. In truth, there wasn’t much difference.
Then he’d gotten a job for the government. In the Department of Justice, as an intelligence agent. For him, the circle of life, all included the government.
“The government?” She shone the light back down the tunnel. “I know that house.”
“You do?” He hadn’t expected that, but should have. Being an agent, the mole could know about the tunnel and the house and could have told her.
“Yes. It’s abandoned. The windows are boarded up.”
He patted the jacket he’d laid over the steps. “Sit down so we can talk.”
She was still uneasy, but sat and scooted close to the wall.
“The original owner of the house, a mob boss, had it built so he had an escape route if his business was raided.” He shifted slightly, leaned a shoulder against the wall behind him as he continued, “He owned this joint at the time. It wasn’t the Rooster’s Nest then, and this tunnel is exactly how he was busted. Prohibition agents discovered it and raided his house and business at the same time.”
“How did they discover it?”
He kept his eyes on her, watching for her reaction, as he said, “An insider.”
Her face scrunched up as she frowned. “What’s that?”
A tiny tingle raced over his shoulders. She either truly didn’t know or was a very good actress. “An insider?”
“Yes.”
“Someone who is privy to information and, at times, provides it to someone else who shouldn’t have it,” he explained, watching for her reaction.
“Oh.” She bowed her head and huffed out a breath. “Is that how you learned about me and my sisters? An insider?”
Sisters? He leaned the back of his head against the wall and let that sink in. Sisters... The woman she’d met on the road to the beach? “Were your sisters in Seattle with you?”
She still hadn’t looked up. “No, it was just Mother and I.” Shaking her head, she let out a very sad-sounding sigh. “When I came home, I promised my sisters I’d never leave them again.”
Mother? How many other people were involved in this? Or was that why she was involved, to protect her family from the mole? “Why?”
There were tears welling in the bottoms of her eyes as she looked at him. “Because of our father and his strict rules. He keeps all three of us locked up like Rapunzels. That’s why we sneak out at night and come here.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “I was so careful to make sure that no one knew. That no one recognized us.”
He still wasn’t sure if she was acting, or if she totally thought she’d been caught. Not in sneaking out. That had to be an excuse. Had to be. “How old are you and your sisters?”
“Twenty-two, twenty-one, and nineteen.” She huffed out a long, frustrated-sounding breath. “Plenty old enough to go out, but to hear our father talk, you’d think we are still two, four and five.”
“Which one are you? Oldest? Youngest?”
“The oldest, Betty. Jane is next and Patsy is the youngest.” She sighed again. “Despite what people might think, being one of William Dryer’s daughters is not much fun at all.”
William Dryer? Henry had only been in town a couple of days, but already had learned more about William Dryer than he cared to know. The old cabin he was staying in was on Dryer’s land, but that chunk of land was too hilly to develop, so his supervisor, a man he’d worked under for years, LeRoy Black, was convinced he wouldn’t be discovered, not even by the other agents working on this case.
During his briefing, LeRoy had mentioned that Dryer had daughters. Three of them. But from what LeRoy had said, they were little girls. Children. Not women. Did she know that, and was pretending to be one of Dryer’s daughters? If so, why? Was she hoping to learn if he knew who the mole was or, more precisely, whom he thought it was?
Normally, he had an easy time reading people and his gut said to believe her, but the fact she’d been in Seattle, where the counterfeiting ring had gotten a tip that they were about to be busted, and here, where Burrows was now setting up a bootlegging operation after having Gaynor offed, his mind said that was just too much of a coincidence. She had to be working with the mole. The very person he was here to stop, and anyone who might also be involved.
He just had to figure out how best to use her to get to the mole. Flat out asking, demanding she tell him all she knew, could send her straight to the mole. However, a little finesse, get her to leak enough that he could point out the danger of her being arrested for her participation, could make her flip sides. Then he’d have a direct line to the mole, learn the motivation, and gather enough proof to send the mole up the river for the rest of his life.
Finesse, especially when it came to a woman, wasn’t his specialty. He’d avoided women after the Scarlet incident, as much as possible, and it goaded him that he didn’t have a backup partner to turn her over to. Normally he did, but this case was too risky to bring in anyone else except for him and his direct supervisor.
“Who told you?” she asked again.
He leaned forward, rested both hands on his knees. He was at an impasse of sorts on whether to use the mole’s name or not, and whether he should say he was Henry or Rex and see her reaction. If she knew Rex Gaynor was dead, then she was a part of things for sure.
“I guess who doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “It’s what happens now that does.”
Henry mulled on the what-happens-next portion of her statement for a moment. LeRoy, who had been a Texas Ranger before going to work for the department, oversaw the operations from the Mississippi River west, and was as thorough as he was stern; he was one hell of a supervisor, and rarely, if ever, wrong.
Yet, LeRoy’s information about the Dryer children being young and Henry’s own gut instincts weren’t matching up.
Because his gut wasn’t the only thing sending out signals. She was pretty.
Very pretty.
His body had been reacting to her closeness since he’d sat down at the table beside her. Her perfume was light, but heady. Intoxicating far more than any whiskey he’d ever consumed, making him believe parts of what she was saying were true.
He’d been fooled by a pretty face before, and had sworn that would never happen again, and it wouldn’t.
She could bat those long lashes all she wanted. It wasn’t going to affect him. The mole could have already told her who he was, so it didn’t matter. “My name is Henry, Henry Randall. I’m an intelligence officer, for the Department of Justice, looking for an escaped convict.”
Her head snapped up. “Rex Gaynor?”