Lipstick and Lies (5 page)

The surprised expressions on the faces of Billie and Irina as they filed out will stay with me forever. They were out on the catwalk before the Countess could fully grasp the situation. Yanking the remains of her cigarette from its ivory holder, she flicked the butt to the floor. “This is unfair,” she said, stomping it out. “No one is permitted to visit me.”

The matron was poised at the outer door. She turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Can’t understand why you’re so upset. You requested
private accommodations
.”

The solid metal door opened and the trio tramped out.

Whatever falsehoods the Countess claimed she had seen in my palms were forgotten. She clasped her arms across her chest and began to pace. She tramped to the far end of the common area and returned, the hem of her heavy coat swaying.

“Separate housing is a necessity. I was threatened. I was fearful!” She shook a fist at the outer door. “It is not fair, I tell you! You are using my fears as a means to isolate me. You keep me from advisors, from my fiancé, and I am left with nothing. Nothing but broken promises.”

She stalked the painted gray floor like a captured lioness, crossing from one barred wall to the next. I retired to one of the tables. At last, pausing, she grasped a pair of metal bars, her body convulsing with her attempts to shake them. A dreadful sob escaped. Slumped against the grated wall, she slithered to the floor, crumpling into a furry heap.

Agent Dante had cautioned me about the Countess. Desperate, crafty, without any loyalty, she would take advantage of anyone to further her own interests. She was emotional, too, he had warned, cautioning me not to give in to her high dramatics. Yet, listening to her sobs, I could not escape a twinge of pity. Not for her impassioned performance as a wronged counterspy, but for the woman in her who believed that she’d been used and betrayed. I’d experienced my own share of heartache over broken trust. Moreover, I tended to believe there was some truth to her claim that the FBI had led her down a primrose path. To win her cooperation and with “the greater good” in mind, the Bureau might have implied, without the handshake, that they would cut her a deal. But even so, Dante had been emphatic: there had been no firm deal, no promises.

The Countess was ripe for a shoulder to cry on, and I was here to listen. I slipped from my seat and went to her. “You’re not alone,” I said, patting her shoulder, savoring the downy plush of mink engulfing my fingers.

She cried harder and I continued patting until, as quickly as it had started, the weeping stopped. She looked up, nose running, eyes red. Snuffling loudly, she dipped into the folds of fur and removed a lacy handkerchief, the kind you would never expect to actually use. She blew into it noisily.

“What will you do?” I asked, dropping to the floor to sit next to her. “About the FBI, I mean. They’re a powerful organization. Don’t you have to do what they want?”

“I did. For a year and a half.”

“But—”

“No buts. It was hard labor, mentally exhausting. Think of it. In the entire time I did their bidding, I had no privacy. I was followed, they tapped my conversations, watched me through a peephole in my apartment, even when I was with my fiancé. Imagine!” She shuddered. “I did what they asked. I helped them capture seven spies. Now they must keep their end of the bargain. They must free me. Now!”

Her lower lip quivered. I thought she might start crying again, but she continued. “On their last visit, three days ago, they had the nerve to suggest—no, threaten—I must cooperate. Plead guilty. Ha. I will not! Such a plea would result in a long prison term. There, someone would surely kill me…” She sighed. “If I do not die of depression first.”

I tried again. “But—”

“I have already said no buts. I will tell the world they have threatened me. That I have been mistreated. Yes, even tortured.” She made a dramatic sweeping gesture. “This place is torture. I have nothing left to lose.”

I cleared my throat. “Maybe you should reconsider. Play along with the feds. It’s possible they only want to keep you in custody until all of the pleadings are in. I read in the paper that two of your gang members have already pled guilty. If there’s a trial, they’ll need your testimony. But if the rest plead guilty too, there won’t be one. If you cooperate, maybe they’ll set you free then.” I was lying through my teeth, trying to outgun an enemy spy, one who had fired more than her share of double-dealing ammo already. How sweet the offense.

She eyed me warily. “You know a lot about my case, about the feds and their ways.”

“Rumors about home front spies are a hot topic of conversation at work. I read the papers,” I emphasized firmly. My lips felt dry. I licked them and lowered my voice. “It’s said that a couple of
Abwehr
agents connected to your case eluded the FBI’s net. Do you know? Is it true?”

Her eyes were mere slits. “You talk about spies at work? With Mrs. Snodgrass?”

“Well, yes…”

The Countess, with her squinty eyes, resembled a cat about to pounce on a rat. “Tell me more, please, about how you came to be accused of stealing from her.”

“Like I told Billie, Mrs. Snodgrass has so much jewelry she must have misplaced a few pieces.”

“And they arrested you, brought you here, put you in a cell next to mine because they
thought
you stole her jewelry?” Entangled in the fur coat, she fought to free herself. Eyes blazing, she scrambled to her feet. “You’re a liar! Someone pulled strings to get you in here. Why? Who?”

“Hear me out,” I pleaded. “My situation is your situation, remember? It’s all a big mistake…”

The Countess paced again. “Who are you? Why have they left me alone with you?” She pressed her back against the cell bars and looked around, a desperate animal trapped inside a cage. “Have you been sent to harm me? Matron! Help!”

With the clanging of keys and groan of a door, the matron appeared. But not because the Countess had beckoned. “Lewis, your lawyer’s here to see you.”

My lawyer?

“How’d you manage it?” the jailer asked, nudging me out the door and projecting her voice toward the Countess. “A lawyer from the
Detroit Free Press
—” The guard pressed her lips together, making one of those hmm-hmmm sounds people use to make you think they’re impressed. “Best damn counsel in town.”

Chapter Four

Special Agent Dante swung the Ford Deluxe around a garbage truck blocking the entrance to an alleyway. The Countess had seen through my false identity and I was staring out my side window, brooding. Dante nosed back into the traffic along Gratiot Avenue and I peered into the alley, catching a glimpse of a large-boned Negro woman wearing dark coveralls and a bright red bandanna, wheeling a trash can toward us. Struck by the woman’s serene expression and her tall, purposeful walk, I was reminded of how the manpower shortage had changed women’s lives. In my case, I was beginning to understand that sometimes the opportunities would come back to bite us. The FBI had given me an out-of-the-ordinary chance to strut my stuff and I’d muffed it. Now what?

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dante concentrating on the congestion ahead. Minutes ago, purporting to be an attorney from the newspaper, he had arranged my release from jail. We were en route to the FBI field office, a short drive away. An awkward silence had fallen between us and I could only imagine the worst: he was quiet because he was sorting through the mechanics of returning me to my WASP unit. Pronto.

I was not sure how much Dante knew about what had transpired between the Countess and me, or what had inspired him to show up at precisely the right time. Or even why he had used the ruse involving the
Free Press
. But at the moment, if gaining understanding meant rehashing my botched assignment, I was not interested.

The queen WASP would be tickled, I mused glumly. Her stray would be buzzing back to the nest. We continued along Gratiot, Dante absorbed in his stony silence, me picturing my boss, aloft, doing somersaults in her private souped-up Staggerwing biplane. Abruptly, the hedge of low-rise granite buildings along my side of the car gave way; Woodward Avenue was just ahead. An elegant streetcar, its glass and brass aglow in the glare of the sun, glided along the track at the boulevard’s center, bearing down on the passenger island just short of the intersection we had slowed to cross. The streetcar braked. Sparks flying from the connector rod rained down from the overhead wires as the Ford bumped, crossing the tracks. The reel of Miss C’s aerobatics show, playing in my mind, fluttered and snapped.

“Your timing at the cellblock,” I said. “What made you show up when you did?”

Dante looked over like I must be joking. “Our prisoner was spinning out of control.”

“You warned me she was dramatic,” I countered. “She’d begun seeing me as her ally. Another minute, I might have calmed her down.”

“
Dramatic?
She’s delusional. Only a psychiatrist would know the proper thing to do.” Dante had been scowling. His expression softened. He glanced at me. “Our bogus Countess is a smart cookie. We knew winning her trust would be tough, but we had to start somewhere. And you urged her to cooperate. We appreciate that.” Turning back to the road, he spoke in an exaggerated tone. “They are being unreasonable. I helped them catch spies. I made them look good. Now they must carry out their end of the bargain. They must release me. Now!
”
He laughed. “She’s too much.”

My breath caught. Dante had said they would be nearby in case I needed help. He hadn’t said they would be eavesdropping. “The cellblock was wired?” My voice squeaked.

Dante’s forehead creased. “Yes, of course.”

“Why? Were you afraid I’d mess up? That I would miss something?”

“It had nothing to do with you or your abilities. It’s standard procedure. Besides, listening through a wire is nothing like being there in the flesh. Nuances of speech, body language, those things are as important to understanding what a person might be saying as the actual words coming out of their mouth. And the equipment has its own set of limitations. Interference from noises, a voice slipping out of range, the person talking turns her back to the receivers. But you—” Dante looked at me with genuine appreciation and I felt a rush of warmth meeting his gaze, “you were there with our royal prisoner. You had the advantage of observing her expressions and body language.”

“But if you knew you’d be listening in beforehand, why not tell me?”

“Didn’t want you feeling self-conscious or nervous. Turned out, you were brilliant.”

I smiled tenuously. “What about Billie and Irina? Yanking them out, was that part of the plan?”

He nodded. “A little private time to give our genteel spy a chance to spill her guts.”

In truth, I hadn’t given much thought to what the Countess had actually said. “Hear anything useful?”

“The Buchanan-Dineen, Barclay-Bly relationship is a new twist.”

“Really? And it’s important?”

Dante shrugged. “Barclay-Bly has a record.”

“A record?”

“Uh-huh. We have a file on her.”

“A file? The FBI is keeping dossiers on members of a hoity-toity women’s club? Why?”

“Not all members. Kiki Barclay-Bly.” Dante’s cherubic lips tightened. He hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about the next part of your assignment. I need another round of approvals, but Agent Connelly’s already working the cogs. Once we get the nod,” he looked over, “and we will, I’ll bring you up to speed on how Barclay-Bly might play into our case. Meantime, we’re going to need more dirt on Renner.”

I straightened up. I wasn’t being routed back to my WASP duties after all.

“Probably best to start at the beginning,” he continued, “with Blount and what brought him over to our side. Blount was a night shift, eleven-to-seven regular. In his capacity as a protection guard, he simply looked the other way whenever Renner wanted to sneak out a blueprint. His privileges also gave him access to executive offices. If Renner wanted some bit of information, say from production or personnel, Blount simply let himself in after hours, found the desired notation in the proper manual or document, and photographed it.

“A week ago, Blount arrived at work a little early and bumped into Renner, who was leaving a little late. Renner invited him for a drink at the Orange Lantern, a tavern near the plant. They started drinking and Blount quickly realized they weren’t there merely to hoist a few. Renner was lonely. He wanted to talk.”

I frowned. “Why? What about?”

“A spy can’t go home and celebrate with his wife about his accomplishments or gripe about his problems. So, two bottled-up operatives get together and start downing a few, they start comparing war stories. In this case, it’s Renner, who’s not much of a drinker, doing all the blabbing. He seemed depressed, according to Blount, but he should have been jolly. He had two secret projects in the works, both coming to a head. One involving a truckload of faulty engine castings en route from a subcontractor, being delivered to Willow Run the next day.”

“Faulty castings?”

“Yup. Castings welded in a way that would weaken and give way, causing a plane crash. Renner doctored the designs.”

I winced. “But there are systems to detect such flaws. X-ray machines, inspectors…”

Dante slowed for an elderly pedestrian, supported by a cane, as she entered the crosswalk. “According to Blount, Renner was confident the delivery and subsequent installations would take place without a hitch.”

“Cripes
.
” I sank back into my seat. “Meaning Renner has somebody on the inside in production helping him.”

“Uh-huh. And Blount, who thought he knew everything Renner was up to, nearly toppled off his barstool.”

“That why Blount came to you then? He felt betrayed? Figured the more people involved, the more likely they’d get caught?”

Dante’s shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “Could be. But Blount also claimed he wasn’t particularly proud of what he’d gotten into. Blamed it on his disability.”

“His left arm…He wears a prosthesis. What happened? Injured on the front?”

Dante shook his head. “No. Boot camp incident. Happened on a night compass run during maneuvers. Chief Instructor that night, a Lieutenant Mitchell, ordered them into an area he’d neglected to thoroughly check. A stream that was supposed to be only a foot deep ended up being six-foot-deep whitewater. Blount got swept downstream. Luckily, he got caught up on a limb and was rescued. Later, a wound got infected. Gangrene set in. Amputation was the only option. A tragic mishap.”

“I’d say. Blount must have been bitter afterwards. I would be.”

Dante nodded. “Especially as every able-bodied man he knew, including the other men in his unit, went off to fight for their country. His girl—now his wife—stuck by him, though. Which helped, he said. But also made him wonder if she truly loved him, or just felt sorry. Later, when Renner made him the offer, he thought the extra dough might help make things up to her.”

“So why’d he give it up?”

“His wife seemed genuinely content. There was a baby on the way, remember? Plus, he had standards, he called them. Stealing information to help the enemy build its war arsenal was one thing, sending American pilots up in defective planes was another. The act seemed too personal, too cowardly. Said he had to step away.”

It was easy to feel sorry for Blount, but he’d crossed a line. “A spy with principles. That’s nice. So he waltzed over to you—”
And paid the ultimate price
. “What about the defective engine castings? The delivery was scheduled for the next day. That was a week ago. What happened?”

“There was a delay.”

I looked over. “Delay?” Dante didn’t reply and I knew from his wooden expression our discussion of the matter had ended.

He swung onto Fort Street. Flat-faced institutional buildings made of pre-cast concrete hemmed us in on either side. Swarms of men and women in business attire crowded the sidewalks, out for their lunch breaks, I presumed, consulting my watch.

I jockeyed around in my seat to face Dante. “Renner had something else up his sleeve. What was it?”

“He wouldn’t give Blount any specifics, only that the project was top secret and it had to do with a bombing mission. Blount kept after it, though, until Renner also admitted he’d just completed copying the plans.”

“That’s it?” I asked. Dante nodded. “But surely you’ve covered the angles. Found out what the project was?”

“Yeah, we followed up. Blount knew about a secret gizmo in the works that makes night bombing or blind bombing possible. Figured it had to be that. We did some discreet checking, confirmed the project exists.”

Icy fingers climbed my spine. “Uhm, the envelope in Blount’s pocket…it contains a drawing of the device.” A muscle along Dante’s jaw line, in front of his ear, pulsed. “Sorry,” I raced to add. “It’s the training. Couldn’t resist.”

His mouth twitched. He let it go. “Blount insisted on getting us the sketch,” he explained. “Thought the tangible proof might be useful to our case.”

“And Renner also has a copy in his safe. How do you know he hasn’t already passed it off?”

“His method for communicating with his handler,” Dante said. His gaze shifting back and forth from the road to me, he laid out what he knew. That it was a complicated, pre-arranged system which became more complex and time intensive when Renner had something significant to pass off. In this instance, Renner had expected it would be several days before he heard when and where to make the drop. Until then, the plans would remain securely stored inside his safe.

“What about Blount’s wife?” I asked. “Did you question her? Find out if she has an inkling into who might be behind her husband’s death?”

“The wife is missing.”

“Missing? You mean as in skipped town? Was she involved?”

“At this point in the investigation, everyone who knew him is suspect. It’s also possible she was murdered as well.”