Lipstick and Lies Read online

  “How’d it go?” he asked, easing away from the curb.

  “The early part of the afternoon was for the birds,” I replied. “After that I did swell.”

  Dante’s unbuttoned trench coat revealed the standard FBI dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. On his head was the narrow-brimmed felt hat he’d worn at the murder scene at Willow Run. His dark eyes volleyed from the road to me, crinkling with merriment while I launched into a critique of “the bird brain” reader and her “warbling” sidekick.

  “Who do you suppose was sitting at the end of my row?” I added, waiting a beat to be sure I had his attention. “Dierdre Barclay-Bly.”

  “Ahh, Kiki’s sister, the matchmaker who introduced Buchanan-Dineen to her fiancé, Mr. Butler. Excellent. Learn anything about her relationship with the Countess?”

  “Not yet. We covered family matters, mostly.”

  I summarized what I had learned concerning Dee’s love life, or lack thereof, and her current romance with alcohol. I shared my sense that Kiki, rebellious in her youth, in adulthood was the more resilient; Dee, historically the stable sister, grown-up was the more fragile. “They’re devoted to one another,” I said, editorializing on the women’s relationship. “Dee frets over Kiki like a mother hen, and Kiki’s equally obsessed with Dee’s well-being.”

  “You met Kiki? What happened?”

  “Not much. What struck me most was the shift from the free spirit she was twenty years ago. These days, she’s ultra-conservative. Her main priorities are running for president of the Club and overseeing the annual Christmas Ball fund-raiser. I managed to get in a couple of questions about the Countess. But she was pretty guarded.”

  “Guarded? Think she’s hiding something?”

  “Dunno. I was with her for only a short time. She seemed protective of her. Thinks the news reports are overblown and that people might be putting too much faith in them. And something else—” I shifted and met his expectant glance. “They share the same interest in charm books.”

  “She’s defending the Countess? You mean as in taking her side? Sympathizing with her politics?” He had bypassed my comment about the books.

  I shrugged. “Not sure. The moment felt strained, that’s all.” My gaze had been resting on Dante’s profile. From the set of his jaw, I sensed he had already pronounced Kiki guilty. “On the other hand,” I added hurriedly, “her defense of the Countess’ right to a fair trial is reasonable, perhaps even admirable. It’s the American way, after all.”

  “Lewis, she was defending a known fascist and trained enemy spy.”

  “And counteragent who spied for us.”

  Dante’s eyebrow shot up. “So you agree? You think she’s right in supporting a criminal?”

  I thought a moment. “I appreciate your position, believe me. I reacted the same way. But you can’t expect me to crucify her, based on one brief encounter.”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured.

  Dante was showing a rigid side I hadn’t expected. Hadn’t expected? What was I thinking? He was FBI! I frowned, unable to think of what else to say.

  He looked over and grinned. “Hey, relax. It’s not worth etching lines into your pretty little puss over this. We have different views, so what?”

  Instead of relaxing, the muscles in my forehead flexed harder.

  “Sorry, that came out wrong,” he said. “What I’m trying to say is, don’t worry. If anyone can get a fix on whether Kiki is a party to our case, it’s you.”

  I glared at the windshield. The patronizing comments were getting worse.

  “Hey, don’t shut me out. Please.”

  Dante’s soft, pleading tone was difficult—no, impossible—to ignore. I turned and met his gaze. “You’ve done an excellent job for us,” he said. “This was your first afternoon at the Club and you’ve already met, and befriended, two of your marks. That’s an outstanding effort. Better than we could have expected.” There was a quiet pause. “Thank you.”

  He had that hangdog expression that made my heart melt. I smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  A conciliatory silence followed. Dante turned back to negotiating the traffic and I stared out my window. I knew precisely where we were. The Cosmos Club was near the southeast arc of Grand Circus Park, a restful semi-circular preserve of greenery, statues, and fountains. Woodward Avenue bisected the preserve. We’d been motoring along East Adams. Now, swinging onto Woodward, Dante put us on a northerly course, heading deeper into the heart of downtown.

  We began threading through heavier traffic and a call came in on the two-way radio. It was his office. He grabbed the mike. As he talked, I felt confirmed in my decision that, at least short-term, keeping mum about Liberty was for the best. She had been in disguise and I was in the dark about why. Dante continued talking on the radio and I tuned out, privately chewing on who or what might be behind her masquerade.

  I felt confident that the FBI was not involved. Dante would not have positioned two operatives in the same place, on the same job, willy-nilly. The waste of womanpower, combined with the risk of botching the assignment, would be too great. Which could only mean that another intelligence arm, either Military or OSS, was directing her assignment and for reasons of security the FBI was being kept in the dark. Why? I hated to think so, but it was possible an interagency squabble was at the core of the mix-up. And it seemed most unwise to shake a hornet’s nest that had Liberty and me in the middle of it.

  After Pearl Harbor, the responsibilities of our three intelligence branches had been redefined to accommodate expansions in home front security. The FBI’s Special Intelligence Service (SIS) was assigned domestic cases involving enemy infiltration, as well as espionage matters in Latin America; Army Intelligence (G-2) and the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) were given cases involving members of the armed services; the OSS’ objective was to gather intelligence and carry out subversive missions overseas.

  Although the duties of each group were differentiated, by mandate, representatives from each of the branches were expected to meet regularly to compare notes in the event certain cases might overlap. But I’d heard rumors that in instances involving high-profile or “pet” cases, the agencies often became territorial and select information was sometimes withheld. As the recent victim of a related bureaucratic battle involving Miss C, I did not care to become a casualty of rival American forces again, especially when fascism was the real enemy we should all be battling.

  I sighed. There had to be a better explanation. And in twelve hours or less, I was counting on Liberty to give me one. In the Club’s salon, after we’d recovered from our mutual shock, I’d scheduled a manicure appointment with her in the morning.

  Rubbing a knot that had formed in my neck, I heard Dante ask whether Agent Connelly had reported in. A male voice crackled through the transmitter on the dash. “Negative, sir.”

  “When he checks in, tell him to call, immediately. Over.” Dante snapped the mike back into its clamp.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.” He shot his cuff and checked the time. “Things would be even better if this traffic would start moving.”

  Unlike V-V’s, Dante’s shirtsleeve was not monogrammed. Instead, fuzzy cotton balls clung to the threadbare edge of his cuff. A gold oval disk held the frayed fabric together. I squinted, intrigued by its raised design. I was expecting the FBI seal and was pleasantly surprised to see a musical instrument, carved in relief. A saxophone, to be precise.

  “I have to make a stop at the Horseshoe. It’s a night spot. There’s a group performing tonight. Should be on just about now. They play the new jazz, be-bop. Have you heard it?”

  I hadn’t. I shook my head and Dante added, “Great. Then you can run in with me. We’ll grab a bite after.”

  My stomach rumbled in protest and I coughed to cover the sound. “Sounds fun.”

  “What about Mrs. Renner?” Dante asked. “Get a chance to meet her?”

  “She was busy with a client. It took s
ome doing, but I got an appointment with her tomorrow afternoon. I’ll talk to her then.”

  Dante looked perplexed. “A hair appointment? Why? What will she do with it?”

  I smoothed my shorn locks. “Add some?”

  He laughed. That good laugh that came from the heart.

  The reflection of lights from an oncoming car illuminated his profile. Besides a good laugh, my FBI boss had a good face. A great face. Friendly. Open. Slightly full, not chiseled. And those dreamy dark eyes. Why were men always the ones blessed with such thick lashes? His right eyebrow had a minuscule bald line running through it at an angle, a scar from a cut that had healed, I guessed. My gaze settled on his mouth. That sweet mouth. Soft, perfectly shaped. Michelangelo and his cherubs popped to mind again.

  Dante sensed me watching him. He sent me a warm smile. “It’s good you’ll be talking with Mrs. Renner, but don’t let her change your looks. Your hair is already great the way it is.”

  I was grateful for the Ford’s dark interior. My cheeks felt warm. I knew I was blushing.

  Around us, the street was alive with cars and people out for a night on the town. Bold neon letters flickered from signs above the restaurants, bars, and supper clubs. I stared, awed by the profusion of lights. These days, homes and businesses were normally only half-lit at night to save energy and to act as a precaution against enemy air raids. These seemed so bright. Too bright.

  I turned to watch the finely dressed people streaming into the Hotel Gotham, realizing for the first time we were in a Negro neighborhood. I checked the street sign. Maybe safety was a consideration in keeping the streets well-lit. We were in Paradise Valley, an area that had been under siege during the race riots that ripped apart New York, Los Angeles, and Detroit this past summer.

  It was said that since Pearl Harbor, more than 300,000 southern whites and blacks had migrated north to find work in war plants. The sudden influx of transitory workers was blamed, in part, for the two-day melee that had engulfed downtown Detroit. Certain other accounts claimed that a fight between a white man and a Negro had touched off the widespread violence. Others blamed the trouble on the Nazis, saying the riots were instigated as part of a scheme to punch a hole in our nation’s solidarity.

  I looked over at Dante. He seemed relaxed enough. More at ease, in fact, than ever. So what was wrong with me? Why was I spinning my wheels, worrying about the city’s use of electricity and fretting about our safety? My boss was taking me to a night spot. I worked hard. I had earned a good time. The occasional night on the town was important for morale, besides.

  My wild side stirred. I fluffed my “perfect” hair. Kick up the lights. Why not?

  Dante slowed to a crawl, stopping in front of Hattie’s Chicken Shack, a half-block up from the Horseshoe Club’s entrance. A thick-necked Negro bouncer leaned against the wall near the club’s red lacquered door. He wore a mustard-colored sport coat, a shiny bronze tie, and wide-cut slacks breaking against alligator shoes. Dark glasses hid his eyes, and from his relaxed slouch, I thought he might be catching a snooze. The pose was an illusion. We arrived and he slid upright, spreading his feet, blocking our entry.

  His chin tucked, he peered over the top of his glasses. “Well whatcha y’know. Special Agent Dante. How’s things, my man?” His voice was easy enough, but his eyes were wary.

  Dante smiled. “Drop the agent stuff, Prof. No business tonight. We’re here for sounds, is all.”

  The bouncer had the torso of a wrestler. His broad shoulders drooped as the muscles supporting the weight of his arms relaxed. “That right? Okay, whatever you say, my man.” The Prof sailed his gaze over me. Above the rim of his dark glasses, his eyes glimmered with guarded amusement.

  Many restaurants and clubs had dress codes for women and it would have been safer to wear a dress. But after an afternoon of tea and guarded manners, the thought of donning another frock had seemed unbearable. By way of compromise, for my night on the town I’d selected a pair of loosely draped slacks so full they nearly passed for a long skirt. A satiny jacket and matching silk charmeuse shell in celadon, my favorite color, completed the outfit. In piecing together the ensemble, I’d yet again silently thanked the FBI secretary for her packing skills. Now I wondered if the choice had been so wise. Were we about to be turned away because of my slacks?

  “Brought a friend, Prof,” Dante said, interrupting his scrutiny. “Meet Pucci Lewis.”

  The Prof shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose and grinned. “Ahl-right, Miss Pucci,” he said, stepping aside. “Go on in. Have yourselves a time.”

  He opened the door, a blast of discordant music testing the strength of our eardrums as we ducked inside.

  Chapter Eight

  The Horseshoe’s interior was cramped and dimly lit and thick with smoke. Round tables tightly packed with seated patrons formed a random pattern across a wood plank floor strewn with sawdust. Mixed in with the pungent smells of smoldering cigars and cigarettes were the yeasty smells of spilled whiskey and beer.

  We pushed through the crowd, my trusty nostrils picking up a spritz or two of cheap perfume along the way. At last we arrived at a long bar with a brass railing. Across the room, an ensemble of musicians in rumpled, gangster-style, pin-striped suits performed on a small stage. The trumpet player, a short man with soft features and cheeks that ballooned when he played, began a serpentine performance of flaring solos. I gawked, mesmerized by the irregular stop-and-start flights of invention. Dante gestured to a vacant stool. Still absorbed in the irregular sounds, moving at a whirlwind pace, I hoisted myself up backwards onto the seat while my neighbor, an elderly Negro, hitched his stool sideways, creating a slot between us. Dante eased into the space and the two men greeted one another with mumbled, “Hey, how ya doins,” and a few other pleasantries, suggesting they knew one another.

  The older man had a wide nose, close-cropped, fuzzy salt-and-pepper hair, and a white stubble beard that stood out like spilled sugar against his dark, mahogany skin. He slipped his elbows onto the bar’s railing, resting with his back propped against it and keeping his head half-turned, facing Dante, as they spoke.

  Dante noticed my interest in his friend and introduced us over the driving sounds. “Leo meet Pucci. Pucci, Leo.”

  Connelly and Dante had discussed a “Leo” back at FBI headquarters. This must be him.

  Leo’s wiry hair glistened with pomade. He grinned, showing large white teeth, and pointed to his shiny coif. “Your ‘do,’ girl. It’s go-ood, know what I mean? You got inventee goin’ and that be go-ood.”

  He thought my haircut was original, I guessed. I took it as the compliment I thought it was meant to be and thanked him.

  A bartender with a missing front tooth ambled over. Dante ordered a Vernor’s ginger ale. On-duty FBI agents did not drink alcohol, but as an independent who had spent her afternoon sipping tea from a porcelain cup, I figured I deserved something with a kick. “Tanqueray martini, up, extra olive.”

  The olives were sustenance. I munched on them, then sipped my drink before turning to face the band again. On stage, the musicians were awash in the muted blue light projecting from colored spots on the ceiling. Three performers wailed on bass, alto sax, and trumpet while the fourth, hunched over a piano, raced his fingers over its keys. Dante had been right. Be-bop was like nothing I had heard before. The harmonies, melodies, and rhythms, all playing off one another, created an innovative, energizing resonance. Before I knew it, be-bop was inside me. My entire body swayed with the beat and my foot, resting on the base of my stool, tapped the metal rim.

  Dante and I were wedged together. So closely that we moved from side to side, like a couple dancing. After a while, my partner added a subtle bouncing movement to our synchronized performance. I glanced down. Special Agent Dante was shuffling his feet, moving them in restrained, semi-tap steps. My gaze returned to his face. Lost in the moment, his eyes were closed, his thick lashes hovering dreamily over his slightly full cheeks.

  Sensing
my stare, he opened his eyelids lazily and smiled. Then, as if returning from wherever it was that he had been, he stiffened, suddenly self-conscious.

  He had shown me an unexpected side. And I loved it. I smiled warmly, hoping to convey my unspoken approval.

  “You’re supposed to be watching the band,” he whispered, his breath tickling my ear.

  My hand was at my side. He reached for it, squeezing it in what I thought was a friendly gesture. But then he didn’t let go. I felt his fingers thread through mine. Our palms touched and I sensed the heat of his flesh. I looked up and caught his questioning glance. Rather than object, I smiled, tightening my grip.

  Our hands linked between us, we turned our attention back to the stage. Moments later, the musicians finished their set and Dante released my hand so we could join the rip-roaring round of applause that continued until the band left the stage to take a break.

  The three of us, Dante, Leo, and I, swiveled to face the bar. I nibbled nuts from a dish, sipping the last of my martini, while the two men spoke to one another in low tones.

  “What’s goin’ down here tonight, Pops?” Dante asked.

  “Place is movin’, you know, you know what I mean? Won’t stop, gonna keep swingin’ all night long. You know what that means, you know. We’ll get a whole mix here, comin’ and goin’, all the dolls, all the gamblers and all the pimps. And that means likely we’re gonna get trouble goin’ here, too, you see. So I gotta watch the joint, watch the cats, watch what’s goin’ down. The gal you been wantin’ to know about, havin’ the bash few years back, she wasn’t watchin’ the comin’s and goin’s, is all. Look what happened. Bad rap.”