“Why?” The police station—buzzing with people she’d hid from as a kid.
He slapped his hat on his head with a finesse that revealed he’d done it a million times. Not skewed in the least. “For questioning.”
“I don’t get it. Why talk to me?” Breathe in. Breathe out. She clutched the back of her tufted chair, bracing herself. “Can’t you talk to me here?”
“Just routine, ma’am. The captain wants to meet with you.” He motioned to the door. “We’ve talked with most of the employees at the offices, plus Mr. Kelly.”
“Carson … was down at headquarters?” Had he been answering questions for the police or paying them off? Murder was a way more serious offense than owning a speakeasy. Though, she hadn’t yet seen an officer turn down an easy grand or two.
“Yes.” He studied her face, then glanced at her hand strangling the seatback. “Are you all right?”
“What if I choose not to go?” Time for a staring match with the man, but her competitor held the advantage, his face natural and confident, while she struggled to keep her features calm. And why all of a sudden was her eye twitching?
“It wouldn’t be wise.” His gaze swayed faintly to the left of her face.
Was he staring at her scar? She untucked the hair from behind her ear, letting the locks fall across her temple. What exactly did she look like right now? She hadn’t taken her makeup off from yesterday, and no doubt it had smeared during the jaunt in the rain.
The phone rang. She jumped.
“Go ahead and answer that.” The sergeant sat on the same cushion she’d shoved her heels under. He grimaced.
Oh, rats. She should’ve left them where they were. The man probably wouldn’t have noticed. But this looked a million times more suspicious.
The sergeant shifted to the left and relaxed.
Her shoulders eased, and she picked up the receiver. “H-hello.”
“Baby?”
Carson! Her grip tightened on the receiver’s neck.
“How are you?” His voice pounded against her skull, making her wish she’d left town the moment she had returned to her apartment. But what had she done? Slept. Now she had a murderer on the phone and a cop lazing in her living room.
“I have bad news, Vera. Still trying to understand it myself.”
She couldn’t detect any suspicion in his tone. But maybe this was a trap—lure her into thinking everything was on the up and up, only to dispose of her down the laundry chute.
“You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” She bounced her weight from foot to foot, keeping her ankles from caving.
“It’s hard to say over the telephone.” His tone wobbled. What a faker. “It’s about Artie. He committed suicide last night.”
This morning a killer, this afternoon a liar. No way she’d be sticking around to see what he’d transform into this evening. Was running from violent men her lot in life? A remote convent looked mighty appealing.
“Did you hear me, Vera?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m sorry, baby. I know he was your only relation. Do you need me to come over?”
“No.” Her voice squeaked, and she winced. Had she given herself away? A large hand pressed her shoulder.
“Make it short, Miss Pembroke.” The sergeant’s deep timbre brushed her ears.
“Vera, is someone with you?
“No, it’s just the noise box. Hold on, I’ll turn it off.” Vera held the phone against her chest and turned to the sergeant, pressing a finger to her lips.
He made a grave look and returned to the sofa.
“I’m coming over,” Carson said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“No, Carson. I’m, uh … I’m not feelin’ so well.” She faked a cough. A terrible delivery, but hopefully, it sounded more believable on his end. “I caught somethin’. It’s fierce. Plus, I’d rather grieve alone.”
“You sure?”
She twisted the receiver cord around her finger, pulling. “It’ll be better that way.”
“As long as you’re okay for tonight. Catch ya later, baby.”
Not if she could help it. “Bye.” Her shaky hand returned the receiver into the cradle, making the candlestick base dance a wobbly jig. Her breathing steadied, but her heart beat wildly against her ribs.
“Who was that, Miss Pembroke?” The sergeant stood.
“A sharp note that turned flat.”
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Nothin’, forget it.” She grabbed her purse off the coffee table. “Let’s go and get this done.” There were bags to pack and murderers to escape from.
His eyes pinched at the corners. “Wouldn’t you like to … get more decent?”
Her gaze shifted downward and then to the sergeant. How could she have forgotten her state of dress? Something in her stirred. Could be from the sergeant’s pointed look, the frustration mingled with adrenaline over her conversation with Carson, or, she hated to admit, the slight twinge of disappointment for having discovered her handsome rescuer had turned out to be a cop. Most likely, the blend of all three prompted her sarcastic smirk and jutted chin. “Perhaps I should change.” She headed for her bedroom and glanced over her shoulder. “I save sauntering around town in my bathrobe for the weekends.”
The lock on her bedroom door clicked, and Mick exhaled, the tightness in his chest unraveling. Why he’d felt tense around a woman a head shorter and over a hundred pounds lighter than him, he couldn’t pinpoint. What he did know was last evening the prima donna, even with her layers of cosmetics and flashy gown, couldn’t mask the fear marking her entrancing eyes. He’d identified it the moment they’d held gazes. Stark terror. This afternoon the same thing, only with some confusion tossed in.
Her appearance when she had opened the door had caught him off guard. Gone was the stylish nightclub singer. Instead, there stood a vulnerable young lady with wild curly hair and black makeup smearing her face. He preferred her messy, natural face to a painted one. Her mannerisms had reminded him of the first time he’d gone hunting with his pap. When they’d stumbled upon a doe, her wide eyes and panicky movements had poked his conscience. He hadn’t wanted to harm her but rather to protect her.
Mick glanced around, assessing the small space. The kitchenette bore no semblance of use. The furnishings weren’t lavish like a Shadyside home, but they weren’t poverty-grade like a few of the apartments he’d seen in this very complex.
He didn’t expect a picture of Mother Mary or a cross, but there should be something here of a personal effect. Instead of pictures and photo albums, shellac records lined the bookshelf. On the coffee table and counters where most women had knick-knacks, she had sheet music. As if music was her only love, her entire world.
Didn’t she have family? Anyone who loved her? His heart clenched, and he chided himself. Hadn’t he learned his lesson five years ago? Most likely, the duchess of the gin joint wasn’t as vulnerable as she appeared to be. Her powers of performance, no doubt, stretched beyond the stage. Mick wouldn’t be taken as the fool again.
Stick to the rules. Adhere to guidelines. If you don’t, then people … died.