City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1)

by James Scott Bell

  The guard stopped at a cell holding two women. One sat on a stool near the back wall. The other was lying on a cot. "Millie Ryan," he said. "You got a visitor."

  The one on the stool looked up. Her face, Kit thought, had a natural prettiness. But it was obscured by streaks of dirt and an ugly, blue-black bruise that covered most of one cheek. Most chilling of all were her eyes—they seemed almost lifeless.

  "Who is it?" Millie said in a quiet, abject voice.

  "My name is Kit Shannon. I'm here at the request of your father."

  "Papa?" Millie said hopefully. Then she let her head hang down again. "Go away."

  "There you are," the guard said, taking Kit's arm. "She don't want to see you."

  Kit pulled her arm back. "Millie, let me talk to you."

  "What good will it do?" she said.

  The guard raised his billy to indicate the way. "Come along, now."

  "Wait," Millie said. She stood and walked to the bars. "How is Papa?"

  "Let me tell you," said Kit.

  With a heavy sigh, the guard growled, "I'll give you fifteen minutes."

  "Twenty," Kit said. "And in a private room."

  ———

  The room was only semi-private. A police officer stood guard just inside the door as Kit sat across a table from Millie Ryan. This poor creature—just twenty, Kit reminded herself—looked as if her life was over. There was no spirit in her voice when she spoke, only a slight tinge of concern for her father.

  "But don't let him see me," she added. "He can't." She pulled a chain from under her blouse. Revealing a gold locket with a cross, she showed Kit the photos enclosed. "My papa and mama," she explained. "It's all I have left of them now. I couldn't bear to see Papa face-to-face. Not after this."

  "He loves you," Kit said. "He wants to help you."

  "Too late."

  Was it too late? Kit felt as if she were clinging to a buoy at sea. Would she be able to do anyone, let alone Millie, any good? She had legal training in her mind, but this was real-world experience staring her in the face. But she had come to investigate, and that's what she would do.

  "It's not too late for anything, Millie," Kit said. "Now, why don't you start by telling me what happened, what led to your arrest."

  Millie looked at Kit with those lifeless eyes. The bruise on the side of her face was like a stain. "What good will it do?" she said.

  "I'm here to help you."

  "Who are you? How can the likes of you help the likes of me?"

  "I work for an attorney."

  Millie let out a derisive laugh. "Attorneys can't help me. I got no money. Papa's got no money. Just leave me alone." She started to get up.

  "No," Kit said forcefully. "I'm here. We don't have much time. I want you to talk to me."

  Millie sat back down and shook her head. "I'm not worth it."

  Reaching across the table, Kit grabbed Millie's hand. "I say you are. Give me a chance. Please."

  Millie looked at their entwined hands, almost as if she couldn't believe anyone would touch her. Then a small, almost invisible light seemed to flicker in the back of her eyes, like someone holding up a match in the depths of a dark cavern. "You really want me to?"

  "Yes," Kit said.

  With a quick glance at the policeman by the door, Millie lowered her voice and said, "You know about me, right? I'm not a good girl. I take money from men."

  Kit's heart nearly broke for the girl. "I know."

  "It's not the way I wanted it to be. Never planned to end up like this—especially here." She looked away, and her voice took on a tone that suggested Millie was lost in regret. "I didn't want to shame my family, it just happened that way. I know my papa is disappointed in me—probably hates me. Oh, I'd give anything to do it all over."

  "I'm sure you would," Kit said. She wasn't at all sure what to do or say. She certainly couldn't condone what the woman did for a living, but neither could she turn away. This woman was a human being, a creation of God. She had a heart and a soul just like anyone else.

  Kit waited a moment as Millie straightened and seemed to regain control. "Can you tell me what happened?" Kit asked.

  "Sometimes," Millie began with a slight stammer, "the men who come are well off. One of them, who took a liking to me, is a man named Finlay Wilson. Heard of him?"

  Kit shook her head.

  "He's rich," Millie said. "From making buggies, I think. Has a wife and family. He's the one that did this." Millie pointed to her bruised face.

  "When did he do that?"

  "About a week ago. He likes to do things like that. Hit me, you know."

  Kit did know, about the many other Millies in this world for whom justice was often denied. "Go on," Kit said.

  "Well, two nights ago he comes to see me," Millie said. "But I tell him no. Not after what he did. He can go find somebody else. Then he says he don't want nobody else, he wants me, and he wants me the same as always. Then—" her voice broke off.

  "Then what, Millie?"

  Through a choked sob, Millie said, "He hit me . . . he hit me. . . ."

  The policeman at the door took a step toward them. Kit saw it and put up her hand and, amazingly, the officer stepped back.

  To Millie she said, "What did you do next, Millie?"

  A single teardrop coursed jaggedly down Millie's cheek. "He grabbed me and put his hands around my neck. I couldn't breathe . . . I scratched his face, and he screamed. He called me a bad name and said he was going to kill me."

  Kit waited.

  "I grabbed my shears . . . and then I did it."

  "Did what, Millie?"

  "I stabbed him."

  "Where?"

  "In the side." Millie pointed to her right rib. "And then I screamed. And he ran away."

  "This was in your room?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And then what happened?"

  "The police came a few hours later. They broke down my door and woke me up, took me away. I've been in here ever since. They won't tell me anything except I tried to murder him and I'm going away for a long, long time."

  And then, as if retelling the events had taken a huge emotional toll, Millie added, "Maybe it's where I belong."

  "No, Millie," Kit said, taking her hand once more. "I won't let you think that."

  But Millie shook her head. Her expression was one of complete resignation. "I've done too many bad things. I should die."

  Without hesitation, Kit said, "Your papa told me he taught you from the Bible."

  "Yes," said Millie. "I've sinned against God, against Papa . . ." Her sobs began again.

  "Millie, look at me," Kit said. "You know the Bible says the Good Shepherd will leave the ninety-nine sheep to find the one that is lost. Your Good Shepherd is looking for you now."

  "But I've sinned . . ."

  "And the price for your sin was paid on the cross. Do you believe that?"

  Millie looked confused. "I know about the cross. I know about Jesus. When I was a little girl I was baptized in the ocean. Papa gave me this locket to remind me of the cross and him and Mama. . . ." Her voice trailed off. "To remind me that Jesus loves me."

  "He does love you, Millie."

  "I want to believe that." From the darkness of her face came a look of deep yearning. "I want to. I do want to come back."

  "Then you can. , Close your eyes, Millie, and tell God you want to come back to Him."

  "May I?"

  "Now, Millie."

  Millie closed her eyes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE DESK SERGEANT looked at Kit as though she were standing there with a gun. "You what?" he said.

  "I want to speak to the officer in charge of the case," Kit said.

  "That's what I thought you said. You must be bats."

  "No. I'm a legal representative." This was at least true in a general sense.

  The sergeant scratched his head, no doubt mulling over the fact that she worked for Earl Rogers. He did not look pleased. "Wait," he sa
id brusquely.

  Kit, aware of the stares of other police officers walking to and fro, stood frozen at the desk. She knew instantly what it must feel like to be a suspect. They were watching, looking for clues, sizing her up. The only difference was she hadn't done anything wrong. Not from her perspective, at least. But what about the police? What was she doing, making demands?

  A few moments later the sergeant returned, flanked by a stocky man in a brown suit. His nose was large and flat, like an ex-pugilist she had met once in New York. He had a cold stub of a cigar plugged into one side of his mouth.

  "This the one causing all the trouble?" the stocky man said.

  "She's the one," replied the sergeant.

  "My name's McGinty," the man in the brown suit said. "Detective McGinty. You work for Rogers?"

  Swallowing, Kit managed to say, "Yes."

  "Uh-huh." McGinty looked her up and down, reminding her of Sloate's leer. "I got to say I like his taste in secretaries."

  "I'm not a secretary, sir," said Kit. "I am a legal representative here on behalf of Millie Ryan. Are you the investigating officer?"

  "Now, look, miss, I—"

  "Are you?"

  "Water your horses, miss. Yeah, I am." McGinty looked like he was withholding something. Was he just playing with her? Was this all a joke to him and everyone else?

  "Then I want to ask you some questions," said Kit.

  McGinty glared at her, working the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Why?" he said finally.

  "To determine what evidence you have against Millie Ryan."

  At that McGinty laughed and looked at the sergeant, who also laughed. "Maybe Earl hasn't told you this," McGinty said, "but we don't have to tell you anything."

  No, Rogers hadn't told her that. She had only heard secondhand accounts of lawyers being able to talk informally to cops. But that was if you were a real lawyer, which she wasn't, and if you had a working relationship with them, which she didn't. Still, she had played her card and was determined to see out the hand.

  "I know that's formally true, Detective," said Kit. "But surely if it becomes apparent your case is thin, you may not want to file the charges. You may want to see that justice is done. Unless, of course—" Kit paused for effect—"you're not confident in what you have."

  "Confident!" McGinty almost lost his cigar. "Miss, your client, if that's what she is, tried to kill a man. In this state that's attempted murder."

  "Are you so sure?"

  "Sure as I'm standing here."

  "How can you be?"

  McGinty now took the cigar out of his mouth. "Because I got the complaining witness here, with his lawyer, and I just took his statement."

  The complaining witness? Here? "Then let's talk to him," Kit said, shocked at her own audacity.

  McGinty squinted at her. At first he looked as though he would physically eject her from the station. But then a glint flashed in his eyes. He looked amused. "Oh, you want to talk to him, do you?"

  Too late to back down now. "I do," said Kit.

  "Well, then, missy, why don't you follow me?"

  The desk sergeant looked thunderstruck as Kit followed McGinty through a side door.

  Entering a large green room, Kit observed a row of wooden desks. A haze of smoke hung like a canopy below the ceiling. McGinty strode toward a desk where a man with three ugly scratches on his left cheek was seated. Finlay Wilson, Kit thought. He looked up from a newspaper on his lap. He had a thick black mustache and cold, dark eyes.

  Kit locked on those eyes immediately, seeing an animosity in them that she had not earned. It was just part of Wilson, she concluded. This is a man who would lie.

  A tall, angular man had his back to Kit and McGinty. He was stooping over the desk, apparently reading something. As he heard them approach, he stood up and turned.

  And Kit lost all breath.

  Heath Sloate's face blanched when he saw her. His eyes widened behind his pince-nez glasses, appearing to fill both lenses. For a brief moment, Kit thought he might cry out like a crazed soldier, pointing out a spy in the camp. But he seemed to regain control quickly, his eyes scanning the room, as if knowing they were being watched.

  Her own knees buckled slightly, but she fought for balance. Heath Sloate! Now what would she do?

  "Mr. Sloate," McGinty said, "this here lady works for Mr. Earl Rogers. What was your name again, miss?"

  Kit took in a breath and tried not to let her voice tremble. "Kathleen Shannon," she said.

  McGinty said, "She doesn't think we have much of a case against that poor murdering slut sitting in our jail. She wanted to talk about it, if you can believe that. I thought you could set her straight."

  Every eye in the squad room seemed to be trained on her. "There's nothing to set straight," Sloate said. "This woman is not a lawyer. She has no right to be here. Have her removed."

  McGinty paused, raised his eyebrows, then took a step toward her.

  Kit said, "Wait. I do have a right to be here."

  "How?" Sloate said.

  "Law of agency."

  "Law of what?" McGinty asked around his cigar.

  "Agency." Kit quoted from memory, "Every relation in which one person acts for or represents another by the latter's authority. Isn't that right, Mr. Sloate?"

  Sloate's thin lips tightened.

  "What should I do?" McGinty asked.

  "You're going to charge attempted murder," Sloate said. Then he looked at Kit. "And there's nothing this . . . pretender can do about it."

  From some deep wellspring came a rush of anger in Kit so strong she thought it might burst out in a scream. Her body burned with indignation, but she held her voice in check and felt her mind click into a slot that almost seemed pre-chosen for her. She followed her thoughts without hesitation, confident.

  "The evidence," Kit said, "is that this man engaged my client in a criminal transaction, prostitution, and then attempted to do her physical harm. Millie Ryan acted in self-defense. And we will prove it."

  Finlay Wilson wrapped his big hands around the arms of his chair, squeezing so hard his knuckles turned white. "I did no such thing! I was walking along the street, on my way to a prayer meeting, when she jumped out at me! She wanted to rob me!"

  "Then how did you leave evidence of being in her room?"

  McGinty snapped to attention. "What evidence?"

  "He knows," said Kit. She knew the only evidence was Millie's own testimony, but something about his look told her that Wilson was a man who would crack easily.

  Wilson shifted again and looked at Sloate. "You said there wouldn't be any—"

  "Quiet," Sloate admonished.

  "But you said no one would take her case!"

  "Quiet, I said!"

  Kit looked at the tense interplay of the two men and added, "Not only that, but my client is going to bring an action for assault and battery against Mr. Wilson. She will be seeking an award of money to compensate her for her injuries."

  Wilson shot to his feet, looking at Sloate. "Wait just a minute here. You didn't tell me this would happen!"

  "She's bluffing," Sloate said. Then he focused his steely eyes on Kit. "She knows that no one will believe the story of a pitiable woman against a man of standing."

  Kit felt the full brunt of Sloate's contempt. How many people had he looked at in just this way? How many people had capitulated, as he was expecting her to do now?

  Then she realized—Heath Sloate was Sister Gertrude! He ruled this roost, holding the long cane of his influence over her inexperienced palms. She was not going to let him strike.

  She looked at Wilson. "This will be a fine story for the Hearst paper, Mr. Wilson. It loves a scandal. I know a reporter who will appreciate this scoop."

  A thin layer of sweat made Wilson's forehead glisten. "Heath, I want to stop this."

  "Don't listen to her," Sloate said.

  "I mean it," said Wilson, his eyes reflecting such guilt Kit was sure McGinty would not be abl
e to ignore it. "I won't swear out a complaint, and I won't testify."

  "You're beside yourself," Sloate said.

  "No, no," said Wilson. "I can't have this in the paper." He turned to Kit. "If I drop the complaint, will you promise not to bring suit against me?"

  A slow moan, almost like the wail of a wounded animal, issued from Sloate's mouth. Kit said to Wilson, "I think my client can be convinced, provided she is released immediately and you send her the sum of five hundred dollars for the trauma she has faced. Then I can assure you the story will go no further."

  "This is blackmail!" Sloate shouted.

  McGinty, taking the stub of cigar and tossing it into a spittoon, said, "Nope, it's trading. I think she's got you, Sloate."

  A few titters arose around them, and Kit remembered they were all being observed by policemen.

  "Done!" said Wilson, extending his hand.

  Sloate quickly said, "You're making a big—"

  But before he could finish Kit grabbed Wilson's hand and shook. "Done," she said.

  "I'll send a check to Rogers' office in the morning," said Wilson. "Come on, Heath, let's get out of here." Wilson grabbed his coat from the wooden chair and started walking, looking as if he couldn't wait to get out.

  Kit, her head whirling, smelled Sloate's sour breath by her ear. "This isn't over," he whispered with palpable malevolence. Then he followed his client.

  For a moment the world was silent around her. She felt her entire body buzzing, as if it couldn't quite believe what its owner had just done. To Heath Sloate!

  McGinty stared at her. And then he slapped her on the shoulder. "Now that was worth seein'!" He laughed then, and a few others in the room laughed, too.

  "Yep," McGinty said, "I got to hand it to you. I've never seen Sloate so flustered!"

  Kit was speechless.

  "I'll tell you," McGinty whispered, "I don't like him much. Seeing what you just did was a tonic."

  "Thank you," was all Kit could think of to say.

  "You tell Rogers something for me, will you?"

  "Of course."

  "Tell him to hang on to you."

  Kit couldn't help smiling.

  "And one more thing," said McGinty.

  "Yes?"

  "Watch your back. Sloate isn't a man to forget something like this."