Kit set paper in front of her and took up the pencil. She noticed her hand was shaking and put it down firmly on the wooden table to steady it. "You are being charged with the murder of Millie Ryan," she said. She summoned her courage and looked him in the eye. What unspoken clues would she find there?
None immediately. He merely nodded, waiting for her to ask a question.
And what question would that be? Should she come right out and ask if he did it? That was her instinct, but Rogers told her before she left that was the one question she should not ask a client. Focus on the evidence, Rogers told her. Their job was to defeat the state's case, nothing else.
But she wanted to ask, felt the words forming in her mouth. What came out was, "Can you account for your whereabouts on the night of August tenth?"
"Let's see. Was that Saturday?"
"Yes."
"What time?"
"All the time."
Now Ted sat on the wooden stool that was the only other piece of furniture in the room. "You want to know if I did it, don't you?"
Kit's pulse throbbed in her neck. "I want to know where you were on August tenth."
"I did not," he said.
She looked into his eyes. Did she believe him? She knew she wanted to.
"Have the police questioned you?" she asked.
"Sure."
"What did you tell them?"
"Nothing. They want me to confess."
"Can you tell me where you were, then, on the night of August tenth?"
Ted looked at his manacled hands. "I don't remember."
"Try. You must try," she urged.
"I don't remember everything."
"Start with what you do remember," Kit said. She would have to be firm to get him to open up, to help if she could—and to determine for herself if he was telling the truth.
"I think I had dinner in the Chinese quarter."
"Do you remember where?"
"Not the name."
"What time was it?"
Ted sighed. "I didn't notice."
"Was it dark? Light?"
"Getting dark."
"But still some light outside?"
"Yes."
Kit paused to write some notes. Millie Ryan had been killed in the dead of night. The only thing Rogers knew about the eyewitness was that she, if it was a she, had claimed Ted was seen fleeing around midnight.
"Where did you go after dinner?" Kit asked.
"I walked."
"Where did you walk?"
"Toward the center of town."
"What street?"
"I don't know. Broadway maybe. Maybe New High."
Kit wrote all this down. "Was it dark then?" she asked.
"Yes. By then it was."
"Where did you end up?"
"At the Plaza."
"Where is that?"
"Olvera Street. There was a band playing. I listened for a while."
"Did you talk to anyone?"
"I don't speak Spanish."
"How long did you stay there?"
"I wasn't keeping track of time."
Kit put the pencil down. "Mr. Fox, these are the sorts of questions you are going to be asked by the prosecutor. A jury of twelve men is going to be looking at you when you answer. You have to try to be precise."
"I didn't do it, Kit," he said. "Isn't that precise enough?"
She wanted it to be. But she knew it wasn't. "Millie Ryan had a room on Alameda Street near Oro. I don't know the city well enough yet. Do you know where that is?"
Ted hesitated before answering. "Yes."
"Where?"
He looked at her. "Not far from the Plaza."
Kit felt a jolt. Ted had placed himself near the murder scene at night. "Mr. Fox, is there—"
"Call me Ted, will you? You did once."
Kit looked at her hands. "All right."
"I'm sorry. Finish your question."
Raising her head, Kit asked him the most important question. "Is there anyone who can say they saw you on the night of August tenth, at any time?"
There flashed across his face a look of remembrance. It was unmistakable. There was someone. Kit was sure of it. She leaned forward a little.
"No one," Ted said.
"But are you—"
"No one, I tell you. I suppose that's it." He stood up, the chain between his manacles jangling. He crossed the room and banged on the door with both fists.
"Wait," said Kit.
"Tell Rogers to come himself next time," Ted said.
"Ted," Kit said, "you told me you did something when not of sound mind. What was it?"
The door swung open, and a guard stepped into the room.
"We're finished," Ted said.
The guard cast a quick glance at Kit, shrugged his shoulders, and held the door for Ted. He walked through it without looking back.
Chapter Nineteen
ON HER WAY OUT, Kit saw a man at the front desk wagging his finger in the face of the unimpressed desk deputy. Something about him was familiar. He was wearing a straw hat, cocked to one side, a light-colored suit, and a high-collared shirt.
"You can't hold out on me!" the man said. "I have a right to see him."
The deputy snorted and lifted a billy club. "You want me to explain your rights?"
"You don't know who you're dealing with! You ever heard of William Randolph Hearst?"
She recognized him now. It was that reporter, Tom Phelps. He turned in exasperation and spotted her. "Well, I'll be hanged!" he said.
"Hello," Kit said.
"This is a pleasant surprise. What on earth are you doing here at the jailhouse?"
"Business," Kit said.
"Will you step into my office please?" Phelps said. "It's clear I'm not wanted here."
The deputy huffed as Phelps led Kit out the doors to the front steps. "I got that big ape's name," Phelps said. "He'll be seeing his name in print."
"Make sure you don't get arrested."
"Can't promise that! Now, newspaper man that I am, might I inquire as to your business here?"
"As I said, I'm working."
"For whom?"
"Earl Rogers."
Phelps's jaw dropped open slightly. "Well, make a tamale out of me." He reached into his coat and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. "You're working on the Fox case!"
Kit nodded.
"Were you just with him? Fox?"
"Yes . . ." Kit hesitated as Phelps started scribbling.
"What did he tell you?"
His directness took her aback. Though she had no reason to distrust him, she knew she couldn't let on about the case without Rogers' permission. Besides, Rogers was the star. He would be the one to talk to the newspapers.
"Mr. Phelps, I—"
"Oh no," he said. "Don't tell me you're gonna hold out?"
"I can't give out any information on the case without—"
"Shh!" Phelps took her by the arm and led her down the stone steps toward the street. His conduct seemed conspiratorial. A big policeman gave them a mean look as he walked past.
"This is the biggest scoop of my life," Phelps said in a low tone. "You can't hold out on me now." His grip on her arm tightened.
"Mr. Phelps, please," Kit urged.
"Tom, call me Tom."
"Let go of my arm, Mr. Phelps."
He paused, then released his grip.
"I am not at liberty to discuss this case with you," Kit said.
"All right, all right," said Phelps. He put the pad and pencil back into his coat pocket and held up his hands to show nothing was in them. "Then off the record. What you tell me stays with me."
"Not even off the record, Mr. Phelps."
"Tom, please. You can trust me."
Could she? Perhaps, but still, the information was not hers to give.
Then, as if sensing her thoughts, Phelps added, "I'm in a position to help you."
"Help me? How so?"
Phelps pushed his skimmer higher up on his
head. "You've got a client who may have murdered some ladies of, shall we say, questionable character?"
"Yes."
"And you, a young lady of breeding from the East, have little knowledge of the . . . profession as practiced in our fair city."
There was no question of that. She had wondered what her next step would be in this investigation.
"Well, I have," Phelps said. "From a purely journalistic point of view, of course. I might be able to get you access to the right people."
She had no doubt then he could do that very thing. He had the right profession, and his attitude was one of firm assuredness. She knew Rogers' own Bill Jory probably had the same connections and would do some investigating. But he was a man, and she sensed this case would require a woman's angle. He was speaking of a class of women who might firmly distrust men.
"I would appreciate any help you might offer," Kit said.
"That's just fine. Now you tell me something. Did he do it?"
Kit blinked back her surprise. "I . . . that is, he denies it."
"But did he? You talked to him. You looked at him. What do you think?"
Recovering, Kit said, "What I think isn't important."
"Ah, spoken like a true mouthpiece! But I'm asking you as a fellow human being."
Actually wondering what she thought about Ted's guilt, Kit said nothing.
"I see," Phelps said, nodding.
"See what?" Kit said quickly, wondering what he had perceived.
"Doubts. Which is why I'm here. How can I help you? What do you need to know?"
"The police have an eyewitness, someone who claims to have seen Ted leaving Millie Ryan's room on the night of the murder."
Phelps let out a snort through a half smile. "The cops have a way of coming up with eyewitnesses when necessary."
Kit's eyes widened. "You don't mean they would . . ."
"That's exactly what I mean, little lady. You're not dealing with angels here."
A sudden chill coursed through Kit's body. "Whom can I talk to?" Kit said. "Is there anyone?"
"Tom Phelps will help you, Miss Shannon. And you will help me."
"How?"
"Come along."
———
Kit puzzled over what Phelps might consider help, but she kept her questions to herself. Tom Phelps was giving her something she never could have gotten on her own: access. Specifically, access to a world she scarcely knew about.
In her New York days, living at Leo House with the sisters, she had met two women who were, as the nuns put it, "fallen." They had come to Leo House out of desperation and need of protection. Kit knew what they had been, but was never quite sure why they needed protection, and they never volunteered an explanation. All she knew was they were from a world that was so foreign to her own experience she prayed she would never go there. And the sisters of Leo House were vigilant in keeping her from it.
Now she had to descend into that world for the sake of Ted Fox—and her own determination to find out if he was innocent. And Tom Phelps was her guide.
The cab Phelps hired took them down Main Street and through the El Pueblo Plaza—a circular park with stately rubber trees on the outskirts of downtown. Phelps mentioned that this had been the center of Los Angeles back in the '60s, when the city was little more than a collection of ranchos.
And here is where Ted was the night of Millie's murder, Kit thought. Or said he was. Would she ever know the truth?
The horse-drawn cab turned left at the corner of the Plaza, where a red-plastered Catholic church stood sentry. A Mexican man wearing a large sombrero scuffed at the hard ground in front of the church with a hoe.
Almost immediately, the cab turned right. "New High Street," Phelps said, as if that term had significance.
Kit saw the cab driver, a roughhewn man, turn and wink at Phelps.
Presently, Phelps told the cabbie to pull up at a white two-story building with an ornately designed door. After telling the driver to wait, Phelps led Kit to the door and knocked.
A moment later a small eye-level window opened, filled with an angry-looking face.
"Hello, Clancy," Phelps said.
The window slammed shut, and the door slowly opened. Kit followed Phelps in.
The angry face belonged to one of the largest men Kit had ever seen. He had a barrel chest and massive arms, all packed into a suit that barely fit. He had a huge black mustache that was curled upward with wax. Kit judged him to be in his forties.
"Miss Shannon," Phelps said. "May I present Clancy Muldoon."
The mean face squinted into a smile as Clancy bowed slightly.
"Clancy here fought the great John L. Sullivan once," Phelps explained.
"Would have whipped 'im, too," Clancy added with a singsong Irish lilt, "if I had not broken me right knuckle. See?" He held his right hand to Kit, who thought she noticed an enlarged knuckle in the middle.
"Tell Pearl I'd like to see her," Phelps said.
"At your service," Clancy said. "And very pleased to meet you I am, Miss Shannon." He strode through a bead curtain, leaving Kit and Phelps alone in a foyer that Kit now noticed was done up in plush scarlet tones.
"Is this . . ." Kit began.
"A house of ill repute," Phelps finished. "But if it means anything to you, it's the finest in the city."
Kit's heart began a drumbeat. She became immediately aware of her womanhood and the fact that she was standing with a man inside a place she'd never, in her wildest imaginings, thought she'd ever have occasion to enter.
Clancy returned and said, "This way, if it please you."
Phelps and Kit passed through the beads and into a muted pink hallway with several doors on either side. Ferns and flowering potted plants lined the walls, and a spiral staircase led up to another floor. Kit looked up and saw two women in sheer décolletage, with more rouge and eye shadow than Kit had ever seen on any face, looking down at her as if observing a zoo exhibit.
There was a faint scent of gardenia in the air as Clancy led them to a large door at the end of the hallway. He rapped on the door with his large knuckle. A deep woman's voice said, "Enter."
The room looked like some sort of paradise for an Arabian sheik. There were diaphanous curtains that seemed almost suspended in midair, huge soft pillows covered with silk and tassels on the floor, and against the wall an enormous bed that might have been fashioned from a cloud. On the opposite side of the room, by contrast, was a rolltop desk and chair, such as any businessman might use.
And rising from the chair was a woman who took Kit's breath away.
She wore a suit of plum-colored silk. Her waist was tightly corseted, accentuating her ample bust and hips. A perfect hourglass, Kit thought. Her hair was an intense russet color—the color of Kit's own hair if it had been illuminated by some inner light. She almost floated toward them, so elegant was her walk. She extended her hand to Phelps.
"So nice to see you, Tom," she said. Her smile was friendly and sensuous at the same time. Kit couldn't help staring.
"Pearl," Phelps said, "may I present Kit Shannon? Kit, this is Pearl Morton."
Pearl turned to Kit and smiled even more broadly. "It is my pleasure to meet you, Miss Shannon." Her handshake was strong, as was the distinct odor of lavendar perfume.
"Thank you," Kit said, her voice squeaking at the end.
"Clancy, some coffee, please," Pearl Morton said. Clancy bowed and retreated from the room. Pearl motioned for the three of them to sit at a small table topped with red felt.
"This young lady works for Earl," Phelps said.
Pearl's face lit up. "Really? Well, Earl is a good friend of ours. He's helped a number of my girls. Especially with the new administration." Pearl leaned forward. "The mayor doesn't like us too well. Or I should say the mayor's wife."
Phelps laughed and Pearl joined him. Kit forced a smile.
"Now, what can I do for you, Miss Shannon?"
"Earl's got the Fox case," Phelps said.
"Why don't you let Miss Shannon answer for herself?" Pearl said. Then, looking at Kit, "Newspapermen don't know when to shut up."
Kit felt a warmth coming from this woman and marveled at the way she handled Tom Phelps. She seemed so at ease in doing so, as if she had some innate power. Certainly a power that Phelps respected, for he fell silent.
"Go on, dear," Pearl said.
Gathering her thoughts quickly, Kit said, "The police have an eyewitness. Mr. Rogers thinks it is a prostitute. Oh, I didn't mean . . ."
Pearl Morton patted her hand. "That's all right. I prefer the word courtesan, but I'm sure Tom here uses quite another." She winked at Phelps, who grunted.
"I brought her to you," Phelps said, "because if anybody would know who the . . . courtesan might be, you'd be the one."
There was a knock at the door, and Clancy entered with a coffee service on a silver tray. Even Aunt Freddy would have approved, Kit thought. Whatever Pearl Morton was, she certainly had good taste.
After Clancy left and Pearl poured coffee for them, she said, "The girls down in the cribs are unfortunates. They don't have someone like me to look after them. But I do hear things."
"What things?" Kit asked.
Pearl Morton took a sip of coffee from a beautiful china cup. "Things that a girl of your pedigree might find a bit jarring."
It was a clear warning. Pearl was asking Kit if she wanted to venture down this path. "Please," Kit said.
"It's a rather dark world down on Alameda Street. The clientele is not the sort that frequents my establishment. They're drunks, gamblers, cattlemen in from Arizona and Nevada with mean dispositions. It's a wonder more girls don't end up like those three. Don't you like your coffee?"
Kit had not taken a sip, indeed did not even drink coffee. But she wanted Pearl Morton to keep talking, and being sociable seemed the proper thing to do. She lifted her cup and took in some of the hot liquid. It tasted bitter.
"You might wonder how I manage to keep open my own establishment," Pearl continued. "It's because we take care that certain interests are satisfied." She cast a knowing look at Phelps.
"What she means, Kit," Phelps said, "is that some of the money goes to the police."
"Tom," Pearl said, "you're so discreet."
City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1) Page 16