The Secret Life of Anna Blanc

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  Madam Lulu held her eyes for a long moment, as if deliberating. “No.”

  Anna heaved a heavy sigh. “Okay. If Snow and the coroner didn't do it, our only other suspects are your customers. This gives us another clue. Either Snow and the coroner are derelict in their duty, or the killer has influence that he's using to silence them. If you would give me a list of patrons, I could look for wealthy Protestant blackmailers or…”

  Madam Lulu interrupted, swinging her feet around and planting them on the floor. “No way. That's against the code.”

  Anna blinked. “Okay. Nothing in writing. Just say their names, and I'll remember them. I have a good memory. I won't tell anyone. Please.” Anna stared fiercely into Madam Lulu's eyes.

  Madam Lulu shook her head so hard, the fox on her stole shook its head with her. “No! No! No! It'd be like a priest telling everybody what you said in the confessional. We don't kiss and tell. It's the way it's always been.”

  Anna's voice rose. “One of them is a killer!”

  “Maybe. But the only way a girl finds out who goes to my brothel is if she works there.”

  It was nine o’clock, but the streets of Boyle Heights still teamed with people enjoying the first cool night of the summer—sitting on porches, playing strange instruments, stretching their legs for pleasure. Lanterns spit on posts in the dark. Anna strolled on Wolf's arm. He reeked of citrus and lavender aftershave, his damp hair freshly cut, his face cleanly shaven. She wondered if he had preened to impress her. He wasn't the Arrow Collar Man, but he was good looking, and he certainly radiated a mannish heat. He didn't distract her as much as Joe Singer, though, which was a good thing. She had detective work to do tonight. A woman's virtue depended on it.

  Joe skulked nearby, providing backup to her bait. He stalked Wolf and Anna from various hiding places, shadowing them in his denim trousers, not allowing them out of his sight. He put the best of Anna's chaperones to shame. She wished her father had hired Joe and not the Widow Crisp, though it would make changing in the orchard awkward and she would have to wear his denim trousers.

  She decided that she liked his denim trousers and wouldn't mind wearing them. She loved them, really, and couldn't imagine why she had ever thought they looked repulsive. They should be the next great thing in fashion. She would suggest this to Madeline Vionnet at the House of Doucet and send her a pair. But maybe she only liked the trousers because Joe's legs were inside them, and she liked his legs intensely. Anna began to feel distracted.

  They turned down a particularly dark street. Joe trailed behind them, agitated. He hissed to Anna when no passersby were near, “Watch his hands, Sherlock. He's a scoundrel.”

  Wolf grinned. “Now that's the pot calling the kettle black.”

  Joe crawled through the bushes, scrambled over a wall, and peeked from behind a night blooming jasmine. It dripped with star-flowers that smelled like Hollenbeck Park—the scent that accompanied Joe's lovemaking the night they first did police work together just over a week ago. It was pretend, police lovemaking, but Anna still liked to think about it.

  Deep furrows creased Joe's forehead and his face was red. “I mean it, Sherlock. You can't trust him.”

  That was undoubtedly true. Still, Anna held out the tiniest hope that Joe felt jealous. She cast him a lofty, devil-may-care smile. “I'm fine. Happy as a clam.” She wondered if he tasted like peppermint tonight.

  Wolf grinned. “Officer Singer. Don't hover. The rape fiend doesn't attack trios.” Wolf steered Anna to the other side of the street, away from Joe. “I don't know about you, but I'd like a little privacy.” He rubbed her arm. Joe crossed the road after them and faded into the foliage just a few feet away. Wolf chuckled with glee, high pitched, almost a giggle.

  “How long has the rape fiend been terrorizing Boyle Heights?” Anna asked.

  “Going on ten months.”

  “So one day, he just started attacking couples? Out of the blue?”

  “No, honeybun. Not out of the blue. If he's typical, he worked up to it. We think he came from Omaha. They had a series of similar attacks on couples. Right after the Omaha rapes stopped, the Boyle Heights rapes began.”

  “I see.”

  They turned down an alley that smelled like an outhouse, drowning the scent of jasmine. It jolted Anna's mind. Her thoughts shifted to sewage-smelling morgues, to the man who filled them up with brothel girls, to the men who stood back and let it happen—Snow and the coroner. She felt angry at Joe, because, indirectly, he let it happen, too.

  She thought of Snow, and how peculiar it was that he couldn't spell. Detectives were of high rank in the LAPD. They were supposed to be intelligent. Could Snow be intelligent but simply poor at writing?

  Anna looked up at her dapper escort who was merrily whistling. “Detective Wolf, may I ask you a question?”

  Wolf leaned in close. “Ask me anything, honeybun.”

  “Do you think Detective Snow is bright?”

  He scratched his head. “I wouldn't speak ill of a fellow officer unless I was duly persuaded. But as Officer Singer is fond of you, and he's watching me, persuasion is ill advised.”

  Anna raised her voice to be sure that Joe could hear. “He isn't fond of me. He doesn't even speak to me. And I'll persuade you if I want to.”

  She slipped her arm around Wolf's waist, just in case Officer Singer was a little bit fond of her. Wolf raised his eyebrows. A nearby bush said a dirty word. Anna felt a warm flicker in her heart at Joe's response and held Wolf even closer. “So tell me, Officer, would the police hire a stupid detective?”

  Wolf looked thoughtful. “Hypothetically? There could be reasons for doing it. If his relatives are important or somebody needs a favor.”

  Anna's voice sizzled with indignation. “But a stupid detective couldn't solve crimes! Crimes could go on right under his nose and he might not even notice.”

  “So you put him on things you don't care about—stolen bicycles, sneak thievery, hobos.”

  “Or maybe crimes you don't want solved.”

  Wolf licked his upper lip. “I suppose that too, honeybun.”

  Anna would bet that Detective Snow was the idiot cousin of someone important. She frowned at the travesty. There were so many brilliant detectives in the world who could use a job. Like Anna.

  Snow could be on the case because no one cared about brothel girls or because someone didn't want the murders solved. But that didn't explain the coroner's role. He was smart. Anna cocked her head. “Is the coroner hard working?”

  Wolf smiled indulgently. “Yes, the coroner is hard working.”

  “Have you ever known him to give less care to a particular case—a case that no one cares about, say, if his workload became excessive?”

  Wolf ran his fingers through the pomade in his freshly washed hair. “No, honeybun. I can't say that I have.”

  “What about Snow?”

  He grinned. “You'll have to persuade me.”

  They were crossing in front of the men's club where Anna had seen the Boyle Heights Rape Fiend with his white-blonde hair, hurrying away from her with the grace of a ballerina. She felt that cold confusion again, that inability to reconcile beauty and evil.

  Wolf shifted from foot to foot, and a pained look spread over his face. He cleared his throat. “Would you excuse me?” Anna nodded. He went over to speak with a blooming rhododendron bush. “I'm going to the men's club privy. Don't run off with my girl.” The bush called Wolf a very bad name. Anna flushed with pleasure.

  Wolf positively giggled. He strode into the men's club, winking back at Anna. Just inside the door, he weaved through a family of well-dressed Jews who loitered in the entryway in their long, fluffy whiskers.

  Anna watched the bush from the corner of her eye, but she could see no trace of Joe Singer. She sent a little smile to the bush. The group of men drifted out of the club and stood under the awning, talking and smoking in the shadowy glow from the street lamps and lights in the window. Joe discreetly extricated him
self from the rhododendrons and went to stand by Anna, positioning himself protectively between her and the fluffy whiskers. She moved close and slipped her arm through his, like the first time they did the sting together.

  He shrugged her off. “Would ya stop throwing yourself at me?”

  “It's my job!”

  He squinted at her. “Yeah, well you go above and beyond the call of duty.”

  Anna's positive feelings toward Joe's denim trousers disappeared. She did what any girl would do when subjected to such an unfounded insult. She put her palms flat against his chest and shoved him.

  He stepped backward, recovered, and gave her a little shove in return. His face was red. She made a sound of indignation and pushed him harder. He stumbled into the rhododendron bush and sat into poky sticks and leaves. “Hey, lay off!”

  Two men under the awning had their eyes fixed on Anna. They ignored their bearded companions, who were trying to shake hands. A gray-haired Jew spit and strode off, making angry sounds in Yiddish. Four younger men followed him speaking rapidly and gesticulating.

  Joe bounced up, rubbing his backside, dusting leaves from his trousers. He strode toward her, shooting fighting words, punctuating them with a waving hand, but she didn't hear them. She stood as still as a child in a game of freeze tag. Joe looked to see what had captured her attention and dropped his hand. Her father and Edgar stood twenty feet away, frozen like they, too, were playing Anna's game. Edgar took three steps forward. Joe moved away from Anna's side. She tucked up a stray lock of hair that had been dislodged during the shoving match and gulped.

  Detective Wolf sauntered out of the men's club, past Edgar and Mr. Blanc, grinning and oblivious. “Ma’am you're under arrest for assaulting an officer, though I'm sure he sorely deserved it.” When Wolf saw Anna's expression, he followed her gaze to the men under the awning. Mr. Blanc was puffy with rage. The fault line in his forehead trembled. Edgar looked ill.

  Wolf switched on his official persona like a light. He flashed his badge at the gentlemen, his demeanor suddenly so fatally serious and professional, Anna almost laughed in spite of her dilemma. Wolf ambled forward. “Police. May I help you gentleman?”

  Edgar spoke with an authority that came from wealth and superseded a badge. “Is this lady under arrest?”

  Wolf creased his brow and licked his lips. “No. Matron Holmes works for the LAPD.”

  Veins stood out like ropes on Mr. Blanc's temples, and the tendons on his neck were as tight as bowstrings. “That's not Matron Holmes!”

  Anna raised her chin. “Father, I'm conducting a police sting operation, undercover.”

  Mr. Blanc's face contorted. He charged foreword and grabbed her roughly by the arm. “No, you are not!”

  He squeezed. Anna screwed up her face in pain, but she didn't struggle. She was done and she knew it. Both Joe and Edgar moved toward Mr. Blanc like growling dogs. He let go. Anna rubbed her bruised arm, her eyes darting between Edgar and Joe and back again.

  Joe spoke to Mr. Blanc in a soothing voice. “Now just ease off, sir. Nothing untoward is going on here. Miss Blanc is being chaperoned by two police officers.”

  Wolf looked at Joe, confused. “Miss Blanc?”

  Now Mr. Blanc's whole body was trembling. He shook his head. “Oh lá lá. Anna, how could you?” He glared at Joe. “Does your father know about this?”

  Joe looked him in the eye, calm and steady. “Nobody knows, sir. Detective Wolf didn't even know. Until now.”

  Edgar strode toward Wolf and opened his wallet. He counted out four fifty-dollar bills and handed them to the detective.

  Wolf smiled and pocketed the money. “Know what?”

  Edgar counted out four more bills and extended them to Joe. Joe's hands stayed at his sides, balled in tight fists, his jaw shifting in minute movements, his face twisting in a look of distain. Edgar glared back, took out four more bills and held them out to Joe. He narrowed his eyes, straining his vision as if willing Joe to submit and take the money. He left his offering hand suspended in the air. “What do you want?”

  Joe made a sound of disgust. “Nothing.”

  Anna glided over and laid a soft hand on Edgar's arm. In a quiet voice, she said, “He won't tell.” Deep down, she knew it was true. One couldn't buy Joe Singer, because even if he borrowed your piano for a little while, he never was going to tell.

  Edgar looked at Anna, helpless. His voice was flat. “You know that because you know him so well you'll even stake your reputation on him.”

  Anna looked down at her feet. Edgar threw down the money. He turned on Joe, looming over him, and stuck an index finger in his face. “Stay away from her! You and your ridiculous colleagues!”

  As Mr. Blanc yanked Anna toward Edgar's blue Cadillac, she heard Wolf speak. “Now, that wasn't necessary.”

  Anna pulled against her father's grip to look back at Joe, soaking up her last glimpse of him, her last glimpse of her life as Matron Anna Holmes. It was like ripping a favorite gown that could not be mended or having a bullet penetrate your François Pinet shoe. No, it was much, much worse. It was the death of a dream.

  Mr. Blanc tugged her toward the curb. Behind her, she could still hear the men as they argued. Edgar was shouting. “You let her risk her life!”

  Joe shouted back. “She wasn't risking her life! She was with me! Safe with me! I'd never let anything happen to her! And she can do whatever she wants!”

  Wolf's voice was calm. He purred at them, trying to diffuse the situation. Anna couldn't hear what he said. She wrested herself from her father's grasp and turned around. Wolf was pulling Joe away by the arm. Joe glared at Edgar over his shoulder, his fists still clenched, his eyes bulging with ire.

  She wished he would look at her, gaze at her with tragic longing, run to her and kiss her goodbye, even if he got clocked for it. When he finally met her eyes, he was grinding his teeth. His gaze quickly left hers and leveled itself on Edgar, who was shouting something. Mr. Blanc opened the door and shoved her inside.

  Edgar stormed to the car and got into the driver's seat, slamming the door. He was sweating and, forgoing his handkerchief, wiped his brow on his crisp sleeve, which was nothing like Edgar. No one spoke as they drove off.

  When the shiny blue car was out of sight, Joe's anger was subsumed by a sinking, a sense that he'd dropped something important and it had fallen where it could not be retrieved. Anna Holmes was dead. He didn't know what would become of Anna Blanc, but he didn't think he would see her again. He felt powerless to protect her. What if Edgar asked about Matron Holmes around the station? What if he heard the rumor that he and Anna were lovers? That they had been seen having sex in the stables behind the station? Even if Edgar loved her, even if he could forgive her secret work as a matron, no man could forgive that. Anna would be ruined.

  Joe's brows drew together. “Wolf, don't tell Edgar Wright I kissed his fiancée.”

  “Well, last I heard, you didn't kiss Edgar Wright's fiancée,” Wolf said.

  “I never said that. I said we didn't have dinner.”

  Wolf smiled. “You know, if you aspire to be a great seducer of women, you got to learn how to lie.” He saw the look in Joe's eyes and his smile waivered. “You look pathetic, like a love sick puppy.” He slipped his arm through Joe's. “What do you say I dress up in ladies’ clothes and you take me out on the town?”

  Anna sat in a velvet chair under a gilded mirror in the hall outside her father's study. She rubbed her soft hands along the fabric, letting the tiny fibers brush her palms. She kicked her shoes off and felt glad that she had blisters. She deserved them. She had failed both Edgar and Lady Justice.

  Dread ate at her insides. At least Edgar didn't know the full extent of her police work. Though she longed to tell him, he wouldn't understand. Cigar smoke drifted from under the door. She faintly heard her father's plaintive, scratchy voice and the occasional angry swell of Edgar's smooth voice, but she couldn't understand their words. After an hour, the study door opened and Mr.
Blanc came out.

  Anna stood mute. Her father's face was furrowed, and he smelled of whiskey. He pointed his finger at her. “Watch your step, Anna. No more antics or you'll end up a spinster in my house or locked away in a convent. Either way, your beauty would be wasted!”

  Anna squeezed her eyes closed and said a silent prayer to St. Agatha, patron saint of unmarried women. She begged not to be a pitiful old maid, and then kicked herself for insulting the holy spinster.

  Mr. Blanc pointed violently toward his study. “Go in! He's waiting for you!”

  He moved off like a freight train, billowing black smoke down the hall. “Mon Dieu!” She heard a crash and heard him bellow something at Cook. Anna took a deep breath and forced her feet to walk toward the room where she would face Edgar.

  She entered quietly and shut the door. The room smelled of tanned hides, lemon oil, and tobacco. Edgar paced, tugging tufts of hair so that when he dropped his arms his normally perfect curls stood up like little dust devils. His jacket lay on the floor and his tie hung loose and crooked. He turned his white face to look at her. Anna stood quietly and bit her lower lip.

  He made a strangled sound. “I love you. But…” He let the words dwindle.

  “I'm a business deal!” Anna blurted before she knew what she was going to say. She would have never told the truth if she had thought about it in advance. But they were angry because she trapped criminals, which was perfectly legal, when they bartered her like a pawn, trading her like a slave, which was clearly against the law. It was something she had always known but hadn't cared to dwell upon. She wanted freedom and so had accepted it. Edgar treated her tenderly and she liked him. He was chivalrous, intelligent, funny, well dressed, and well made. She thought she could love him, once she had the opportunity.

  Edgar lowered his voice so they couldn't be overheard, even as he spit out the words. “You think I need Blanc National? It's a liability. Your father is a liability. His bank is bust. I've been loaning him large sums of money, which I never expect to see again.”