Grabbing fistfuls of leather, Vera pulled her bag into her stomach, something snapping beneath the pressure of her fingers. “W-what gives you that idea?”
The sergeant walked back into the room, a fan in hand. He placed the small metal mechanism on the table and plugged it in.
Vera angled toward it, the cool breeze kissing her face and neck.
“Anything else, sir?” The sergeant angled toward the older man.
So now he was polite. Figures.
“Stick around, Ace. I was just asking Miss Pembroke why she was at the club at the time of the murder.”
“Murder?” She shrank, watching both men nod their heads. “Y-you knew … all along it was murder.”
“Didn’t you?” Two gray brows arched.
The twinge of betrayal returned, igniting fire in her blood and heat in her cheeks. Sergeant Stiff the double-crosser. She sliced her finger through the air, pointing. “You lied to me!”
His jade eyes sparked. “I said that it looked like Cavenhalt committed suicide.”
“It was ruled that way at first, darlin’”—Pops put in—“but the more we investigated, the more we saw it was staged.”
The sergeant stepped forward, stealing her stare away from the blank space on the wall. “Your fingerprints are on the door, Miss Pembroke.”
The sting of the accusation launched her to her feet, sending her handbag to the tiled floor. “How do ya have my finger pri—” Understanding kicked her in the gut. “Hey, listen here, fellas, I was cleared of that break-in.” What a crummy way to get her on file. They’d got her prints along with the rest of the renters in her complex the day the maintenance man had decided to crowbar his way into the landlord’s safe.
“You can sit down. We didn’t forget.” The captain replied with a much cooler tone than Vera’s fiery one. “We’re aware you had nothing to do with the incident two months ago. We—”
“Then why are you picking on me?” She shoved aside her bag with her foot and sat. A quiver ran down her calves, invading her toes. “My prints are all over that joint. It’s where I work.” Too bad for her Pittsburgh had succumbed to the nationwide craze for identification using ink and an index finger.
“I have the proof right here.” His title indicated Sergeant, but his tone labeled him Judge. He’d judged her guilty before he’d knocked on her door. He’d fooled her into thinking this was a routine questioning. Surely, a dank cell awaited her. Men like him could stand tall to shake the mayor’s hand but couldn’t stoop to accept truth from the likes of her. Or … this place was so shady that it needed to cast its shadow on someone else. A someone who needed to pay for Artie’s death. Carson no doubt escaped through his bank account. She, on the other hand, wouldn’t be so lucky. The sergeant waved the small notepad he’d clutched for the past five minutes. “Would you care to see it, sir?”
Pops motioned with his fingers. “Read it out loud, Dinelo.”
He flipped through the pages and cleared his throat. “We spoke with the bouncer this morning.” He read from the pad, his eyes methodically moving from left to right. “His name was Angelo Vinelli.” The sergeant’s gaze met Vera’s, and she narrowed her eyes. “Vinelli gave me the whole account of his last dealings with the deceased.” He returned to the paper. “Mr. Kelly and Miss Pembroke left. Cavenhalt came from his office, told Vinelli to change a doorknob and then go home.” The sergeant closed the notepad.
The captain tilted his head and pressed his fingertips together, forming a steeple. “Do you happen to know what doorknob he changed?”
She could almost hear “Taps” playing in the background. Her plan of pretense had been buried.
“It was the doorknob to your dressing room,” the captain said. “We found two sets of fingerprints on the knob. One being Vinelli’s and the other yours, sweetheart.”
All her strength depleted, defeat gripped her heart. “I-I was there.” She drew in a ragged breath. “I heard Artie … get shot.”
“Miss Pembroke.” His silvery stare pinned her to her seat. “You now have center stage. Tell us everything you know from the time you entered the Kelly Club until you left.” He leaned forward. “Start singing.”
She encountered the most important performance of her life. But instead of wowing the rowdies with fluid octaves, she needed to persuade the boys in blue. She couldn’t offer them thousands like Carson, but perhaps, she could appeal to their hearts. It was the only option left. Curtains for sure. “I’d left my bag. It had my apartment key in it.” She motioned to the brown leather handbag on the floor. “I went back to get it.”
“Did you see the deceased?”
Deceased. Bile filled her mouth. She pressed her lips together.
The clock above the door filled the stretch of silence.
The captain furrowed his brow. “You okay, Miss Pembroke?”
Vera shook her head.
“Need water?”
She nodded and was surprised when the captain stood. Wasn’t the sergeant supposed to do his bidding? Pops walked out, leaving her alone with the double-crosser. Vera folded her arms on the table and rested her head, closing her eyes to the surroundings.
She should probably use this time to think. To plan her next move. But snatching a logical thought was harder than holding a sixteen-count finale.
Hushed voices snagged her attention, popping her lids open. The sergeant directed his glower to the huddle of officers gathering outside the door. He angled toward them and used his broad form as a barrier, blocking their views into the room. Was he protecting her privacy? The thought bounced across her chest and pushed out a snort. No one protected her.
“All right, boys, clear out.” Shouldering past them, the captain adopted a stern tone, but the amusement shone in his eyes as he ambled into the room. “You’re creating a stir around here, missy.” A smile broke free, and he handed her a cold glass. “Got this from the pitcher in my office. It’s the freshest.”
Drawn-out sips bought Vera more time. What should she tell them? How much did they already know?
The door clicked shut and she jumped, the water in her cup splashing against her lips. The sergeant stood, his arms folded and his chin poked forward in a way she’d seen Angelo do when he’d been challenged. Only, the sergeant’s penetrating stare had a direct effect on her blood pressure.
“Go on, when you’re ready.” The captain leaned back in his chair, calm and relaxed as though he was listening to the noise box.
She jittered her foot against the chair’s leg, her rapid pulse pounding in her ears. “I heard Artie and Carson in Carson’s office. They were arguing.”
“About what?”
Vera tightened, sliding both hands under her thighs. “Not sure.”
“What happened next?”
“Then I heard Artie … he yelled. Then … shot.”
“How many shots fired?” The sergeant widened his stance, his pen poised above his notepad to write. When had he started logging her responses?
“One.” She scratched her neck, averting eye contact by staring at a groove in the table. “One shot.” The piercing noise still rang in her head, haunting.
The captain glanced at the sergeant and then back to her. “Did you see Mr. Kelly at any time during this?”
“No. I heard him. I know his voice.”
The captain pressed his lips together and nodded slowly. “That storm was pretty loud last night. The Kelly Club’s metal roof probably made it tough to hear. Do you think you could have mistaken his voice for somebody else’s?”
“I know what I heard. It was Carson.”
“What about the deceased? Did you hear him identify Mr. Kelly?” The captain scooted the glass of water closer to her, as a father would to a small child. “Call him by name or anything of that nature?”
She forced out a no. What was the use? They didn’t believe her. Or wouldn’t believe if Carson had gotten to them first. Fire itched under her skin. “See. That’s why I didn’t buzz you.”<
br />
“Pardon me, Miss Pembroke?” The older man’s eyes revealed not a teaspoon of agitation, but a whole gallon of curiosity.
“I wasn’t keen on giving whispers to the police.” She exhaled with enough force to cause the lace on her dress to tremble.
“Why?” He shoved his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose.
Because she’d heard stories. Tales of police shielding the bad guys and sticking it to the innocent. She inclined her chin, refusing to answer.
“Someone died, Miss Pembroke,” the captain said. “Don’t you want justice done?”
“A dandy of a line, but here’s the thing. Ya say you’re on the side of justice, but you and I both know the boundaries of that line are slanted by who’s shelling out the dough.”
Double brackets furrowed between his gray brows. “You’re right, young lady. I’ve been a part of this police force for thirty years, and for most of it, I’ve been proud of our division. But now.” He rubbed the creases in his forehead. “Now I’m not certain of anything.” His frank admission seemed to deepen the lines framing his downturned mouth, and the silvery spark that highlighted his soft blue eyes extinguished.
Was Pops the best actor never to grace the stage? Or was he telling the truth?
He blinked as if shirking away from the sadness. “One thing I am sure of, missy, is that we can’t stop the corruption unless we’re brave enough to step out from the shadows.” He raised his flappy chin with a determined gaze which made Vera squirm. “Your testimony could trigger the light to be shed on this city again. Help clear out the wrong-doers.”
“Who do you guys think I am, little red ridin’ hood? I’m a nightclub singer.”
“You’re our only witness.” The captain was nodding while Vera was shaking her head no.
“How could I be sure you flatfoots aren’t tricking me? Everyone around knew I couldn’t stand Artie. He and I were always sparring about things.” One major thing. “I’m not gonna be left holding the bag for murder.”
She could’ve sung three encores to fill the gap of awkward silence. Finally, Pops shrugged and said, “You couldn’t have done it.”
A thread of hope tugged her eyebrows, lifting. But this could be another ploy, enticing her to drop her defenses.
Pops studied his fingernails as if gleaning advice from them. “I won’t cloud your mind with the details.”
“I’m a big girl.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and sat taller, attempting to enforce her argument that she was a capable woman and not just a scatting moll girl.
He motioned to his underling. “Ace, send a dispatch to pick up Kelly on the suspicion of murder.”
“Yes sir.” The sergeant flicked a glance her way before exiting.
She bit the inside of her cheek. They’re corralling Carson. She’d either accomplished her first virtuous act since fleeing Redding or made the biggest mistake of her life.
“Ready to get down to the nitty-gritty?” The captain laced his fingers together and stretched, cracking his knuckles.
She nodded.
“We couldn’t buy the suicide theory for several reasons, but let me just say all that concerns you. All right?”
“Yeah.”
“First off, it was clear that the body had been moved. Scuffmarks from the victim’s shoes left a trail in the hallway. That rules you out as a suspect due to your size.”
Her head tilted. “My size?”
“You’re a tall cookie, but other than that, there’s nothing to you.”
Was that a compliment? Or an insult? She glanced down her frame. She had some padding, where it needed to be, anyway. “I don’t understand.”
“Arthur Cavenhalt was a large man. There is no way you could have drug him around like that. And even if you could have, you couldn’t have hoisted him into his office chair.”
“Was that where he was?”
“Yes ma’am. Face down on the desk, his hand over a pistol.”
She shuddered at the mental image. “So I’m not a suspect?”
“No.”
Got it. But understanding and trusting were two very different things. And if she confessed the part about Artie blackmailing her, then the big guy might think differently. She tapped the sides of her chair, trying to chase away the numbness. “What’s left for me to do?”
He offered a sympathetic smile. “You have to give a written statement.”
Her shoulders slumped. And here she thought she would stroll on out of here, having at least one problem dealt with. “Do I have to?” She whined like a three-year-old but didn’t care. She had other issues to face—well, run away from. The longer she waited in policeland, the more trains she missed to NYC. “The rest of the world thinks it’s a suicide. Why do I have—”
“Not for long. The district attorney is leaking it to the press”—he glanced at his watch—“even as we speak.”
She’d never been able to bargain well. In second grade, she’d lost all her jacks in exchange for a paper doll that ripped even with her careful handling. And now her heart felt torn in two. She should comply as much as possible to keep suspicion away, but the spotlight of attention shining over her might expose everything. And then the blame would be on her again. “Am I really the only witness here? Can’t you nab your man without me?”
“Right now, you’re all we have. Without your testimony, there is no case.”
So simple for him to spout off like that. It wasn’t his name on the witness paper. “I’m not flyin’ with the idea of crossin’ swords with Carson. It’s a snap to see he won’t like it. Look at Artie.”
“Listen. Only me, the sergeant, and the D.A. know you were there last night, no one else. Yes, the defense will know we have an eyewitness, more like an earwitness.” He laughed at his own joke. “But they’ll be clueless as to who it is.”
“What am I supposed to do until the trial comes? Sit around and knit?”
“We’ll cover that in a bit.” He shot a glance toward the door, the heavy look on his face making her leery.
What had she gotten herself into?
CHAPTER 6
Mick refilled the dinky paper cup and emptied it in one swig.
“How’s it coming?” Officer Hundley joined him in the tiny breakroom, clutching a paper sack from the delicatessen.
“Captain’s talking with her.” Better his superior than him. His chest still burned from her explosive remarks. You lied to me. Smoldering under the flames of anger in her eyes were embers of hurt. A hurt he’d stoked, unintentionally. He crumpled the pathetic cup in his hand. Maybe he’d been deceptive, but what else could he have done? His job required confidentiality.
“Is she as dishy as the rumors say?”
He grunted and tossed the trash into the wastebasket.
“That’s not an answer, my friend.” Hundley bit into his sandwich, lips smacking as he chewed. “If you would’ve let us get a quick glimpse of her, then I wouldn’t have to ask.”
“You guys looked like a bunch of ogling schoolboys.” And Miss Pembroke looked one breath away from an emotional breakdown. The woman probably hadn’t been aware of the bright red rash stretching across her neck, but what concerned him was her glassy, blank stare. Was she in a mild form of shock?
Hundley’s throaty chuckle ripped into his thoughts. “What can I say, we’re a desperate lot.” His thick brow rose, disappearing under the brim of his patrolman hat. “Well?”
“Yeah. She’s attractive.” Gorgeous, really. He’d be blind not to notice her hourglass frame and full lips. But alluring eyes often veiled danger. And her being Carson Kelly’s girlfriend placed her in the hazard zone. He jerked down a cuff. Not that he was interested.
“Don’t worry, Dinelo.” Hundley clapped his shoulder. “You’ll be on vacation tomorrow, and this case will be dropped into someone else’s lap.”
But whose? The good cop to bad cop ratio dwindled every time another speakeasy opened its doors. And while the feisty nightclub singer appea
red to be harboring secrets, Mick wouldn’t place her under the protection of a crooked officer. But it was getting harder and harder to determine which ones were on the level.
Mick eyed the man before him. Hundley may get distracted by anyone in a skirt, but he was trustworthy. “I’m going to put a good word in about you to the captain.”
The other officer stopped mid-chew. “About what?”
“Taking over while I’m gone.”
Hundley swallowed and wiped the mayonnaise from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’d be honored, sir. Enjoy your time away.”
Mick inhaled a calming breath. His parents had begged him for months to visit them in their new home, and frankly, the skyline of the Virginia mountains enticed him as much as his mother’s fried chicken and apple pie. “It’s been a long time coming.” Yes, the anticipation of the following weeks gave him the stamina to finish the day.
Even tolerate the fury of a certain redhead.
Two hours and counting.
“How much longer ’til I can leave?”
The sides of her mouth cracked, dry from all that blabbing to the district attorney. Man, did he like to ask questions. “I think it would’ve been better to record my story on a gramophone.” Then there were the written statements. She massaged the tops of her hands, lessening the cramps. If she had to chronicle her entire testimony one more time, she was certain her fingers would fall off. Her signature had become less and less legible.
“Not too much longer.” The captain offered a sympathetic smile.
“Good.”
“Captain?” The sergeant returned, and like a magnet, Vera’s gaze was drawn to him.
She shook off the strange reaction to his presence, blaming it on fatigue. Because really, who wanted to stare at a man with a muscular build and ruggedly gorgeous face? She steadied her sights on his badge, a glaring reminder of his deception. How could she have fallen for his little trick at the apartment? He’d known it wasn’t suicide, and he’d played her for a dope. She bet he’d been inwardly laughing at her ridiculous state of anxiety. She allowed the ugly force of that thought to drive away any attraction. However small it was.
The Red Canary Page 5