Lipstick and Lies (20 page)

I clucked sympathetically. “A year ago she was jilted, left at the altar. Did you know?”

She leaned forward and spoke softly. “Well, mind you, it’s only gossip between chairs, but several of my clients have suggested it was her sister’s fault. Philip, Dee’s fiancé, had a wandering eye. Rumor is, one day it landed on her sister. They had a fling but managed to keep it from Dee. Until now.”

My shoulders heaved. “Dee’s fiancé and her very own sister.” I straightened up. “Wait a minute. The ladies around here like to stir up trouble, especially when it comes to Kiki. They’d hang anything and everything they could on her. Who told you this? Do you remember?”

“Well, several clients did. And, yes, it’s hard to know if it’s true, but it’s what I heard.” She grabbed her pink-laced shoes. “Speaking of Dee, I gotta go.”

“I’ve got to run, too,” I said. “But, uh, one final question.”

“Yes…”

“Where’d you get all these clocks?”

“Why, from Glossy…Curious, the one in the manicure area—it didn’t work either—it’s gone.”

Acting on a wild hunch, I climbed up onto the couch and unhooked the elaborate chalet. The pinecone-shaped weights, dangling below, flopped madly. I steadied them, holding them gently in my free hand, and stepped down. Clara’s eyes were enormous.

“Don’t worry. I know someone who can fix this. He’s an expert, owes me a favor. I’ll have it back here before you know it. Promise.”

“I—I’m not sure…”

“I’m a guest, you can trust me. Say, Clara…” I cradled the clock. “I’m thinking about including Navy wives in my piece about Women in War Work. There’s a base near here called Grosse Ile. Do any of the wives come to this salon?”

Clara, already dumbfounded by what to do about my nipping the clock, looked even more unsure of herself. “I have a client whose husband is an admiral. A regular, been coming to me for years. But she’s very private. I’m certain she’d never agree to speak with a reporter.”

Liberty had painted an altogether different image of the Navy wife, saying she was a dangerous blabbermouth, spewing confidential information to anyone who would listen. Had Clara turned a deaf ear to her client’s loose lips? Or was it just the opposite? She recognized a perfect source and wanted to protect her?

“Not even if you made a personal request?” I pressed.

She fixed me with a harsh look. “I won’t ask. Like I said, there’s no point. She would never agree to talk with you.”

I had crossed a line. I shrugged and smiled brightly. “Okay, no problem. I’ll think of something else.”

Chapter Seventeen

The cleats on my heels clicked rhythmically as I crossed the headquarters’ garage on my way to the lobby. I kept my eyes peeled, finally identifying Dante’s car from the charms hanging from the chain on the rearview mirror. Funny how the mind works: the percussion of my cleats, together with the sight of the mementos, triggered a vision of the stick-figure drawing of Dante dancing with his sister and Leo. I’d seen the rendering at his flat, and the momentary passion we’d shared there came back to me as well. I recalled the warmth of his breath on my ear, and my shoulders tingled with the pleasant shiver skating across them.

Waiting for the elevator, I scanned the lobby. An elderly gentleman wearing a long coat and newsboy cap stood at one of the barred windows, talking with a postal clerk. The flyaway strands of his white hair and his stooped posture reminded me of Merriman, the Club’s string bean doorman, and the gnawing unease I felt about him returned.

Before leaving the Club, I’d dashed to my room with the cuckoo clock. Driven by a throbbing certainty that the clock held a clue to Liberty’s disappearance, I’d removed the small screws and lifted off the thin metal plate in back. There didn’t appear to be anything unusual about the inner mechanism, but I’d noted a series of numbers below the movement as well as the name
G. Becker
, above the word
Freiburg
, written in brown ink on the wooden housing. Placing a quick call to my Uncle Chance, I passed along the information. At his direction, I had also located a customs sticker pasted discreetly on the side. I’d assumed that Liberty brought the clock into the States while she’d been attending Swiss boarding school. But the sticker was dated just four months ago.

Uncle Chance promised to do some checking, and we agreed to talk again in the morning. By then, it was possible I would already have all the answers I wanted, directly from the source.

On the sixth floor, I was met by Dante’s secretary, who told me her name, Miss Tempest, and invited me to accompany her to a conference room where she said the men were waiting.

“This is bold of me,” she said, as we strolled an interior hallway, “and I hope you won’t mind. But the other gals and I have been talking.”

The secretary stopped beside one of the closed doors and faced me. Behind the bottle-bottom glasses, her eyes darted. She was younger than I’d thought, probably just nineteen. She was also prettier than at first glance.

“We, the other gals and I, want you to know that we’re behind you. We think what you’re doing as a pilot, and now as an operative, is, well,
inspiring
.”

“Why th-thank you,” I stammered. “It’s nothing, really.”

The secretary held my gaze. A certain sweetness in her expression made me think of Clara Renner. “Yes, it
is
something. You’re proving yourself against incredible odds.”

I thought I must be blushing. Anxious to turn the tables, I recalled my well-equipped luggage. “Are you the person I should thank for the phantasmagoric undercover wear?”

“It was a joint effort.” She made a grand sweeping gesture, acknowledging her cohorts stationed behind the doors along the deserted hall. “We all contributed ideas and everyone pitched in with the shopping.” Her expression grew solemn. “Um-m, we want you to know something else.”

“What?”

“Have you had one of Mrs. Sarvello’s home-cooked meals yet?”

I blinked. “Why, yes.”

“How about the soft shoe routine? Has Dante, uh, Agent Dante, told you about his sister? Let you know he tap dances?” Pounding footsteps, racing down the hall, froze the secretary’s expression. The hammering footsteps stopped.

“Thank you, Miss Tempest, I’ll take over.”

I knew the voice. Turning, I faced the agent whose prominent lantern jaw bore an uncanny resemblance to Dick Tracy’s. “Hullo, Special Agent Connelly.” I forced a smile.

He returned my greeting with a stiff nod. Then his piercing gaze drilled Miss Tempest. “Lucky I caught up with you. We’re in the room three doors down. The reassignment was posted this morning. Didn’t you
see
it?”

Miss Tempest’s glasses had slipped down the bridge of her nose. She shoved the heavy frames back into position. Behind the thick lenses, her tawny eyes blinked furiously. “My vision is fine, thank you.”

Her voice was taut and her mouth twitched as if she wanted to add something else. Instead, she gave him a cool nod.

She turned to me. Maybe it was my imagination or a refraction of light hitting her Coke-bottle lenses, but I had the distinct impression she was trying telepathically to warn me about something. The attempt was too vague. Her allusions to Dante’s “seduction package” had been plain enough, though. She and the other secretaries wanted me to know that, true to his namesake, Dante had a devilish side.

Connelly’s complexion was beet red, the ruddy tone all the more flagrant against his stiff blond hair. He clasped my elbow and steered me to the appropriate room. Squaring his shoulders, he opened the door, all but pushing me inside.

An immense walnut table filled the center of a windowless room. The leather chairs around it looked comfortable, as if selected with tedious discussions in mind. Presently, all of the seats were abandoned, their occupants having left tablets, pens, and pencils as placeholders. Along one wall, a credenza held a telephone and a water pitcher with a ring of glasses. A wooden plaque emblazoned with the FBI seal hung above the low cabinet while life-sized photographs of the Director and our President dominated the wall directly ahead. My earlier rapidly swelling spirits deflated. Neither Liberty nor Roy was in the room.

Agent Dante stood at the far end of the table, conferring with a Navy officer. He broke away and ambled toward me. I drank in his cuddly physique, his thick, sleepy lashes, and was about to zero in on his scrumptious mouth when the quiet echo of Miss Tempest’s warning interceded. A sudden chill, like an icy splash of water, hurtled me back to reality.

Dante flicked a glance over my ensemble. At the spark in his expression, I smiled, anticipating the compliment I felt certain would follow. He arched an eyebrow, but otherwise let the moment pass.

He extended his hand and I took it. Bully for him! He might be able to pull off a professional façade, but at the familiar touch of his palm I felt a rush of warmth and knew I was pink-faced.

He smiled. “Miss Lewis, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Grey Simmons. He’s here for the weekly gathering of Army, Navy, and the Bureau. It’s our chance to discuss matters relating to domestic intelligence and coordinate our cases, jointly.”

Coordinate
their activities? Work together
jointly?
Just who did he think he was trying to snooker? Liberty and I had already crossed paths.

I strained to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Anything out of the ordinary on this week’s agenda?” Dante’s palm felt suddenly clammy. Or was the clamminess mine?

“It’s why you’re here.” He released his grip.

I shook hands with the lieutenant, a slender man with large protruding ears, a wide mouth, and a bland smile. I surveyed the table. “But if this is a joint meeting, where’s G-2?”

The lieutenant and Dante exchanged a private look. “My Army counterpart was tied up, wrestling with something else,” Simmons replied. “He asked me to act on his behalf today.”

“Might be nice if he let us in on the particulars,” Connelly muttered, sauntering over to a stack of documents at one end of the table.

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but the tension between the men in the room was palpable. Meantime, my curiosity was at the boiling point. Had they heard anything about Liberty?

I turned to Dante. “You mentioned a special agenda item concerning me?”

He adjusted the knot of his loosened tie. “Simmons has informed us that a Navy officer’s wife, who is also a member of the Cosmos Club and frequents the beauty shop there, has filed a report claiming that Clara Renner asked her for a map of the Grosse Ile Naval Base.”

I felt my eyes bulge. Dante had it wrong. It was Liberty, not Clara, who had done the soliciting. But if Dante and ONI had it backwards, Liberty and G-2 wanted it that way. My thoughts cut back to my meeting with her and the promise I had made. Why didn’t she want Dante to know about her mission? And why wasn’t G-2 here today?

My focus returned to Dante as he explained that two days had elapsed since Clara approached the woman, actually an admiral’s wife. She had delayed reporting the incident because of her longtime relationship with Clara and because she did not want to believe the worst. Also, her husband was out of town and due back the next day. She’d cooled her heels, filling him in on the situation the moment he returned. The admiral notified intelligence directly.

“I was brought into the case just last evening,” Simmons said, “and we decided to place someone inside the Cosmos Club, undercover. I raised the idea in our opening session this morning, only to discover the Bureau was already a step ahead.” Simmons’ wide mouth resumed its insipid smile.

Dante cleared his throat. “That’s right. We had already positioned you there, Miss Lewis, but our resources were concentrated on her husband. It’s ironic, actually. Connelly and I had planned on discussing our case with the group. Then the surprise news from ONI jumbled everything. We’ve spent the last couple of hours sorting out who knows what and fitting together the pieces.”

And smoothing Simmons’ ruffled feathers, I thought.

“On the bright side, now that all agencies involved are pooling information, we have a wider web in place, which means we can close in on Renner, and possibly his cohorts, that much sooner.” A cigarette was tucked behind Dante’s ear. He adjusted it. “Connelly?”

Connelly looked up from the documents he had been perusing. “Way I see it, ONI and G-2 are riding our coattails on this one. Willow Run is a civilian operation. Military should keep out of it.”

I frowned. Was he kidding?

A muscle along Simmons’ jaw flexed. “Ford has a private contract. The facility is government owned. You were obliged to share the information immediately.”

Connelly
had
been kidding. He smirked. Too late Simmons caught the expression and realized his mistake.

Dante shot me a questioning glance. I arched my eyebrows, conveying that I understood what was behind the interchange. Plant Protection had correctly followed regs by calling in the Bureau after discovering Blount’s body. But then, because the corpse was found on government-owned property, military intelligence should have been notified immediately afterward. They weren’t. Instead, the FBI, with Plant Security in tow, had forged ahead independently.

Simmons went on, this time addressing Dante. “A lot of manure got piled up in the barn because someone on your watch forgot to slide the door open when they should have. You boys have some heavy shoveling to do if you don’t want the brass to get a whiff of this load of crap. It’s up to you.”

Dante and Connelly exchanged uneasy glances while my gaze flitted from one agency representative to the other. It was as though I were an umpire caught between two teams squabbling over whether a player’s foot had touched the base or not. But this was no game. As voiceless teammates drafted by opposing camps, Liberty and I had been placed in competition ourselves. Possibly my friend’s room had been ransacked and she had vanished because of it.

I looked from Dante to the lieutenant again. Should I level with my boss? What about Simmons? Shouldn’t he be told the truth, that the bad seed was actually the admiral’s wife, and not Clara?

I had walked into a hornet’s nest of interagency rivalry. I didn’t fully understand the nuances of the sport. Moreover, it was still possible that G-2 and Roy had private knowledge of Liberty’s whereabouts, and that there was a legitimate reason for keeping their involvement in the case confidential. I took a breath. I had made a commitment to Liberty, my friend. I would keep my promise to her at least until I could verify why G-2 had been absent from the meeting today. But I was still jittery.

Simmons seemed to read my mood. “Let’s table our protocol dispute and get to the other matter involving Miss Lewis now, shall we?” He motioned for us to take seats then nodded, indicating Dante should begin.

He pulled the unlit cigarette from behind his ear and tapped it against the table’s edge. “The new information implicating Mrs. Renner concerns us. It’s one more loose end. We’ve decided to bring Renner in following the black bag job at Willow Run tonight.”

My stomach fluttered. “Tonight?”

Dante nodded and related that they had been doing everything possible to keep the investigation into Blount’s murder discreet, but a source close to Renner indicated he was showing signs of unraveling. Before my arrival they and the other strategists, who were now temporarily out of the room, had concluded that the risk of Renner moving or destroying the evidence in his safe, possibly slipping out of the country, was getting too great. Their intent was to confirm that the plans for the night-bombing device Blount had said were in Renner’s safe were indeed there. Afterwards, what they found would be used to help convince Renner to finger his handler and any other rogue spies.

“The photos you took at Renner’s office will be a great help,” Dante added. “Excellent eye. Congratulations.”

I wanted to jump up on the big table and dance. “They turned out then? Great.”

He removed a set of photographs, fanning them. What a camera! Every shot, including the ones of the sequential numbers on the safe’s dial, had been captured. The lab had blown them up and all three numbers were readable.

We reviewed the pictures more thoroughly while I described the office layout, including the safe’s location. As I talked, I also made a sketch. Finally, since no one had volunteered who had been selected for the team, I asked. The men batted glances back and forth, and I felt the familiar fluttering in my chest. Had Dante changed his mind? Had I made the cut?

My hopes were dashed. Without meeting my eye, he revealed that six men, two each from the three intelligence arms, had been selected. He rattled off their range of expertise, from safes and locks to cameras and radios. I made a small croaking sound when flaps and seals rolled off his tongue.