pulled down as far as it would reach near her pressed together knees; ankles crossed. She removed white gloves and laid them neatly beside her handbag.
Marion turned to Kim and Gaspar as if they were visiting diplomats, and extended her hand to each again. Gestured toward the sofa opposite Sylvia.
“Where’s that handsome boyfriend of yours, Susan?” Marion asked, after pouring tea from the silver service into bone china cups.
“Work, unfortunately.” Syliva did not lift the teacup. Nor did Kim.
Marion passed a small plate of shortbread. Only Gaspar accepted.
Marion asked, “Is his office still at the top of the Hoover building?”
The question startled Sylvia briefly. “Yes, of course.”
“I suppose there’s only one better address in the world,” Marion mused. “Very helpful to you when that unfortunate business happened, though, wasn’t it?” She glanced down at her watch as if she’d just recalled an important meeting. “Will you excuse me? I have something else I must attend to. Please carry on.”
Marion stepped out and Sylvia was left facing Kim and Gaspar across the silver. Gaspar got up and planted himself at the exit as if to say Sylvia would not walk out of that room as easily as she’d walked out of Roscoe’s jail cell.
“I should have known Marion wouldn’t have time to visit on hump day.” Sylvia smiled as she might have indulged an aged aunt. She replaced her gloves. “I am expected elsewhere myself. Was there something in particular you wanted to ask me?”
Gaspar said, “For starters, why don’t you tell us your real name?”
“Elle told me you’d read my mail, Agent Gaspar. I’m sure you already know all about me.”
“Why did you kill Harry Black?” Kim asked. A pretty blunt tactic.
“Kill Harry? My goodness, why on earth would I do that?”
Gaspar said, “Cut the crap, Sylvia. Or whatever your name is. What the hell is going on here?”
“I take it you haven’t checked in lately,” Sylvia said. “You might want to do that before you get too forceful with me, Agent Gaspar. Your bosses won’t like your tone.”
“You confessed to murder,” he said.
Sylvia was amused. “Are you sure?”
“You called 911. You said you killed Harry Black.”
“I did not. Have you heard the tape yourself?”
Which proved she wasn’t merely foxy, but also sly. And informed. Neither Kim nor Gaspar had heard the actual 911 tape. Roscoe hadn’t heard it, either. And Sylvia knew all that. But how?
What had Sylvia said at the time? Kim searched her memory. Recalled Roscoe’s report precisely.
A subtle difference. “I shot him.” Not, “I killed him.” Hair splitting? Maybe. But criminal cases fell apart for less. Harry had been killed by two bullets to the head, but he’d been shot a total of seven times. Five post-mortem. Sylvia might have shot him only after he was dead.
Nothing really tied Sylvia to Harry’s murder. Repeatedly, Roscoe mentioned the crime scene was totally clean. Sylvia had escaped Roscoe’s jail, but a good lawyer would argue she’d been falsely arrested and imprisoned in the first place. He’d sue Margrave and Sylvia would end up owning the whole town.
Was it really possible that Sylvia would walk away free? They had no warrant. And couldn’t get one based on existing evidence.
Sylvia knew that, too.
“We found the money, Sylvia,” Kim said, quietly.
“What money?” Sylvia asked, deadpan.
“Bernie Owens is dead, too.”
Contrived alarm in Sylvia’s expression. “You killed Bernie?”
“You know we didn’t. Your lover blew up that Chevy with enough explosive to scatter Bernie for ten miles.”
Slight reaction. Kim concluded Sylvia cared for Bernie, but not as much as she cared for the money. She was a hooker, after all. Kim said, “All that cash in Bernie’s car went everywhere, too. Couple hundred thousand, at least. Maybe more.”
Sylvia sat still, unblinking, but Kim could see perspiration beading along her temples, gathering on her upper lip. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap.
Kim knew Sylvia’s trigger point now. She said, “He stole Harry’s money, and then he killed Harry. He stole Bernie’s money, and then he killed Bernie. He’s stealing your money now. But don’t worry too much. You’ll never be poor. Because as soon as he gets it, you’ll be dead, too.”
“You’re lying,” Sylvia said, mouth so dry the words barely escaped.
“Think so?” Gaspar showed her the photo he’d taken when he looked in through the Chevy’s window. “That’s Bernie, right? Two bullets to the back of the head. Just like Harry.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out charred pieces of paper. He forced them into Sylvia’s palm. He said, “And that’s Bernie’s money.”
Sylvia looked at the burned scraps. She started to shake. Slightly at first. Then more. “That’s not really Bernie. Or his money. You manipulated that picture. You burned these yourself.”
“Your lover killed eight people and hurt dozens more.” Gaspar was angry. “You knew Jim Leach, right? There’s video. Want to see Jim Leach blown apart with your own eyes? Very entertaining.”
Kim’s tone was gentler. “We’re so glad you’re OK. At first we thought you were in the trunk. Can you imagine? Being in the trunk when the car exploded? That Chevy burned so hot there was nothing left but cinders. Everything in the back seat? Right where you were sitting? Toasted. Blown away. Ashes.” Kim raised both hands and pinched her fingers and flashed them open. “Poof! Gone with the wind. Just like that.”
Sylvia began to sob. Her shoulders heaved. Several minutes.
Acting? Or real?
Kim handed her a tissue box from Marion Wallace’s side table. Sylvia pulled a fistful. Dabbed her face.
Gaspar said, “You help us, we’ll help you. Otherwise, you’re on your way to Leavenworth. If you’re lucky.”
“What do you want me to do?” A catch in her voice.
“Testify,” Kim said.
“About what?” Sniffles.
“Everything,” Gaspar said.
Sylvia’s face brightened. She flashed a bright pixie smile.
“Is that all?” she said. “I can do that. When do you want me?”
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Kim heard noise from the ballroom. More volume, lower tones. Men were showing up. The party was about to start.
“OK, let’s go,” Gaspar said. “Right now.”
Sylvia asked, “Go where?”
Kim wondered that herself. Margrave jail?
Gaspar opened the boss’s phantom cell and pressed the call back button. “We have a witness to bring in,” he said. “Sylvia Black.” He listened to brief instructions and disconnected. He said, “Our boss wants to see you.”
Sylvia smiled. A mega-watt blinder this time. “I’m so glad,” she said. “Would you mind if I slipped into the powder room to, um, fix my face? You can check for escape routes first.” She giggled. Flirtatious once again. A hooker.
Gaspar accompanied her to the small toilet at the back corner of the salon. She stood aside while he ducked in and back out.
“Don’t lock the door,” he said.
