“What’s your case against her?”
“They argued violently when Timson refused to return her book manuscript and jewelry. A few hours later, both are missing and so is she. She had easy access—came and went from that apartment all the time. We haven’t formally arrested her yet, as we’re still looking for the murder weapon and any witnesses, but my men are searching. The sticking point is that she refuses to answer questions—not one word. I’m hoping you can dazzle her into talking.”
“The almighty confession?” Philip smiled. “You Torquemadas love to badger the magic words out of a suspect. Never mind that people blurt out just about anything for all sorts of reasons that rarely include a sudden taste for veracity.”
“Everything points to Pruitt,” Kessler insisted. “She had motive and opportunity and no alibi. You may wrinkle your nose at confessions, but they work wonders with a jury.”
As Philip lifted a palm in acquiescence, the bespectacled young man stationed in Kessler’s outer office knocked and thrust his head into the room.
“Sergeant Hannity is here, sir.”
Kessler pushed back his chair and swore under his breath. “Have him wait, Jones. Give me one minute.”
He glared at Julia as he spoke to Philip. “I wanted her well away before this. Damn.” He looked about and motioned Julia toward a small door near the entrance to the office, obscured behind a thicket of Boston ferns. “In there. I think you can squeeze in. You must promise not to move or make a sound. If you hear anything, which I hope you can’t, you must swear you won’t repeat any of it to anyone. Is that clear, Miss Kydd?”
Julia peered into the cramped space he proposed she enter. It was a shallow supply closet lined on three sides with narrow shelving. If she stood very upright and held her breath, she might fit. The situation was ludicrous, but at least it meant she could stay. She intended to listen with every possible care.
“Not a peep,” he reiterated, watching her edge in. “I can’t have Pruitt know you’re here.”
She nodded as the door closed against her knees. Kessler dragged over the massive fern’s pot to make sure she stayed hidden.
She heard him move away and a moment later call out, “Thank you, Jones. Send him in.”
As he spoke, Julia cracked open the door the inch or so allowed by the heavy pot. Without a trace of fresh air, she might gag on the fumes of cleaners and disinfectants stashed around her. Furthermore, as she’d hoped, she had a narrow but clear view of Kessler’s desk.
Hannity strode into the room. He greeted Kessler and nodded to Philip. “This Pruitt gal’s a tough one, sir.”
Behind him came a uniformed policeman, pushing Eva forward. Julia bit her lip to keep quiet. She hardly recognized her friend. Without her heeled shoes and proud posture, Eva’s height seemed merely gangly. She wore water-stained slippers, the back of one squashed flat as if it had been too much effort to slip her foot fully into it, a black scarf tied over her hair, and a blue dress made shapeless by its missing hip sash. A green bruise seeped from below her left ear, and a more colorful bruise crowned her swollen left cheek. Her lips were a pale-liver color. Without fresh makeup and likely without sleep, she looked ghostly, as if wrapped in a stagnant fog.
Her hazel eyes were hard with fear and something else. Anger. Hurt. Worry. Despite the walnut-size lump that squeezed her left eye partly shut, she gazed at the men warily. She lowered herself into the chair Kessler indicated, facing his desk. Hannity flanked her on one side, Philip on the other. Seated, her back was to Julia, who saw surprise in Kessler’s face. He was expecting a colored woman.
“I understand you tried to elude my men, Miss Pruitt,” Kessler began. “Hiding only heightens our resolve to find out what you know. Please tell us about Saturday evening and yesterday morning, after you challenged Leonard Timson about the papers in his safe. Describe the events of that night for us.”
For two minutes the room was still. Eva didn’t stir. A typewriter clattered in the outer office.
Why didn’t she speak? Julia struggled not to twist with anxiety. This was Eva’s chance to tell her story, explain her innocence. Why was she hesitating?
Kessler leaned across the desk. “A man has been murdered, Miss Pruitt. A man you argued with just hours before. A man who refused to return items belonging to you.” He waited for nearly a minute. When Eva gave no sign of answering, he went on in a low voice. “You were seen going to Timson’s rooms early yesterday morning.”
Julia gripped the nearest shelf edge. Was she? He hadn’t mentioned this. Or was Kessler bluffing, trying to trick her into thinking her situation was hopeless, that they already had evidence of her guilt?
His voice rose with a hint of impatience. “A short time later he was found dead. I need you to tell us what happened, Miss Pruitt. In your own words.”
From her cramped closet Julia saw his hand close around his pen and his knuckles whiten. In that moment she saw what Eva saw. She saw Kessler’s anger, his determination to draw from her mouth the words he would use to hang her. He had hemmed her into an impossible position. By declaring her involvement with Timson’s death, the only space in the story his questions left for her was the details. He wanted to know how and why, not if his narrative was accurate. Eva’s only power lay in refusing to enter the story he framed.
Julia understood: to speak and be deliberately misheard was worse than saying nothing. She cheered Eva’s silence. What Kessler interpreted as insolence or guilt, she knew to be self-defense. If Eva said anything at all, they would find a damning subtext in it, something to bolster their beliefs of her involvement.
“Silence suggests you have something to hide,” Kessler said.
