“He never fired.”
“We’ll get your statements in a minute,” Hannity said. “I can’t wait to hear what the hell you two were doing here.” He jabbed a thumb toward Jerome. “Meanwhile, this johnny stays put.”
Julia tried to protest again, but Hannity cut her off. “Save it for Mr. Kessler, miss.” He hurried forward to meet the assistant commissioner.
Kessler’s voice approached from the foyer, speaking in a rapid-fire command. The room stirred as men Julia hadn’t noticed turned at his entrance.
“Good Lord.”
She recognized Philip’s voice. He squatted beside her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. His hand on her forehead helped quell the dizzy tumult.
Kessler spoke sharply. “I’d hoped the sergeant was mistaken when he said you were here, Miss Kydd. You’d better have a very good explanation.”
“Christ,” Philip said. “Give her a minute.”
Kessler ignored him and followed Hannity into the living room, where several uniformed policemen milled about, their banter low and matter of fact. “So, Sergeant, what do we have here?”
“Can you stand?” Philip asked quietly.
She nodded, with only a little queasiness. She heard more than she understood. Too much still rang in her ears—the shot, and especially Eva’s scream. She rested on her knees for several seconds. Then Philip helped her up.
“Why are you here?” she mumbled. Her face felt numb, her mouth stiff with tension. Her shoulder pitched against his ribs.
“Hannity had a man watching this place,” Philip said into her ear. “He notified Kessler when you and Crockett went inside. He telephoned me, and we hustled over here. This is serious, Julia. Wallace’s death will cause a terrible stir when word gets out.”
Julia forced herself to look at the lifeless couple. Eva lay curled facedown, the lower half of her dress crimson. Her arms and a gun would be buried somewhere beneath her, in the remnants of her lap. The police had turned Wallace over, or maybe with her last strength Eva had heaved him off. He lay sprawled on his back, a glistening cavern where his groin had been. Only arteries could have gushed so much blood.
Julia began to shake. After being unable to see beyond their two faces, now she couldn’t look at either one. This was a scene, a tableau, seared in memory and meaning. Maybe with time she could pull them back into the living souls they had been, souls she’d cared about deeply in different ways. Now she could only shake, like a machine laboring to function.
Philip steadied her shoulders and turned them away. He nudged her with something in his hand. Her broken heel lay in his palm. “There’s a chap with a bad headache in the kitchen, muttering about a lady in distress,” he said under his breath. “He mentioned someone sounding eerily like you.” He slipped it into his pocket.
A coughing moan pulled her eyes back to Jerome. His head hung down, mouth working to spit out blood. But when Julia moved toward him, a policeman blocked her. “Stay back, miss. Sarge?”
Hannity looked over.
“What about them two?” The guard gestured toward Julia and Austen, who had sheepishly reappeared under the portal’s arch. “Where you want them?”
“There must be a bedroom or something. Have Pensky get their statements. Separate rooms. I want to talk to them too.”
Hannity’s broad face wrinkled in distaste as Jerome snuffled, unable to wipe the bloody mucus running from his nose. “That boy’s going downtown.”
Julia slapped the guard’s hand from Jerome’s shoulder. “No!”
Hannity stared in surprise.
“You can’t arrest him.” Julia realized she was shouting and lowered her voice. “He never fired.”
Silence. Kessler turned.
“Why do you say that, Miss Kydd?” he asked from across the room with schooled quiet.
“I saw everything. Wallace had hold of Eva. She turned his gun and fired it into them both. Jerome didn’t shoot anyone.”
The hum of voices down the hall stilled.
Kessler excused himself from the conversation by the windows and came closer. “The men on the scene swore they saw Crockett shoot,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll be taking your statement shortly. Until then, please keep your voice down. You’re distracting my men.”
Julia protested. “You’re making a terrible mistake. You must believe me.”
“You’ve abused my confidence before, Miss Kydd. Why should I listen now to your ravings?”
The words stung. “Because I know what happened. I can tell you who killed them”—she waved feebly at the bodies, not ready to speak either Eva’s or Wallace’s name—“and who killed Leonard Timson too.” In that instant she realized it was true. She did know.
Kessler bridled in disbelief, but Philip stirred. “Let her speak.”
“If you’ll give me time to settle my thoughts, I can explain everything. Please. Tonight?”
Kessler was about to repeat his scorn when Philip produced a small cough. “You’re making an ass of yourself, old man,” he murmured. “She knows a far sight more than you think.”
Julia did not allow her gaze to stray from Kessler’s face. He fixed her with his hard gray eyes.
Philip sighed at Kessler’s resistance. “Quel enfant terrible,” he said. “What can one do?”
“So where do you want him?” asked Jerome’s guard as another officer handed Kessler a note.
He read it and looked up. “Downtown.”
“No!” Julia didn’t care how shrill she sounded. “I told you! Check his gun.”
Kessler grimaced, but he allowed a nearby fellow in white gloves to examine the gun that still lay on the rug where it had flown from Jerome’s hand. After a minute the man shrugged. He wrapped the weapon in a handkerchief and handed it to Kessler. “She’s right, sir. No one’s fired this baby in some time. Couldn’t have. It’s not loaded.”
Not loaded? Wallace had given Jerome a gun without bullets? If the police had found his hiding place and he’d so much as lifted that weapon, he’d have been riddled with lead. Another, more sickening realization dawned on her. That entire scene she’d just witnessed, every moment of heart-stopping fear, had been a sham. Wallace had known that gun was empty. He’d let everyone believe Jerome posed
