Hands grasped her roughly from behind. She was cuffed and hauled to her feet.
*
The room was small. Perhaps eight feet on each side. There was no window. Just a door with no knob on the inside. The entire place was stark, bright white—the walls, the floor and the ceiling. Even the furniture, a table and two chairs, was the same white. The unrelenting ceiling light had the power of a thousand candles.
This was not the sort of place in which one got comfortable. This was not the shabby room to where police brought suspects. This was a federal interrogation room designed to wear a person down. Make them pliable. Break them.
Alice sat primly in the chair facing away from the door. She would not give her captors the satisfaction of behaving the way they expected. She would not watch the door for their arrival.
She was sure that somewhere in the room cameras recorded her every movement and utterance. She would give them nothing to see or hear.
With nothing to occupy her attention and no way to mark the passage of time, it was impossible to tell how long she had been here.
She heard the door behind her open and shut. She had no desire to turn and see who it was. It did not matter.
“Alice Fisher.” It was the same voice from the cemetery.
As he walked around the table, Alice sensed a second person in the room. Whoever it was stayed behind her, while the man from the cemetery sat in the chair before her.
He was neat, clean and pressed. His tie was still knotted at the collar, his jacket was unwrinkled and there was not a hair out of place on his head. The moustache reminded her briefly of Rafferty’s, but the man lacked the constable’s paunch and working-class demeanor.
He placed a file on the table between them. His gaze met hers. He said nothing, so Alice stared back.
After several moments, he dropped his gaze to the file and flipped it open. “You’ve been busy, Miss Fisher.”
Alice continued to watch.
“I’ve seen the McGinty video. Nice shot.”
Alice waited.
“And that gun. The Tanfoglio is a reliable weapon.”
Alice continued to stare.
His gaze flickered over her shoulder to whomever stood behind her.
“Despite the clear evidence of the video, we’ve sent the Tanfoglio to the ballistics lab to confirm it’s the weapon that killed the bishop. Once your fingerprints come back—”
“Watchman,” Alice interrupted him.
His brow furrowed.
“If you have a point, I do wish you would make it.”
His gaze shifted over her shoulder again. “A bottom-line girl.” He smiled, but the watchfulness did not leave his eyes. He crossed his arms. “Fine. You’re going down for McGinty’s murder. Murder for hire carries a life sentence in Pennsylvannia.”
He let the implication hang in the air before leaning forward. “Do you really want to go down for this alone?”
Alice smiled at him. “And who else could...go down with me?”
“Whoever ordered the hit.”
Alice was careful not to let the jump in her heartrate show on her face. She stared at him for a moment, then threw her head back and burst out laughing.
When she met his gaze again, he was scowling.
“I say something funny?”
“I suspect, Watchman, the Lord High Constable standing behind me would say you’ve tourne the cat in the pan.”
His eyebrows shot up, his eyes wide. “I’ve...what?”
Alice looked amused. “Put the cart before the horse.”
His expression remained unchanged.
“Laid your cards on the table too soon.”
“And how did I do that?”
“You gave your objective away. An objective, I assure you, Watchman, you shan’t achieve.”
He sat back, the false smile spreading across his face again. “Oh, you’d be surprised at what can be achieved with the proper motivation, Sister.”
“I doubt that, Watchman.”
He squinted at her. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Where I come from, men like you were appointed to watch the streets for scoundrels and ruffians, especially at night.”
Color bloomed in his cheeks. He set himself in his chair. “Lady, I’m an agent with the FBI. I ain’t no night watchman.” His voice sounded strained.
“Oh, I see.” Alice drew out the phrase.
He shook his finger at her. “Listen, Sister...”
The man behind Alice cleared his throat.
The watchman pressed his lips together, slammed the file closed, snatched it off the table and stalked away. The door opened, then slammed shut.
Confident she was being recorded, she spoke to the now-empty chair in front of her. “I mean, really…how rude! The man never even introduced himself.”
*
An hour later, hard rock music burst from speakers secreted about the room at such a volume as to be offensive. Alice listened to the lyrics, such as they were. They were difficult to make out but if she concentrated, they were discernable.
Alice was inwardly amused as she listened, although she made sure to give no outward sign. If the Watchmen thought lyrics paying homage to the devil would weaken her resolve, they were in for a surprise.
After the same song played for the forty-seventh time, the cacophony stopped. The silence in the room was inordinately encompassing. Alice was sure her heartbeat echoed in the small, stark, white room.
As she expected, the door behind her opened and after a moment of shuffling, clacked closed.
Sitting demurely on the chair, as she had been the entire time, Alice watched from the corner of her eye as a woman strode to the table. Alice sensed a second person behind her but focused on the woman lowering herself into the chair opposite her.
The taut bun on the top of the woman’s head was streaked with gray. A few stray hairs had come loose, but it was nothing that could be perceived as messy. She wore no jacket and her shirt was open at the collar and the sleeves rolled up. A delicate gold cross dangled at her
