Free Lipstick and Lies by Margit Liesche Page A

never captained a battleship before, never holed up in a muddy trench with mortars exploding all around, never seen their buddies blasted to smithereens…” He paused to draw a breath. A quiet breeze entered the open window, rippling the flag at his back. When he spoke his voice was calm again. “We need someone capable and trustworthy. You’re our man for the job.”
    I was duly humbled. And flattered. “Okay, I’ll do it. But even with the proper credentials, what makes you think she’ll believe me? Or trust me?”
    “You’ll figure something out. And don’t worry. She’ll be ready to talk. The isolation is getting to her. You heard her, she said so herself. Now, minus her cellmates, she’s bound to feel more desperate yet.”
    “Where are Irina and Billie? Did someone put up bail?”
    “Bail?” Connelly repeated. “No, no bail. We had a chat with the prosecutor. He may want to charge them later, but for now there was no point in holding the two any longer.”
    “Oh, I see…” The situation was undoubtedly more involved than Connelly was letting on. But I liked the women. They weren’t hardened criminals and I was happy they’d gotten a break, however it had happened. I also knew there was no point in pressing for more information. If they wanted me to understand the nuances, they would have dished them up. Either way, their aim was clear. Billie’s and Irina’s release had been orchestrated to help cinch the noose around the Countess’ neck.
    “Say, what about Leo?” Dante asked. “Get a chance to talk with him?”
    Connelly checked his wrist. “Left a message. Promised we’d try again right about now.”
    I’d missed something. Before I could figure out what, Dante begged me to excuse them and the two men stepped outside. I stood to stretch my legs. A bookcase occupied part of the wall on Dante’s half of the office and I wandered over to inspect the array of books and manuals. The titles all related to crime-solving or FBI procedures. The technical material looked boring, but a framed snapshot of Dante shaking hands with a uniformed police officer held promise. I picked it up. The officer was presenting Dante with a flat rectangular object I assumed was an award.
    I heard the door open. Dante and Connelly reentered the room.
    “My dad,” Dante said, seeing the photo in my hand. “Our bureau chief got a special dispensation allowing him to award me my badge.”
    I reshelved the memento. “Nice.”
    Dante went to his desk. Opening the manila folder he’d been carrying, he removed two 8x10 glossy photographs, arranging them next to one another on top of the file. I went to take a look. Connelly followed at my elbow.
    One of the glossies was actually a composition of three mug shots of a woman, including right and left profiles. A full-length shot of her filled the other sheet. The subject had classic features, including an oval face, a fine nose, and wide-set eyes. Her straight dark hair was worn in a chin-length bob.
    “Kiki Bly?” I asked, already sure I knew the answer.
    “
Barclay
-Bly,” Dante said, jabbing the full-length shot with his finger.
    I leaned in for a closer look. Kiki wore a flapper dress with a drop waist and a mid-calf hem. For accessories, she’d added a long string of pearls and a feathered headband. In one hand she held a champagne glass, in the other, an elegant cigarette holder nearly identical to the one used by the Countess. Two swarthy men with slicked-down hair, wearing bowties and dark formal suits, flanked her.
    “Why exactly was she arrested?” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to glimpse the accompanying paperwork.
    “Like Patrick said, her apartment had become Prohibition party time headquarters. One of our agents assigned to covering Purples observed some gang members enter her residence, called in for backup, and she was arrested for possessing and serving bootlegged booze.”
    Which was probably being consumed by half of Detroit
.
    “Parents hired