The driver stopped only long enough to help Kit down from the carriage. He then tipped his hat and was gone. Kit stood outside the building for several moments. The streets were surprisingly void of activity.
The back of Kit's neck tingled. She felt as though someone were watching her. She took hold of her skirts, ready to run if need be, but her feet seemed frozen in place.
In the distance a dog barked, then whined miserably as though someone had kicked it. Behind her a rustling sound caused Kit to whirl around, ready to greet her adversary face-to-face. It proved to be nothing more than a crumpled bit of newspaper.
Her movements were enough to break the spell, however, and without further ado, Kit bolted for the door and raced up the narrow stairs. Her heart pounded as she imagined hearing footsteps on the floor behind her. Surely her thoughts were simply running away with her.
She fumbled the key into the lock and threw the door open with such enthusiasm that it rattled the glass. Ignoring the possibility of breaking the window, Kit slammed the door shut, locked it, and pulled down the shade. For just a moment she leaned back against the door without bothering even to turn on the light. She was panting, more afraid than she'd been since her encounter with Sloate. She realized then how vulnerable she was. Living in an office? With a killer loose on the streets? She must be mad!
It was while standing there, gathering her thoughts and calming her heart, that Kit caught the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the hall. Her breath caught in her throat. She put a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out as the steps stopped just outside her door.
She waited, hearing nothing.
Then a knock sounded! What should she do?
"Miss Shannon?" a familiar voice said.
Corazón! Kit opened the door and threw her arms around her friend. "You scared me to death!"
"I am so sorry," Corazón said.
"Come in!" Kit's heart was filled to bursting at the sight of her dear friend. "I've missed you so!"
"I am having to do the sneaking to see you."
"I'm glad you did!" Kit lit an oil lamp and said, "What do you think?"
"Where do you sleep?" Corazón said, looking around the room. "You no sleep here?"
Kit laughed. "Mr. Rogers created a little bedroom off the back of this office. I don't have much space there, but it is enough. I've even managed to bring in a little washbasin. Oh, you've no idea how I long for a real bath."
Corazón smiled. "There are places for such things. Near my home, there are people who charge for hot bath and hair cutting."
"Yes, but those places are generally more appealing to men. Perhaps I could find an establishment devoted to the needs of women. I'll check into it." Kit walked to a shelf and pulled down a small bakery sack. "How about a treat? Imagine me playing hostess here!"
Kit pulled two shortbread cookies from the sack. "One for you and one for me. Sorry I don't have any plates."
"No plates? Where do you eat?"
Kit shrugged and handed Corazón the cookie. "Mostly I pick up fruit or bread at the market. Sometimes I splurge and eat at the little café around the corner."
Corazón frowned. "That is no good. You will grow too thin."
Kit reached out and patted her arm. Smiling, she said, "I don't mind. Honestly. I'm doing what I love. The sacrifice is worth it. Come, sit."
The two sat on wooden chairs and began to munch cookies. It didn't matter to Kit that the fare was modest and the setting dim. She was just so glad to see Corazón.
"Tell me how Aunt Freddy is faring," Kit said. "I worry about her, and I've longed to contact her. I wanted to give her time to get used to the idea of having me remain here in Los Angeles, and I certainly didn't want to discuss my living here in Earl Rogers' office."
"She is sad, mostly. I think she misses you much."
"Does she talk about me?"
"No, she no talk, but her eyes, they are sad, and her heart is no feeling good."
Kit frowned. "What do you mean? Is she ill?"
"I think she is afraid of what to do. Mr. Sloate, he come to tell her things sometimes. He put on such, how you say, the charm?"
The thought repelled Kit. "Poor Aunt Freddy."
"She want to marry him bad, I think."
"I can't let that happen," Kit said with intensity.
"You would try to stop her?"
"If she would listen to me. But I fear she won't now. He must be after her money. Why doesn't she see that?"
"He has promised to help."
"Help? How?"
"Sally, she tell me Madam want to have a park in the city for the memory of her husband."
"Jasper?"
"Sí. Mr. Sloate, he has the pol . . ."
"Political?"
"Sí, political ways to make this thing to happen. Madam, she wants it bad, I think."
Kit nodded. He was using charm and influence on Aunt Freddy. But he appeared to be making Aunt Freddy happy. Who was she to come between her aunt's happiness and harsh reality?
However, she knew Sloate better than Aunt Freddy did. If only she could find a way to reveal his true character.
"Corazón," Kit said, "can you stay with me tonight?"
"I no go home?"
"Only if you want to. But I have extra blankets and the couch here. We could stay up talking and be like schoolgirls."
"Oh sí! I would like that!"
"Then it's done."
They did talk into the night, giving each other lessons in their own languages and laughing together over secrets only friends share. But Kit could not help feeling a sense of dread at it all, as if this were merely a short dream that would end soon. More than once she felt as if the shadow of Heath Sloate hovered outside her door, listening.
Chapter Sixteen
"YOUR COMPASSION IS GOING TO get you into trouble," Earl Rogers said.
Kit was sitting in his office, where he had summoned her. Earlier in the day she had pleaded with him to take the case of yet another indigent client.
"The first rule in criminal work is what?" he asked.
Kit muttered, "Get the money first."
"Right."
"But what about innocence? Doesn't that matter?"
"No."
Kit felt like she had been jolted by a punch. How could innocence, actual or apparent, not be relevant in a criminal proceeding?
"You want me to explain?" Rogers said.
"By all means."
"A career in criminal law is based upon winning. I don't care if my client is innocent or guilty. If he's innocent, that just makes the task a little easier. But you don't build a reputation on losing cases."
"Isn't there more to law than reputation?"
"If you want to practice law, you need clients. If you want clients, you need reputation. If you want clients who can pay you in sterling silver, you need a sterling reputation. And if you want gold, well, you just don't lose. I don't lose."
"I don't know if I can accept that," she said. "That's not why I chose to study law."
"And why did you?" Rogers looked genuinely interested.
"I'll tell you," Kit said. "When I was fourteen I made a discovery in the orphanage. A thick, leather-bound book tucked away in the far corner of the library. It was obscured somewhat by the end of the bookcase, which overlapped the shelves slightly."
Rogers said nothing.
"I saw the title on the spine—Commentaries on the Laws of England by Sir William Blackstone—and I was drawn to it." She remembered the moment as if it had been yesterday. She had never seen a law book before. Indeed, had not been aware they existed. She thought all the laws were written in the heads of lawyers and judges and shared among them like some secret language.
She had slipped the book out, opened it, and read upon the first page, When the supreme being formed the universe, and created matter out of nothing, he impressed certain principles upon that matter, from which it can never depart, and without which it would cease to be.
F
or as God, when he created matter, and endued it with a principle of mobility, established certain rules for the perpetual direction of that motion; so, when he created man, and endued him with free will to conduct himself in all parts of life, he laid down certain immutable laws of human nature, whereby that free will is in some degree regulated and restrained, and gave him also the faculty of reason to discover the purport of those laws.
"I thought it made so much sense," she told Rogers. "The law flows from God, to nature, to man. That is why it is binding. And He gave us reason to discover it all."
Rogers remained silent.
"And I thought of my mother. I thought of what was done to her by men who twist the law. I knew that law, even from God, could be made something wicked. I decided at once I would learn the law and fight for just outcomes. I read the entire volume in two months. And when I was finished, I knew that the law was about the will of God. And that's what I've always believed. I won't go back now or think any less."
Rogers was looking past her, as if into some amorphous yet palpable darkness. She dared not speak, feeling he wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
"You can go now," Rogers said finally, quietly, in the voice of someone who had given up a fight. That shocked Kit most of all. Never had she heard that voice come from Earl Rogers. Not the great trial lawyer, the supremely confident advocate who prided himself on winning at all costs.
Without another word Kit stood and turned. Just before stepping out the door she glanced back. Rogers, seemingly unconcerned with her presence, was lifting a bottle out of a drawer.
Kit met Bill Jory in the hallway.
"Hey, what is it, gal?" Jory said, putting his huge hands on her shoulders the way a big brother might have.
"What?" said Kit, as if being pulled out of a daydream.
"You look like trouble's been callin'."
"I'm sorry, Bill."
"You been with Earl?"
"Yes."
"And?"
She looked into Jory's eyes and saw a soft concern there, as well as understanding. "He got very sad."
"Anything else?"
Kit didn't answer. It seemed Jory already knew.
"Is he drinking?" the investigator asked.
Kit nodded.
"Come with me," said Jory. She followed him down the hall to the new office he had taken—Jory Investigations it said on the door. It was a small office with one desk, two chairs, and not much else.
Jory sat Kit down. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Kit recounted her conversation, all the way up to her story of finding inspiration in Blackstone. When she told him that, Jory nodded.
"I get it now," he said.
"What is it?" Kit asked.
Jory sighed, then said, "You need to know something about Earl. You know he drinks more than he should. What you don't know is why."
Kit waited, intensely curious.
"Earl's father was a minister," Jory explained. "He wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. Earl idolized him but didn't have the same fire in his belly about religion. I think that tortured Earl. He wanted to believe, wanted to please his father, but couldn't. It got worse when he went into law."
"His father didn't approve?"
"He didn't approve of what Earl has come to believe, that the job of the lawyer is to win. Rev. Rogers didn't think God was pleased with that. So when you started talking about that fella . . ."
"Blackstone?"
"And that talk about God and the law, it brought all that back to Earl."
"He told me his father died. How long ago?"
"A year. It was bad for Earl. When he heard, first person he told was his daughter, Adela. He woke her up to tell her, and Adela told me what he said."
Kit leaned forward, attuned to every word.
"He said, 'What kind of God would take him away from me now, when I need him most?' "
Jory blinked a couple of times and sighed. "So my advice," he said, "is not to bring this up again. He ain't spoke of his father since, and he don't want to. It only makes him drink more."
"Is there nothing I can do?"
"You can do good work," Jory said.
They were interrupted by the pounding of steps up the wooden stairs. In a second the door flew open, and a breathless Luther Brown entered. "They found another––"
"Another what?" demanded Jory.
"Prostitute."
Kit put a hand to her chest.
Brown directed his large eyes toward her. "I'm sorry, Kit. It's Millie Ryan."
Chapter Seventeen
OREL HOOVER, Chief of Police, was a fireplug of a man—or so Heath Sloate thought. With thinning white hair over a mottle-cheeked face and an ample stomach, Hoover had long since abandoned any pretense of appearing as a man of action. He had become just another politician. And Heath Sloate thought of politicians as his "meat."
So when he entered Hoover's office that afternoon, Sloate was quite sure he would have no trouble with this politico-policeman. If he met resistance, Sloate would find a way to put a little pressure on him, devise a plan to destroy him if need be. Just as he'd fixed old Wexell back at school.
Sloate had come to embrace a favorite saying of President Roosevelt's: "Speak softly and carry a big stick." The president had used that as a rallying cry when threatening to send in federal troops during the Pennsylvania coal miners' strike a year before. The coal mine owners backed down. Now "Rough and Ready Teddy" was using it in foreign policy as well, applying it to the situation in Panama.
Sloate realized that he had applied the big stick over and over again his dealings with people. It worked, and he was confident it would work again now.
Sloate had done his homework on Chief Orel Hoover—just in case things got difficult down the line. There was the matter of Hoover's odd son, a potential embarrassment for a man who had visions—illusions, Sloate thought—of someday becoming mayor. There was also Mrs. Hoover, an unrelentingly obnoxious woman who could, merely by opening her mouth, scuttle any future political plans Hoover might entertain. Such information was putty in his hands, Sloate thought. From it he could fashion a veritable work of art in blackmail.
"Ah, Chief," Sloate said. Though he thought Hoover's face seemed redder than usual, he added, "You're looking well."
"Sit down," Hoover said.
Sloate complied. Hoover didn't seem happy to see him. No doubt he thought this visit an imposition.
"Now, what is this urgent matter?" Hoover asked.
Sloate did not answer immediately. One did not reel in a fish right away. Instead, he glanced at the walls of Hoover's office, noticing framed letters displayed prominently. Commendations, no doubt, from Hoover's days as a beat cop. Or cloying missives from politicians who might someday need a favor.
"Quite a career you've had," Sloate said.
"Had? You make it sound like it's in the past." There was a snappishness in Hoover's voice that Sloate understood. Sloate had all but forced this meeting. But there was something else, too, a deeper layer under the cop's brusque exterior. He was troubled about something, Sloate was certain of it.
"Did I?" Sloate said. "I'm sorry. I understand full well you have future plans. Mayor Hoover, that has a nice sound to it."
Hoover eyed Sloate directly for a moment. "I think so," he said.
"And our fair city is growing at a rapid clip. The mayor of this hamlet might go on to even greater things. Governor. Senator, perhaps."
This time Hoover said nothing. Sloate now knew he had pegged him perfectly.
"The life of a United States senator," Sloate continued, "now that's what I call living. Maybe I should consider it."
"Mr. Sloate, I'm sure if you considered it, nothing would stand in your way. I've heard that about you."
"Heard what, sir?"
"That nothing—and nobody—ever gets between you and what you decide to get."
Sloate smiled, letting the fish take out a little more line. "I have a certain way of doing
things that has proved successful, yes."
Hoover cleared his throat, and Sloate thought he saw again the shadows of a dark secret. Well, if it was there, he would find it. And use it, if need be.
"Why was it so important for you to see me?" Hoover asked.
"How would you rank our police force, Chief? I mean, over the years of your oversight?"
Pulling himself up a little higher in his chair, Hoover said, "It's good. No, great. We have a great force."
"Effective?"
"Very."
"Skilled?"
"Yes."
"Well off?"
Hoover narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean by that?"
"Come now, Chief," Sloate said, "we all know about the take. I bet the brothels on New High Street bring in a pretty penny, eh?"
Hoover's face turned the color of beets.
"I pass no judgment," Sloate said. "It's the way business is done. And that, Chief Hoover, brings me to the reason for my visit. I propose a little business transaction, one that does not involve money, but potentially involves something of even greater value."
"Such as?"
"Your political future."
Hoover seemed poised between two reactions—outrage and interest. To relieve him of the difficulty of making a choice, Sloate added, "Don't fool yourself into believing I can't make good on my . . ."
"Threats?"
"Promises."
"I know you, Sloate. Know your reputation. You're a snake," Hoover stated.
"Is that the best you can do?"
"A low-down snake."
"That's better. And it's true. I do bite, and that bite can be very, very deadly. Shall I make my proposition?"
Hoover snorted air out his nose in a sound of contempt. But he said, "I'm listening."
———
Kit, feeling as if her mind were a thousand miles away, sat still in the darkness of her room. She couldn't focus on work, on anything. Millie dead! Murdered the night before by some animal who was still on the loose.
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