Lipstick and Lies

by Margit Liesche

  “A week ago, Blount arrived at work a little early and bumped into Renner, who was leaving a little late. Renner invited him for a drink at the Orange Lantern, a tavern near the plant. They started drinking and Blount quickly realized they weren’t there merely to hoist a few. Renner was lonely. He wanted to talk.”

  I frowned. “Why? What about?”

  “A spy can’t go home and celebrate with his wife about his accomplishments or gripe about his problems. So, two bottled-up operatives get together and start downing a few, they start comparing war stories. In this case, it’s Renner, who’s not much of a drinker, doing all the blabbing. He seemed depressed, according to Blount, but he should have been jolly. He had two secret projects in the works, both coming to a head. One involving a truckload of faulty engine castings en route from a subcontractor, being delivered to Willow Run the next day.”

  “Faulty castings?”

  “Yup. Castings welded in a way that would weaken and give way, causing a plane crash. Renner doctored the designs.”

  I winced. “But there are systems to detect such flaws. X-ray machines, inspectors…”

  Dante slowed for an elderly pedestrian, supported by a cane, as she entered the crosswalk. “According to Blount, Renner was confident the delivery and subsequent installations would take place without a hitch.”

  “Cripes.” I sank back into my seat. “Meaning Renner has somebody on the inside in production helping him.”

  “Uh-huh. And Blount, who thought he knew everything Renner was up to, nearly toppled off his barstool.”

  “That why Blount came to you then? He felt betrayed? Figured the more people involved, the more likely they’d get caught?”

  Dante’s shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “Could be. But Blount also claimed he wasn’t particularly proud of what he’d gotten into. Blamed it on his disability.”

  “His left arm…He wears a prosthesis. What happened? Injured on the front?”

  Dante shook his head. “No. Boot camp incident. Happened on a night compass run during maneuvers. Chief Instructor that night, a Lieutenant Mitchell, ordered them into an area he’d neglected to thoroughly check. A stream that was supposed to be only a foot deep ended up being six-foot-deep whitewater. Blount got swept downstream. Luckily, he got caught up on a limb and was rescued. Later, a wound got infected. Gangrene set in. Amputation was the only option. A tragic mishap.”

  “I’d say. Blount must have been bitter afterwards. I would be.”

  Dante nodded. “Especially as every able-bodied man he knew, including the other men in his unit, went off to fight for their country. His girl—now his wife—stuck by him, though. Which helped, he said. But also made him wonder if she truly loved him, or just felt sorry. Later, when Renner made him the offer, he thought the extra dough might help make things up to her.”

  “So why’d he give it up?”

  “His wife seemed genuinely content. There was a baby on the way, remember? Plus, he had standards, he called them. Stealing information to help the enemy build its war arsenal was one thing, sending American pilots up in defective planes was another. The act seemed too personal, too cowardly. Said he had to step away.”

  It was easy to feel sorry for Blount, but he’d crossed a line. “A spy with principles. That’s nice. So he waltzed over to you—” And paid the ultimate price. “What about the defective engine castings? The delivery was scheduled for the next day. That was a week ago. What happened?”

  “There was a delay.”

  I looked over. “Delay?” Dante didn’t reply and I knew from his wooden expression our discussion of the matter had ended.

  He swung onto Fort Street. Flat-faced institutional buildings made of pre-cast concrete hemmed us in on either side. Swarms of men and women in business attire crowded the sidewalks, out for their lunch breaks, I presumed, consulting my watch.

  I jockeyed around in my seat to face Dante. “Renner had something else up his sleeve. What was it?”

  “He wouldn’t give Blount any specifics, only that the project was top secret and it had to do with a bombing mission. Blount kept after it, though, until Renner also admitted he’d just completed copying the plans.”

  “That’s it?” I asked. Dante nodded. “But surely you’ve covered the angles. Found out what the project was?”

  “Yeah, we followed up. Blount knew about a secret gizmo in the works that makes night bombing or blind bombing possible. Figured it had to be that. We did some discreet checking, confirmed the project exists.”

  Icy fingers climbed my spine. “Uhm, the envelope in Blount’s pocket…it contains a drawing of the device.” A muscle along Dante’s jaw line, in front of his ear, pulsed. “Sorry,” I raced to add. “It’s the training. Couldn’t resist.”

  His mouth twitched. He let it go. “Blount insisted on getting us the sketch,” he explained. “Thought the tangible proof might be useful to our case.”

  “And Renner also has a copy in his safe. How do you know he hasn’t already passed it off?”

  “His method for communicating with his handler,” Dante said. His gaze shifting back and forth from the road to me, he laid out what he knew. That it was a complicated, prearranged system which became more complex and time intensive when Renner had something significant to pass off. In this instance, Renner had expected it would be several days before he heard when and where to make the drop. Until then, the plans would remain securely stored inside his safe.

  “What about Blount’s wife?” I asked. “Did you question her? Find out if she has an inkling into who might be behind her husband’s death?”

  “The wife is missing.”

  “Missing? You mean as in skipped town? Was she involved?”

  “At this point in the investigation, everyone who knew him is suspect. It’s also possible she was murdered as well.”

  Chapter Five

  We entered the lobby of the Federal building through a door at the far end of the underground garage. To our left, two windows with shiny brass bars fronted a Postal Department service counter. From behind the grilled windows, female clerks wearing visors and blue uniforms helped a queue of women clutching letters and packages. At seeing the barred-in clerks, I was reminded of how good it felt to be free and back in my officer’s pinks.

  On the sixth floor, Dante and I traversed a bullpen of desks and chaos, eventually arriving at the office he shared with Agent Connelly. I had been there the day before for my briefing and knew the layout. The men’s desks faced one another, their sides abutting a wall with two casement windows. The blue plastic wastebaskets at the ends of their desks, nearest the door, were official depositories for FBI “confidential trash”: items that must be burned or otherwise disposed of in a secure manner. Dante was carrying a phone message someone had thrust into his hand on our way through the outer maze. Wadding it, he flicked the paper ball at his basket as we entered. It rimmed out. Special Agent Patrick Connelly was seated at his desk. “Nice shot,” he said wryly.

  Tall and fit, with square shoulders and a square jaw, Connelly resembled the comic book crime buster Dick Tracy. Even his hairstyle, precisely parted, rigid with pomade, was similar. Except that Connelly was blond. As Dante’s partner on the Renner case, he had been in on our strategy session the day before. He’d barely kept a lid on his resentment over a woman joining the team and when asked for ideas in developing my now torn-to-shreds cover, he’d contributed just one, the trumped-up jewel thief charge.

  Dante went to get a chair from the other side of the room. He placed it near the corner of his desk. “Hear anything on our request to expand Lewis’ duties?”

  Connelly had rolled his chair out from behind his desk and was circumventing me. He paused. “It’s a go.” The prospect clearly did not please him.

  He positioned his chair between my seat and Dante’s, completing the triangular conversational arrangement. We dropped into our respective seats. I was giddy over what might be coming next. Seeming to sense my mood, Connell
y moved to wring out the starch.

  “Well, well, well. So you uncovered the Buchanan-Dineen, Barclay-Bly connection. Lucky little break now, wasn’t it?”

  An American flag on a stand occupied the corner behind Dante to my right. On the wall to my left, above Connelly, were life-size photographs of a stern-faced J. Edgar Hoover and President Roosevelt in pince-nez. A brass FBI seal hung below the portraits. I stared at the motto Fidelity-Bravery-Integrity spanning the banner at the plaque’s center, willing myself not to blurt something to Connelly I might instantly regret.

  Dante was fishing in his desk’s center drawer, his arm buried above the elbow. “It wasn’t a ‘little break,’ Patrick,” he said, pulling out a pack of Luckies. “She asked the right question at the right time.”

  In true FBI loyal-brave-honest fashion he had taken up for me. I smiled his way. “I presume the connection between the Countess Buchanan-Dineen and Barclay-Bly is more complicated than the coincidence of both women having hyphenated names,” I observed blithely. Silence. Froth gone flat, I tried logic. “Barclay-Bly invited the Countess to lecture at her club. You said you have a file on Mrs. Barclay-Bly. There’s a connection?”

  Making a steeple with his hands, Connelly placed his chin on the point, staring at me with narrowed eyes. “It’s Miss Barclay-Bly. She reverted to her maiden name after several failed marriages. She comes from a privileged background. Big house in Grosse Pointe, tony neighbors, private schools…”

  He seemed to be implying that a privileged background was a detriment. The reasoning escaped me, but I was dying to hear more. “Uh-huh. And?”

  “Barclay-Bly attended college in the Twenties, during Prohibition. Duped her folks into leasing an apartment for her on the Detroit River. Then the good times rolled. Word got around she was hosting parties with bootleg booze. Purple Gang members began dropping in—”

  “Purple Gang?”

  “Local gangsters, active here in the Twenties. Built a reputation around armed robbery, hijacking, extortion, strong arm stuff. Big money, though, was in controlling the local wire service, providing racing stats to all the horse betting parlors and bookies.”

  “Is this Purple Gang connected to our investigation?”

  “The link’s not exactly direct.” Connelly’s tone held a hint of something intriguing.

  “Patrick…” Dante waited to be sure his partner got his message. He looked at me. “Let’s just say it’s a sidebar to the investigation. Leave it at that for now, shall we?”

  I didn’t see that I had any choice. “You mentioned a new assignment?”

  Dante had removed a smoke from the pack. He began twisting it with his fingers. “Two, actually. First, we’re going to re-arm you, give you another shot at the Countess.”

  “Go back to jail? You can’t be serious. I just got out.”

  The cigarette twisting stopped. “We are serious. Buchanan-Dineen claims she’s performed a wonderful service for our country. She wants to be honored, not punished. She complains of the mental torture she’s suffered at our hands. She wants people on the outside to know all this. So ask yourself, how could she do it?” Dante lifted inquiring eyebrows. “By talking to a reporter.”

  The Countess, we all knew, was thinking more along the lines of talking to a lawyer. Or her fiancé. “Hmmm…” I muttered.

  Dante plunged on. “This time, posing as a journalist assigned to record her story, you’ll play to her ego, convince her you’re the ideal conduit for bringing her side of the story public. Once she gets what’s in it for her, you’ll be home free. Free to delve into what she knows about spying, free to slip in a query or two about the contacts the Abwehr expected her to make once she arrived, even work in a question about Renner while you’re at it.”

  I looked at him admiringly. “So that’s why you posed as an attorney for the Free Press. You were planting a seed to help convince her that I was actually a journalist, all along.”

  “Ha!” Connelly scoffed. “What we should do is throw a real reporter at her. Let her tell her poor-me tale to one of the boys from the News or Free Press. Let them write it up. Our besieged little spy might be surprised at the reaction from Detroiters. They’d want to lynch her, not cry for her.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at Connelly, then turned to address Dante. “You want me to tell her I’ll get her story published. But, in truth, whatever she says will never get beyond our ears?”

  “Right. And depending on how things go, with your background in journalism, maybe you could actually write something up and we could print it. In a faux edition, of course.”

  “Background in journalism is stretching it. I majored in journalism in college, yes, but that’s the extent of—”

  “You were a writer in your job at Midland Aircraft,” Connelly butted in.

  “But I wasn’t a reporter. I cranked out instruction manuals and informational blurbs to help sell airplanes. There’s a difference.”

  “Lewis,” Dante snapped. “There are men out there right now who’ve 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.

  “Barcla
y-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 a bright lawyer,” Connelly scoffed. “Never saw the inside of a cell.”

  Wish I hadn’t.

  Dante continued. “That chapter closed, she began running with a liberal circle, young swells with plenty of means and plenty of free time for throwing it around. The sort of group that, shall we say, was blasé about abiding by rules.”

  My gaze returned to the two toughs flanking Kiki. Purples, I assumed, grimacing. It was one thing to be rebellious, but as the saying went, You are the company you keep.

  “The young Miss Barclay-Bly played nonconformist to the hilt,” Dante continued. “Cigarettes, outlandish clothing, loose talk about free love and fascism…stirring things up wherever she went.”

  “Two oddball marriages, all the dirt that fell out from the subsequent divorces—she kept the local gossip rags in print,” Connelly contributed. “As if she hadn’t taken enough punches, she’s remarried again.”