the clanging of keys and groan of a door, the matron appeared. But not because the Countess had beckoned. “Lewis, your lawyer’s here to see you.”
My lawyer?
“How’d you manage it?” the jailer asked, nudging me out the door and projecting her voice toward the Countess. “A lawyer from the
Detroit Free Press
—” The guard pressed her lips together, making one of those hmm-hmmm sounds people use to make you think they’re impressed. “Best damn counsel in town.”
Chapter Four
Special Agent Dante swung the Ford Deluxe around a garbage truck blocking the entrance to an alleyway. The Countess had seen through my false identity and I was staring out my side window, brooding. Dante nosed back into the traffic along Gratiot Avenue and I peered into the alley, catching a glimpse of a large-boned Negro woman wearing dark coveralls and a bright red bandanna, wheeling a trash can toward us. Struck by the woman’s serene expression and her tall, purposeful walk, I was reminded of how the manpower shortage had changed women’s lives. In my case, I was beginning to understand that sometimes the opportunities would come back to bite us. The FBI had given me an out-of-the-ordinary chance to strut my stuff and I’d muffed it. Now what?
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dante concentrating on the congestion ahead. Minutes ago, purporting to be an attorney from the newspaper, he had arranged my release from jail. We were en route to the FBI field office, a short drive away. An awkward silence had fallen between us and I could only imagine the worst: he was quiet because he was sorting through the mechanics of returning me to my WASP unit. Pronto.
I was not sure how much Dante knew about what had transpired between the Countess and me, or what had inspired him to show up at precisely the right time. Or even why he had used the ruse involving the
Free Press
. But at the moment, if gaining understanding meant rehashing my botched assignment, I was not interested.
The queen WASP would be tickled, I mused glumly. Her stray would be buzzing back to the nest. We continued along Gratiot, Dante absorbed in his stony silence, me picturing my boss, aloft, doing somersaults in her private souped-up Staggerwing biplane. Abruptly, the hedge of low-rise granite buildings along my side of the car gave way; Woodward Avenue was just ahead. An elegant streetcar, its glass and brass aglow in the glare of the sun, glided along the track at the boulevard’s center, bearing down on the passenger island just short of the intersection we had slowed to cross. The streetcar braked. Sparks flying from the connector rod rained down from the overhead wires as the Ford bumped, crossing the tracks. The reel of Miss C’s aerobatics show, playing in my mind, fluttered and snapped.
“Your timing at the cellblock,” I said. “What made you show up when you did?”
Dante looked over like I must be joking. “Our prisoner was spinning out of control.”
“You warned me she was dramatic,” I countered. “She’d begun seeing me as her ally. Another minute, I might have calmed her down.”
“
Dramatic?
She’s delusional. Only a psychiatrist would know the proper thing to do.” Dante had been scowling. His expression softened. He glanced at me. “Our bogus Countess is a smart cookie. We knew winning her trust would be tough, but we had to start somewhere. And you urged her to cooperate. We appreciate that.” Turning back to the road, he spoke in an exaggerated tone. “They are being unreasonable. I helped them catch spies. I made them look good. Now they must carry out their end of the bargain. They must release me. Now!
”
He laughed. “She’s too much.”
My breath caught. Dante had said they would be nearby in case I needed help. He hadn’t said they would be eavesdropping. “The cellblock was wired?” My voice squeaked.
Dante’s forehead creased. “Yes, of course.”
“Why? Were you afraid I’d mess up? That I would miss
My lawyer?
“How’d you manage it?” the jailer asked, nudging me out the door and projecting her voice toward the Countess. “A lawyer from the
Detroit Free Press
—” The guard pressed her lips together, making one of those hmm-hmmm sounds people use to make you think they’re impressed. “Best damn counsel in town.”
Chapter Four
Special Agent Dante swung the Ford Deluxe around a garbage truck blocking the entrance to an alleyway. The Countess had seen through my false identity and I was staring out my side window, brooding. Dante nosed back into the traffic along Gratiot Avenue and I peered into the alley, catching a glimpse of a large-boned Negro woman wearing dark coveralls and a bright red bandanna, wheeling a trash can toward us. Struck by the woman’s serene expression and her tall, purposeful walk, I was reminded of how the manpower shortage had changed women’s lives. In my case, I was beginning to understand that sometimes the opportunities would come back to bite us. The FBI had given me an out-of-the-ordinary chance to strut my stuff and I’d muffed it. Now what?
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dante concentrating on the congestion ahead. Minutes ago, purporting to be an attorney from the newspaper, he had arranged my release from jail. We were en route to the FBI field office, a short drive away. An awkward silence had fallen between us and I could only imagine the worst: he was quiet because he was sorting through the mechanics of returning me to my WASP unit. Pronto.
I was not sure how much Dante knew about what had transpired between the Countess and me, or what had inspired him to show up at precisely the right time. Or even why he had used the ruse involving the
Free Press
. But at the moment, if gaining understanding meant rehashing my botched assignment, I was not interested.
The queen WASP would be tickled, I mused glumly. Her stray would be buzzing back to the nest. We continued along Gratiot, Dante absorbed in his stony silence, me picturing my boss, aloft, doing somersaults in her private souped-up Staggerwing biplane. Abruptly, the hedge of low-rise granite buildings along my side of the car gave way; Woodward Avenue was just ahead. An elegant streetcar, its glass and brass aglow in the glare of the sun, glided along the track at the boulevard’s center, bearing down on the passenger island just short of the intersection we had slowed to cross. The streetcar braked. Sparks flying from the connector rod rained down from the overhead wires as the Ford bumped, crossing the tracks. The reel of Miss C’s aerobatics show, playing in my mind, fluttered and snapped.
“Your timing at the cellblock,” I said. “What made you show up when you did?”
Dante looked over like I must be joking. “Our prisoner was spinning out of control.”
“You warned me she was dramatic,” I countered. “She’d begun seeing me as her ally. Another minute, I might have calmed her down.”
“
Dramatic?
She’s delusional. Only a psychiatrist would know the proper thing to do.” Dante had been scowling. His expression softened. He glanced at me. “Our bogus Countess is a smart cookie. We knew winning her trust would be tough, but we had to start somewhere. And you urged her to cooperate. We appreciate that.” Turning back to the road, he spoke in an exaggerated tone. “They are being unreasonable. I helped them catch spies. I made them look good. Now they must carry out their end of the bargain. They must release me. Now!
”
He laughed. “She’s too much.”
My breath caught. Dante had said they would be nearby in case I needed help. He hadn’t said they would be eavesdropping. “The cellblock was wired?” My voice squeaked.
Dante’s forehead creased. “Yes, of course.”
“Why? Were you afraid I’d mess up? That I would miss
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