Diane Capri - Don't Know Jack

“I did not. Have you heard the tape yourself?”

Which proved she wasn’t merely foxy, but also sly. And informed. Neither Kim nor Gaspar had heard the actual 911 tape. Roscoe hadn’t heard it, either. And Sylvia knew all that. But how?

What had Sylvia said at the time? Kim searched her memory. Recalled Roscoe’s report precisely. “I’m told Sylvia’s exact words were ‘I shot him. He’s dead. I just couldn’t take him anymore.’”

A subtle difference. “I shot him.” Not, “I killed him.” Hair splitting? Maybe. But criminal cases fell apart for less. Harry had been killed by two bullets to the head, but he’d been shot a total of seven times. Five post-mortem. Sylvia might have shot him only after he was dead.

Nothing really tied Sylvia to Harry’s murder. Repeatedly, Roscoe mentioned the crime scene was totally clean. Sylvia had escaped Roscoe’s jail, but a good lawyer would argue she’d been falsely arrested and imprisoned in the first place. He’d sue Margrave and Sylvia would end up owning the whole town.

Was it really possible that Sylvia would walk away free? They had no warrant. And couldn’t get one based on existing evidence.

Sylvia knew that, too.

“We found the money, Sylvia,” Kim said, quietly.

“What money?” Sylvia asked, deadpan.

“Bernie Owens is dead, too.”

Contrived alarm in Sylvia’s expression. “You killed Bernie?”

“You know we didn’t. Your lover blew up that Chevy with enough explosive to scatter Bernie for ten miles.”

Slight reaction. Kim concluded Sylvia cared for Bernie, but not as much as she cared for the money. She was a hooker, after all. Kim said, “All that cash in Bernie’s car went everywhere, too. Couple hundred thousand, at least. Maybe more.”

Sylvia sat still, unblinking, but Kim could see perspiration beading along her temples, gathering on her upper lip. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap.

Kim knew Sylvia’s trigger point now. She said, “He stole Harry’s money, and then he killed Harry. He stole Bernie’s money, and then he killed Bernie. He’s stealing your money now. But don’t worry too much. You’ll never be poor. Because as soon as he gets it, you’ll be dead, too.”

“You’re lying,” Sylvia said, mouth so dry the words barely escaped.

“Think so?” Gaspar showed her the photo he’d taken when he looked in through the Chevy’s window. “That’s Bernie, right? Two bullets to the back of the head. Just like Harry.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out charred pieces of paper. He forced them into Sylvia’s palm. He said, “And that’s Bernie’s money.”

Sylvia looked at the burned scraps. She started to shake. Slightly at first. Then more. “That’s not really Bernie. Or his money. You manipulated that picture. You burned these yourself.”

“Your lover killed eight people and hurt dozens more.” Gaspar was angry. “You knew Jim Leach, right? There’s video. Want to see Jim Leach blown apart with your own eyes? Very entertaining.”

Kim’s tone was gentler. “We’re so glad you’re OK. At first we thought you were in the trunk. Can you imagine? Being in the trunk when the car exploded? That Chevy burned so hot there was nothing left but cinders. Everything in the back seat? Right where you were sitting? Toasted. Blown away. Ashes.” Kim raised both hands and pinched her fingers and flashed them open. “Poof! Gone with the wind. Just like that.”

Sylvia began to sob. Her shoulders heaved. Several minutes.

Acting? Or real?

Kim handed her a tissue box from Marion Wallace’s side table. Sylvia pulled a fistful. Dabbed her face.

Gaspar said, “You help us, we’ll help you. Otherwise, you’re on your way to Leavenworth. If you’re lucky.”

“What do you want me to do?” A catch in her voice.

“Testify,” Kim said.

“About what?” Sniffles.

“Everything,” Gaspar said.

Sylvia’s face brightened. She flashed a bright pixie smile.

“Is that all?” she said. “I can do that. When do you want me?”

Kim heard noise from the ballroom. More volume, lower tones. Men were showing up. The party was about to start.

“OK, let’s go,” Gaspar said. “Right now.”

Sylvia asked, “Go where?”

Kim wondered that herself. Margrave jail?

Gaspar opened the boss’s phantom cell and pressed the call back button. “We have a witness to bring in,” he said. “Sylvia Black.” He listened to brief instructions and disconnected. He said, “Our boss wants to see you.”

Sylvia smiled. A mega-watt blinder this time. “I’m so glad,” she said. “Would you mind if I slipped into the powder room to, um, fix my face? You can check for escape routes first.” She giggled. Flirtatious once again. A hooker.

Gaspar accompanied her to the small toilet at the back corner of the salon. She stood aside while he ducked in and back out.

“Don’t lock the door,” he said.

“Why would I want to do that?”

Gaspar stood guard, left hand clasped over his right wrist, his watch face visible, marking the time.

The salon’s main door opened. Marion Wallace returned. “Was there anything else you needed from me before I return to my guests, Agent Otto?”

Kim’s stomach snake thrashed violently. Acid bubbled up her esophagus. But she refused to flinch. She swallowed hard.

“No,” she said.

“Call to schedule something with my assistant if you need to see me again,” Marion said, and Kim watched her walk through the main door again.

“Agent Otto, Agent Gaspar.”

Sonorous male voice. Like radio. Unmistakable.

Kim’s skin crawled.

“Hello, Hale,” she said.

Which was as curt as she dared to the boss’s right hand man.

Michael Hale. Grandfathered in place before the boss recruited her or Gaspar. Binding ties between Hale and the boss ran from merely distasteful to downright disgusting. Kim avoided Hale whenever possible.

“Where is she?” Hale asked.

Demanding, as always.

“Primping,” Gaspar said, pointing at the powder room door.

“Cooper sent me to assess and report.” Hale’s derivative power was enormous. He wielded it more overtly than the boss ever would. “Get her out here.”

Gaspar rapped twice on the powder room door.

Sylvia came out. She recognized the new man in the room. She approached. She parted her newly glossed lips. She flashed her pixie smile.

“Mr. Hale, so nice to see you again.” Sylvia extended her gloved hand, and touched his arm ever so briefly. Ownership. A lover’s caress. “How is Mr. Cooper?”

They all knew each other. Mildly surprising. Maybe Hale had bedded Sylvia. Unremarkable. Hale was a notorious womanizer. Definitely not the boyfriend type.

But Cooper?

Elle had described Sylvia’s FBI boyfriend. Tall. Built. Gorgeous eyes. High level job over there in the Hoover building.

Cooper. Self-described serial monogamist. Could he have been that dumb? Maybe Hale wasn’t the only Hoover building occupant Sylvia had screwed.

Kim berated herself for being so stupid.

But everything’s obvious once you know it .

Hale ignored Sylvia’s greeting. “Otto, what’s this about?”

Sylvia returned to her perch on the white sofa. She was more relaxed than anyone else in the room. Kim delivered by rote, “Susan Kane, a/k/a Sylvia Kent Black, has agreed to testify against her accomplices in matters related to the murder of Harry Black.”

Hale looked straight at Sylvia.

“That so?” he said. “You’re going to admit everything?”

Sylvia batted her eyelashes and raised her right hand and said, “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”