Unbreakable - Chapter 2

Nov 04, 2010 21:37



Unbreakable, Chapter Two

Authors:  bugsfic  and bsg_aussiegirl
Rating T
Genre:  A/U, Adventure, Romance
Summary:   The police question the witnesses to Ellen's murder.

Chapter Two:

“I did it, Bill!  I killed her!”

As they huddled together at a table, Bill leaned over his friend protectively.

“Saul, what are you talking about?”  Bill kept his voice as low as possible, hoping he’d be setting a good example to his distraught friend.  The last thing they needed was one of the half-drunk club patrons to imagine themselves as heroes and tell the police they’d overheard a ‘confession’.

“I made her drink the poison!  It was me!”

Bill tried to keep his words slow and measured.   “Saul, you loved Ellen.  Since the day you met her.  There’s no way you killed her or made her drink poison.”

“I did!  She wanted a drink.  Asked me to get her some champagne.”   The shock of his wife’s death, combined with the alcohol that was already in his system, was causing Saul to ramble incessantly.  “I was too lazy to get up off my skinny  ass and get her one.  I told her to just grab the martini and drink that.  She said she didn’t want a martini; that she wanted champagne.  I told her to stop acting like some sort of princess and just to drink the martini.”

“It’s not your fault, Saul.”

“But it is!  I gave her the drink.  I made her drink it!”

“Stop saying that,” hissed Bill.  “And sure as hell don’t tell the cops that!”

Saul gaped up at his friend, understanding dawning in his tear-filled eyes.  “Okay, Bill,” he said slowly.  “You know how to handle the fuzz.”

*

“Thank you, Mr Cavil.  That’s probably all we need from you at this point.”  The detective sergeant flipped to a clean page in his notebook.

The oily manager’s lips twitched like an inquisitive rabbit’s.  “This has all been very distressing to me, Sergeant.  If I can help in any way, please let me know.  I’ll do anything to ensure this unpleasantness is resolved swiftly.”

“We’ll do our best.”  Giles Tyrol looked around the room.  They stood in the cramped space that was the Number One Lychee Club manager’s office.  It was basic:  a desk, a bureau against the wall, three battered filing cabinets,  and two chairs that he’d come to realize weren’t the most comfortable while he’d interviewed Jonathan Cavil.   There was none of the Oriental opulence that was on display throughout the rest of the nightclub.  One wall had louvered windows overlooking the club floor below.  Other than that feature, the office looked as though it could have been transplanted directly from the station.

“There is one way you could help.  We need some privacy to interview the club patrons.  Could we use this office for the next few hours?”

“Yes, yes.”   The older man waved his hand around in agreement, his rings flashing in the light.  “Be my guest, Sergeant.”

Giles gazed through the windows.  From here he could see the entire nightclub. With the house lights up, the dance floor and gaudily-painted walls were revealed to be as worn as the office.   He’d be able to keep an eye on the other witnesses’ interactions as he conducted the interviews.  Or, alternatively, he could close the louvers to ensure privacy as he made the witnesses sweat.   He noted a wide-shouldered man bent over the victim’s husband, whispering urgently in his ear.   The bald man was nodding rapidly.

“We talking to the husband next, Pete?” he asked.

His partner, leaning on the wall with his sharply-creased hat tipped at a rakish angle, checked his notebook.  “First we got the girl who made and served the drinks.  I’ll go get her.”

Peter Laird flipped him the notebook with Sharon’s personal details written on the top of the page before walking out to beckon her into the room.

Fear was clearly evident in Sharon’s almond-shaped dark eyes; Tyrol would have to think fast to invent some excuse to rid them of his partner for a few minutes at least.

Like pennies from heaven, one landed in his lap.  A man just outside the office, proving the room was by no means soundproof, began calling out that he had nothing to do with the murder and he wanted to leave the nightclub immediately.

“Go and use some of your boyish charm on that lot, will you?  And make sure Fig and the other cops are doing their jobs on the doors.  No one comes in or out until we say so.”

He breathed a sigh of relief when Laird tossed back a ‘sure, Chief’ and readily complied, showing no hint of suspicion at his request.

After Laird’s departure, Sharon immediately started pleading with him.  “You have to help me, Chief.  They’re going to think I did it.”

She looked so small and vulnerable.  His head told him to stay in control, but his heart wanted to carefully cocoon her tiny frame within the safety of his arms.

“No one’s going to think you did it, Sharon.”

“Of course they will!  I am an Eastern hostess with no family in the city or connections.  I serve people drinks seven nights a week!”  Her voice became shriller with each sentence.  “You think your superiors will want you to bring in one of those rich white folks?  No, it will all be much simpler if you just arrest the Chink servant girl.”

“Don’t use that word.”

“Why?  You know that’s what they’d say if they ever find out about us:  ‘Chief’s been with a Chink.’  They won’t remember my name.  They won’t even care.  They won’t see me as a person.  All they’ll see is my yellow skin.”

“Sharon.”   It was his turn to plead now.  “You’re a person to me.  You’re the person I want to be with for the rest of my life.  And I won’t let anything happen to you.”   He reached out and touched her hand, then felt immediately guilty that he did it as covertly as possible.

“You really think a system that says it’s illegal for us to even marry will protect me when it comes to poisoning some overindulged gold-digger?”

He frowned.  “How do you know she was a gold-digger?  You never knew her, did you?”

Sharon looked slightly uncomfortable even as she answered in the negative.

He moved across and closed the louvers.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he demanded.

“No!” she answered immediately.  “I know the type, that’s all.  You have to believe me, Chief; I had nothing to do with it.”   She threw herself into his arms and pressed her mouth to his.  He immediately responded.  If there was one thing that was real in this world, it was the perfect physical relationship he shared with this woman.

“I’ll protect you,” he vowed.

He needed to assure her this wasn’t some fling, even though he had no idea where their future lay.  She was correct; they could not marry.  But his family and the only career he’d ever had was here in California, where they could never be together in public.

But when she asked, “Promise?” he confidently replied: “Promise.”

*

Laura sat beside the older man who had diagnosed the cause of Ellen’s death.  He retrieved a small silver case from the inside pocket of his jacket, opened it and removed a cigarette.   He then used the cigarette that was already smoldering in his mouth to light up the new one.  The entire ritual meaning that his mouth never went without a stick of tobacco for more than a second.

Something in this action evoked a distant memory and Laura tipped her head to study the older man inquisitively.  “Doctor Cottle, is it?”

“Do I know you?”

She was surprised he didn’t recognize her from the society pages, but then again, in his crumpled flannel suit and stained tie, he didn’t look like the sort to follow the activities of the jet-set  in the daily tabloids.

“You were a poker-playing friend of my father’s, I believe.  Edgar Roslin.”

“Little Laura!  Of course.  Your hair used to be firecracker red and you were covered with freckles!”  He looked approvingly at her.  “All grown up now.”

She couldn’t help but allow a giggle to escape.  “A bit farther along than that, sir.”

He waved a hand in protest.  Then his face became serious.  “I’m so sorry I missed your father and sisters’ funeral.  I was in Chicago when it happened, and didn’t get back in time.”

Suddenly tense, Laura glanced at Bill across the room as he comforted Saul.  “I didn’t notice who was or wasn’t there, Doctor.  Really, it doesn’t matter.”

“It was a great shame none the less,” he rumbled.

Her eyes went to Bill again.  “I prefer not to linger on the past.  I live for today.”

The Doctor followed her gaze.   “Been married long?”

Her cheeks dimpled with her smile.  “A week.”

He grinned back.  “Ah, I could tell.”  He watched Bill striding back to Laura.  “Your father would like this man, I think.  A real man.  He worried about his girls marrying city fops or Diamond Jack slicksters.”

Even as she laughed, tears came to her eyes.  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said quietly.   She stood and greeted Bill with a quick hug, causing him to give her a quizzical look.  Before he could ask, she shook her head.  “It’s nothing, Darling.  Just old times.”

"Mr and Mrs Roslin, may I have a word?"  A tall young man loomed behind them.

The Doctor rose and excused himself.

"Yes, what is it?" said Laura, trying to be pleasant even as Bill glowered.

"Billy Keikeya, with the Examiner," he said crisply, now that he had their attention.  He waved his notebook at them.

Laura narrowed her eyes.  "Keikeya...I know that name."

Billy looked worried, his curls quivering.  "It's Finnish."

"No..."  She tapped her fingernail on her chin.  "You write the society column.  On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, when Herb Caen is off."  She smirked.  "And it's Tuesday."

"Off your usual beat, eh, kid?" rumbled Bill, pulling Laura close to his side and giving Billy an unfriendly glare.

Billy visible quaked.  "Well, yes."  Then he glanced over at the tablecloth-draped body and his face lit up.  "But I'm sure hoping to break into the crime beat and this is my chance!"

"Hey--" growled Bill.

"I'm sorry."  The young man flushed bright pink.  "She was your friend."

The Adamses looked uncomfortable.

Regardless, Billy plunged ahead.  "If you have a moment, I'd like to ask you some questions--"

Bill planted a big hand in the young man's chest and gently pushed him aside.  "No comment."

“Miss Roslin?”

It was the detective who’d arrived after the beat officers.  He’d been working his way through the witnesses, interviewing them privately, leaving the others to brood with their distrust and unease.   Heavy-set with dark hair, he wore a harangued look despite his apparent youth.   His untailored olive-brown suit hung drably on his frame.  His hat desperately needed to be reblocked, appearing to have been sodden and crumpled multiple times, only retaining the general shape of a fedora.  His dusty, scuffed shoes had walked on by the shoeshine stand.

“It’s Adams,” Bill said, his patience paper-thin.  “Laura Adams.”

“I’m sorry,” the policeman said, looking down at his notes.  “You’re Mrs Adams’s husband?”

“Yes, Bill Adams.”

“Sergeant Tyrol,” the policeman introduced himself and shook the hand Bill had politely offered, despite his obvious annoyance at the constant misuse of Laura’s name.  “We’ll take your statements, and then you are free to go.”

“What about my friend?” said Bill, not willing to give an inch to the cops.

“Mr Tigh will be questioned later,” said Tyrol carefully.

“We’ll wait for him to finish,” Laura said quickly, checking with Bill.

Tyrol lowered his voice.  “You can help your friend by telling us anything you know, Mr and Mrs Adams.”

“Of course,” said Laura, but Bill remained silent.  The sergeant headed to the manager’s office, expecting them to follow.

Finally Bill grumbled, “Let’s get this over with,” and led Laura to the stairs.  Uneasy with her usually good-natured husband’s manner, she gripped his arm tightly.

*

Outside The Number One Lychee Club, the crowd had grown.  This time it was ghoulish curiosity that drew them.  A tall woman moved among them, seeing if anyone knew what was happening inside.  Finally, she gave up and flagged down a cab.

The stout yellow cab labored up the hills until it delivered her to a modern apartment building on Telegraph Hill.  The fog had finally rolled in, thick in the darkness, giving her cover.  Far below in the bay, the foghorns mournfully called out.

She slipped into the foyer and quickly climbed the stairs, checking over her shoulder with every step.

Rapping on the number three, she waited with her back to the door.

It was flung open, nearly dropping her to the polished marble floor.

The man, his hair long and unkempt like a Bohemian artist, tossed his head back.  “You are here at last!” he cried out.

She closed the door behind her.  “I’m sorry, Doctor Baltar.  I was unexpectedly detained.”

Trailing after him, she entered the lushly appointed apartment’s living room.   She noticed all the windows that stretched along the corner room were uncurtained.

“Do you think you should be working in full view of all your neighbors?”

“Miss Biers, you are not much of a spy,” Baltar said playfully.  “Hide in plain sight, and all that.”

She smiled thinly.  “I’ll bow to your expertise.”

He flopped down in a chair before his parts-strewn worktable.  “But speaking of our battle against that bastard Hitler, when shall I be meeting the Consulate-General?”  He leapt up and hurried to the windows.  “I can nearly see the English Consulate from here, and yet I’ve never met him.  I like to know who I’m working for.”

Biers took in a sharp breath.  “No, Doctor, you shan’t be meeting Sir Evans.  We must keep the utmost secrecy for this mission.”

She looked in despair at the jumble of parts and pools of oil on the vast work table.  “Are you making any progress at all?”

“I’ve made progress.”  Baltar picked up a large spring and wrapped it around one finger.  “However, I have had no success.”

“It looks as though you’ve completely dismantled the apparatus,” she said, not hiding her frustration.  “Will you be able to reassemble it?”

“Of course!” he assured her.  “But you’ve promised me the decoding device!  I’m merely spinning my wheels until I have that.”

Now it was her turn to be evasive.  “We expected to pick it up tonight, but there’s been a delay.”

“A delay!?” he wailed.

“Only a delay.  It’ll be in our possession shortly.”

“I hope so,” he said haughtily.

She tried smiling.  “Yes, Doctor.”

He slithered close.  “Miss Biers...Deanna...Perhaps you’d like to sit, take a load off, I believe they say in this country.”  He grinned, his lips trembling.  “May I offer you a drink?”

She gave him a cold glare.  “No thank you, Doctor.  We must remain professional at all times.”  She affected an English accent.  “Nerves of steel, and all that.”

He wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or not.  He worked so hard on his dialect, repressing his Manchester roots well... He thought.  Frankly, if he were her, he’d do something about that rough Colonial  accent of hers, but perhaps it was all part of her cover.

“Steel,” he repeated.  “Perhaps I should get back to work, if I do not have the device.”

Her smile was real this time.  “Excellent.”

She walked to the windows and looked over to the lights of the Pacific Heights mansions.  “I will have that device soon, Doctor.  Take my word for it.  We’ll stop at nothing to acquire it.”

t, title: unbreakable

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