“Technicalities,” he said. “You’re trying to trick me with minor details. That’s not the kind of skill you need to develop.”
The child was on my mind again, as was Paul. But Pinkerton never would have believed that story, true though it was. I fought the memories down, wrestling with them, packing them away again. “Then tell me what you want to hear,” I said.
“Tell me how Charlie died.”
Of course he remembered the name. What did the man ever forget?
“Misadventure,” I said.
“I’m sure that’s true enough,” he said. “But tell me more. The truth or a lie, as you choose.”
I stood from my chair then, intending to walk about the room. Nothing was riding on this lie, I told myself. Yet I was so tense, I nearly quivered.
Pinkerton grabbed me by the shoulders. “Sit down,” he said.
I did, instantly. My heart was galloping. He hadn’t been rough with me, but others had, and my body reacted in reflex. This too I would have to train away.
“When a criminal asks you a question, you can’t go for a stroll. You need to be able to look someone full in the face and speak a convincing fiction. So tell me, Mrs. Warne. What happened to your husband?”
“He gambled the wrong money with the wrong man,” I said bluntly. “The money was someone else’s, his cheating was clumsy, and the man was armed. A schoolboy in short pants could have foreseen the outcome.”
Pinkerton looked at me for a long moment and said, “I believe you, Mrs. Warne.”
“As you should,” I said. “It’s the truth.”
“I know,” he said. “Now. When did he die?”
“Six months ago,” I said. “The nineteenth of March.”
This too was the truth, and Pinkerton nodded that he accepted it as such. “Did you see his dead body?”
“I did.”
“Was it your first?”
“It was,” I said, “but as a detective, I expect it will not be my last.”
“And how did it strike you? Seeing a loved one—at least, someone you’d known so well—with his light gone out?”
I considered my words carefully. The truth wasn’t the only option, but it was the easiest. Pinkerton was right. I needed practice.
“What I saw was no longer him. He was gone. The shell he left behind bore him some resemblance, but there was no mistaking what had changed.”
“Did you cry?”
“Not then.”
“When?”
“Later,” I said. “When I was alone.”
“How many times?”
“Once.”
“There it is,” he said, folding his arms. “There’s the lie.”
“Based on what?”
“On women,” said Pinkerton. “Emotional creatures. Even you, Mrs. Warne”—here, he held up a finger, pointed straight at my face—“and I can tell you’re about to protest that you’re no ordinary woman. In some ways, you are unusual. That does not make you immune.”
“And yet,” I said, holding his gaze without flinching. “I cried once when he died. That’s true.” I had cried many times after that, but it was never about Charlie, only the mess he’d left me in.
Pinkerton still looked skeptical.
I went on, “You remember I told you I’d never wanted to marry him in the first place.”
“So why did you?”
“My parents insisted.” I leaned back in the chair, trying to appear casual, as if none of this bothered me. In my mind, I replaced the real scene with a civil one, a nest of snakes with a simpler story. “They wanted me married off, and he was a charming young man. They thought he had money. He didn’t. Or, rather, sometimes he did, but he lost it again.”
Pinkerton turned the full force of his attention on me once more.
“Is that all?” he asked. “That can’t be all.”
“They wanted me married. Charlie was willing to marry me.”
“No,” he said. He shifted his weight but did not rise. “That story doesn’t make sense.”
“Everything I said was true.”
“Still and all. You’re leaving something out.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Is that a lie?”
“Omission and commission alike, Mrs. Warne.”
I was about to protest that the game of truth or lie didn’t allow for the possibility of something in the middle, but before the words got out, the office door opened.
Two men entered. The shorter one was a fashion plate: his frock coat and trousers were clearly expensive, with a smart blue cravat knotted at the neck, and his black mustache was carefully waxed. The second man was of average height, painfully thin, with the palest skin I’d ever seen and close-cropped white-blond hair. He resembled nothing so much as a dead man, halfway between a skeleton and a ghost.
“Boss!” said the fashion plate to Pinkerton, who welcomed him with a smile.
“Mrs. Warne,” said Pinkerton, “it’s your lucky day. You get to meet two more colleagues. This is Graham DeForest. One of the more experienced operatives here and certainly the most amicable.”
“At your service,” said the shorter man with a broad smile, bowing low over my hand. Up close, he was devastatingly handsome, possibly the best-looking man I’d ever seen, with a strong scent of cedar cologne. His warm brown eyes caught my gaze and held it.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I replied.
“And this is Jack Mortenson. Been with us just a couple of months but sharp as a tack and then some.”
The ghost inclined his head to me but didn’t speak. I wondered if he could.
DeForest said, “Well, I for one certainly approve of your new hire, Boss. It’s delightful to have such a lovely ornament in the office.”
I chose my reply carefully. “I hope as we work together you find me more than ornamental.”
“I have no doubt of it, ma’am,” he said. “Didn’t mean to offend.” He seemed sincere enough; I heard no sign of irony.
Mortenson spoke up. His voice was higher than I expected, reedy and thin, with a faint drawl I couldn’t quite place right away. Tennessee, perhaps, or Arkansas. “Boss, we’ve got a report for you.”
“Report away.”