The three of them went downstairs. Corinne angled toward Johnny’s door first but saw that it was shut. At this hour, that meant he was not to be disturbed. She unbuttoned her coat and plopped down in an armchair. Ada and Gabriel sat on the couch.
“There aren’t usually cops on that beat before noon.” Ada was picking at a loose thread on her sleeve, but her expression was far from nonchalant.
“They’ve been edging into our territory ever since the Harvard Bridge,” Corinne said.
“I told you it was too big.”
“We pulled it off, didn’t we?” Corinne leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms. “Johnny will handle the bulls.”
Ada didn’t look appeased, but something else caught her attention, and she leapt to her feet.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, her normally mild voice ringing through the room.
Corinne twisted in her seat to see the redheaded young man who had just come out of Johnny’s office.
He looked from Ada to Corinne and swallowed. His eyes were widened slightly.
“I’m glad you’re back, Ada,” he said. He had a soft voice, all smooth edges and warm timbre.
Ada started around the coffee table, spitting out a string of curses. Corinne grabbed her arm as she passed and yanked her to a stop.
“It’s not Saint’s fault,” she whispered.
The look Ada gave her was pure and righteous fury. “The bastard flipped on me,” she said.
In the quiet room, her words carried. Johnny had come out of his office during the racket and was leaning in his doorway, watching them in silence.
“What do you mean?” Corinne asked.
“I mean that they didn’t have enough to arrest either of us, and he let the bulls scare him into confessing. They promised him if he told them everything, he could walk.”
Corinne couldn’t find any words.
“Ada,” said Saint. “Ada, please, you don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand,” Ada shouted, pushing past Corinne and shoving him backward. “Two weeks I rotted in that hole, all because you couldn’t take the heat.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, pleading. “You have to understand—”
“You should go, Saint,” said Corinne.
He looked at her, his gray eyes begging her to intervene.
“Go,” Corinne repeated.
He left, and Corinne laid her hand on Ada’s arm, but she shook her off.
“I didn’t know,” Corinne said. “You should have told me.”
She thought of the painting Saint had given her and the wildflowers, both shoved unceremoniously under Ada’s bed. She realized that Ada had told her, and she just hadn’t been paying attention.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” Ada said. “I didn’t think the little snake would ever show his face here again.”
“Ada.” It was Johnny, still standing in the doorway of his office. “Come in here for a minute.”
Corinne pulled the cash from her coat pocket and started to join her, but Johnny shook his head.
“Just Ada.”
Ada and Corinne exchanged a glance. Then Ada took the money from Corinne and followed Johnny into his office. Corinne sat down on the couch and massaged her temples. She had the beginnings of an awful headache. She needed a drink.
“Who was that?” Gabriel asked.
“Sebastian Temple,” Corinne said. “We all call him Saint. He’s lived here about five years, but he’s known Johnny for longer than that.”
“I gather he was with Ada when she got arrested.”
“I haven’t seen him since that night. Johnny said he was lying low.” Corinne glanced toward the closed office door. “I wonder if Johnny knew the whole story.”
She drummed her fingers on her knee, thinking. Then she shook her head and jumped up. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
She went to Saint’s door and entered without knocking. The pungent smell of oil paint greeted her. Saint’s room, though not any bigger than hers, doubled as his studio. Every inch of wall was covered with a canvas, and every inch of floor space held an easel or a can of paint or a bucket of brushes. There was only the slenderest of paths from the door to the cot. Saint was sitting there, slouched with his back against the wall.
Corinne toed her way through the chaos and sat down on the foot of the bed. Leaning against the wall, stacked against several other paintings, was one of the larger canvases she’d seen Saint work on. It was only broad strokes right now, but she could already see that it was the Mythic Theatre, which was odd. Saint usually spent time only on paintings he could pull an object from.