"An Uncommon Witness" Chapter 2
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tutufansHere's the second chapter of my 1920's AU fanfic! This one is a lot longer twice as long as the first chapter, so hopefully that will make it a more satisfying read than before. XD;; I've posted this story on fanfic dot net so this will be the last time I post chapters here (the story link is HERE). If you're interested in following the story please use story alert to track its progress. :D
Chapter 2
Duck found herself sitting in a small, ill-lit office in the 53rd precinct. After she had been brought to the police station she had been led to this room and was asked to wait here by a secretary who left a cup of black coffee with her.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
The clock on the wall paced steadily. Nearly an hour had passed, and there were only dredges left in the cup that sat on the desk in front of her. Duck slouched into the hard wooden chair, wondering if she was going to end up spending the night in this office. At that moment the door opened and the dark haired young man (a cop, Duck had realized only after he had put her inside a police car) walked in. He took off his hat and hanged it on a rack behind the door. Duck’s eyes followed him as he walked around the desk and took a seat. Taking out a fountain pen from his suit pocket, he produced a lined notepad from a drawer in the desk and wrote something down on it before finally looking at her.
“Name?”
“Huh?” Duck started.
“What is your name?” he clarified, the nib of his pen hovering expectantly over the lined paper.
“It’s Duck. Duck Stannus.”
“What is your real name?” The young man tapped his pen against the table impatiently.
Duck sighed. “That is my real name.”
The man raised an eyebrow, and scribbled onto the thin block of paper. “If you say so,” then under his breath, muttered, “That’s one hell of a weird name.”
“Well I’m sorry if my grandpa had a rather queer sense of humor!” Duck glowered. The rudeness of this young officer was grating on her raw and tired nerves. She had never met a cop who was so utterly inconsiderate before. This was no way to treat a lady, even though she wasn’t exactly a lady, but still! “And just who are you anyway?”
The young officer met her gaze and had Duck been less angry she would’ve looked away from those sharp eyes that seemed to bore right through her. “My name is Fakir Romeiras, a detective with the New York Police Department. You can call me Detective Romeiras.”
“I don’t see why I should call someone so rude a ‘detective’ anything!” Duck snapped back.
Fakir rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly as he turned his focus back to the task at hand. “Fine; call me Fakir then if you want. What’s your age, address, and occupation?”
“I’m 19. My apartment’s number 512 on 1750 Lake Avenue and I work at the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop on C Street.”
“What do you do there?”
“We sell toe shoes—ballet shoes—that is. I help the customers fit their shoes and any odd jobs that need to be done around the shop.”
Fakir noted what she said, then asked, “How did you end up at the crime scene?”
“I told you already. An apple I bought rolled down the alley after I dropped it.”
“We need this for the official records so I’ll need you to repeat your account in detail. Start from the beginning and tell me everything you remember up to arriving at the precinct.”
“You know what I told you! Why do I have to repeat the same thing twice?” Duck yelled. She was growing increasingly frustrated talking to this detective who had the personality of an ice cube. Plus the thought of reliving those minutes huddled behind the crates in the dark made her throat tighten and her stomach queasy, making her even more averse to reliving the whole thing.
Fakir drew a long breath, his own patience wearing thin as well. “Look,” he leaned forward and Duck realized how close she was sitting to the table for the first time. “We need to know everything you saw, because what your eyes witnessed tonight just might enable us to put a stop to one of the largest organized crime families in this city. Do you understand that?”
As he spoke Duck recognized the intensity she had seen in his eyes back in the alley. It had surprised her then as it did now and this time she had to look away. Despite his age, for he looked only a few years older than herself, his demeanor was serious and unyielding. Seeing her rebellious air quelled, Fakir sat back into his chair and lit a cigarette while Duck watched broodingly. Once it was lit, he turned his attention back to her and said unexpectedly, “The man who was killed tonight was an informant for ours in the Corvo family.”
“The Corvo…family?” Duck echoed softly. He had said this was a mob related murder, Duck remembered. She hadn’t really considered what that meant exactly until now and the implications made her shift uncomfortably in her chair.
Fakir inhaled deeply and breathed out a plume of gray smoke. “They have their fingers in all kinds of shady business, everything from fraud, to bootlegging, to racketeering. A jack-of-all-trades type you might say, and deadly as hell to boot. We suspect at least half of the murders that occurred in this area within the past six months are linked to them but don’t have much in the way of solid evidence to prove it. They’re a very careful and low-key bunch, and few people have heard about them compared to the more publicized rackets. We’ve only been able to ID a small handful of their top members, and all of their associates are tightlipped as hell.
“Then about a month ago we got a break when we busted a large bootlegging operation and nabbed one of the Corvo underlings. He agreed to give us information about the gang’s organization and activities in exchange for leniency. We were hoping with the information from this fella we’d be able to build a case against the Corvos.” Fakir tapped the cigarette against an ashtray, the shadow in the room darkening his eyes. “But the gang somehow learned he was being a snitch and now we’re left with a literal dead end.”
“Which is why we need your help, Miss Stannus,” said a new voice.
Duck turned and saw a man wearing a long coat standing by the opened door. The man removed his hat, revealing graying hair and bushy eyebrows. “I am Captain Charon Sideros,” he smiled gently toward her. “I was hoping to interview you myself, but some business delayed me.” Charon turned to look at the young man who had stood up upon his entrance. “However it seems Detective Romeiras has gotten the jump on me,” he said with only a faint air of reprimand.
Fakir said nothing but politely moved away from the desk, allowing the captain to take his place. Charon glanced at the notes jotted down by the young detective before speaking to Duck. “A murder conviction will deliver a severe blow to the mob as well as facilitate further investigation into their misdeeds. However against an organization as wary as the Corvos it will be very difficult to convince a jury without firsthand eyewitness account of a crime. That is why an eyewitness account is one of the most valuable pieces of evidence any police officer can ask for, and why your involvement in this investigation is key, Miss Stannus. I know recounting what you saw tonight will be unpleasant for you, but we truly need your help and cooperation in this.”
Mollified by the captain’s words and having a greater sense of what was at stake now, Duck rallied herself, and nodded. “Alright then. I’ll start from the beginning.”
For the next hour or so Charon conducted the interview, taking notes and asking Duck questions intermittently to clarify or expand certain points. Fakir stood to the side, leaning against a cabinet, only making noise to light a new cigarette when his old one was spent, and listened intently to every word that was uttered by both parties.
When it came to describing the suspects’ appearance, Duck paused to think. “The men with guns were tall and broad-shouldered. They were both wearing black overcoats and I couldn’t see their faces at all because of their hats. I had a better look at the third man though. He’s shorter than the other men and wore a suit with a coat draped over his shoulders as well as a scarf and gloves, all in white. His hair was white too, and I remember thinking he was very handsome looking though I couldn’t see what color his eyes were because it was so dark.”
“Does he have any special features? Like a scar or anything?”
“No, like I said he was very nice looking.”
“But do you remember what his face looks like?” Fakir interjected. “Just that he’s handsome isn’t going to help us identify him.”
Duck shut her eyes and tried to concentrate, but try as she might she couldn’t reconstruct his exact appearance. Instead all she could conjure in her mind was a pale figure, whose shaded face was framed by wispy white hair and the words she first heard him say, that of: You made a very unfortunate decision. The image sent an involuntary shutter down Duck’s frame and when she opened her eyes and looked at the expectant expressions on Charon and Fakir’s faces, she looked down at her hands in her lap.
“I…I don’t remember what exactly he looked like,” Duck admitted in a small voice.
Charon grimaced in disappointment, but Fakir wouldn’t give up so easily. He walked to the edge of the desk, and practically looming over her, demanded, “You were there! You saw him! You must remember what he looked like! Isn’t there anything else that you remember about him?”
Duck edged away from him, desperately trying to remember, but there wasn’t anything else forthcoming in her mind. “No, I don’t!” Duck shook her head in frustration. The more she forced herself the less she seemed to remember, but somehow his voice always ringed in her ears, she realized. Looking back up, she said, “I don’t remember what he looks like exactly, but I remember his voice!” she paused and met Fakir’s gaze. “It-I can’t describe it, but whenever I think about him I can remember the sound of his voice. I think…I think if I see him again, and hear his voice, then I think I might be able to recognize him.”
Fakir pulled back abruptly and turned away from her. The room was quiet again but there was a palpable sense of frustration emanating from the two officers. At last Charon said, “We don’t have enough information to have a sketch of him made, I’m afraid. But if we ever come across someone that matches that description would you be willing to try and identify him?”
“Um, I could try…” Duck answered hesitantly.
“That’s fine.” Charon smiled reassuringly. “As long as you can identify him from a lineup and is willing to testify in court that such a person was the one you saw tonight it will be enough.”
“Wait, what do you mean ‘testify in court’?” Duck’s blue eyes opened wide in surprise. “What does being a witness entail exactly?”
“In a case like this the judge will require you to take an oath and publicly identify the defendant in court. In addition you’ll also have to answer any questions from the lawyers and the judge himself during the trial,” Fakir explained.
An uneasy feeling grew in Duck’s chest. “Publicly identifying the defendant” meant she would have to meet him face-to-face, didn’t it? You made a very unfortunate decision… Those words kept echoing in her mind. What would he say to her should they ever meet again? She wondered. Would he repeat those words to her in a calm voice as guns were aimed towards her?
“Miss Stannus?”
Duck woke from her dark reveries at Charon’s concerned voice. “Would you be willing to publicly testify against these men?” he asked her gently.
Duck hesitated. Her eyes drifted over to Fakir and saw his disapproving glare. Combined with the smoke from his cigarette it made him look like a dragon peering at her from the gloom. Duck cringed. “…I don’t know,” she admitted at last, not daring to look at him when she spoke.
Across from her, Charon nodded briefly. “I understand. We are still building our case against the Corvos and it will also take time to try and find the person you described to us today, so you have some time before you must decide. We do not have reason to believe they know of your role in this investigation, but it’s best to be vigilant. If you notice any suspicious individuals or activities around you please report it to us right away. And do not talk to anyone, and I mean absolutely no one, about what you saw tonight. Word spreads easily and these people will surely be listening for talks of witnesses.”
Duck acknowledged his concerns nervously but gravely. After a few more questions and finishing the necessary procedures, she was escorted home by another officer in an unmarked police car. Charon and Fakir remained in the office, discussing the case and the information on their hands.
“‘Principe’. That’s the name she said Alphonse uttered before he was killed,” Charon mused, his chin resting on the back of his hands as he sat with arms propped up on the table
Fakir rubbed out the spent cigarette in the ashtray and said, “He mentioned that name the first time I spoke with him, said he was one of the young capos in the organization but with close personal ties to the boss. But even Al didn’t know much beyond that.”
“Alphonse was just a soldier, but he was still our best lead.” Charon sighed deeply, his thick brows furrowed. “Now that he’s gone we’ve lost our window on the Corvo family.”
“That might be so, but we have an eyewitness. She might not be able to give us enough details for a composite sketch but if we start looking at known Corvo associates who potentially match the description she gave, and as well as put pressure on them for information about someone who fits that description, it might allow us to find him.” Fakir picked up the notepad, holding it like a prize in his hand. “Then, as long as she’s willing to testify we have a chance at nailing the man she saw tonight in court. And if this ‘Prince’ character is really as close to the boss as Al says, then we just might be able to climb the vine and link the crime to Domenico Corvo himself!”
Charon sighed again. “It isn’t so straight forward, Fakir. That might be what they taught you in law school but it’s not just a matter of collecting the evidence, presenting them in court, and expecting the judge to agree with you. I dare say even if we were able to identify ‘Principe’ and put him on trial Corvo’s lawyers would dispute the witness’ credibility, especially when Miss Stannus herself admits she can’t recall his appearance exactly.” The captain capped the pen that he had used during the interview and studied it in his hands before he continued. “We also have to be extra vigilant this time around. When we got Alphonse to talk we thought we had our break, but now he’s six feet under. Miss Stannus won’t be in any immediate danger, I don’t think, but if they can figure out Alphonse’s been snitching so soon after he talked to us, then it’s conceivable that they will learn there is a witness to his murder before too long.”
Fakir frowned, his enthusiasm dampened by his superior’s words of caution. “What do you suggest? Should we request someone to keep an eye on her then?”
“No, I doubt the top brass will approve, seeing we are already stretched thin thanks to the rampant gang and bootlegging activity in this town. Having someone sit at her doorstep everyday while we build our case will be viewed as a waste of resources.”
“What about the Marshals? It’s their job to protect witnesses.”
“We have no reason to believe she will be in any immediate danger. The federal government won’t act unless her safety is clearly at risk.”
“Then I’ll keep an eye on her myself.” Fakir slapped the notepad back down on the desk and walked to the door to retrieve his hat. Putting it on, he adjusted it before reaching for the doorknob. “As long as she doesn’t notice it will be fine and I won’t be stepping on anyone else’s toes.”
At this Charon shook his head and Fakir paused at the door at his voice. “And what if she does? I don’t think that girl would appreciate you following her after your interview with her today. She might not be very bold but I can tell she’s not the type to let others make her decisions for her.”
“Yeah, well, this will be for her own good,” Fakir answered flatly as he opened the door, letting the noise of the police station enter the room before shutting it out again when the door closed.
---
Miles away, in a mansion on Long Island, a young woman sat brushing her hair in front of a vanity. She was clad in a crimson silk kimono, her manicured hands moving with languid grace through the damp locks; the creamy marble and white tile of the room made her raven hair all the more striking against the red of her robe.
A knock from the door stopped the rhythmic motion of her hands as she looked up from her task. “What is it?” she inquired in a rich, cultured tone that matched her lush surrounding.
“Master Mytho has returned, Miss,” replied the butler.
With that the door to the bedroom opened and the young man dressed in white walked in. The young woman put her brush down and got up to greet him. Wrapping her slender arms around the man’s neck, she kissed him on his cheek.
“Mytho, what took you so long tonight?”
“I’m sorry Rue, but Father had some business for me. It took a little longer than I thought to wrap it all up.” He returned her smile and wrapped an arm around her waist.
The smile slipped from Rue’s lips for a second but it quickly found itself back in place. She leaned into his arm and watched him through half open, coy eyes. “Daddy’s been making you work too hard lately. I’ve barely seen you all week. We should take a vacation somewhere, to Marseille maybe, or to Rome. What do you say?”
“Don’t you have an upcoming picture to shoot? I don’t think your producer would be too pleased if you suddenly decide to elope with me to the South of France,” Mytho joked as he removed his scarf and coat while Rue moved back to the vanity.
“Daddy has a lot of money invested in his studio; no one there will say a word about it,” Rue shrugged as she picked up her brush again.
“Always relying on the dapper*, are we?” Mytho commented coolly as he undid his watch.
Rue’s eyes narrowed but she continued brushing her hair. After a moment she felt Mytho grasp her shoulders and his breath on the exposed skin of her neck. The sensation of his fingers massaging her shoulders, electrifying even through the silk, sent a quiver of pleasure down her spine. “But it’s fine that way. After all, there’s no need for a princess to concern herself with trivial matters of her kingdom, hmm?”
“Yes, a princess…what more could a girl ask for but to be a princess?” Rue said, smiling at his reflection in the mirror.
Mytho leaned in and whispered by her ear, “To be my princess, and I will be your one and only prince.”
~~~
Duck and Fakir’s last names are from Edris Stannus and Pedro Romeiras, both of whom are famous ballet dancers, while Charon’s last name is Greek for “blacksmith”.
A “dapper” is Jazz Age slang for a flapper’s father.
All the legal jargon and minutia in this chapter were the result of my best efforts at getting a rough handle on the subject. Hopefully I didn’t get anything flat out wrong. >>
Chapter 2
Duck found herself sitting in a small, ill-lit office in the 53rd precinct. After she had been brought to the police station she had been led to this room and was asked to wait here by a secretary who left a cup of black coffee with her.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
The clock on the wall paced steadily. Nearly an hour had passed, and there were only dredges left in the cup that sat on the desk in front of her. Duck slouched into the hard wooden chair, wondering if she was going to end up spending the night in this office. At that moment the door opened and the dark haired young man (a cop, Duck had realized only after he had put her inside a police car) walked in. He took off his hat and hanged it on a rack behind the door. Duck’s eyes followed him as he walked around the desk and took a seat. Taking out a fountain pen from his suit pocket, he produced a lined notepad from a drawer in the desk and wrote something down on it before finally looking at her.
“Name?”
“Huh?” Duck started.
“What is your name?” he clarified, the nib of his pen hovering expectantly over the lined paper.
“It’s Duck. Duck Stannus.”
“What is your real name?” The young man tapped his pen against the table impatiently.
Duck sighed. “That is my real name.”
The man raised an eyebrow, and scribbled onto the thin block of paper. “If you say so,” then under his breath, muttered, “That’s one hell of a weird name.”
“Well I’m sorry if my grandpa had a rather queer sense of humor!” Duck glowered. The rudeness of this young officer was grating on her raw and tired nerves. She had never met a cop who was so utterly inconsiderate before. This was no way to treat a lady, even though she wasn’t exactly a lady, but still! “And just who are you anyway?”
The young officer met her gaze and had Duck been less angry she would’ve looked away from those sharp eyes that seemed to bore right through her. “My name is Fakir Romeiras, a detective with the New York Police Department. You can call me Detective Romeiras.”
“I don’t see why I should call someone so rude a ‘detective’ anything!” Duck snapped back.
Fakir rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly as he turned his focus back to the task at hand. “Fine; call me Fakir then if you want. What’s your age, address, and occupation?”
“I’m 19. My apartment’s number 512 on 1750 Lake Avenue and I work at the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop on C Street.”
“What do you do there?”
“We sell toe shoes—ballet shoes—that is. I help the customers fit their shoes and any odd jobs that need to be done around the shop.”
Fakir noted what she said, then asked, “How did you end up at the crime scene?”
“I told you already. An apple I bought rolled down the alley after I dropped it.”
“We need this for the official records so I’ll need you to repeat your account in detail. Start from the beginning and tell me everything you remember up to arriving at the precinct.”
“You know what I told you! Why do I have to repeat the same thing twice?” Duck yelled. She was growing increasingly frustrated talking to this detective who had the personality of an ice cube. Plus the thought of reliving those minutes huddled behind the crates in the dark made her throat tighten and her stomach queasy, making her even more averse to reliving the whole thing.
Fakir drew a long breath, his own patience wearing thin as well. “Look,” he leaned forward and Duck realized how close she was sitting to the table for the first time. “We need to know everything you saw, because what your eyes witnessed tonight just might enable us to put a stop to one of the largest organized crime families in this city. Do you understand that?”
As he spoke Duck recognized the intensity she had seen in his eyes back in the alley. It had surprised her then as it did now and this time she had to look away. Despite his age, for he looked only a few years older than herself, his demeanor was serious and unyielding. Seeing her rebellious air quelled, Fakir sat back into his chair and lit a cigarette while Duck watched broodingly. Once it was lit, he turned his attention back to her and said unexpectedly, “The man who was killed tonight was an informant for ours in the Corvo family.”
“The Corvo…family?” Duck echoed softly. He had said this was a mob related murder, Duck remembered. She hadn’t really considered what that meant exactly until now and the implications made her shift uncomfortably in her chair.
Fakir inhaled deeply and breathed out a plume of gray smoke. “They have their fingers in all kinds of shady business, everything from fraud, to bootlegging, to racketeering. A jack-of-all-trades type you might say, and deadly as hell to boot. We suspect at least half of the murders that occurred in this area within the past six months are linked to them but don’t have much in the way of solid evidence to prove it. They’re a very careful and low-key bunch, and few people have heard about them compared to the more publicized rackets. We’ve only been able to ID a small handful of their top members, and all of their associates are tightlipped as hell.
“Then about a month ago we got a break when we busted a large bootlegging operation and nabbed one of the Corvo underlings. He agreed to give us information about the gang’s organization and activities in exchange for leniency. We were hoping with the information from this fella we’d be able to build a case against the Corvos.” Fakir tapped the cigarette against an ashtray, the shadow in the room darkening his eyes. “But the gang somehow learned he was being a snitch and now we’re left with a literal dead end.”
“Which is why we need your help, Miss Stannus,” said a new voice.
Duck turned and saw a man wearing a long coat standing by the opened door. The man removed his hat, revealing graying hair and bushy eyebrows. “I am Captain Charon Sideros,” he smiled gently toward her. “I was hoping to interview you myself, but some business delayed me.” Charon turned to look at the young man who had stood up upon his entrance. “However it seems Detective Romeiras has gotten the jump on me,” he said with only a faint air of reprimand.
Fakir said nothing but politely moved away from the desk, allowing the captain to take his place. Charon glanced at the notes jotted down by the young detective before speaking to Duck. “A murder conviction will deliver a severe blow to the mob as well as facilitate further investigation into their misdeeds. However against an organization as wary as the Corvos it will be very difficult to convince a jury without firsthand eyewitness account of a crime. That is why an eyewitness account is one of the most valuable pieces of evidence any police officer can ask for, and why your involvement in this investigation is key, Miss Stannus. I know recounting what you saw tonight will be unpleasant for you, but we truly need your help and cooperation in this.”
Mollified by the captain’s words and having a greater sense of what was at stake now, Duck rallied herself, and nodded. “Alright then. I’ll start from the beginning.”
For the next hour or so Charon conducted the interview, taking notes and asking Duck questions intermittently to clarify or expand certain points. Fakir stood to the side, leaning against a cabinet, only making noise to light a new cigarette when his old one was spent, and listened intently to every word that was uttered by both parties.
When it came to describing the suspects’ appearance, Duck paused to think. “The men with guns were tall and broad-shouldered. They were both wearing black overcoats and I couldn’t see their faces at all because of their hats. I had a better look at the third man though. He’s shorter than the other men and wore a suit with a coat draped over his shoulders as well as a scarf and gloves, all in white. His hair was white too, and I remember thinking he was very handsome looking though I couldn’t see what color his eyes were because it was so dark.”
“Does he have any special features? Like a scar or anything?”
“No, like I said he was very nice looking.”
“But do you remember what his face looks like?” Fakir interjected. “Just that he’s handsome isn’t going to help us identify him.”
Duck shut her eyes and tried to concentrate, but try as she might she couldn’t reconstruct his exact appearance. Instead all she could conjure in her mind was a pale figure, whose shaded face was framed by wispy white hair and the words she first heard him say, that of: You made a very unfortunate decision. The image sent an involuntary shutter down Duck’s frame and when she opened her eyes and looked at the expectant expressions on Charon and Fakir’s faces, she looked down at her hands in her lap.
“I…I don’t remember what exactly he looked like,” Duck admitted in a small voice.
Charon grimaced in disappointment, but Fakir wouldn’t give up so easily. He walked to the edge of the desk, and practically looming over her, demanded, “You were there! You saw him! You must remember what he looked like! Isn’t there anything else that you remember about him?”
Duck edged away from him, desperately trying to remember, but there wasn’t anything else forthcoming in her mind. “No, I don’t!” Duck shook her head in frustration. The more she forced herself the less she seemed to remember, but somehow his voice always ringed in her ears, she realized. Looking back up, she said, “I don’t remember what he looks like exactly, but I remember his voice!” she paused and met Fakir’s gaze. “It-I can’t describe it, but whenever I think about him I can remember the sound of his voice. I think…I think if I see him again, and hear his voice, then I think I might be able to recognize him.”
Fakir pulled back abruptly and turned away from her. The room was quiet again but there was a palpable sense of frustration emanating from the two officers. At last Charon said, “We don’t have enough information to have a sketch of him made, I’m afraid. But if we ever come across someone that matches that description would you be willing to try and identify him?”
“Um, I could try…” Duck answered hesitantly.
“That’s fine.” Charon smiled reassuringly. “As long as you can identify him from a lineup and is willing to testify in court that such a person was the one you saw tonight it will be enough.”
“Wait, what do you mean ‘testify in court’?” Duck’s blue eyes opened wide in surprise. “What does being a witness entail exactly?”
“In a case like this the judge will require you to take an oath and publicly identify the defendant in court. In addition you’ll also have to answer any questions from the lawyers and the judge himself during the trial,” Fakir explained.
An uneasy feeling grew in Duck’s chest. “Publicly identifying the defendant” meant she would have to meet him face-to-face, didn’t it? You made a very unfortunate decision… Those words kept echoing in her mind. What would he say to her should they ever meet again? She wondered. Would he repeat those words to her in a calm voice as guns were aimed towards her?
“Miss Stannus?”
Duck woke from her dark reveries at Charon’s concerned voice. “Would you be willing to publicly testify against these men?” he asked her gently.
Duck hesitated. Her eyes drifted over to Fakir and saw his disapproving glare. Combined with the smoke from his cigarette it made him look like a dragon peering at her from the gloom. Duck cringed. “…I don’t know,” she admitted at last, not daring to look at him when she spoke.
Across from her, Charon nodded briefly. “I understand. We are still building our case against the Corvos and it will also take time to try and find the person you described to us today, so you have some time before you must decide. We do not have reason to believe they know of your role in this investigation, but it’s best to be vigilant. If you notice any suspicious individuals or activities around you please report it to us right away. And do not talk to anyone, and I mean absolutely no one, about what you saw tonight. Word spreads easily and these people will surely be listening for talks of witnesses.”
Duck acknowledged his concerns nervously but gravely. After a few more questions and finishing the necessary procedures, she was escorted home by another officer in an unmarked police car. Charon and Fakir remained in the office, discussing the case and the information on their hands.
“‘Principe’. That’s the name she said Alphonse uttered before he was killed,” Charon mused, his chin resting on the back of his hands as he sat with arms propped up on the table
Fakir rubbed out the spent cigarette in the ashtray and said, “He mentioned that name the first time I spoke with him, said he was one of the young capos in the organization but with close personal ties to the boss. But even Al didn’t know much beyond that.”
“Alphonse was just a soldier, but he was still our best lead.” Charon sighed deeply, his thick brows furrowed. “Now that he’s gone we’ve lost our window on the Corvo family.”
“That might be so, but we have an eyewitness. She might not be able to give us enough details for a composite sketch but if we start looking at known Corvo associates who potentially match the description she gave, and as well as put pressure on them for information about someone who fits that description, it might allow us to find him.” Fakir picked up the notepad, holding it like a prize in his hand. “Then, as long as she’s willing to testify we have a chance at nailing the man she saw tonight in court. And if this ‘Prince’ character is really as close to the boss as Al says, then we just might be able to climb the vine and link the crime to Domenico Corvo himself!”
Charon sighed again. “It isn’t so straight forward, Fakir. That might be what they taught you in law school but it’s not just a matter of collecting the evidence, presenting them in court, and expecting the judge to agree with you. I dare say even if we were able to identify ‘Principe’ and put him on trial Corvo’s lawyers would dispute the witness’ credibility, especially when Miss Stannus herself admits she can’t recall his appearance exactly.” The captain capped the pen that he had used during the interview and studied it in his hands before he continued. “We also have to be extra vigilant this time around. When we got Alphonse to talk we thought we had our break, but now he’s six feet under. Miss Stannus won’t be in any immediate danger, I don’t think, but if they can figure out Alphonse’s been snitching so soon after he talked to us, then it’s conceivable that they will learn there is a witness to his murder before too long.”
Fakir frowned, his enthusiasm dampened by his superior’s words of caution. “What do you suggest? Should we request someone to keep an eye on her then?”
“No, I doubt the top brass will approve, seeing we are already stretched thin thanks to the rampant gang and bootlegging activity in this town. Having someone sit at her doorstep everyday while we build our case will be viewed as a waste of resources.”
“What about the Marshals? It’s their job to protect witnesses.”
“We have no reason to believe she will be in any immediate danger. The federal government won’t act unless her safety is clearly at risk.”
“Then I’ll keep an eye on her myself.” Fakir slapped the notepad back down on the desk and walked to the door to retrieve his hat. Putting it on, he adjusted it before reaching for the doorknob. “As long as she doesn’t notice it will be fine and I won’t be stepping on anyone else’s toes.”
At this Charon shook his head and Fakir paused at the door at his voice. “And what if she does? I don’t think that girl would appreciate you following her after your interview with her today. She might not be very bold but I can tell she’s not the type to let others make her decisions for her.”
“Yeah, well, this will be for her own good,” Fakir answered flatly as he opened the door, letting the noise of the police station enter the room before shutting it out again when the door closed.
---
Miles away, in a mansion on Long Island, a young woman sat brushing her hair in front of a vanity. She was clad in a crimson silk kimono, her manicured hands moving with languid grace through the damp locks; the creamy marble and white tile of the room made her raven hair all the more striking against the red of her robe.
A knock from the door stopped the rhythmic motion of her hands as she looked up from her task. “What is it?” she inquired in a rich, cultured tone that matched her lush surrounding.
“Master Mytho has returned, Miss,” replied the butler.
With that the door to the bedroom opened and the young man dressed in white walked in. The young woman put her brush down and got up to greet him. Wrapping her slender arms around the man’s neck, she kissed him on his cheek.
“Mytho, what took you so long tonight?”
“I’m sorry Rue, but Father had some business for me. It took a little longer than I thought to wrap it all up.” He returned her smile and wrapped an arm around her waist.
The smile slipped from Rue’s lips for a second but it quickly found itself back in place. She leaned into his arm and watched him through half open, coy eyes. “Daddy’s been making you work too hard lately. I’ve barely seen you all week. We should take a vacation somewhere, to Marseille maybe, or to Rome. What do you say?”
“Don’t you have an upcoming picture to shoot? I don’t think your producer would be too pleased if you suddenly decide to elope with me to the South of France,” Mytho joked as he removed his scarf and coat while Rue moved back to the vanity.
“Daddy has a lot of money invested in his studio; no one there will say a word about it,” Rue shrugged as she picked up her brush again.
“Always relying on the dapper*, are we?” Mytho commented coolly as he undid his watch.
Rue’s eyes narrowed but she continued brushing her hair. After a moment she felt Mytho grasp her shoulders and his breath on the exposed skin of her neck. The sensation of his fingers massaging her shoulders, electrifying even through the silk, sent a quiver of pleasure down her spine. “But it’s fine that way. After all, there’s no need for a princess to concern herself with trivial matters of her kingdom, hmm?”
“Yes, a princess…what more could a girl ask for but to be a princess?” Rue said, smiling at his reflection in the mirror.
Mytho leaned in and whispered by her ear, “To be my princess, and I will be your one and only prince.”
~~~
Duck and Fakir’s last names are from Edris Stannus and Pedro Romeiras, both of whom are famous ballet dancers, while Charon’s last name is Greek for “blacksmith”.
A “dapper” is Jazz Age slang for a flapper’s father.
All the legal jargon and minutia in this chapter were the result of my best efforts at getting a rough handle on the subject. Hopefully I didn’t get anything flat out wrong. >>
