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Now I hail a taxi and give the driver an address three blocks from The Lavender Room. I need to be discreet. If I’m seen there, Marco will hear that I’m in a “lezzie” bar and I’m sure I’ll get two black eyes in return.

The taxi drops me off, and I walk the remaining distance, my heels clicking on the wet pavement, darkness settling around me like a comfortable cloak. The Lavender Room is housed in a nondescript building with no exterior signage, just a purple door and a small window with the curtains drawn at the back of the building. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past it.

I knock three times, pause, then twice more. A small peephole slides open, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then recognition.

“Miss Reid,” a voice says. “Been a while.”

The door opens, revealing a broad-shouldered, six-foot woman in men’s trousers and a crisp white shirt. Lois de Fee, the infamous bouncer who works a lot of bars in the city, mainly as a novelty. She gives me a respectful nod as I enter.

“What brings you back to our humble establishment?” she asks, closing the door behind me.

“Just looking for a quiet drink.”

She raises an eyebrow but asks no further questions. That’s the beauty of places like this—everyone respects the need for discretion.

Inside, The Lavender Room lives up to its name. Purple velvet curtains line the walls, soft jazz plays from a gramophone in the corner, and a handful of women sit at small tables, conversations hushed, cigarette smoke hanging in a haze near the ceiling. The lighting is low, faces half-hidden in shadow.

I make my way to the bar, where a slender woman with short-cropped dark hair mixes drinks with practiced efficiency. She looks up as I approach, her hands stilling momentarily.

“Well, well,” she says, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Lena Reid. Thought you’d found fancier watering holes.”

“Hello, Vivian,” I say, sliding onto a barstool. “No place fancier than this.”

She snorts, but I can see she’s pleased. “What’ll it be?”

“Aviation, please.”

She prepares my drink, her movements fluid and graceful. I’d forgotten how attractive Vivian is, with her sharp cheekbones and knowing eyes and her take charge energy. In another life, perhaps…

“Haven’t seen you in months,” she says, placing the drink before me. “Maybe a year. Not since you started running with that mob fellow. You finally leave him?”

“Marco isn’t why I’m here tonight,” I say, licking my finger and patting it along the sugared rim of the glass.

“No?” She leans across the bar, close enough that I can smell her perfume. “What is, then?”

I place my finger in my mouth, sucking on the sugar. “Betty Short. She came here with me once or twice.”

Vivian’s expression shutters immediately. “Don’t remember any Betty.”

“Dark hair? Pale skin? Always wore black?” I press. “Elizabeth Short. She was found murdered four days ago.”

“The Black Dahlia,” Vivian says quietly. “That was her? Jesus.”

I nod, watching her reaction carefully. “You remember. So why’d you lie?”

“I serve drinks to a lot of people.”

“But you remember her. She came here without me, didn’t she?”

Vivian busies herself wiping down the bar. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. We get enough of that as it is.”

I reach across the bar, my fingers wrapping around her wrist. The contact is deliberate, skin against skin, as I let a thread of compulsion seep into my voice.

“Tell me about Betty, Vivian. When was she last here?”

Her eyes glaze slightly, her resistance melting under my influence. “A couple weeks ago. She was meeting someone. Like she always did.”

Alwaysdid? “Who?”