Page 31

Lena Reid takes the stage like she owns it, a black strapless dress adorned with sequins catching the spotlight, red hair gleaming like fire. The crowd falls silent as she approachesthe microphone, her presence commanding attention without demanding it.

When she begins to sing “You Go to My Head” something shifts inside me. Her voice bypasses my ears and goes straight to my blood, stirring it like a physical touch. I find myself leaning forward, drawn toward her like iron to a magnet.

Halfway through her first song, she notices me. Our eyes lock across the room, and for a moment, the rest of the club disappears. She doesn’t miss a note, doesn’t break her performance, but something passes between us.

Something real.

I remain through her entire set, nursing the same whiskey. When she finishes to enthusiastic applause, I wait. I don’t want to follow her backstage, that might call too much attention to myself. I put the next move in her hands.

Sure enough, after she goes backstage, she appears a few minutes later, making her way through the crowd, accepting compliments with practiced grace. She slows as she approaches my corner.

“Mr. Callahan,” she says, voice carrying just enough to be heard over the band’s interlude. “Becoming a regular, are we?”

“Just following leads, Ms. Reid,” I reply, though we both know it’s not entirely true.

“Find any worth pursuing?” A subtle challenge in her tone.

“One or two.” I meet her gaze steadily. “I’d like to discuss them with you.”

“I have another set in twenty minutes.”

“Tomorrow, then. I’ll pick you up at noon.”

It’s not a question, and she doesn’t treat it as one. She gives me a small, amused smile. “Presumptuous, Callahan,” she says, her voice extra throaty and bringing up the images I fantasized about earlier.

“Efficient,” I counter. “Dollface.”

She studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “Noon. Don’t be late.”

As she walks away, I feel eyes on me from across the room. A man at the bar—one of Marco Russo’s associates, I’m certain. Watching me watch Lena. I meet his stare until he looks away, message received. I’m not intimidated by Cohen’s enforcers.

I should be, perhaps. Men who cross Mickey Cohen have a habit of disappearing. But lately, I’ve found myself strangely unconcerned with ordinary dangers. As if something inside me knows I’m beyond them somehow.

Outside, the night embraces me like an old friend. I light a cigarette, considering my next move. The rational part of me says to go home, review my notes, prepare for tomorrow’s meeting with Lena. But another part—a part growing stronger each day—wants to follow her, to watch her from shadows, to understand what it is about her that calls to something primal within me.

I compromise, walking to my car but not immediately driving away. Instead, I wait, knowing she’ll emerge eventually. Not to approach her—just to see which way she goes, to ensure she gets home safely.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

When she appears an hour later, I sink lower in my seat. She pauses on the sidewalk, scanning the street with unusual alertness before starting in the direction of her apartment. I wait until she’s a block away before starting my car, following at a discreet distance.

This isn’t me, this borderline stalking. I’m a good ol’ Irish boy from Chicago, one who married young then went to fight the Nazis in the war. Yet I can’t seem to stop myself. Something about Lena has bypassed my carefully constructed self-control, tapping into instincts I didn’t know I possessed.

Instincts to want.

To need.

To possess.

I follow her for three blocks before she suddenly turns, staring directly at my parked car despite the darkness. It should be impossible for her to see me at this distance, yet I have the unsettling feeling that she knows exactly who’s following her.

Does she like it?

Does it thrill her to have me on her tail?

After a moment, she continues walking, her pace unhurried yet purposeful. I remain where I am, fighting the urge to continue the pursuit. This has gone far enough. I’m investigating a murder, not indulging whatever this obsession is.

Yet as I drive home, her image remains before me—proud posture, knowing eyes, secrets written in the curve of her lips. And beneath it all, the nagging sense that Lena Reid is somehow key to understanding not just Elizabeth Short’s murder, but something about myself.