Page 22 of Nocturne

“Desperate,” Lena corrects. “For recognition, for stability, for someone to see her as special. That’s a dangerous combination in this town.”

“Dangerous enough to get her killed?”

Lena’s gaze drifts to the window, where Sunset Boulevard is coming alive with morning traffic. “This city eats dreams for breakfast. Elizabeth wouldn’t be the first girl who got devoured.”

“No. But most don’t end up bisected and displayed like museum exhibits.”

Her eyes snap back to mine, something like anger flashing in their depths. “Is that really necessary?”

“Necessary? No. Relevant? Absolutely.” I lean forward slightly. “Elizabeth wasn’t just murdered, Ms. Reid. She was staged. Displayed. That suggests something personal, ritualistic even.”

“Ritualistic,” Lena repeats softly, and for a moment, I swear I see recognition in her expression.

“You had said to me she mentioned some Europeans. Foreign businessmen connected to Cohen. You said they scared her.”

“Yes. But that’s all I know.”

“There isn’t anything else you’re not telling me?” I ask, leaning in even closer, my gaze boring into the dark chocolate depths of hers.

Lena hesitates, and I can see the internal debate playing across her face.

I wait, letting the silence draw her out.

You will tell me, I think.You know you want to.

She frowns at me for a moment, as if she heard my thoughts.

“I have her diary,” Lena continues reluctantly.

I perk up. “You have her diary?”

My voice is a little too loud because she looks nervously around the restaurant. “Shhh.”

“Sorry. When did you get her diary? Did you steal it?”

She gives me a dirty look. “I didn’t steal it. Goodness, Mr. Callahan, what kind of a dame do you think I am?”

“Sorry again.”

She exhales and I can tell she’s about to change her tune.

“Please continue,” I say to her.

Finally she nods. “She left it at my house, I think on purpose. When she came over, when I last saw her. I didn’t know until after she’d been killed that it could be important. She’d been keeping track of things, people she’d met, conversations she’d overheard. She was doing odd jobs for some men associated with Cohen, maybe even Siegel. Deliveries, mostly.”

“What kind of deliveries?”

“She never said. Maybe she didn’t know.”

“Can you bring me the diary?”

The corner of her mouth lifts and she gives her head a subtle shake. “No. It’s not for your eyes.”

“I could tell the police…”

Her eyes narrow, her pupils doing something strange, like they’re constricting and dilating in a rhythm. “You won’t.”

“And why is that?”

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