Page 4 of Nocturne

“January ninth?” I repeat, trying to think back. “I don’t know. That was six days ago. Here I guess.” I look at Joey and he shakes his head. I guess I wasn’t. I look back to them. “I was with a friend of mine, then.”

“And who is this friend of yours?” the shorter cop asks.

I give them a steady look. They all know I’m dating Marco, one of Mickey Cohen’s best buds. Still, I don’t know if this is a trap.

“I was with Marco Russo,” I say carefully. “He can vouch for me.”

Unless he’s setting me up to take the fall for something…

“Ms. Reid,” the third cop asks, scribbling something on a pad of paper, “when was the last time you spoke with Elizabeth Short?”

My blood seems to thin. “Betty? Why?”

“Just answer the question, ma’am.”

I look at Joey. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”

The red-nosed cop nods at my dressing room. “Do you mind if we take this in there? You might need to sit down.”

I shake my head, panic clawing through my chest like a cat. “No. No, tell me here, tell me what happened. Is Betty okay?”

“Elizabeth Short was found murdered,” the cop says but I barely hear him. It feels like the hall is starting to distort and spin.

“She’s going to faint,” I hear one of them say and before I know what’s happening, I’m sitting in my dressing room and Joey is grabbing a bottle of vodka from my table, thrusting it into my hands, mumbling how I might need it.

“Murdered?” I repeat. “What? How?”

“I’m afraid we can’t give you any details,” the notebook cop says. “But we’re going to have to follow up on your whereabouts with Marco.”

“You think I had something to do with it?” I ask, my words cracking.

No. Not Betty. She’s my closest friend.

Was.

Was.

No.

“I don’t understand,” I say, tears flooding my eyes. “She was murdered?” I ask again.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” the shorter cop says. He’s the only one who sounds mildly sympathetic. “Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her?”

“No,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The vodka burns my throat as I take a swig directly from the bottle. “I don’t know anyone who would want to hurt her. Everyone loved Betty.”

Didn’t they?

“Maybe that was the problem,” he says.

“When was the last time you saw her?” asks the cop with his pencil poised above his notepad.

I pause. The last night with Betty floods back to me—her wide, frightened eyes darting to the windows of my apartment, the way she’d chewed her thumbnail to the quick. The memory tightens around my chest like a vise.

“January eight?” I say, the words sticking in my throat. “Yes. The eighth. She came to my apartment late. She was…anxious.”

To say the least.

“Anxious about what?”

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