Lipstick and Lies

Lipstick and Lies Read Free Page B

Book: Lipstick and Lies Read Free
Author: Margit Liesche
Tags: Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General
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car radio. Finished, he explained that he had expected to take me back to headquarters for my briefing. But now as things had become complicated by “an unexpected turn of events,” before he could divulge certain aspects of my assignment, additional clearances were required. He’d made a hurry-up request and it was churning its way through channels.
    “No sense driving into town until we have the go-ahead. How about we sit over there, get acquainted, maybe cover some basics?” He gestured to a bench under a pair of shady maples, standing watch like Queen’s guards, beside the administration building’s front staircase. “It’ll be cooler than waiting in the car.”
    My curiosity over why the FBI had singled me out was piqued so high I would have sat just about anywhere. “Great.”
    The bench was positioned far enough from the building so that passersby, funneling in and out of the entrance, would not be able to hear our conversation. Dried leaves and bark scraps littered the bench. Dante brushed them off. Removing his suit coat, he flung it in the air, gracefully lowering it over the slats.
    “Madame?” he said, inviting me to sit.
    General Marshall had promised, but our official WASP suits had not yet been delivered. In the meantime, we wore the men’s Army uniforms, choosing between olive drab and officer’s pinks. This trip, I’d worn the pinks, actually a light khaki, a regrettable choice for the neutral-colored fabric picked up dirt like a vacuum cleaner. I looked down. Rorschach-patterned black marks, collected in the Lib, stained my pant legs.
    “Thanks, but no need. And why wrinkle it?” I lifted the jacket, the weight of the badge in its breast pocket a sobering reminder that the man I was about to “get acquainted with” was FBI.
    Dante had been turning up a sleeve of his once-crisp white shirt. He paused, mid-roll. “Suit yourself.” His voice strained with what sounded like phony approval. “It’s how you like doing things anyway, isn’t it?”
    I smiled. “Yes, I like doing things my way, Agent Dante. But these days I’m part of a unit serving the Army Air Forces. It’s not about what I want, it’s about what our government wants from me.”
    Dante seemed to ponder that. Then he smiled. “Name’s not actually Agent Dante. It’s Dante Cavaradossi.” My jaw dropped. He laughed. It was a good laugh. From the soul. “Cavaradossi is too long,” he added, “and too hard to pronounce. People never seem to get it right. So Dante is easier.”
    Elocution had nothing to do with why my mouth was flapped open. It was kismet. In my favorite opera,
Tosca
, the heroine bargains with the villainous Scarpia trying to convince him to spare the life of her artist-lover, Mario
Cavaradossi
.
    I drew a wobbly breath. “Great. Then Agent Dante it is.”
    “Just call me Dante, why don’t you.”
    He dug into his jacket pocket. A crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes emerged. He offered me one. I refused, then watched him press one of the smokes to his lips, letting it dangle as he patted pockets in search of a light. He flipped the cover of a matchbook and froze. My mind ricocheted back to enemy agents and the purpose of our meeting. Had someone left a secret message there? Leaning back, I strained to see.
    The cover shut with a snap. “Shame on me. I quit two weeks ago.” He wedged the smoke behind his ear but kept the matchbook in his hands, twisting it with his fingers. “Pu-ucci,” he said, drawing out the syllables as if relishing the sound. “Where’d you get a name like that?”
    He had read the FBI dossier. Surely it contained my full name, even the history behind my nickname, Pucci. I stifled a sigh. The only names we ought to be discussing were those of the spies skulking around the factory. Why were we lingering on me?
    The “why” did not matter. He wanted to hear me tell it. I began by explaining that my uncle, Chauncy “Chance” Lewis, was a globetrotter and curio shop owner. His

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