Tracy felt the color draining from her face. “What—what are you talking about?”
None of this was making any sense.
The district attorney rapped out, “We have the gun with which she wounded Mr. Romano. Her fingerprints are on it.”
Wounded! Then Joseph Romano was alive! She had not killed anyone.
“She escaped with the painting, Your Honor. It’s probably in the hands of a fence by now. For that reason, the state is requesting that Tracy Whitney be held for attempted murder and armed robbery and that bail be set at half a million dollars.”
The judge turned to Tracy, who stood there in shock. “Are you represented by counsel?”
She did not even hear him.
He raised his voice. “Do you have an attorney?”
Tracy shook her head. “No. I—what—what this man said isn’t true. I never—”
“Do you have money for an attorney?”
There was her employees’ fund at the bank. There was Charles. “I…no, Your Honor, but I don’t understand—”
“The court will appoint one for you. You are ordered held in jail, in lieu of five hundred thousand dollars bail. Next case.”
“Wait! This is all a mistake! I’m not—”
She had no recollection of being led from the courtroom.
The name of the attorney appointed by the court was Perry Pope. He was in his late thirties, with a craggy, intelligent face and sympathetic blue eyes. Tracy liked him immediately.
He walked into her cell, sat on the cot, and said, “Well! You’ve created quite a sensation for a lady who’s been in town only twenty-four hours.” He grinned. “But you’re lucky. You’re a lousy shot. It’s only a flesh wound. Romano’s going to live.” He took out a pipe. “Mind?”
“No.”
He filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and studied Tracy. “You don’t look like the average desperate criminal, Miss Whitney.”
“I’m not. I swear I’m not.”
“Convince me,” he said. “Tell me what happened. From the beginning. Take your time.”
Tracy told him. Everything. Perry Pope sat quietly listening to her story, not speaking until Tracy was finished. Then he leaned back against the wall of the cell, a grim expression on his face. “That bastard,” Pope said softly.
“I don’t understand what they were talking about.” There was confusion in Tracy’s eyes. “I don’t know anything about a painting.”
“It’s really very simple. Joe Romano used you as a patsy, the same way he used your mother. You walked right into a setup.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Then let me lay it out for you. Romano will put in an insurance claim for half a million dollars for the Renoir he’s hidden away somewhere, and he’ll collect. The insurance company will be after you, not him. When things cool down, he’ll sell the painting to a private party and make another half million, thanks to your do-it-yourself approach. Didn’t you realize that a confession obtained at the point of a gun is worthless?”
“I—I suppose so. I just thought that if I could get the truth out of him, someone would start an investigation.”
His pipe had gone out. He relit it. “How did you enter his house?”
“I rang the front doorbell, and Mr. Romano let me in.”
“That’s not his story. There’s a smashed window at the back of the house, where he says you broke in. He told the police he caught you sneaking out with the Renoir, and when he tried to stop you, you shot him and ran.”
“That’s a lie! I—”
“But it’s his lie, and his house, and your gun. Do you have any idea with whom you’re dealing?”
Tracy shook her head mutely.
“Then let me tell you the facts of life, Miss Whitney. This town is sewn up tight by the Orsatti Family. Nothing goes down here without Anthony Orsatti’s okay. If you want a permit to put up a building, pave a highway, run girls, numbers, or dope, you see Orsatti. Joe Romano started out as his hit man. Now he’s the top man in Orsatti’s organization.” He looked at her in wonder. “And you walked into Romano’s house and pulled a gun on him.”
Tracy sat there, numb and exhausted. Finally she asked, “Do you believe my story?”