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“Because of this,” he says, taking a manila envelope from beneath the folder. Inside are her effects, and he takes them out one at a time. “A wallet with a bus pass, a driving license issued by the state of Texas, seven dollars and forty-three cents, a Mexican peso, and a photograph of a pretty teenaged girl with a baby. There is no inscription, but judging from her dress, I would estimate it was taken in 1958?”
“It was 1959, actually,” Billie corrects.
He smiles thinly. “Your mother, I presume?”
“My mother.”
He continues on, pulling objects from the envelope. “A half-smoked marijuana cigarette, something called a Bonne Bell Lip Smacker—” He pauses to remove the cap and give it an experimental sniff.
“It’s a lip balm,” she tells him helpfully. “Root beer.”
“Ah. Sarsaparilla,” he says with a conspiratorial smile. “I used to love the stuff when I was a boy.” He goes on. “And this,” he adds, plucking a paperback book from the envelope. It is a cheap edition and well-worn, with the spine broken in a dozen places. The text is marked up with green ballpoint, and he turns to a dog-eared page where a few lines of text have been underscored heavily.
“A Taste for Death.By Peter O’Donnell. A Modesty Blaise fan?” he asks mildly.
“She’s my favorite character.”
“Why?” The question is fast and so is the answer.
“Because she doesn’t apologize for anything. She had a rotten start in life, but she’s made the best of it. She lives on her own terms. She knows who she is and what she wants, and she does what she is good at. And she has a good time doing it.”
“But without a husband,” he says, watching her closely. “Without children.”
“I don’t want those things either,” she says, and although it’s the first time she’s ever said the words aloud, she realizes they have always been true. “I don’t want them,” she repeats. “I want to work. To make my own life.”
“What sort of work?”
“Anything that doesn’t require learning shorthand,” she retorts, but he is giving her a long, level stare and she tells him the truth. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m good at yet, but I’d like to find out. And I’d like to travel. I really want to see what’s out there.”
He purses his lips. “You have made several notes in the book, but this one intrigues me the most.” He clears his throat and reads with authority. “ ‘I am interested in justice, not the law. There is an unfortunate difference.’ ” He looks over the top of the book with bright eyes. “Tell me, Miss Webster, why have you highlighted that particular passage?”
She opens her mouth to say something brash but suddenly can’t. So she tells him the truth. “Because I think it’s right. Justice and the law aren’t the same thing. You tracked down Nazis, right? What they were doing was technically legal. But it wasn’tjust.”
His expression is suddenly cool. “Is that how you justifywhat you did last night? I understand it was meant to be a peaceful protest, but you attacked a police officer.”
“I didn’t attack him. He was trying to provoke us, calling us names and taunting us.”
He clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Now, now. Sticks and stones, Miss Webster. Was that really a good reason to assault a police officer?”
“He was an asshole.” Billie shrugs. “He deliberately used his position to target people who had a right to be there. He pistol-whipped a girl, and so I—”
“Took his nightstick and clubbed him with it until he was able to subdue you and take you into custody with only minor injuries—an outcome, Miss Webster, that I suspect has more to do with luck than skill,” Halliday finishes. But Billie can see the slight twist to his lips and realizes he is smiling.
“You think it’s funny,” she accuses.
“I think it is familiar,” he corrects. “It is precisely the sort of thing my sister would have done in her youth. Justice over the law,” he says.
He settles back with an air of expectation. “Now, do you think that you would be interested in taking the next step towards employment with us?”
She is quiet for a long minute.
“Miss Webster?”
“Who pays you? You don’t get taxpayer money because you don’t work for any government.”
“Does it matter?” His voice is pleasant, but there is no mistaking the fact that he is humoring her.
“It matters,” she says patiently, “because whoever cuts the checks calls the shots. Who calls your shots?”
