Lipstick and Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

back. “A jail visit? Sure. What’s my disguise? Social worker? Parole officer?”
    “We need you inside.”
    “An inmate?”
    “Don’t worry. We’ll be close by.”
    I swallowed. “Ahh…and where exactly will I be doing time?”
    “The Hole.” He pulled the key from the ignition and glanced at me. “Oh, sorry. Wayne County Jail. Women’s Unit.”
    If the reference to a women’s unit was supposed to make me feel better, it didn’t. “Now?”
    “Soon as we nail down your cover.”

Chapter Three
    My eyes flew open as I tried to piece together where I was.
    It was the morning after a long, restless night and I was lying on a bunk in a cell of the Women’s Division of the Wayne County Jail on Clinton Street between St. Antoine and Beaubien in downtown Detroit. Last evening, following my briefing, Special Agent Dante delivered me to the jail’s property clerk, who had traded my street clothes for a dark blue jumpsuit. A stocky matron was summoned and I was escorted to a cell, cheek to jowl with the accused spy’s.
    The cells were part of a cellblock located in a remote wing of the sixth floor. The Countess had been isolated as part of a plan to protect her from her former sister agents. She had spent five months with the German loyalists, getting to know them and pumping them for information before switching sides. Now, instead of keeping house in the cozy bungalows where they had once conspired with her, the ex-cohorts were housed in the not-so-cozy confines of a separate cellblock at the opposite end of our wing. Stripped of their freedom and dignity, they pined for revenge.
    Segregating the Countess might keep her safe from physical harm, but it could not protect her from verbal abuse. Last night, following lock-down, I’d been initiated into the means the ex-ring members had discovered for delivering their taunts.
    First, there had been the ratcheting clamor of cell doors rolling then clanging shut in unison, a sound I shall never forget. A sort of shell-shocked silence followed, then lights-out. Later, under the cloak of night, when few matrons stood guard and inmates’ voices could not be singled out, the hushed sound of men cooing and calling from their cells below began filtering up through the inch-wide ventilation space between the cell floors and the back wall. From our floor above the men’s, the women, in turn, taunted and teased. The off-color repartee, hesitant at first, soon grew heated and coarse. Barren cement-block walls and concrete floors served as the ideal conductor, enhancing the pitch and volume. My skin crawled as I recalled the bombardment of ugly jabs meant for the Countess contributed by her sister spies. “Snitch,” “skunk,” “rat,” were among the milder terms. A few guttural German expressions, none sounding too nice, made it into the mix as well.
    In the darkest hours of the night, as the bursts of laughter became frenetic and the cries of desperation and anger turned haunting, my nerves had grown so frayed that I bolted upright in bed. Eventually I had settled into a semi-seated position, remaining that way until the first light of dawn, when the lights had been thrown on.
    I was rearranging myself, trying to get comfortable, maybe catch another wink or two of sleep, when a matron barked, “Up and at ’em,” and someone tripped the doors.
    I shot from my bunk.
    The County Jail did a brisk business. Ordinarily, the four cells comprising our cellblock would have contained two prisoners each. Security for the FBI’s star witness meant that only two hand-picked inmates had been assigned to her section. I scurried into line-up. This was my first encounter with the women. I noted that one of the Countess’ cellmates was mulatto, the other was Caucasian.
    A barrel-chested guard doled out dishcloth-sized towels, ordering us to disrobe, while a second matron stood eagle-eyed slightly apart from our pitiful formation. “All right, listen up,” the puffed-chested guard