In 1944 Boston, a Bankrupt War-Factory Widow Fighting for Her $5,000 Back-Pay Outsmarts a Corrupt Requisition Officer Who Planted a Stolen Diamond Ring to Frame Her for Treason.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum in the silent, tense accounting room. Harlan Kincaid’s smug grin seemed to stretch across his face, his eyes fixed on my worn leather satchel.
“Well, Mrs. Driscoll,” he said, his voice dripping with false concern. “Are you going to make this difficult?”
Detective O’Loughlin, his face grim but professional, reached out. His fingers closed around the flap of my bag. I didn’t resist. What was the point? My entire world felt like it was crumbling around me, piece by piece.
He pulled the satchel open. Kincaid leaned forward, a predator scenting blood.
O’Loughlin’s hand went in, rummaging through the familiar contents – my half-eaten sandwich wrapped in wax paper, a dog-eared ration book, Leo’s latest drawing of a battleship.
But then, his expression shifted. His eyebrows furrowed.
Instead of the gleam of a diamond, he pulled out a small, metallic cylinder, no bigger than a cigarette pack. It had tiny reels visible through a perforated cover. A soft, rhythmic whirring sound filled the room.
It was a magnetic wire recorder. And it was running.
Kincaid’s face went white, his jaw dropping. The whirring stopped, then clicked.
Then, his own voice, clear and distinct, filled the stunned silence.
“She’s been asking too many questions about the missing funds,” the voice on the recorder said, unmistakably Kincaid’s. “The Driscoll woman. Bankrupt, divorced, desperate. Perfect target.”
My breath hitched. O’Loughlin stood frozen, the small device held between his thumb and forefinger.
“We plant the Solitaire in her bag during the lunch rush,” the recording continued, chillingly calm. “The $8,000 one from the Henderson estate. Call the police. Frame her for grand larceny, maybe even wartime sabotage. She’ll be off the books, out of Boston, and we’ll blame her for the inventory discrepancies.”
The second detective, a younger man named Miller, stepped back, his eyes wide. Kincaid remained speechless, his face mottled.
O’Loughlin’s gaze snapped from the recorder to Kincaid. “Is that your voice, Mr. Kincaid?”
Kincaid stammered, his earlier confidence utterly gone. “I… I don’t know what that is. It’s a trick!”
“A trick?” I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. The room suddenly felt very cold. “It sounds like you confessing to a crime.”
O’Loughlin pressed a button on the device. Kincaid’s voice played again, outlining the entire plot. The plant the gem, the accusation, the motive to get me “off the books.”
“It seems, Mr. Kincaid,” O’Loughlin said, his voice hard, “that you’ve just filed a false police report. And attempted to frame a federal employee.”
He reached for Kincaid, who instinctively flinched back.
“You’re coming with us.”
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