City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (28 page)

She closed her eyes, trying to forget this morning.

Same murderer? Or two different killers with throat fixations?

The Chesterfield tasted better than the sandwich and coffee, and she gulped it down, warmth hitting her lungs like a shield against the cold. She rolled the window down a little, watching a middle-aged woman with a bag of groceries waddle past the apartment. Miranda’s eyes squinted, making the familiar rounds of the yellow-and-white door at Apartment 2, the black 1939 Buick parked across the street.

No Jasper.

She twisted the knob on the radio and waited a few seconds.

Goodman clarinet and suddenly Martha Tilton warbling “This Can’t Be Love.”

She sighed again, closing her eyes.

All the goddamn waiting. Worst part of tailing someone. She remembered Burnett’s red, gap-toothed smile, derisive laughter, explaining it to her like she was five years old.

“You gotta wait, Corbie. And waitin’ ’s the hardest goddamn thing about being a dick. An’ everyone knows dames hate to wait.”

Burnett. Seemed like another lifetime ago.

Success had come, in small doses, solving Burnett’s murder, bait-cum-private eye, then the Incubator Baby case that legitimized her, license finally her own. License to live, not as a room number at 41 Grant, not as a Red Cross nurse, hurriedly trained, woman-soldier with a gun and Spanish dirt under her fingernails. No idealistic teacher of English or Mills College girl, swirling bathtub gin and jiggling dates with Stanford boys, no twelve-year-old in a thin dress, hiding in a corner, listening to the thumping sounds and soft sobs, frightened and trying hard to not be seen, no, for the first time in her thirty-two years, a license to live and a license to be Miranda Corbie.

Whoever the hell Miranda Corbie was, all of the above or none, reinvented, reimagined … like the city that birthed her.

My heart does not stand still, just hear it beat …

And nobody to talk to, no memories to share, no warm nights and cold mornings, bare feet on stone floors, giggles and hot pots and cheap cuts of meat, no perfume behind the left ear, no favorite earrings, no song. No sorrow, no sighs …

Miranda stared through the windshield, watching the neon flicker on California Street, watching the evening grow darker, fog wrapping around San Francisco like a shroud. Her brown-green eyes grew enormous, glinting in the uneven light.

She whispered it, voice against the void, memory slippery and desperate and almost out of grasp, litany and prayer and catechism, until the light came back on in her eyes and the neon faded, the smell of carnations and roses, orange-blossom sweet …

“I love you, John Robert Hayes.”

*   *   *

7:12
P.M
. The door at number 2 opened and Jasper walked quickly toward the Buick, looking down the street in both directions. Miranda turned on the car ignition before Jasper opened his car door.

He pulled out into traffic, heading northeast toward the Mark Hopkins, and she followed him, threading her way past trucks from Bethlehem Steel and the United Fruit Company.

They passed the Mark and the Fairmont and Jasper sailed down the hill toward Market. She almost lost him when he made a right turn toward the Bay Bridge, cursing the stalled Municipal holding up traffic, but quickly shifted and managed to move around the streetcar. The nondescript two-door Buick was hard to track, but she thought she saw it ascending the ramp to the Bridge. She followed quickly, keeping four or five car lengths behind.

Traffic was slow, commuters coming to roost in Berkeley. Jasper maintained an easy speed until he reached Yerba Buena, then shifted into a higher gear and put on his blinker.

Miranda nodded to herself, face grimly lit by the bright white lights on the Bridge towers.

Jasper was headed to Treasure Island—and the World’s Fair.

*   *   *

Dancing lights, green and blue, orange and violet, music of the calliope calling her like a lost lover, siren song of the Gayway, step right up, folks, you won’t believe your eyes …

Smell of popcorn and day-old hot dogs, grease from where they fried the donuts, and oh, the scent of Threlkeld’s making a new batch of scones, cotton candy in small, sticky fists, mother looks down at the little girl softly, eyes shining.

And the young man in army uniform joshed the sailor in whites, while the blonde looked on, smile of power playing on her lips, band playing “Frenesi” as they fought over a dance. Older men, single, in patched dungarees and faded cotton shirts, placed bets on the Monkey Speedway, too thirsty to sweat until they won enough for a pint, Spanish dancers and Flamenco guitar, while the Boy Scout troop leader drags the kids to the Foreign Pavilions, educational trip, education.

The Gayway, the Fair, Treasure Island.

She missed every goddamn acre.

Jasper bought a hot dog and a Coca-Cola near the Ferris wheel, strolled down the main strip past the Python and Ripley’s, the Incubator Babies and Sally.

Miranda wondered why the hell he was slumming. Jasper seemed all work, except for Finocchio’s. He might pick up a sailor or two by the parking lot, but hell … he could do that along the Embarcadero for a lot less trouble.

Miranda flicked the Ronson and lit a stick, flame flickering in the Bay wind, sun spot of yellow-orange against the dark rear of Madame Zena’s fortune-telling tent.

Fuck, maybe she should pay a buck to Zena.

A couple of cops passed her, no second look, not in the frumpy clothes and broad hat, no kilowatt smile, no Club Moderne walk. Sally’s lit up like Radio City, line still forming to get in, girls on third or fourth shift, playing gin rummy in the back until it was time to strip and ride the donkey.

Miranda breathed in the smell of sawdust and wood shavings, grinned at the barkers and Ken Silverman, still hawking the Diving Bell, girlfriend Nina at his side. Ken’s dream was to explore under the sea, and the closest he’d gotten was a twenty-foot plunge with planted carp and goldfish, water dark and filmy from discarded popcorn, cigarettes, and the occasional penny. Nina hung on his elbow, looking up at him like he was an Aquadonis, while Ken convinced another bucketful of sailors to prove they were seaworthy.

Jasper slowed down at the edge of the midway, spending two bits at Como’s shooting range and winning a Kewpie doll. Odd choice for the professor. Miranda hung back in the shadows by the Chinese Village and Fong Fong, still the best and only place for a chop suey sundae. Her stomach growled. She lit another Chesterfield, kept her face in the dark.

A D-route Elephant Train was pulling up along Heather Road, and Jasper picked up the Kewpie and walked quickly to fall in line. Miranda stepped back, waiting for more riders, then moved ahead while there was still room.

The professor was standing up near the front of the vehicle and she had to pass him. Kept her head averted as she fell into a seat in the rear, facing his back. The excitable woman in glasses and a five-year-old hat was making oohs and ahhs at the lit fountains and the bright, sparkling mica of Vacationland, numbers clicking on the giant cash register, marching band playing in the Open Air Theater.

Jasper stared straight ahead, made no sign of getting off the car.

She expected him to push his way through the small crowds at the Foreign Pavilions, no Germany here, not anymore, but Switzerland and Mexico were still represented. The only move he made was to take a seat vacated by an elderly couple who got off at the Federal Building.

The train slowly rounded the corner past the California area, and Jasper straightened, his body tense.

Of course.

Next stop—Palace of Fine and Decorative Arts.

*   *   *

Miranda hadn’t been inside the Fine Arts palace since last year’s fair, and the scope and layout had changed considerably. No Botticelli’s Venus, no Raphael, much smaller European galleries with paintings from American collections and by minor artists. Emphasis was on modernists, particularly American and South American, the “Art in Action” program—where eager art lovers could watch Diego Rivera brush crumbs out of his mustache—dominating the cavernous space.

Miranda wandered forward, looking up and around briefly, pretending to study a map of the exhibits. No Rivera on display today, just a disconsolate young woman in a smock painting blocks of color on a canvas in the middle “Art in Action” station. An architecture exhibit faced the entrance, more about contemporary engineering, and Jasper paused in front of it before checking the Kewpie doll and making small talk with the young woman behind the counter.

He was obviously familiar with the layout and strode toward the back right side of the building, against the wall. Miranda nodded at a uniformed guard standing outside the European and American Nineteenth-Century gallery and accepted a one-sheet map, glancing down at it.

Jasper was headed for Drawings by Old Masters, funny area for a lover of “degenerate art,” plenty of which was on display in the American and European Contemporary galleries. She ambled forward, stopping to make noises over the miniature rooms by Mrs. James Ward Thorne with a gaggle of middle-aged women in large print dresses and noting the three artists on display at “Art in Action.” The depressed-looking woman at the center dropped a tube of blue down her brown smock, sighed, and switched to orange.

Miranda walked through the largest of the contemporary galleries and spotted Jasper tucked into room 18, far right corner of the building, standing in front of a Rembrandt in the Old Masters section. A door on his left opened into an area closed off to the public, abutting the storage space for the art sales room in back of “Art in Action.”

She waited around the corner in room 26 of the contemporary gallery, one eye on the professor. Painting in front of her was by John Sloan, called
Sixth Avenue Elevated at Third Street
.

Dark blue-violet night sky, roar of the El driving past women in cloche hats and short skirts, smell of Prohibition gin on their lips, lights from the train, the Italian café on the corner, women laughing, on their way to a party at a speak or a night out with the egg, duck soup.

Goddamn it, not New York.

She needed a Chesterfield, needed to know what Jasper wanted. Maybe he just liked Rembrandt. Maybe he wanted to buy something from the woman artist in the brown-blue smock. Maybe he just collected fucking Kewpie dolls.

She moved backward toward the opening between rooms, careful to keep her face averted from the professor’s line of sight. A tall man in a dark blue suit and matching hat was the only other person in Jasper’s room, reading the plaques on the wall and holding a catalog, mouth moving while he read, eyes too close together. Jasper glanced his way, no sign of recognition.

The doorway in the corner opened, letting out a short, stocky man about forty in a workman’s one-piece jumpsuit. He brushed dust off the speckled gray uniform and paused, looked around. Made a grunting noise and walked purposefully toward the professor. Miranda walked quickly to the other side of the room, keeping her back to Jasper and the workman.

They clustered in front of the off-limits doorway, voices low. Thought she heard “Mexico” and a raking laugh by Jasper. The other man’s voice was deeper, more guttural, an easier carry across the room. He said something about “Chicago tomorrow” and “San Francisco.” Another laugh by Jasper, with a garbled sentence … something about “birth” and “track.” The stocky one was nodding, smile grim, responded with “you’re well out of it.”

Pause in the conversation. All she could hear was her heart.

She dared a quick glance over her shoulder, and the two were moving closer to the private door, the stocky worker’s arm on Jasper’s back, heads down and voices unintelligible. She glided to the left, keeping her face in profile if they turned around, desperate to hear more.

The man in the uniform fumbled with a key in his pocket and unlocked the private door, twisted his neck around to call out “Cummings!” Security officer from the Contemporary gallery came at a brisk trot.

“You needed something, Mr. Cheney?”

Jasper’s friend smiled, teeth showing, easy tone. “Just mindin’ my p’s and q’s and wanted to let you know I’m taking Professor Jasper to my office for a chat. He’ll get a look at what’s in storage.”

The guard, lanky and tall, with pasty white skin and freckles, laughed like a hiccup. “Sure thing, Mr. Cheney. I know the professor. You two fellas go right in.”

Jasper nodded cordially at the guard, while Cheney smiled again, lips compressed, and opened the door. Once it shut firmly behind them, the guard removed his cap, scratched his ear contemplatively, and wandered back to room 26.

Miranda bit her lip, slid sideways to the private door.

No markings, no noise behind it.

She raised her hand, about to try the knob, when she felt somebody quickly move behind her. A deep voice breathed in her ear.

“I wouldn’t do that, Miss Corbie.”

Miranda spun around and faced him. Eyes were still too close together, blue and sharp with wrinkles at the corners. He smiled as if it came easily to him. Arrogant—and attractive.

Her jaw was clenched tight, and she kept her voice low. “Who the fuck are you?”

The deep voice spoke as easily as the smile, and he nodded his head toward the opposite corner.

“There’s a da Vinci study over here. Come on and take a look.”

He moved away from the office door where Jasper and his stocky friend had disappeared, keeping his back to Miranda and seemingly unconcerned about it. She followed, opening her handbag, gold cigarette case in easy reach.

The tall man in blue gestured toward the drawing of a horse and rider, eyes checking the room.

He murmured: “Ugly Duckling, huh? Some joke from MacLeod.”

She frowned, looking him up and down. About thirty-six or -seven, six feet even, trim 175 to 180. Brown hair, blue eyes, navy blue fedora with a wide brim and cream band and a few specks of lint. He’d managed to seem like an open-mouthed gawker with reading comprehension problems a few minutes ago, and now his eyes gleamed, keen and aware, muscles tense and posture alert.