City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (39 page)

Miranda exhaled, long and slow. SP must have buried the story, too much bad publicity after the wreck the year before, and they’d put pressure on the Ogden police to make the suicide official. One man killing himself was a page-eight story and a two- or three-day sensation—a chemistry professor murdered on the streamliner was another million or more dollars kissed good-bye.

She read the article again, slowly. Wondered why the killer hadn’t turned it into the newspaper circus she’d expected … and why he hadn’t tried harder to implicate her.

The waitress nodded and smiled, gray hair tightly pulled back, shoving a glass jar of homemade Chinese pepper sauce toward Miranda along with a Buffalo China platter of eggs and hotcakes.

For the next fifteen minutes, all she thought about was food.

*   *   *

No phone booth at the Chop Stick, so she hustled two blocks down Grant toward the Republic Pharmacy, renewed energy in her legs from the eggs and bacon, threat of ankle irons and dirty gray prison smocks receding. The saboteurs of 1939 had done her a fucking favor.

She wasn’t in the clear, not yet, but business was on her side at last, Southern Pacific eager to clamp down on any hint of danger to their passengers. A thorough investigation would mean going through the passenger manifests and realizing that Miranda Corbie never left the train. She could count on the porter George to keep her secret, but there were other porters, other passengers. Better for SP to hush it up, better for her. Homicide demanded a suspect, and fast—as long as SP promoted the suicide theory, she’d be safe.

Just a whiff of murder and the bastards would hang her out to dry.

Miranda pushed open the door into the Republic and grabbed a fistful of Life Saver rolls, Pep-O-Mint and Butter Rum, throwing cash and a smile at the chubby man behind the counter and extracting a roll of dimes. A small, rickety phone booth was tucked in a rear alcove, where dusty jars of traditional herbs sat next to Bayer aspirin.

Switch hook was sticky. Found a long-distance operator, three rings.

“James MacLeod, please. Ugly Duckling reporting.”

Pause, almost imperceptible gulp. “Hold one moment.”

One moment rolled over into two minutes, Miranda increasingly impatient, feeding coins to the operator. A fat woman in an orange dress with last year’s hat and a midwestern twang waddled through the door, exclaiming loudly over how everything in Chinatown was “one hundred percent genuine heathen,” and how no one back in Indianapolis would believe the things she’d seen.

Voice on the line. Apologetic.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Mr. MacLeod is unavailable. He did leave a message in case you called in, however. ‘Forget hunt, ticket and money are yours. Too many hounds.’”

Miranda stared through the cracked glass of the phone booth, the fat woman’s orange fractured into a garish kaleidoscope.

“Thanks. Here’s one for him: ‘Try telling the fucking truth.’”

She slammed the phone on the wall, breathing hard, then hit the switch hook a few more times and asked for her answering service.

“Teleservice Answering Company. Number please.”

“EXbrook 3333. Miranda Corbie.”

“One moment, please.”

She was running out of goddamn dimes. The orange woman finally left the store, toting a bag of Clark Bars and a package of Dr. Scholl’s foot powder.

“Message from Allen. Left June 28th. No last name given. Message states: ‘Unsolved garrote case in Baltimore. Be careful and call me.’”

Miranda frowned. Baltimore was a country away, not much of a lead.

“Second message. Left June 28th. From Mark. No last name given.”

She spoke quickly into the receiver. “Yes, go on.”

“‘Hugo Wardon partner of Count Lestang. Lestang abroad. Hope this helps you. Be careful, Miranda.’”

“Thanks, that’s—”

“Third message. Left June 28th. From Rick Sanders. Message reads: ‘Am in San Diego for training. Joined the navy. Miss you. Don’t do anything stupid.’”

She held on to the phone, “Edna Loves Eddie” and “Tom
+
Ann” and “Bob and Betty Together 4ever” plus some Chinese characters probably announcing the same news swirling against the wall, splattered graffiti.

The voice droned in her ear. “Miss Corbie? Miss Corbie, did you receive the message?”

Her voice was short, clipped. “Yeah. I received it. Good-bye.”

She hung up the phone with force, unaccountably angry.

Miranda held her head up, neck stiff and sore, skin crawling from no sleep and no shower and a four-hundred-mile round-trip. She smiled perfunctorily at the man behind the counter again, who was too busy reading a
Photoplay
to notice.

She leaned into the door and walked into the Chinatown sun.

Hugo Wardon was next.

*   *   *

The Zenobia was a typical San Francisco apartment building built just a few years after the quake and fire, low rent but not broadcasting it. A building where the tenants knew enough to mind their own assorted businesses and the landlord looked the other way, where the cops rarely got a call, and if they did, it was all a misunderstanding, sir, Waldo here just lost his temper a little, didn’t mean nothin’ a’tall …

The leeward side of outwardly respectable and a perfect base for Hugo Wardon.

She ventured across the street, almost sideswiped by a speeding yellow roadster, young girl in a scarf and holding on to her hat, laughing, red mouth and lips and white teeth, young man with eager, knowing eyes and fast hands, hair slicked back with oil, paying more attention to the girl than to the road. The car radio was blaring loud swing music.

Miranda caught her breath, holding on to her stomach, while they speeded past on Bush. She glared after them, tried to recompose herself.

“Some people ought to have their license revoked.”

Deep male voice, familiar. She spun around.

Scott.

The blue eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that reminded her of Rick. Dressed in browns this time, pin-striped suit excessively wrinkled, more lint on his shoulders.

She met his eyes, spoke with a deliberate tone. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

He laughed out loud, reaching for her elbow to pull her toward the side of the apartment stairway, and Miranda shook him off, teeth gritted.

“Look—Scott, or whatever your name is. It’s over. I don’t work for you or James or anyone else but me anymore, so why don’t you crawl back into your government hole and leave me the fuck alone.”

He looked down at her, still smiling. The bastard exuded charisma.

“Tell you the truth, Miss Corbie, I didn’t expect to see you again, either. But seein’ as how we’re both here—and probably both after the same thing, and that’s who offed the good professor—yes, news travels fast these days, even in the government—why don’t we pay Mr. Wardon a joint visit? Jimmy won’t mind you tagging along.”

Her fists clenched, voice low and throaty and full of warning.

“Oh, but I do mind you ‘tagging along,’ sonny. And this is still my case, so back off.”

He tilted his head and smiled at her. “Now, now, Miranda. You won’t object if I call you Miranda, I hope? It’s hardly wise to stand here and argue. We both have a job to do. And I apologize if I seemed disrespectful. I have the highest respect for your … talents.”

The blue eyes traveled down her body, slower on the way back up to her face. They met hers and he grinned at her.

Goddamn patronizing sonofabitch, ought to punch him in the fucking nose and watch him bleed over the goddamn suit …

He raised his eyebrows in feigned innocence.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, and Miranda struggled to tamp down the anger, exhaustion finally winning the battle. She turned her back to him abruptly and started to climb the stairs to the door.

“Hey, wait for me…”

She pressed the call buttons next to the names with fresher ink, figuring newer tenants at a place like the Zenobia would be more likely to have callers. Scott stood and watched her, still grinning. The fifth button finally answered, buzzing them both in.

Foyer was small, dark, and damp, a large tree outside blockading the sun. Wardon had been number 11, up the flight of stairs. The agent headed straight up without pausing. Miranda lengthened her stride to catch up with him, and they made the second-floor landing at the same time. The burgundy-and-tan carpet was threadbare, a few dark stains of what looked like motor oil spotting the threshold.

Scott was raising his fist to knock when Miranda yanked his arm down. She nodded her head toward the still-full milk bottles on the floor, her voice a hiss.

“Wait a minute. Either he hasn’t been home for two days or something’s wrong.”

His eyes flickered. “You know, you’re not a bad shamus. But we still need to knock, whatever the score.”

Her mouth formed a thin line of entrenchment, and she nodded curtly. “Just be prepared.”

Scott’s lips curved up. “I’m a Boy Scout, honey. I’m always prepared.”

He raised his fist to the thin door, rapping the wood loudly.

No answer.

He tried again, this time attracting the attention of the tenant in number 9, who cracked the door to peer out and listen, pretending to be invisible. Miranda cleared her throat.

“Mr. Wardon? Are you there?”

She nodded to Scott, who knocked again. Miranda moistened her lips, fought the urge for a cigarette, instead unraveling the Life Saver roll in her jacket pocket and popping two in her mouth.

“We’d better find the manager.”

He shrugged his shoulders. She’d caught the manager’s number and name while pressing buttons and headed back downstairs to number 3. The occupant in number 9 abruptly shut the door as they passed.

This time Scott waited for Miranda, and she slid in front of him, knocking on the manager’s door.

A man about fifty, in a three-day-old beard and plaid pajamas, answered the door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Mr. Butterick?”

“Yeah—the heat’s goin’ on in number seven, I already called—”

Scott’s deep voice interrupted him. “We’re not here for number seven. We’re looking for a tenant, a Mr. Hugo Wardon.”

Butterick opened his eyes and looked from one to the other, frowning. “So look already, Christ, it’s still a free country, at least for now.” He was about to slam the door shut when Miranda stuck her leg over the threshold.

“Wait a minute. He hasn’t picked up his milk in two days. And unless you want to get hauled to Kearny Street for questioning on his disappearance, Mr. Butterick, I think you should put on some pants and open the apartment.”

Butterick looked at them again, eyes traveling from Miranda to Scott and back. He rubbed his chin, made a face. Sighed.

“You ain’t cops, but you act like ’em, so you’re probably dicks of some sort and I like my life nice and peaceful. It’s true, I ain’t seen Wardon for a week, but that don’t mean nothin’—I don’t see him regular, anyway, guy disappears for weeks on end and keeps hours like a goddamn—excuse the language, ma’am—like a bat. Hold on for a minute and I’ll throw on some trousers and get the key.”

Scott stepped closer to prevent Butterick from closing the door, and the apartment manager grimaced.

“Yeah, keep the door open, you will anyway, I know better than to argue with a dick, even if she’s a lady.”

He smiled ruefully at Miranda and meandered toward a bedroom, path strewn with empty beer bottles and some dirty laundry. Scott cocked an eyebrow at Miranda. She ignored him, eyes focused on Butterick.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi …

The manager returned, wearing long johns, shirt stained brown and yellow, and a pair of patched blue jeans held up by suspenders. He held up a key and dangled it.

“C’mon, coppers, let’s go see.”

They stepped back and he carefully closed the door behind him, trudging up the single flight and breathing hard. He nodded at the milk bottles when they reached number 11.

“Yeah, that ain’t like him. Neat as a pin, not like most of the ones we get.”

His nose wrinkled as he fit the key in the door. “That milk’s startin’ to stink already.”

Scott and Miranda looked at one another. The agent said: “Just open the door, Mr. Butterick, and … step back.”

Butterick pushed the door open and blanched. Warm air was sucked into the corridor by the vacuum of the opening, and the smell was stronger, mixed with shit and urine.

Scott plucked out his display handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and Miranda held a Kleenex to her nose. She glanced at Butterick, who was trying not to throw up.

“Call Inspector David Fisher at the Hall of Justice—do it now. Nobody else, just Inspector Fisher. And hurry.”

Scott had already marched into the small apartment. She followed, coming to a stop in the living room area.

Boxes of unframed paintings stood upright in stacks, next to heavy antique chairs and a couple of Chinese vases. More paintings hung on walls, old master and modern, gilt-edged frames still sporting numbers, museum or collection. One work in particular drew her eye, a luminous eighteenth century oil of a young woman, partially disrobed, with a letter on her lap.

As if in another tableau, an artistic arrangement by Duchamp or Dalí, a stiffened finger stretched out to touch the canvas.

Hugo Wardon, his throat sawed neatly in half, the blood coagulated, dried and covered in flies. The dealer lay on the floor in his living room, reaching for his last painting.

Thirty-four

Scott looked up at her. “I’m not supposed to be here. What do you give the cops—five, ten minutes?”

Wardon’s eyes—what was left of them—were focused on the painting of the girl with the letter, as if he’d willed himself, as he lay dying, to touch the paint, hold it one final time.

Her face shone down at him from the crooked position of the frame, leaning against a half-open box of other prints and paintings stacked upright on the floor, eyes pensive, lips pursed, arms wrapped around her breasts as if she were cold and trying to cover up.

Miranda turned her head away for a moment. Spoke to Scott without looking at him.