City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (8 page)

*   *   *

Miranda strode through the lobby, waving hurriedly to Gladys who was helping a distinguished-looking party in a bowler and tweed vest with a selection of pipe tobacco. The Monadnock crowd was thinning out. Even the Tascone’s jukebox was quiet.

Entartete Kunst.
She’d heard it before, couldn’t remember where. Her gloved finger pressed the button and she checked her watch and the clock above the crate. 10:58. No time to think about art or Jasper or the goateed art dealer. Her Hamilton watch was running a little slow, and she wound it until the automatic elevator dinged and the doors parted.

A well-preserved woman in her mid-forties stood in front of her, draped in iron gray and looking like rain over the Pacific. The heavy odor of Narcisse Noir steamed through the doors.

Mrs. Hart.

Miranda hesitated for a brief moment before stepping inside. Her stomach tightened, and she nodded to the woman in gray.

“Good evening.”

The socialite tilted her head back, opened her purse, and withdrew a silver cigarette case with a monogram. She plucked out a Marlborough and lit it with a matching silver lighter she materialized from the gauze of her cape.

The door clanged and opened on four and Mrs. Hart inhaled, stick elegantly cradled between two long gloved fingers. She stepped out, waving what was left of the Marlborough in a graceful arc, large steel eyes stuck to Miranda like frostbite.

“You’re late.”

“Not by my watch.”

They walked side by side down the fourth floor of the Monadnock, shoe taps echoing down the deserted hallway. Miranda paused in front of her office and extracted the key.

Mrs. Hart’s voice was low and drawling, gray like her cape, gray like the fog creeping through the Golden Gate.

“I’d advise you to invest in a decent Swiss timepiece. If you plan to stay in business, of course.”

She drew out “business” in three syllables of sin, blue veins under her translucent, barely wrinkled skin drawn and defined like a road map, her white face immobile … except for the eyes.

Miranda flung open the door, flicked on the light, and tossed her evening bag on the desk. She turned sharply, back pressed against the edge of the desk, cream-colored outer wrap hanging open. The green of her dress glowed against her skin in the blinking pink light from the Top Hat Club across Market.

“Maybe you should save your worries for your son.”

Eyes like dirty snow moved over Miranda’s body. “My son. He’s cost me enough as it is. Where’s the jade?”

“In the safe. Where’s my fee?”

The woman in gray shot a glance at the ancient Wells Fargo safe against the wall, one penciled eyebrow arched.

“The whisper of my name is good enough for every shop of significance in this city.”

Miranda shook her head.

“I said cash, Mrs. Hart, and I meant it. Two hundred for me, and the rest for the payoff in Chinatown. Unless you want the morning papers to be full of the story.”

The socialite glided soundlessly toward Miranda’s desk. She crushed the remains of her cigarette in the Tower of the Sun ashtray, twisting the stub until the paper splintered and the tobacco made a small brown pile. A smile stretched her carefully lined lips. She opened her evening bag, withdrawing a smaller black wallet.

“Seven million dollars can buy things other than jewelry, Miss Corbie. Yes, I brought you your cash, but only because it amuses me and because you were, after all, successful. But please don’t make the mistake of thinking I can be bled.”

Miranda nodded at the desk. “Lay it out there. I’m not a blackmailer, Mrs. Hart. I merely want to finish the job I started and collect my fee. Your whispered name won’t pay my rent, no matter how many necklaces it buys you … or Picassos.”

The woman’s hand froze in mid-air for a moment while she counted out eight C-notes, two twenties, a ten, a five and finally, a single dollar bill.

“Eight hundred fifty-six, you said. I want my necklace.”

Miranda stared at her for a long second. “Eight hundred fifty-six dollars and seventy-five cents. I’m sure you didn’t lose that much at roulette.”

Car horn outside. A girl’s high-pitched laughter. Miranda walked toward the safe and rotated the creaky dial, door swinging opening with a moan. She turned around, holding the heavy green jade in her hand.

There were three quarters on the desk next to the bills.

Miranda held the necklace, bracelet, and earrings out to the woman in gray, staring into liquid metal eyes. Mrs. Hart glanced away, finding refuge at the window.

“You’ll want a receipt.”

The socialite nodded, still examining various corners of the room, mouth in a well-bred curl. Miranda slid behind the desk and sank into the overlarge leather chair, twisting the Bakelite knob on the lamp. She found another key and opened the middle drawer, pulling out a receipt book with a crumpled piece of carbon paper sandwiched in between the leaves. She riffled through it, folded the cover back, and reached for an Esterbrook.

Miranda carefully recorded the amount received, divided into expenses and fee, and glanced at her watch before noting the date and hour. She looked up and held out the receipt.

“I’m returning your jade to you at 11:17
P.M.
, Mrs. Hart. I don’t know what time it is in Switzerland.”

The woman pinched the edge of the paper with the gloved fingertips, folded the paper carefully and returned it to her purse. Her voice was slightly higher in pitch.

“May I ask—what were you doing at the Picasso exhibit? Were you following me?”

Miranda stood up, eyebrows raised. “You read too many magazine stories. Private investigators don’t usually shadow their own clients. I was there on my own time. I happen to like Picasso.”

It was Mrs. Hart’s turn to look surprised. “I wouldn’t have thought a woman of your background…”

The first syllable was emphasized, with a long, drawn-out Lady Esther radio voice, Boston by way of Bakersfield. Miranda’s lips curved dangerously.

“I’m a college graduate. I assume that’s the
bahk
ground you mean.”

The woman in gray murmured: “Yes, of course … I merely thought…”

Miranda stepped sideways out from behind the desk and faced the socialite directly.

“Since you offered me advice, I’ll return the favor. Number one, get Randolph off the juice before it’s too late. It may already be too late, but seven million pieces of sugar can buy a lot of doctors. Number two, lay off the senator. Maybe you think you’re being discreet, but two stoolies offered me the information for a fiver and a pint of rye. You’re cheap news, Mrs. Hart.”

The ice was cracking, a sharp high
tang
as the liquid steel eyes melted in panic and the blue map on her face suddenly led back to boardinghouses and boiled potatoes. The eyes darted around the room, searching the office, looking for her husband, looking for the flashbulbs and the inevitable fatal trip to Reno. Miranda almost felt sorry for her.

“Number three. You need a new escort. Edmund Whittaker’s a washout. I saw him with you tonight, and it’s no good, he’s too well known to act as a front for you. Where’s the husband—New York?”

The woman took a few seconds to resolidify. She placed a gloved hand on the edge of Miranda’s desk, then curled her fingers into a fist and straightened her spine. Her eyes were back to the color of coal and coke.

“How—how dare you? What do you know of Edmund? He’s a fine man, an architect, and a good friend. He’d never—
never
—stoop to…” Her head made a sweeping, circular motion, encompassing all of Miranda and the office. She held her hand up to her neck as if she were choking.

Miranda opened her purse and plucked a cigarette out of her gold case, lighting it quickly with the Ronson One-Touch on the desk. Her eyes lingered on the older woman’s red-and-white face, the diamonds at her ears and throat. She blew a stream of smoke over Mrs. Hart’s right shoulder.

“You’re right for once. Whittaker prefers men to women. The problem, Mrs. Hart, is that your friends will eventually discover the charade. So will your husband. And sooner or later—and my guess is sooner—someone’s going to tell him about the senator.”

She pointed her Chesterfield at the woman in gray. “You can take my advice or leave it … I don’t give a damn either way. Consider it a bonus, Mrs. Hart. Noblesse oblige.”

The socialite gathered her purse and raised the hood of the cape over her head, gray reaper in fabric by Irene. She glided quickly to Miranda’s office door, staring at the black and gold letters:

MIRANDA CORBIE. PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.
c
ONFIDENTIAL
-D
ISCREET.

Mrs. Hart swung her neck to the side, spoke to the air. “Thank you.”

The pneumatic door swung slowly shut, as the taps on her gray French leather pumps rang like iron spikes against the marble floor. Miranda stood and smoked, watching the door click into place. Her hands were still shaking.

Seven

The red and pink neon from the Top Hat stained the dark, closed office like a bloodstain.

Miranda sat at her desk and smoked, listening to the juke from downstairs, music floating up from Tascone’s, “Love for Sale” and “Time on My Hands,” and “Only Forever,” fucking forever …

Reached for the Old Taylor, thought better of it. Flipped through the Chief tablet until she found a blank page, then grabbed the Esterbrook, fingers clutching it savagely, pen nib pressing down too hard.

She swore, slammed the tablet shut.

Mrs. Hart. James. Gonzales …

Her eyes closed, music transporting her, different time, different place, somewhere else.

Do I want to be with you as the years come and go …

Someone else.

*   *   *

Early 1936.

“Mmmm … I like that. You smell like spring. Maybe you’ll melt the snow outside … On second thought, I like it better here…”

Laughter, free and easy like the fluffy white flakes falling on Manhattan. “Don’t you have a job, Mr. Hayes? Someone to question, some politician to grill?” She pushed him away, not hard, hands still on his chest.

He cupped her face in his hands, brushed her lips with his, let them drift to her neck, voice muffled by her skin.

“What is this stuff? Don’t take it off. Everything else, sure, but leave the perfume.”

This time she pushed him hard and he fell back over on the small bed, white shirt askew and not really white, top two buttons of his trousers undone, necktie flung on the well-worn fedora at the foot. He was grinning. He always seemed to be grinning.

Miranda caught her breath at the heat in his eyes, the white of his teeth, the strength of his lean body. The energy that wrapped around him, wrapped around them both, crackling like electricity. Her stomach was knotted and there was sweat in her palms. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

“Je Reviens.” She nodded toward the minuscule vanity dresser in the corner. “The blue bottle that looks like a skyscraper. You were with me when I bought it, don’t you remember? Macy’s, day before yesterday.”

John Hayes looked at her meditatively for a moment, then pulled himself up from the bed, stretched and yawned.

“Honey, I only remember what they smell like. They could be spritzed from a spittoon for all I know. ‘’Cause I only have eyes for you, dear…’”

He reached out a hand to pull her in again, giving the song his best Dick Powell impression. Miranda shuddered as his hand ran down her side, fingers brushing her breast. He bent over her, eyes dancing again, grin still in place, face only a few inches away from hers. She kept her eyes open while he kissed her, tongues probing each other, hands and fingers in hollows and curves, wanting to remember the scent of his skin and the way the warm yellow light hit his hair.

He pulled up and looked down at her, eyebrows knotted. “What’s wrong, Randy?”

Randy. He’d announced it as her new name when they met, just four weeks ago. It was her name now, and she couldn’t imagine any other. Couldn’t imagine any other man.

Miranda reached a finger up to trace his face, from the mole on his temple to the small scar on his cheek to the blond-brown whiskers on his chin. She let her fingernail rest in the cleft.

Her voice came out as a whisper. “I love you, John Robert Hayes.”

His face crinkled at the corners, grew somber. He held her off by the shoulders, stared down into the brown eyes. He’d called them “truth tellers” that first time, a deep brown flecked with green, eyes that never lied.

He spoke slowly. “Well, now, Miss Miranda Corbie. That’s convenient. Because whether you smell like violets and orange blossoms or Ma Drexel’s potato soup, I think I love you, too.”

They stared at one another for a few seconds. Johnny looked away, uncharacteristically awkward. When he met her eyes again, business was in his face. The reporter was back.

He hurriedly tucked his shirt in and buttoned up his brown trousers.

“I’ve gotta go cover a political rally or the boss’ll have my hide. How ’bout a late-night spaghetti dinner at Maggio’s?”

“I’ll wait up.”

“Don’t. I’ll buzz you. You’re still pounding the pavement for dutiful employment, honey, and you need to stay fresh.”

John knotted his tie quickly and finished before Miranda could help him. He grinned at her and shoved the fedora on his head, slipped into a jacket and a thick wool coat.

“Now I’m ready to tackle Tammany and the weather. You I’ll tackle later.”

He bent forward and brushed her cheek with his lips. “What does Je Reviens mean, anyhow?”

Her eyes searched his. “It means ‘I’ll return.’”

The white teeth flashed again, cleft in his chin deepening. “You bet I will.
Je reviens,
baby!”

He laughed as he pulled open the thin wooden door and stepped into the boardinghouse hallway, the low, mellow rumble of his laughter filling the decaying Victorian house with light. Miranda stepped across the threshold and watched him bound down the stairway, his hand sliding on the worn, smooth wood of the banister. He threw up a hand, blew a kiss, and she held up hers as she watched him slide around the entrance door and head for 29th Street.