City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (23 page)

Miranda smiled up at him. “Good evening, Doctor. Thank you for the honor.”

He took the seat, nodded. Looked around.

“I must apologize for my churlish behavior earlier. Attending Fritz’s social functions makes me nervous. I imagine I must be on several government lists by now, suspected of the most dire espionage activity because of my work.”

Miranda ground the cigarette out in the glass ashtray, while Rick swallowed a shot of Scotch.

“But surely, Dr. Jasper—no one would suspect you of such things. You would not be allowed to continue your chemistry research.”

The blond waiter returned on Jasper’s signal.

“Thank you, Clive. My usual, please.”

The doctor turned to face Miranda. “Don’t be naïve, Miss Gouchard. Under such circumstances, they would want me to continue the work in order to trace the leaks and apprehend the spies. No, I am afraid my friendly association with Fritz has made me a marked—and decidedly ill-tempered—man. But tell me—what do you do for the consulate?”

“Many things, Doctor, most of them in public relations. I was a—a liaison with the Soviets, for example, before the Molotov Pact.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You worked with the Russians? That leaves us something in common. I have many friends in the consulate here and in New York.”

Miranda swirled the bourbon and sipped it. “I’m afraid my work was rather confidential. But the Soviets, too, are art collectors, Doctor. Not on the same scale, of course. Perhaps they will learn from the Germans.”

Jasper’s lips stretched into a smile. “I see you think like I do. Politics, my dear Miss Gouchard, are not important. One country invading another is but the infinitesimal path of a single electron, a brief flicker of light, but art—to those who appreciate it—art is immortal.”

She nodded, carefully choosing her words. “Though there are those who think that the current lightning storm will last a little longer, Doctor. Concentrated power. And if power gets into the wrong hands…”

Jasper waved a hand dismissively. “Hitler will continue to scream and Goebbels to burn books. But even they understand the value of what they condemn. Art lives, Miss Gouchard. Art lives and thrives, no matter who is currently invading whom.”

The drink arrived, Jasper murmuring “Thank you, Clive,” before sipping the tall glass of red wine. “They carry excellent vintages here.”

Rick drained his glass, wiped his face with a napkin.

“You’re a wine connoisseur, Dr. Jasper?”

The doctor shrugged. “I admire beauty in all things, Mr. Payne. A painting, a car, a glass of wine. There is almost unfathomable beauty in the universe, in the smallest particle of matter, the neatness and order. Chemistry, like art, is the study of beauty—the beauty of life itself.”

“It seems like the chemistry business these days is more interested in death.”

Jasper leaned back in his chair, more relaxed, and raised his face to the stage.

“Yes, Mr. Payne, I agree. It is manifestly unfortunate that our world is more interested in the beauty of death than the beauty of life—and make no mistake, death enjoys a beauty, an allure all her own. But this is the reality of the times in which we find ourselves. Tonight, however, let us concentrate on a different world … the world of illusion.”

The orange and red lights from the stage lit his skin, making it less saturnine, catching a gleam from his teeth. Miranda sat back and stared at him.

No wife, no kids, no mistress, no apparent personal life. No personal response to her, other than anger, appraisement, and a barely veiled, barely controlled whiff of fear and curiosity, motivated by intellectual analysis and rather astute paranoia.

Yet here he was, a Finocchio’s regular, pulse rate quickened, eyes moist, palms sweaty, staring at the tall brunette belting out the Mexican number.

Jasper was queer.

*   *   *

Miranda chattered on about the Picasso show, even brought up Kirchner, the artist the sandy-haired dealer mentioned at the exhibit. Jasper ignored her, eyes focused on the dancers and the singers, body tense with enjoyment.

She glanced at Edmund a couple of times. He looked increasingly agitated, almost trapped, the older man with him more drunk and oblivious. Once she found him staring at her as if he recognized her. She turned back quickly to the stage, head buried in the drink menu.

The show finished at twelve-thirty, after several curtain calls for Carroll Davis, who gave them Ethel Merman and closed with Kate Smith’s “God Bless America.”

The dregs from the consulate party congregated in the lobby afterward, yawning, drunk, lining up to phone chauffeurs or taxicabs. Stephanie nodded to Miranda, supposed inspiration for the event, disappointed in the tepid response from her flock, no rabid disapproval, no expressions of outrage, no prostrate humiliation.

So much for “degenerate” San Francisco.

Fritz struggled to stay awake, overgrown child in an outlandish costume. Hübner reappeared at his elbow, ready to guide the consul and the princess home, while Jasper fidgeted, nervous and energized. He bowed to Miranda, said good-bye to Fritz, and left quietly.

She limped to the Packard, feet raw from the old shoes, muscles worn and tired. Dress was too heavy, beads wearing her down.

Rick asked if he could drive. She nodded, too tired to move. Closed her eyes, dozed against his shoulder, and listened to the sounds of the city at night, horns and music, yellow light from a few all-night cafés stabbing the darkness. A thick patch of fog on Pine Street woke her before they reached Mason.

“Can you drop off the car at my office tomorrow?”

“Not until lunch. That OK?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Rick. I can’t believe how long this day has been.”

“Long for me, too.”

She held a fist up to her mouth and yawned. Rick let the car roll gently down the hill, hitting the brakes and pulling in across the street from the Drake-Hopkins Apartments.

“Need help?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Don’t know why I’m so tired. It’s not even two-thirty.”

He grinned at her, mouth a little sad around the edges. “See you tomorrow, Miranda.”

She yawned again, put a gloved hand on his arm. “Thanks. For everything.”

He nodded, eased off the brake, coasted down to Sutter and turned right.

Miranda watched him go and then looked up at the apartment house, every light dark except one.

*   *   *

She pulled the mask and wig off as soon as she walked through the door, scalp sweaty and itching. Unrolled the stockings from her legs, rubbing the skin. Stayed awake long enough to take off the dress properly, hung it up and left it in her closet.

Twisted the radio dial. Glenn Miller.

Let’s build a stairway to the stars …

She woke up with a headache, heart thumping, phone ringing. Light from the window looked about six-thirty or seven. Her hand crawled out and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

Familiar voice, somber, couldn’t place it fast enough.

“Miss Corbie—it’s Mark Fisher. Could you come down to 506 Broadway as soon as possible?”

She sat up in bed, holding her breath. Finocchio’s.

“What the—what happened? Someone hurt?”

He hesitated, lowered his voice. “We found your card in his pocket and I figured you should maybe ID the guy. Driver’s license says Edmund Whittaker. I’m sorry, Miranda … he’s been killed.”

Miranda dropped the phone receiver to her lap, eyes unfocused, staring at the blue forget-me-nots nodding on the wall.

Act Three

Price

He that dies pays all debts.

—William Shakespeare,
The Tempest,
Act III, scene 2

Twenty-one

She rubbed her eyes, fighting off the panic of the bad dream.

Another client, another friend.

Dead, dead, gone.

Miranda reached for the pack of cigarettes on her nightstand, lighting one with a shaking hand. Yesterday morning, Lois Hart. Today, Edmund.

Lois and Edmund, friends, soul mates, carnival masks in place for eternity. Together forever, what death has joined together let no man put asunder …

She gulped the cigarette, feeling the smoke hit her lungs. Reached for the telephone.

“MArket 3741.”

Static on the line.

A female voice answered. “Your name?”

“Ugly Duckling. I need to speak with James MacLeod.”

Click
and silence. Four beats, then five. The voice came back on, neutral in tone.

“Mr. MacLeod can’t speak with you.”

“Goddamn it, it’s urgent—”

“Madame, there’s no reason to use profanity—”

“I’ve got every fucking reason to use profanity, sister, so find me MacLeod and—”

Click. Whir, clackety, click, click
.

Miranda ran a hand over her forehead, remembering what James had said the day before. He was heading back to Washington.

She was on her own.

*   *   *

506 Broadway, alleyway.

Broken cement, nightshade and dandelions, mallow weed growing stalks between the cracks. Dented garbage cans and peeling paint. Fruit crates, faded label, “American Girl California Celery,” a damp mop and rusty tin bucket, broken glass and empty wine bottles. Sweet putrescent smell, old perfume, gin, and rotten fruit.

White chalk around a figure slumped against a wall.

Edmund.

He was crumpled in the corner, long arms embracing his ankles, hat shoved too far down on his head. Thin puddle of glistening red around his trouser cuffs, seeping into his socks, streaks and drops like red rain on a windshield.

Miranda took a breath, stabbing pain in her gut.

And she was going to help him. Help him like she’d helped Betty Chow.

Fisher stood by her elbow while another cop used a pencil to move Edmund’s head and prop it against the wall. Someone with gloves took off his Borsalino and bagged it.

Fisher’s voice was gentle. “That him?”

She watched the white lab coat boys work on the body, the photographer taking photos.

Snap. Pop, pop, snap.

“Used to be. Garrote?”

Fisher shrugged. “Looks like it. Could be a copycat.”

Poor goddamn Edmund. Couldn’t even get his own fucking murder.

The inspector touched her arm. “I’m sorry. Friend of yours, huh?”

She looked around the alley, acrid smell of old dishwater and steak fat, beer and wine and sour whiskey, ground slick with potato peels and coffee grounds, last week’s newspaper melted into the pavement.

Her voice was short. “We served together.”

He scanned her face, speaking slowly.

“We can head to the office in a couple of minutes. Got a lot of questions, Miranda … between you, me, and the wall, orders are to bring you in and keep you there. I figured the least I could do is let you ID the poor bastard first.” He shook his head, voice sad. “You’d better call that lawyer of yours.”

The inspector moved aside, directing the crime scene, yelling at a couple of uniforms to chase bystanders out of the alley entrance. Miranda stood and watched, remembering Edmund’s averted face, more comfortable in the dark, palpable scent of fear clinging to the carefully pressed clothes.

Pop-snap.

Open bottle of rye and they were as tight as a goddamn snare drum, muffled laughter and a yellow slice of light under the closed door. Miranda and Edmund, drinking until dawn, suppressed giggles over the wrinkled socialite from Kansas City, mink coat with fleas, and the fat Elk from Seattle who wanted to play doctor. Whispers that rattled the cage, words that bit Dianne …

Pop-snap.

Summer night at Dianne’s and his eyes when she came to him, shaking, in shock, room 103. Edmund’s hands rubbing her shoulder, repeated motion, comforting, not alone, not alone …

Pop-snap.

Last night, final night, when she told him of Spain and the man she’d killed, the callused hands ripping her shirt, bruising skin, hard fist against her cheek and mouth, thrust upward between her legs. Fingers crawling, stretching, separate from the rest of her body, desperate to reach the tiny gun, fight the pain, fight the pain, a different body, not your own, life only in hand and forefinger, not in legs and breasts and most of all between her legs, not her voice screaming, not her body. Not her. Just the sound of the gun going off, quiet
pop
and a red summer rain …

Ghosts of the past, ghosts of the present, they flitted about the alleyway behind Finocchio’s, mourning a dirge, gray and insubstantial, voices like the rumble of the streetcar down Columbus and the foghorn by the pier. Memory and friendship, disappeared and transmuted with age, nearly forgotten and never forgotten, buried too early and resurrected too late.

Miranda stood in the alley with her head bowed, silent amid the whir and click and grunts and shouts of the cops and medical examiners.

She was listening to the ghosts.

*   *   *

The buttermilk donut was old and stale, but Miranda broke off a piece and ate it without thought. Meyer was looking at her, eyes worried.

“My dear Inspector—you must realize that you—and by you, of course, I mean your half-witted superiors—have not a single shred of evidence with which to charge my client? You’ve questioned her for two hours, and—while we appreciate the fact that you allowed her to identify the deceased at the crime scene—we must, sir, protest.”

Fisher sighed, drumming his fingers, looking tired and hungry. Remains of a donut with chocolate sprinkles sat haphazardly on a loose pile of files.

“Look, Mr. Bialik—I’m just the poor schmo from homicide who’s supposed to be handling the case. Miranda—Miss Corbie—was a person of interest in yesterday’s murder, and she’s a person of interest in today’s. Both victims were known to her, both were her clients. Both had an appointment with her hours before they were murdered, and both were killed by strangulation. That’s a hell of a lot of coincidence. Mir—I mean, Miss Corbie—hasn’t told us much more than what we already know, and the D.A. is getting awfully fidgety.”