City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (25 page)

Miranda closed her eyes, music swirling in memory, pale gold lights and black-and-white ashtrays, tall gin rickey and a glass of bourbon for Johnny, Scotch in Rick’s highball, another Friday night at the Stork. Rick, upside-down grin and wrinkles around his eyes, not quite as tall, not quite as handsome, not quite as good a reporter, blue eyes on her, on the dress she bought at Macy’s, swallowing the Scotch, swallowing the envy …

Goddamn it.

Knock on the door made her jump. Young man with carefully combed hair and dog eyes holding a small brown box and a larger, legal-folder-size package. She shoved a dollar bill in his hand and shut the door before he had time to say thanks.

Grabbed a scissors from the front drawer, slicing the paper tape along the edges of the small box. Pried open the flaps, took out brown wrapping paper. Inside, a greeting card and another small, wrapped box.

The card was addressed to “Miranda,” Rick’s handwriting. She ripped the envelope with the letter opener. Red roses on a white and yellow background, “But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold” printed in a flowery script. Typed piece of paper inside.

Dear Miranda,

I tried to call you but then found out about the murder at Finocchio’s. You’re one of the names they’re dropping as a person of interest, riding hard on the Hart case. Cops’ll probably give you a tough time.

I’m sorry, for your friend and for you. Sorry to have to write this.

The car is at a parking station on 5th and Minna, paid up for today.

I told you yesterday I had to leave. I know you understand why. I’m thirty-five years old, and it’s time I decided what to do with my life … what to do, who to do it with.

I’m going away. Maybe I’ll join the army—better to get in now than wait till I’m drafted. Maybe I’ll make OCS.

For now, you can contact me through general delivery, San Francisco. I’ll write you when I’m settled somewhere.

Enclosed is something to remember me by. Please wear it and think of me.

I’ve packed up all the information on your mother in a separate parcel. I hope it helps you find her.

I’m not John, Miranda—never was and never could be. But he was my friend, and you’re my friend, and I figured, hell, we don’t get many chances at real happiness. I’m proud of you, proud for you, and want you to find happiness, too—more than anything. If that means Gonzales, you have my blessing.

Be seeing you, kid. Keep your chin up.

Rick

Miranda stared at the paper, eyes cloudy, office swimming, swirling, while she blinked back the moisture, wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. She plucked the small box from the bottom of the package, ripping off the wrapping paper.

Familiar scent, brown-and-gold design. She opened the presentation case.

A bottle of Vol de Nuit, made in Paris.

She cradled it in her hands, rocking back and forth in the chair.

Mission Street church again, bells summoning her back.

Son, observe the time and fly from evil …

Wiped her eyes and face with a handkerchief she found in her purse. Grabbed the card and the Vol de Nuit and the other unopened package and opened the safe.

Starting to run out of room, Spanish pistol, government money, and now perfume from Rick. She peered into the back and dragged out Gonzales’s dusty fedora, looking it over with a sardonic smile.

Seemed like fifty fucking years ago.

She tossed the hat on the file cabinet, carefully placed the perfume with the card on one shelf, the thinner, flat package of information on her mother on the second.

Catherine Corbie would have to wait, but she’d waited almost thirty years already. Two clients, two murders, one of a friend. A job for the government mixing spies and art, Nazis and Mexico, chemistry and killers.

She’d be alone … but Miranda was used to that.

*   *   *

A few fries, wilted lettuce, ketchup in a swirl of red on the buffalo China plate. Miranda shoved the remains of the Tascone hamburger aside and read the list again. Under
Wiedemann/princess
she’d written
Jasper, Cranach, spy network, Pioneer Fund.

She frowned. Nothing specific, nothing definitive, nothing James had hired her for. Cranachs were probably the best lead.

If Jasper was selling secrets, he was selling them to and through Stephanie, the real power behind the swastika at 26 O’Farrell. Wiedemann’s coy responses about art expertise seemed more calculated to securing valuable paintings for himself, not formulas for the Third Reich.

She frowned again, tamping the fountain pen on the desk. Jasper was tough, assignment already killed her predecessor. Was he a spy and a murderer, or merely a spy? Or was he just a goddamn opportunist obsessed by art and willing to break the law to acquire it? Was he the head of a ring or acting solo? Too many questions, try again.

This time she scrawled
Dealer
at the top of the page, quickly adding
Wardon/Weardon?, Degenerate art, Picasso exhibit, Mexico/Switzerland
. Flipped quickly to the earlier section of the tablet … Anthony Weardon, Berkeley, or Hugo Wardon, San Francisco.

She dragged the phone directory toward her, opening the pages to
W.
Ran a finger down the tiny print.

Hal Warden, Benjamin Wardon … bingo.

H. Wardon, Zenobia Apartments, 947 Bush Street, PRospect 9823.

Just two blocks from her own apartment, the Zenobia was strictly short term, shabbily genteel. Made sense if Wardon traveled a lot, or owned a gallery in another city. He’d mentioned it to Jasper, described it in self-deprecating terms … what was it? “My little shop”?

Miranda lit a cigarette and picked up the phone.

Three rings, four, five … no answer.

She frowned, hung up. Turned back to the phone book.

“SUtter 5900, please.”

Pick up on the second ring. “Raymond and Raymond, may I help you?”

Sleek, well fed, self-satisfied. She smiled grimly to herself and poured on the flattery.

“I’m positive you can, Mr. Raymond—in fact, you may be the only one who can.”

He rose to the bait, preening. “Well, I thank you for your confidence, Madame. I am not one of the Mr. Raymonds, though I shall endeavor to be of assistance. Do you have an art question?”

Miranda raised her eyebrows and grinned, keeping her hand over the mouthpiece to take a hit on the Chesterfield.

“Sir, I surely do. I attended the opening of the Picasso exhibit in San Francisco the other night—we drove up from our winery near Monterey—and I met the most delightful man. He told me he would appraise my father’s collection … it’s been sitting in a dusty old attic for I don’t know how many years. My problem is that I’ve lost his card, and I don’t believe his gallery is in the City—in fact, I’m not sure where it is. I called Raymond and Raymond because I know your firm knows everybody and everything.” She punctuated the last two words breathlessly, rolling her eyes.

Mr. Sleek was torn between irritation at being asked for a competitor’s information, and greed and curiosity over the mythical attic collection. He decided to play it safe.

“What is the gentleman’s name, Madame? I will be happy to search my directory for you.”

“Mr. Hugo Wardon. That’s W-a-r-d-o-n. And I shall remember your kindness and that of Raymond and Raymond when it comes time to dispose of Daddy’s collection!”

He made gracious noises, set the phone down. Miranda exhaled, shook her head. No time for dialogue by Clifford Odets or Saroyan, whatever got the fucking job done …

Clatter while he picked up the phone and cleared his throat.

“Mr. Hugo Wardon is an agent of the Count Lestang Gallery in Mexico City, Madame. If that is too far to travel, we’d be happy to appraise your paintings here at the gal—”

Phone dropped in the cradle, clanging loudly. No time for niceties, either.

She wrote hurriedly, scratching out
Weardon,
circling
Wardon
and
Mexico,
adding
Count Lestang
to the list.

Miranda stared down at the name, brow wrinkled in memory. Count Lestang, Count Lestang. Odd title, odder name, and yet familiar. If Wardon was Jasper’s Mexican connection, maybe Lestang was involved, maybe not, whatever the involvement was, smuggling art or secrets or both. Still didn’t explain the professor’s anger, though. She remembered the way Jasper’s fist closed over his arm, knuckles and face white with strain.

Miranda ground the cigarette out in the tray, eyes still on the list.

Gonzales. Goddamn it, Gonzales.

She remembered now, the brief mention of Picasso and how he’d tried to impress her and overshadow Rick, throwing out that his family owned a Picasso, purchased in Mexico City.

And she’d asked what gallery.

Count Le-fucking-stang.

She bit her lip. Reached for the phone, dialed the number herself.

Three rings, four. He answered on the sixth, out of breath.

“Gonzales.”

“Miranda Corbie. I’m sorry to bother you at work—”

Surprise, warmth, like the summer sun over the Gulf of Mexico.

“You are never a bother, Miranda. I’m glad you phoned, I’ve been worried about you. I have tried to speak with the district attorney, but I’m afraid it’s too late. Inspector Fisher mentioned you in our meeting … I understand he is taking the brunt of it from Brady. I’m sorry, Miranda … sorry to see you dragged through this witch hunt.”

She shook another cigarette out of the package. “I’m used to it. Listen, you mentioned a Count Lestang Gallery the other night—place in Mexico City where you picked up a Picasso. Can you get me any information on the business?”

Slight pause, a little stiff. “May I ask why, Miranda?”

“Sure, you can ask. Doesn’t mean I can tell you. Let’s just say it’s important to a case I’m working on—a confidential case.”

“Something to do with the murders?”

“Don’t push me, Gonzales. Can you get me the information or not?”

He finally answered with a low chuckle.

“Same old Miranda. I will see what I can discover for you, but this much I can tell you now. The gallery is owned by the Count Lestang, a rather fancy gentleman who lives much of the time in Europe. He is middle-aged—about forty-five—wears a mustache. He cultivates the better families in Mexico as clients. My own has done business with him for the last several years.”

Soft voice, smooth and caressing, strength underneath it. Like his body next to hers, skin on skin, strong hands but gentle. Goddamn it …

“Does he have a partner—or an assistant of some kind?”

Gonzales gave a verbal shrug. “I believe there is another gentleman there—blond hair, goatee beard. I noticed him when I was in Mexico last month. I do not remember his name.”

“Is he a co-owner of the gallery, or does he just do work for Lestang?”

“That I do not know, Miranda. Our family has dealt with the count solely. The blond gentleman did mention that he was taking care of business while the count was in France.”

Miranda crushed the cigarette out. “Thanks. Will you call me with anything else you find?”

“I shall. Will tomorrow be soon enough?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Gonzales.”

“Miranda … when may I see you again?”

She looked at the fedora perched on the dusty file cabinet. Felt weary, suddenly, and rubbed her neck with her left hand.

“I’ve got your hat. You can pick it up at my office.”

Two beats of disappointment. He’d figured on a social call. “Of course. Perhaps we may set a time tomorrow, when I phone. Take care, Miranda.”

“Be seeing you, Gonzales.”

She took a deep breath, hand still resting on the heavy black receiver.

Twenty-three

Nondescript killer in a wide-brimmed fedora, trained well enough to disappear.

Maybe the man who nearly sliced Lois Hart’s neck in two and hacked at Edmund until he bled to death against an alley wall. Maybe the man that slit the throat of her State Department predecessor.

Miranda breathed in the cold summer air, exhaust from the cars and trucks maneuvering Market, the fresh coffee downstairs at Tascone’s. Stretched her legs, sore from sitting too long. White Fronts clanged by, afternoon run to the ferries and the Fair, blending with Frank Sinatra and Harry James and trumpet wails from the Tascone jukebox, up and out.

All, or nothing at all …

Goddamn it. Her thoughts needed order, some clarity and purpose, before shadowing Jasper tonight. Find the link, the goddamn link …

She fell back in the chair with a sigh and read the words again. Underneath
shadow/Killer
she’d written
coupe? fedora, strangulation/throat, same person? Fingers?
and
experience
. Not much to go on.

Miranda reached for a Butter Rum Life Saver and popped it into her mouth. Blotted the Esterbrook fountain pen. Was Edmund killed because of the Hart woman? And what about Jasper—two deaths on the day she starts investigating the doctor. Were they—could they—be connected?

She started to write again, back to the beginning.

Jasper

Wardon/Lestang

Mexico/Switzerland

Nazis

Pioneer Fund

Degenerate Art/Old Masters? Buy/Sell?

spy comment/Russia comment/Soviet consulate

Heinsicker—owed a favor?

Smuggle information w/art?

Queer

She tapped the pen against her lip. Wrote
Lois Hart
, quickly following it with
Shadow/killer, Edmund, Chauffeur, Senator? Husband? Raymond? Jade, Fingers
.

So far, so good. Lois and Edmund, obvious connection. Shadow followed Lois, Edmund noticed him, another connection. Edmund remembered things … photographic memory, he’d said, and she’d made a goddamn joke.

She frowned. Edmund. Edmund was the nexus.