City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (41 page)

Couldn’t mention Miguel, the one player whom Cheney couldn’t do without.

She sighed, shoulders slumped, wall propping her upright.

Dull yellows, angry grays, orange lights, and purple shadows, spinning, spinning, and the girl with the letter, eyes wide and empty, imploring, asking for help …

Sharp, sudden pain in her skull where she’d fallen on the train, and Miranda closed her eyes, voices underwater and screaming her name.

*   *   *

Blue forget-me-nots on pale pink wallpaper.

She sat up in bed, wincing. Meyer was dozing in a chair he’d taken from the dining room. Bente was looking out the window, smoking a Lucky Strike.

Sudden pang. Goddamn it, she missed Rick.

“How long have I been out?” Her voice sounded strange, thick and chewy.

Meyer woke up with a start and Bente turned quickly, generous mouth in a broad smile.

“Glad you’ve rejoined the living. I’m getting tired of your couch.”

“It’s still better than the
Oceanic.
”

The redhead threw her head back and laughed, big and throaty. “It’s about eleven
A.M
., Monday, July 1st. Charles de Gaulle has been officially recognized by Churchill as the only decent French politician left, while the rest of the bastards swill like pigs in Vichy water. The island of Jersey surrendered to the fucking Krauts, and U-boats have been sinking ships everywhere. At least the Poles finally got a bomber squadron with the RAF—H. V. Kaltenborn just trotted that one out.”

Meyer shook his head. “Dear Miranda. Perhaps, Miss Gallagher, it would be best not to overwhelm our darling girl with such news just yet.”

Bente raised her eyebrows. “War’s her bread and butter, chum. You should know her better than that by now.”

Her attorney stood up with difficulty, relying on his ebony cane for support, and smiled tolerantly at them both.

“The doctor said she should rest and avoid excitement. Exhaustion and concussion are not easily dismissed.”

Miranda sat up farther, gathering the white brocade bedspread around her chest. “Was Nielsen here?”

Meyer nodded. “You lost consciousness at the crime scene, my dear. We’ve been very worried. His number was listed in your address book, so we contacted him—Miss Gallagher said it would be all right.”

Bente sat next to her on the bed with a sudden plop. “You’re not as young as you used to be, Randy. Getting bashed on the head and going without water and sleep for days on end … had to call the quack, didn’t have a choice.” She gestured with her head toward Meyer. “At least your mouthpiece found a silver lining … the coppers couldn’t question you while you were unconscious.”

Miranda sat silent, looking from one to the other. She noticed a glass of water on her bedside table, suddenly realized how thirsty she was, and drained it. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looked up at her attorney.

“Did they find Cheney?”

He shook his head. “I’m still in the dark, Miranda.”

They were both looking at her expectedly, as if she were a goddamn magician about to saw herself in half. She swallowed, throat still dry.

“The full story is off-limits. I’ll tell you and Fisher what I can at the same time—no use in repeating myself. Let me get dressed and we’ll go.”

Meyer opened his mouth and shut it again. A sigh filled his body and he emptied it slowly, light wheezing sound.

“I would prefer not to hear any surprises, my dear. There is attorney-client privilege, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Go wait in the living room, Meyer … and thanks.”

Her attorney waddled slowly out of the room, shaking his head, leaning on the cane. Bente’s eyes followed him, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Your mouthpiece’s been worried about you, toots—stayed up all night, and he’s no spring chicken. Try not to worry him so much, huh? Or me. Or Sanders, for that matter. I thought he was gonna go AWOL, the crazy bastard…”

“Goddamn it, who phoned Rick?” Miranda’s voice was muffled as she pulled a sweater over her head. “I don’t want him involved.”

Bente plumped down on the bed again, leaning back on one arm. “Too late for that, Randy. Christ, you should just fuck him and get it over with—”

The brown pump missed Bente, landing on the other side of the bed with a thud. Miranda’s eyes were wide, her voice shaking.

“Don’t you ever say that to me.”

The redhead stared at her, green eyes wide and surprised. Then she shrugged, stood up.

“I’m gonna drift. I miss my own dump. Figure you’re OK now, especially if you can throw shoes.”

The two women looked at one another for a few seconds, until a hesitant smile started to play around Bente’s lips. The redhead hugged Miranda, holding her off at arm’s length.

“Nielsen may be a quack, but he knows his shit. You be careful. Don’t go jumping at work right away. That Gonzales copper looks like a nice piece of vacation, if you forgive me saying so…”

Miranda buttoned the brown wool skirt and stepped into the shoes she’d thrown, turning around to glance in the vanity mirror. She sat down on the stool, opening up a tin of Coty face powder.

“He asked me to marry him.”

Bente’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline. “Jesus Christ, honey. I was just thinking a summer fling. He’s that serious?”

Miranda shrugged, mouth open while she dabbed on the Red Dice lipstick. Her stomach growled. She studied the effect of the makeup, stood up.

“Least I can do is buy you both lunch first. I need a full stomach before facing the bulls.”

Bente eyed her thoughtfully. “What you need is—well, never mind. Those goddamn shoes are heavy.”

*   *   *

They shook hands, and Inspector David Fisher grinned at Miranda, relief making him look younger for a moment. Then his face settled in for questioning, composed copper with careful eyes, humor and humanity held in check.

Three murders and the disappearance of the main suspect, a fourth murder not in his jurisdiction but apparently connected to the first three, D.A. and the mayor breathing down each other’s necks, and toss in art smuggling and theft on Treasure Island and government involvement whether anybody wanted it or not. Poor Fisher, good cop, decent cop, and now he was working sanitation, trying not to explode shit all over the City and let any hit the D.A. in the face.

At least Johnson’ll get a thrill … Miranda caught a glimpse of the bastard in the hallway, giving orders to someone, throwing his chest out. Probably licked his lips at the prospect of the Bureau’s boys, had to settle for the goddamn State Department. Lieutenant Walter Johnson, put him in a black uniform and he’d jackboot his way to Hoover’s lap.

Her gut tied itself in knots around the cheeseburger and fries from Cohn’s Coffee Club.

Easy to read Fisher’s face, flicker of emotion across his cheekbones when he looked at her, worry and regard and just the right amount of suspicion. Goddamn it, he was a fair cop, the best one she knew, and her finger traced the knife holes and cigarette burns on his desk, and she sat straight in her chair and kept her fucking mouth shut.

No, Inspector, I can’t tell you any more than what I have. An art smuggling ring based in Mexico with connections abroad. I was working for the State Department, which I hope Mr. MacLeod verified. No, I can’t detail the specific assignment, it’s confidential, as I’m sure Mr. MacLeod told you. Yes, it looks like Cheney eliminated his partners. No, I don’t know why he would leave valuable paintings in Wardon’s apartment. Maybe he was in a hurry. No, I don’t know why he would want to kill them, unless it was the profit motive.

She sipped the coffee, black as a bad dream, and chain-smoked a pack of Chesterfields, watching the thick black hands of the clock tick down, glass face cloudy with age and smoke and flies, the sharp, raspy voices of cops and accused punctuated by an occasional sob and more occasional laugh, questions barked and relentless and never ending.

Yes, I understand that Edmund Whittaker was known to both of the other victims. I assume they were lovers. No, I don’t know why Cheney would kill him. No, I don’t know why or how he would kill Lois Hart or where the jade might be. I’m guessing opportunistic theft. Yes, I know I wasn’t supposed to leave the state. Yes, I found Jasper on the train, but I couldn’t call it in because of my assignment. Yes, I will remain in the City for further questions.

Gonzales poked his head in the door and handed a sheet of paper to Fisher, looking stiff and uncomfortable and pretending he was there by accident. She glanced at him quickly, then puffed the Chesterfield and blew a stream of smoke in the other direction. He looked older and tired, but fuck, she did too. He let his gaze linger a little too long, left the room in a hurry.

Meyer interjected queries and objections, verifying that the bulls had a statement from Scott Petrie regarding the discovery of Wardon’s body and Cheney’s disappearance, verifying that the Ogden police and Southern Pacific had declared Jasper a suicide, a verdict now in question, verifying that James had confirmed Miranda’s employment but had given no information beyond it.

Miranda smoked, asked for water, chewed some Pep-O-Mints, and watched the shadows move across the wall.

Fisher finally sighed and laid down his fountain pen, scratching his head.

“OK, Miss Corbie. Your story—such as it is—has been confirmed. Confidentially, the whole thing stinks, and we’ve been told to take our noses elsewhere.” He leaned forward, desk chair squeaking, eyes tired and bleary and fixed on hers.

“The layout is this: Wardon, Jasper, and Cheney were smuggling stolen art from Europe, with the help of some schmuck named Lestang. Wardon apparently shipped Cheney the art and he stored it at the Fair until Jasper or Wardon could sell it. Edmund Whittaker was involved, too, as the, er, lover of Wardon, and as an associate. Maybe the fact that he was an architect has something to do with it, I don’t know—maybe he helped sell paintings to clients. He also may have been the one to kill Mrs. Hart—in fact, he’s the only connection between her and the art ring.”

She crushed the stick on the desk before dropping the butt in the chipped glass ashtray.

“Edmund wasn’t guilty of any crime.”

“Homosexuality is illegal.”

Brief flicker upward, mouth like iron. “He was a moral man, Inspector. And we both know morality has nothing to do with the law.”

Fisher shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “He’s dead, whatever he was guilty of. Somebody murdered the Hart woman and stole the necklace, and it looks like that was Edmund—before Cheney got greedy and eliminated him. Cheney’s employment record shows he was working the Fair the night Mrs. Hart was killed, so he’s got an alibi, and the D.A. and your boys in the government want this all neat and tidy, remember?”

Her fingers clenched around the Chesterfield.

“I don’t give a good goddamn what they want—Edmund was an innocent victim, not a murderer.”

Fisher gazed at her, jaw chewing on itself.

“Look, Miranda. This is the story that’s been handed to me and I’m trying to jibe it with what I know to be true. Maybe Whittaker was in on the theft of Lois Hart’s jade and iced the dame, maybe not, but somehow they—and by they, I’m not exactly sure who the hell I mean—got involved with the necklace and then the whole goddamn operation fell apart. First Mrs. Hart, then Whittaker, then Jasper and Wardon—Wardon was killed before Jasper according to the M.E.—all of them except Jasper with a garrote. Jasper looks like a suicide but that’s probably a setup. Cheney’s the last one left, and he took a powder, obviously, plus we’ve got all the evidence linking him to the train. Lestang isn’t even in the goddamn country and we don’t have the authority to call him in for questioning.”

The inspector slumped forward in his chair, shaking his head.

“It’s a goddamn mess, and that’s a fact. But like I said in the beginning, I can’t do anything about it.”

Meyer spoke gently. “Thieves do fall out, Inspector.”

Fisher looked up, irritated. “Yeah. So where does the government come in? And what about Fritz Wiedemann? The goddamn Nazi consul general was at Finocchio’s the night of Whittaker’s murder—so was Jasper.” His hand thudded, suddenly and forcefully, on the desk, making the papers jump. “I can’t get a goddamn straight answer out of anybody.”

Fisher’s eyes held on to hers, and she sat and smoked and stared back, unflinching. He leaned forward, voice raspy from exhaustion but still razor sharp.

“They stitched it together, and if you keep it in the dark and don’t look at it for very long, it’ll hang. But shit, Miranda … do me a favor. You get a better angle, give me the story sometime, OK? My goddamn file reads like James Joyce.” His shoulders suddenly relaxed and he waved his hand in the air. “Go on, beat it. And get some rest, for God’s sake.”

She stood up, looking down at the tired cop. There had been no mention of secrets, of spies, of forgery. She paused on her way to the door.

“Edmund wasn’t involved, Inspector. I’ll prove it to you—and the fucking State Department.”

Fisher scratched his head, eyes red and weary.

“I hope you do, Miranda. I hope you do.”

Thirty-six

Meyer looked five years older by the time she pushed him inside a taxi and told him to go home. She watched the Yellow Cab dart through the traffic on Clay and Kearny, frowning.

She hailed a DeSoto around the corner on Commercial, made the driver wait while she picked up her luggage at the Southern Pacific depot. The attendant at the depot gave her a funny look when she showed him the ticket, and she waved her license in his face. He was still staring at her suspiciously when she pushed through the doors, porter behind.

The hack driver, a mustachioed man in his forties, prattled on about the Seals and the ponies at Tanforan. Then he started in on FDR and the look she gave him in the rearview mirror made him shut his mouth and drive straight to Mason Street.

Roy helped her unload the luggage and she trudged up the hill. Bought a bologna and cheese sandwich at the Cottage Market on the corner of Bush and Mason, chitchat with the toothy grocer, new Campell’s soup display.