City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (43 page)

And Cheney …

Cheney knew about the Clark sale, he’d mentioned it to Jasper. If Cheney had killed Jasper and Wardon to increase profits for himself somehow, why wouldn’t he follow through with a surefire deal? Why not go to Chicago and try to sell it? He couldn’t know she’d found the card and warned off Clark.

She closed her eyes, picturing the stalwart, swarthy Cheney, the guttural laugh and hearty manner.

Not a timid man, but a cautious one. And not a killer.

Goddamn it.

Her green eyes flickered and she sighed, deep and long and tired.

It wasn’t fucking over.

Whatever James and his bosses decided, whatever bullshit they fed the police and the public.

Edmund was innocent.

And Cheney … Cheney was missing. Probably dead.

She lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

Goddamn it, they were right, Allen and Bente and Gladys, she needed a rest, a break of some kind. Her brain was still sore, still tender, the insides of her gut like mush from too much booze, too many cigarettes and not enough goddamn sleep.

She moved to the window, early evening breeze blowing in the curtains. Her eyes roamed the brown stone of the de Young Building, lighting on the dull gold of Lotta’s Fountain.

A young man stood waiting, black pressed dress pants and vest, sharp fedora, white carnation in his black satin lapel. He was holding an orchid, looking back and forth from Market to Kearny, as the orange and yellow streaks from the summer sun mixed with gray and black shadows, cool fog blowing in from Marin, wrapped around hot neon, flower vendors packing up for the night, piano from the pool hall fast and raucous, hustlers darting up the alleys toward Montgomery and south to Mission and beyond. Rumble of cars and shrill laughter from Tascone’s, “In the Mood” playing on the juke. She could almost touch the coming night with her fingertips.

Allen had figured Rick would be with her, and she’d figured that too, couldn’t get rid of the sonofabitch. “Hey, Randy, got a story? How ’bout dinner at John’s Grill?” Half-Irish bullshit brogue, how he’d dressed up like Robin Hood at the Nazi embassy, how he’d shown up on a Napa road when she thought she’d have to blow her brains out.

How he’d looked at her when she told him she was working at Dianne’s, and how she’d quit the next day.

Rick, Richard Sanders, news hawk, Johnny’s friend … and her friend.

She missed him.

Miranda shook herself, sudden chill. The young man was gone.

She shut the window with a clatter.

Fog was rolling in early tonight, orange bridge haunted by gray-white ghosts, ghosts of the City, past, present and future. They floated across San Francisco, damp and heavy, comforting and quiet, stilling arguments in barrooms and the fires in sailors’ eyes, crab fisherman with leathered skin suddenly kissing his wife over the steaming pot, faded socialite sipping a martini at the Top of the Mark, eyes wet with lost youth and misspent chances, mournful bellow of a foghorn lonely and plaintive on the moon-darkened Bay.

The words of a Billie Holiday song played over and over again in her head, blending with the foghorns and car horns, the laughter and the tinkling piano.

Ghost of yesterday …

Her stomach growled and she nodded to herself.

The ghosts would help her. Help her find a murderer.

*   *   *

Miranda was walking up Grant toward Washington when she heard her name. She turned around quickly in the busy street, a few of the sidewalk vendors still selling exotic teas and coconut sticks to tourists looking for dancing girls and the keno room in a “gen-u-ine Chinese nightclub.”

“Miranda—over here.”

She looked toward her left and saw Ned, sitting as upright as a man with no legs could. He was wearing a new pair of leather work gloves and resting on the plywood platform with wheels he called his office.

She peeled off a ten-dollar bill and dropped it in his cup. Spoke softly, out the side of her mouth. “Careful.”

The man who’d lost his legs in the War nodded, face lined, skin thick and brown.

“Figured as much. Just take what the papers say and read through the lines. When I saw you, I figured you was workin’ again.”

She gave him half a smile. “Hungry. I’m on my way to the Twin Dragons for a Singapore Sling and some fried rice. What’ve you got?”

He shook his head. “I don’t rightly know, Miranda, but I don’t like it. You know Fingers Molloy, right? The pocket?”

She could feel her stomach tighten at the name. Fingers had been at the Picasso exhibit the night Lois Hart was killed—she’d braced him. He’d also been a key element in her tracing the jade—she’d passed him a C-note for the tip-off on Kwok and the pawnshop.

“What about him?”

No-Legs Norris shook his head. “He’s missing, Miranda. Nobody’s seen him for two days.”

Thirty-seven

“You’re sure he’s not chasing horses at Santa Anita? You know Fingers—dips are like that. They blow town on a whim, always looking for better pickings. Jesus Christ, Ned, maybe he’s on a bender…”

The leather-skinned man shook his head decisively. “No, Miranda. Fingers been acting funny since the Hart murder. He’s been spending more money and stayin’ quiet. I been keepin’ an eye on his hotel—figurin’ I’d get something from you out of it all—and I ain’t seen him come or go for two days. If he was travelin’ south, he’d a’ bragged about takin’ a vacation. You know Fingers.”

She swallowed, mouth bitter. “Yeah. I know Fingers. All right. What’s his address?”

He looked up at her and squinted. “You want I should go with you?”

She gave him half a smile. “I’ll be OK. I’ll say I’m his parole officer.”

“Hotel Felix. Don’t know how long he’s been there. 1242 Market, cross street Hyde.”

A young couple strolled by, chattering about Treasure Island and Chinatown, girl clutching the boy’s arm tight, laughing with a plump, pink mouth and cheeks and young, unworried eyes. Miranda’s eyes followed them to the corner of Washington. She pried herself from the brick wall.

The twenty-dollar bill dropped on Ned’s platform, and he pocketed the money like a magician’s trick. He looked up at her, eyes squinting at the yellow and red lights, face half in shadow, red lanterns in Waverly Alley painting his cheeks a deep purple.

“You going now?”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

He bent his head. “Let me know when you find out what’s wrong with Fingers.”

Miranda dug out a Chesterfield from the half-empty pack in her purse. Ned tossed up a matchbook.

“Be seein’ you, Miranda.”

She caught the matches and lit the cigarette, deep inhale, blew out the smoke through the side of her mouth. Dropped the matchbook back in Ned’s palm. Her voice was weary.

“Be seein’ you, Ned.”

*   *   *

The Hotel Felix was a tall, thin, run-down rent-by-the-week place with droopy brown masonry and no ornament to boast of, sandwiched between better-known and better-looking rooming houses in the Civic Center district. No smell of cabbage like the Hotel Potter, where Pandora Blake had roomed, and the dingy, threadbare carpet and half-dead plant in the lobby spoke of pretensions to self-respect some twenty years before. They’d long since dried up and died, along with the plant, as lifeless as the gray dust that lined the cracked and dirty terra-cotta pot.

Miranda crushed her cigarette out in the dented aluminum ashtray tucked in between the springless couch and the rocking chair. She pushed the button marked
MANAGER
again.

Footsteps stomped upstairs in response, and she took another look around while she waited.

Three blank slots and faded ink on a couple of numbers, no names she recognized. Fingers was in number 7, top floor of the four-story building. The blue ink was fresh, no fly specks on the worn cardboard,
SEAN G. MOLLOY
written in a careful, semiliterate, and painstaking hand. He’d hadn’t lived there for very long.

The galumphing grew louder, and she looked up to see a fat, florid face in a bleach-stained blue work shirt peer down at her through the banister.

“Yeah? I already buzzed you in, lady—what’s your business?”

He was somewhere between forty and fifty, no hat, T-shirt showing at his collar, grease stains on the shirt and dungarees. Probably did maintenance for the cheap bastards that owned the building. She mustered a prim smile.

“I’m here to see Mr. Molloy.”

The manager-cum–maintenance man jerked his thumb in an upstairs motion. “Fourth floor, lady. You ain’t got call to bother me for that—I’m busy.”

He turned around to head back up the landing. Miranda made her voice smooth as she started up the stairs.

“I’m sure you are, Mr.—Kerokian, was it? The problem is that Mr. Molloy seems to have—well—gone missing. He didn’t, er, make a certain report on time.”

The large man stopped in his tracks, hoisted his pants up by the worn brown belt, turned around with matted eyebrows lowered, and gave Miranda the up-and-down.

“So he’s a jailbird. Ever’body knows that. Told us when he moved in, ’bout two months ago. What’s it got to do with me? An’ who the hell are you? His parole officer?”

Her eyes fixed on his. “Yes, Mr. Kerokian—I am. And I’d appreciate your assistance for a moment, while I ascertain whether or not Mr. Molloy has left town—an act that is a violation of his parole. I’d also like to remind you that you could be held as an accessory after the fact, so I strongly suggest that you forget about the radiator right now and, if necessary, let me in his apartment.”

By this time she was toe to toe with Kerokian, nose wrinkling at the stink of cheap cigarettes and cheaper beer. He flushed, piggy eyes dropping to the floor, and hitched his thumbs in his belt.

“All right, lady, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Seven o’clock’s a funny time for a parole officer to visit, but I’ll take you upstairs. Molloy’s probably in there, sleepin’ one off.”

He turned around abruptly, started to climb the stairs, breath labored. “Watch the third step—it’s warped.”

She said nothing, kept his pace easily and stayed a comfortable distance behind. The landings became more dilapidated as they climbed higher up the building, mended carpet giving way to worn carpet and finally no carpet at all. Someone on the third floor was listening to a tinny radio, shrill sounds of the organ on
Amos ’n’ Andy
vibrating through the thin walls. Kerokian glowered, an ad for Campell’s Cream of Mushroom soup drowning out the sound of his heavy breaths.

Why not try Campell’s Cream of Mushroom soup tomorrow?
Drink soup and life can be beautiful, all clean and happy and grand, here in the happy fucking Hotel Felix …

They arrived at number 7. Lucky number 7, Miranda thought, and shivered slightly, remembering Fingers and the way his eyes had shifted toward the door at the Picasso exhibit.

Kerokian jerked his thumb toward the door. “What’re you waitin’ for? Go ahead and knock.”

She raised her fist. Three raps, loud and firm.

No answer.

The manager yawned, hairy fist in his mouth. He strode up to the door, kicked it with a boot and banged it several times with his fist, the wood shaking under the strain. He yelled “Molloy!” loud enough to make numbers 8 and 6 open their doors a few inches.

No answer.

Miranda stepped forward, eyes narrowed as she faced the large man, trying not to breathe in the stench of sweat and motor oil and day-old beer.

“Open the door, Mr. Kerokian.”

He scratched the heavy five o’clock shadow on his cheek, voice slow and suspicious.

“What’s your name, lady? You got some identification?”

Miranda was tired. She sighed, took out her wallet, and handed him a fin.

Her voice was dry. “My name, Mr. Kerokian, is trouble. Open the fucking door, take your fucking money, and get the hell back downstairs.”

His jaw dropped, mouth open and gaping, then he grabbed the five with a large paw, fished around in his pocket, and unlocked the door. Made a move toward the landing and halted for a moment, triumph in his thick voice.

“I knew you weren’t no goddamn parole officer.”

She watched as he galumphed down the hall, heavy boots thudding in the distance.

*   *   *

Fingers’s apartment was a one-room utility, hot plate and sink, small bathroom off to the right. He’d furnished it with second- and thirdhand pieces, simple and functional and surprisingly meticulous. Maybe not so surprising, she thought. Precision was necessary for a successful dip, and Fingers had been successful.

The bed was made, not slept in for a few days, judging from the dust on the covers. She moved to the armoire, a scarred bit of good furniture from before the quake, and threw open the double doors.

Five suits hung carefully with two leather belts, and on the shelves to the right, a few pairs of socks with underwear and faded striped pajamas. Three hats, two derbies and a fedora, lined the rest.

Whatever else he’d been, Fingers was neat—and showed no signs of leaving town.

The bottom of the armoire was filled with four pairs of shoes—more shoes than hats, since dips needed to be quiet on the approach, and for that they needed good shoes.

Miranda squatted down in front of the armoire. Not much in the way of hiding places in the apartment, and if Fingers was holding on to something, he might tuck it in his footwear or a hatband.

She pulled the shoes forward toward the edge, one by one, her fingers exploring the interiors. Nothing in the brown Florsheims, black soft-soled dress shoes, or tan Roblees. Last pair, the one at the very back, another pair of Florsheim stout brogues, dark brown.

Her fingertips touched something cold and smooth.

She withdrew her hand, picked up the Florsheim, and stood up quickly, knees creaking. Cursed under her breath and moved toward the floor lamp near the one small window.

Miranda held the shoe up vertically and probed the toe with two fingers, reaching something sticky. Round, smooth balls, about half an inch in diameter, were strung like pearls, and she gently tried to pry them out. They came loose with the third tug, and she nearly dropped the shoe and sent them flying across the room.