City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (45 page)

What the hell was it … right, then left. Then up, no lights in the dark corridor, warped floorboard squeaked and made her jump and almost fire the fucking gun.

Left again. Light broke through in small pieces around a heavy door, sun-dappled pattern on the ancient wooden floor.

Miranda grunted, tucked the gun back in the holster, and shoved the door open. Ran quickly around the corner to Spofford Alley, breathing hard, dodging tourist families from Minnesota and Chinese laundrymen.

Turned the tarnished brass doorknob slowly and pushed open the small, narrow door.

The room was as dark and cluttered as it had been just a week before. Ancient silks, moth-eaten furs, jade and alabaster and granite carvings, teakwood chests and imitation Ming vases, along with the standard pawn assortment of musical instruments and cameras.

She blinked, felt dizzy. Nothing had changed since June 25th. Not the furniture, not the shadows, not the smells. Not even what she was seeing.

A man in a Chinese smock stood with his back toward her, one hand around Kwok’s fat throat. The pawnshop owner’s face was red and contorted, eyes starting to bulge.

Miranda pulled out the Spanish pistol, slipping off the safety. Her voice was loud and firm and real.

“Let him go, Scott.”

*   *   *

The agent froze, straightening his strong back. His left hand dropped from Kwok’s throat, and the fat man stumbled backward, wheezing and coughing. The agent’s right hand still held a long, thin wire attached to a small, broken wooden handle.

He didn’t turn around.

“That you, Miranda?”

“Drop the wire.”

His voice held a chuckle. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The garrote hit the ground with a light thud and faint tinkle. Kwok retreated behind his cage, his loud, raspy breath the only other sound in the room.

“Raise your hands in the air and turn around.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Scott Petrie complied, both arms halfway above his head, and pivoted slowly in the orange-and-red robe. He faced Miranda and grinned.

“OK, lady boss. Sorry for the getup, I know I don’t look my best. Didn’t you like the candy?”

Miranda studied him, the strong cheekbones, the compact, muscular body, the always-moving eyes that looked back at her knowingly, arrogantly, no apologies.

Benzedrine eyes.

Her voice shook a little as she held the gun out. “I don’t like murderers.”

His posture relaxed and he took a small step forward. “Oh, come on, Miranda. No dialogue from some Humphrey Bogart picture, please. The men I killed needed killing. It was only a matter of time before Jasper turned on us. I did the government a favor.”

Her voice was dry. “Just like you did Grant Tompkins a favor, Petrie?”

For the first time, his face showed surprise and anger. “How the hell—well, never mind. Tompkins was an idiot. Didn’t recognize a good thing even if it bit him on the ass.”

“And you did.”

Another step. His face was charming, convincing. Miranda licked her dry lips.

“Of course I did. I got tired of living on beans and hamburger and working my ass off for people like James MacLeod. I’m a talented young man, Miranda … I’m going places. I learn fast, and I’ve learned well, and I can make twice as much money as Jasper and Wardon did. Tompkins didn’t want any part of it—didn’t even realize what it all meant.”

Miranda lowered the gun a fraction, eyes on his.

“Explain it to me.”

Scott smiled, ingratiating grin, eyes crinkling at the corners like Rick’s. Another small step. He was almost within reach of the pistol.

His voice was soft, caressing, while his eyes traveled up and down her body. “You know, I could have killed you back on the streamliner, but you looked so damn luscious … if I hadn’t been in such a hurry, I would have taken you right there. But it’s not too late, Miranda. Put down that ridiculous gun and we’ll go away together. Mexico is where the base is, and I’ve already reached out to Lestang. Just tell me where this lying bastard hid the real jade and we’ll use it to finance the trip. There’s so much money to be made in art … the morons we sell to don’t know the difference between the real thing and a fake, and all we’re doing is giving them what they want. And we’ll get what we want … won’t we?”

One more small step. She could feel the warmth from his body. His voice was thick.

“I can give you what you want, Miranda. What you need. Between the jade and the art ring, we’ll finally have all the money we deserve.”

Miranda’s eyes flickered green. She lowered the gun slowly. Scott grinned.

“That’s my girl. I knew you were smart—hell, you had to be, to be here. Telling me to show up at seven and then waiting for me three hours early. I’ll buy you your own jade, wait and see, and you’ll look a hell of a lot better in it than that Hart broad did.” His voice was seductive, soft, knowing. “We’ll have a good time, you and I.”

His right arm flashed and he reached for his robe pocket, pulling out something small and bright and brown, and the Spanish pistol fired, loud reverberation, rattling the vases and china in the shop.

Scott’s eyes grew wide. The red spot on his chest grew wider. He fell backward, dropping the gun and stumbling against a long wooden counter, knocking over some brass cymbals and an ancient abacus. The cymbals rang with a high-pitched whine, around and around the crowded room.

Miranda stood over him, looking down. Kwok crept from behind his cage, still coughing and clutching his chest.

She didn’t look up.

“Call the inspector like I said, Kwok. Tell him we’ll need an ambulance.”

She bent down to pick up her Baby Browning, eyes never leaving Scott’s white face.

“I could have killed you, too, Petrie. And I wanted to, for what you did to Edmund. But I changed my mind. The government should take care of its own.”

*   *   *

Her stomach was growling and she ate two rolls of Life Savers and smoked half a pack of cigarettes, answering Fisher, avoiding Gonzales, leaning on Meyer. The D.A. was green at the gills, a State Department man shot and apparently a killer, and a nondescript, precise little man from the local office was brought in to smooth things over, make all the pain go away. James MacLeod, they were told, was on his way west.

No, there needn’t be any publicity.

Would Edmund’s name be cleared?

Averted eyes, rumble in the throat, no answers, and Miranda grew angry, her voice louder, until Meyer whispered something in the nondescript man’s ear, and the D.A. promised to issue a statement.

Her eyelids were too heavy, like weights on a fallen abacus, but she lifted them up and said she’d be watching for it.

The men in the room laughed nervously, and Fisher—poor, tired Fisher—resumed his questions.

Yes, she’d needed to confront Petrie because she didn’t have any hard evidence, and who the fuck would believe her? The bulls looked at each other. No argument there.

Too many disappearances, for one thing, and Fingers had a United Airlines matchbook from Reno. Fingers wouldn’t know an airplane from a tractor. Jasper’s killer could have doubled back to San Francisco the same night by flying—the
Californian
takes off at 11:36
P.M.,
and he’d be back in the City by 1:21
A.M.
, she’d confirmed with United. Plenty of time to get rid of Cheney and plant evidence in his apartment—the train ticket he’d booked in Cheney’s name, the brochure. The SP ticket agent had remembered a man, and the man he remembered looked like Petrie.

He was on his way to plant more evidence at Wardon’s place when he ran into her—it was Petrie who conveniently found Cheney’s ID in Wardon’s apartment. He was hopped up on Benzedrine, no need to sleep or eat, just eliminating people in his way …

And then there was the ex-Pinkerton from Baltimore who’d dogged a garrote case, and Petrie likes to brag he learns fast. He’d been an op, though Pinkerton hadn’t returned her call yet, so again she was working from her gut. That, and a chance remark about blue crab. Funny how people can’t hide where they’re from … opportunity, means. Motive, gentlemen? Smuggled art. Diamonds at Lois Hart’s ears, jade in her pocket. Greed. Makes the fucking world go around …

No, Cheney and Fingers are dead. Get the sonofabitch to tell you what he did with them. While you’re at it, check the painting Wardon was holding. He probably hid something under the frame, maybe something to incriminate Petrie.

But what about the jade, the phony jade?

She looked at them, wavering like underwater plants, mouths open, eyes confused.

No phony jade, not what Mrs. Hart was killed for. The stuff in Fingers’s apartment was phony, sure, dyed green, ask any good jeweler in Chinatown. He and his chubby partner had planned to knock Lois Hart on the head and substitute the necklace, not kill her, and somehow the poor bastard stumbled to Petrie. Don’t know about the pudgy one, ask around.

Fingers knew something, had seen something, he’d been quiet and spending money—blackmail, probably. Ask Petrie, the murdering bastard. But the Hart jade was real. That’s the joke, don’t you see? Laugh a fucking minute … Petrie didn’t know real from phony, genuine from fraud … paintings or jewelry or government agents …

They looked at each other and the worn, shaking woman with the auburn hair and feverish green eyes.

Gentlemen, you can resume your questions in the morning. My client is exhausted and you don’t want another medical bill on your hands. Meyer’s voice, stern, commanding, the kind he used in court.

The waves of blue parted, brass buttons shining. He found a taxi while she concentrated on breathing in, breathing out. Called Bente and they got her upstairs, goddamn elevator broken again.

Somebody took the Baby Browning from her hand and tucked it under her pillow.

Miranda didn’t dream at all that night.

*   *   *

James MacLeod faced the window, looking over Market Street. His voice was quiet.

“I knew you could do it. That’s the only reason, Miranda. There was no one else.”

The smoke sailed high into the ceiling, carried by the warm summer breeze from the window.

“So you lied to me.”

“Not exactly. I told you all along you were on your own. That was meant as a warning—a warning not to trust him.”

Miranda’s hand slapped her desk with a clatter. “Goddamn it, James, you lied. Don’t lie about lying. This wasn’t about Uncle Sam and chemistry formulas and all the other bullshit you sold me. You knew Jasper was an art smuggler; you suspected Petrie murdered Tompkins but couldn’t prove anything. So you set him up and set me up, and six more people died.”

He raised a hand to his forehead. “I couldn’t have known.”

Her voice was bitter, sharp as a razor. “You could have fucking guessed.”

Quiet filled the small office, the leaves of the Martell’s calendar flipping gently. She watched as the red ember swallowed the thin white paper of the cigarette.

“You’ll have to live with it. But don’t come knocking at my door again. We’re done.”

He bowed his head, turned around, and looked at her. His face was lined, weary.

“Understood.”

“Has he explained Cheney and Fingers yet?”

“No. He’s making it a game. I think some part of him still expects to get out, be rewarded somehow. He’s a psychiatric case, of course.”

Miranda shook her head. “Hang the bastard. You’ve got enough evidence, thanks to Wardon’s diary. I figure Petrie doped out the play and players from Tompkins, and when Tompkins wouldn’t cooperate, he killed him. Then when you sent him out here—just what he’d been hoping for—he kicked it into high gear.”

James sank into one of the wooden chairs, fedora in his hand, eyes on the floor.

“We thought he’d make a slip, Miranda. Figured we’d catch him before any more damage was done. Caught us all by surprise, how quick he was.”

She leaned back in the black leather, studied the man she’d liked, trusted. The man who’d set her up in business.

“Petrie’s not only quick—he’s an opportunist. I think he was originally following Jasper the night of the Picasso exhibit, but learned through the grapevine—just as Fingers had—about the jade. So he switched off targets, maybe because he recognized Edmund from Wardon’s picture and figured on a connection. Followed Lois and Edmund when they left the show, then tracked Lois here. He must have killed her right after she left my office.”

James’s voice was heavy. “He is smart and skilled and calculating—the hardest kind of criminal to catch—and we should have known he’d take advantage of the situation. We didn’t want Hoover involved, thought we could handle it ourselves … with some outside help from you.”

She inhaled the Chesterfield, her eyes glinting green. “So what have you gotten out of the bastard?”

“Not much in statements, but the diary is key. That was a lucky hunch you had about the painting.”

Her voice was dry. “It wasn’t women’s intuition, James. It made sense—Wardon was obviously trying to tell us something.”

He nodded, frowning. “And Wardon was no innocent, not even by his own admission. Petrie approached him first and offered to kill Jasper, eliminate another share in the take, a rival for Miguel. After the Hart murder—which, as you say, seemed spontaneous—it was easy to convince Wardon that Edmund was another threat—particularly with Edmund’s memory. That’s all in the diary. Wardon sanctioned both murders, Jasper and Edmund, not seeing where it would all lead. He thought he could control Petrie. The last entries are full of fear but still clinging to hope.”

Miranda ground the cigarette out in the Tower of the Sun ashtray. “Wardon died the way he lived. And he didn’t deserve any better. What about Baltimore?”

“We still don’t know if Petrie was behind the garrote murders or just learned from covering the case. That was before he joined the department, of course, and his Pinkerton record was full of triumphs, no sign of any trouble. He covered his tracks, tried to eliminate any and all possible witnesses. Except for you. He’d been on your trail since he murdered Lois, even talked himself into Weidemann’s party, dressed as a Civil War soldier. He laughed about that, about how clever he was.”