City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (24 page)

Meyer gestured with the ebony walking stick. “What does he expect? Miss Corbie’s relationship with her clients and the work she is contracted to perform is privileged information.”

Fisher ran thick, muscular fingers through his hair. “Not with two homicides.”

“Inspector Fisher—”

“Wait a minute, Meyer.” She raised her eyes to the stalwart cop sitting across from her. Slumped, worn shoulders, brown eyes hard and fair and almost pleading with her to cooperate.

“I trust you, Inspector. Not the D.A. or the chief of police. If I come across, what kind of guarantee have I got? O’Meara is spinning his Communist fairy tales and the new police chief is weak-minded enough to listen … so I ask you again: What’s my protection?”

Fisher leaned back, arm on the desk, and countered, “What’s your protection if you don’t?”

“You’re looking at him. Meyer can raise a stink that’ll wipe Hitler off the front page. No, David … let’s start again. I won’t work with O’Meara or anybody connected to this conspiracy crap. I’ve read better plots in the pulps. But I’ll work with you—if
you’ll
work with
me.
If I get a chance to dig some information on my own, and half a chance to nail the bastard that killed Edmund.”

“Miranda, I strongly advise—”

“I know, I know, Meyer. Let’s play it my way.” She kept her eyes on Fisher, who was drumming the desk again, brow wrinkled.

Her attorney looked from the cop to his client, sighed, the starch wilting on his crisp ruffled shirt.

“Your way, my dear, will lead to an early heart attack for your legal representative.”

Fisher bit his lip, fingers now silent on the desk.

“You’re overestimating the press in this town, Miranda. No offense to your esteemed counsel, but the papers would hang you out to dry like Hester Prynne. Your background leaves you vulnerable. No, I think you’re overplaying your hand.”

He thumped his right hand flat on the scarred wooden desk.

“Brady wants you held as an accessory or on an obstruction of justice charge. And all you’ve given me as an alibi is some
Dime Detective
story about a confidential case for the government. No details, no names, no answers as to where you were last night. First thing you said when I called you this morning was, ‘What happened? Someone hurt?’ Sounds like the words of someone who’d been at the nightclub.”

One Mississippi, two Mississippi.

Miranda opened her purse and shook out a Chesterfield, lighting it with the Ronson on the second try. She avoided Meyer’s face, glanced up at the clock on the wall. Blew a stream of smoke over Fisher’s left shoulder. Met his eyes.

“If you’ve got it all figured out, Inspector, go ahead and book me. And good luck finding your fucking killer.”

Three Mississippi, four Mississippi …

Fisher started drumming the desk with his fingers again. Meyer dabbed his forehead with a starched linen handkerchief. Miranda smoked, eyes glinting green. Second hand on the clock moved to 10:38 with an audible click.

The inspector heaved a sigh and slapped his hand on the desk again, making the chipped glass ashtray jump.

“All right. Let’s concede the point that cooperation could be mutually beneficial. But if we do this—and it’s still a big ‘if’—it’s my goddamn head on a platter. Where’s
my
protection?”

“You’re looking at her. Look—I told you the case I’m on has nothing to do specifically with either Lois Hart or Edmund. But the timing is too close—I don’t like coincidence, either. Up till now I’ve let the Hart murder slide, figuring you’d catch a low-level crook after the jade. I’ve got some ideas—I braced a pickpocket at the Picasso show the night I met Mrs. Hart—but I’ve been too busy on this hush-hush assignment to work the angles. Now I don’t have a choice.”

She leaned forward, voice low, and crushed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray. “Edmund said someone followed them to my office the night of Lois’s murder. Then last night he’s killed, and maybe with the same murder weapon, and maybe by the same shadow. Yeah, I was at Finocchio’s—but not as Miranda Corbie. Someone is stalking my clients and stalking me, and is too goddamn good to leave a trace, good enough, maybe, to see through a disguise. I’m the only person who can tell us whether or not the murders are related to what I’m working on. I’ll find the killer. I’m your protection, David.”

Green-brown met chocolate brown, pupils dancing a tango. Fisher let out a long, wheezy breath.

“Goddamn it … all right, all right. We’ll try it. But damn it, Miranda, don’t leave town! Any word of this gets out means I’m back on the street breaking up crap games. Mr. Bialik, you can do me a favor and have a habeas ready to go—I’ll need backup for why I didn’t hold Miss Corbie.”

Meyer gave him a delighted smile. “Always happy to help an honest police officer, Inspector. Don’t forget—Miranda still has friends here. The rank and file have not forgotten her service to Mr. Duggan.”

Fisher raised his eyebrows. “That’s so. Miranda, what do you need?”

“Forensic records, any interviews or background information. I heard you raked the Hart chauffeur three times.”

“How the hell—”

“Edmund told me.”

Fisher ran his hand through his hair again, voice weary. “I’ll send the reports by messenger. Didn’t look like the same murder weapon, but, as you say, too many coincidences. When will you check in?”

She responded promptly. “Every day, if I can. I’ve still got to work the other assignment.”

The short, well-built cop looked up at her, silent. He reached for a pack of Old Golds on his desk and lit one with a Universal Café matchbook stuck in the cellophane. His voice was quiet.

“It’s my job, Miranda.”

She pushed herself up from the chair and looked down at him.

“Mine too, Inspector.”

*   *   *

Meyer left her with remonstrances, ebony cane tapping on the cement. She tried to assuage his worry, his fat stomach shivering under the ruffled shirt and silver brocade vest. He’d been extra protective since May and the Pandora Blake case, treating her more like a niece than a client … or at least what she figured a niece might be treated like.

Miranda calmed him down with promises of phone calls or telegrams, and escaped in a DeSoto cab, driver a red-haired boy in his twenties.

It was 11:17 by the time she got to the office.

She twisted the radio dial, letting the tubes warm up. Clenched her hands together to keep them from shaking.

Glenn Miller in the fucking mood again, trombone up and swinging, but all she could hear was George Gershwin and a honky tonk piano and 1928.

Miranda opened the safe, grabbing a small stack of bills from the money James had given her. Took out the Spanish pistol, tracing the lines of the leather holster with her finger.

Someday he’ll come along, the man I love …

Twenty-one and the world was free, college graduate, searching, always searching, Gin Rickeys at Heinold’s First and Last Chance Saloon, ham and eggs and a slide down to the basement at Coffee Dan’s …

She set the pistol on the desk and shoved the money in the top drawer. Sank into the black leather chair.

Sophie Tucker and the scratchy Victrola, Ruby Adams at the speakeasy piano. Mournful, wistful, hopeful.

She reached for the phone receiver. “EXbrook 6700.”

The phone rang five times before a gravel voice picked it up with a growl. “
San Francisco News
.”

“Rick Sanders, please.”

“Look, lady—I’m in the middle of somethin’. Can he call ya? I’ll let Marty know you’re lookin’ for Sanders.”

“Yeah. Miranda Corbie. I’m in my office.”

His voice slowed down and climbed higher. “The broad P.I.? I’ll let Marty know.”

He hung up with a clang and Miranda frowned. Goddamn it, where was he? She didn’t want to think about the scene from yesterday. Didn’t want to think about yesterday at all.

She hit the switch hook until another operator came on the line.

“AShberry 6000, please.”

Female voice, clipped and fresh, smelling of saddle shoes and sorority scarves. “Right away, ma’am.”

Buzz-click,
and a middle-aged woman in the middle of a yawn. “University of California. How may I direct your call?”

“Chemistry department, please.”

Two more clicks, and she was connected. Nasal tenor, redheaded Wilbur, department secretary. She made her voice a little deeper.

“Good morning. I’m trying to reach Dr. Jasper—my son Clark has a class with him today.”

“Certainly, ma’am—Dr. Jasper teaches Tuesdays and Thursdays, but he’s not feeling well. You can come by or telephone him during office hours next Thursday. Unless there is something I can help you with?”

She let the question dangle. “Thank you—I’ll do that.”

Miranda pulled out the Big Chief pad from the middle drawer, made a note. Whether from the shock of the crime or for another, unknown reason, Jasper was off campus today—no business as usual. She lit a Chesterfield with the One-Touch, looking at the brief list she’d made under the professor’s name. She could stake out his home later and shadow him, try to get some answers.

The black receiver jangled.

“Miranda Corbie.”

“It’s Marty, Miss Corbie. How you doing?”

Marty Fine, another news hawk, fought in the trenches with Rick. Older, a little more seasoned, looked like a wizened prospector from Arizona. Now he’d been promoted and Rick hadn’t. She felt a sudden worry, sharp sting of regret, remembering she hasn’t even asked Rick if it bothered him.

“I’m OK, Marty, thanks. Congratulations on the promotion. Sanders around?”

Marty swallowed, voice a little deeper. “Rick’s gone, Miranda.”

Twenty-two

She repeated the words, not understanding them. “Rick’s gone. What do you mean ‘gone’?”

Apologetic voice, useful for bereaved widows and victims of violent crime. “He quit this morning, Miranda. Just up and quit. Didn’t tell us why, didn’t say where he was going, though I figure he was going somewhere because he said something about packing up an old kit bag. Haven’t heard that since the last war, but hell … maybe he just wanted to go fishin’. Maybe he got an offer from the
Call-Bulletin
or the
Chron,
I don’t know. We treated Sanders good here, and he didn’t seem angry or anything, but Jesus, he lit out this morning and never looked back. Asked us to cut a check for what he was owed, and that was that. I’m—I’m sorry, Miranda. Maybe try him at his apartment, huh?”

Sophie Tucker and the scratchy Victrola, Ruby Adams at the speakeasy piano, searching, always searching …

She spoke slowly, syllable by syllable. “Sure, Marty. Thanks. Be seeing you.”

“Yeah. Take care, Miranda.”

She hit the switch hook until it clanged in protest and an operator’s tired voice finally came on the line.

“Hotel Empire, please.”

“Hold the line, please. MArket 3400, now ringing.”

The clerk picked it up on the third ring, and Miranda spoke quickly before he could announce himself.

“Rick Sanders, please. He’s month-to-month.”

Affronted and frosty. “One moment, ma’am.”

Rustle and a click and the clerk came back, happy to deliver bad news.

“I’m sorry, Madame, but Mr. Sanders terminated his rental early this morning and left no forwarding add—”

She threw the phone receiver at the cradle and the heavy telephone spilled over on the desk, crashing with a loud clatter and
ring-ring-ring
of the bell.

Goddamn it.

To the window, to the safe, back to the desk. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, just leave, no word, not letting her know where he was going.

She ran a hand over her forehead, fingers trembling. Fell back into the seat, no comfort in the black leather.

He’d told her why.

Miranda gulped the rest of the stick until the end glowed bright red. Dropped it in the ashtray, letting it burn.

She hit the hook again and dialed the answering service.

“This is Miranda Corbie, EXbrook 3333. Any messages from a Rick or Richard Sanders?”

Static while she waited, foot tapping the floor.

“Yes, Miss Corbie. You have six messages and two of them are from Rick Sanders, one to your home number and one for EXbrook 3333, but don’t worry, they’re the same.”

“Read it, please.”

“‘Car at parking station on 5th and Minna. Packages for you at Monadnock.’”

“Thanks.” Miranda hit the hook again, dialed the mailroom.

“Miranda Corbie, number four twenty-one. I should have packages downstairs. Bring them up immediately.”

She grabbed a bill from her purse and walked to the window, tremor still coursing through her legs and arms. Watched the florists down below by Lotta’s Fountain, pushing dahlias and carnations, tall man in a brown fedora tipping his hat to a woman in pink …

He’d always been there. She remembered how he’d met her at Lotta’s and tried not to look shocked and sick and angry when she told him she worked at Dianne’s. How he’d used the bullshit Irish lilt and a soft voice, calmed her down. Steadied her.

They’d talked about Johnny, the Stork, the deli on 53rd Street. Good times, New York times. He explained how he’d left the sob sister column, hopped on a train to San Francisco, and barged his way into the
News.
She didn’t know then, didn’t know now, how much of the story was true, and she didn’t care. He made her feel something, anything, even if it was irritation at the crinkle in his goddamn eyes or the phony, lilting accent.

She hadn’t felt anything for a long time.

He’d even pointed out the Monadnock across the street, told her about Burnett looking for an assistant.

“You’d be the bait, Randy, but hell—it’s a damn sight better than where you are now. At least you’d be doing the world a favor by busting up cheaters and frauds—and who knows? Maybe you’ll like the gumshoe work.”

She left Dianne’s the next day, spider spitting when she dared to walk out of the web, soft, mewing noises, vindictive, venomous.

Simple walk through a door at 41 Grant.

Hardest thing she ever did.