City of Dragons (25 page)

She suddenly sat straight upright, leaning forward from the comfortable leather against her back.

“What? Who were they? Did they leave a name? What did they look like?”

She reached for a pencil, started scribbling below the list. “An Oriental … uh-huh, how was he dressed? OK. Yeah, I know. What about the—he was white? Spanish or Italian? What’d he look like, his clothes, shoes … yeah, Roy, but try, OK? All right. Take it easy, no one is going to be looking for you. Just tell me what you remember. Uh-huh. Good. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Did they say they’d be back? OK. No number, no name? Uh-huh. Right.”

Miranda reached for a cigarette, stretching to the right corner of her desk, cradling the phone receiver with her shoulder, which hurt like hell. “Just a second.”

She set the phone down, lit the cigarette, inhaled gratefully, and picked it back up.

“OK, now listen to me. Except for the blond lady named Edith—the one with the package—don’t let anyone up there, and don’t take anything else to my apartment. I don’t care if they say they’re with the city or the City of Paris. Unless they’re cops with a search warrant, you don’t take anyone else up there, or deliver anything, either, and you make anyone who asks show you identification. No, you don’t have to worry. You get scared, just call the cops. Yeah. No, I mean it. Yeah. Thanks … you’ve been a big help. You get anybody else asking, call me, OK? Take the package up from Edith. Yeah. All right, Roy, thanks.”

Miranda inhaled the Chesterfield until she shivered, and chased the smoke with a swallow of Old Taylor. Two men were looking for her, one white, one a Chinese or Filipino from Roy’s description. Couldn’t be the green car boys … they wouldn’t come out in the open.

She took another drag and swallowed one more shot of the bourbon. Laid the nine millimeter Spanish pistol on top of the desk, first double-checking the magazine to make sure it was loaded and the spring was working. Then she pulled the Kardex toward her, rifling through it until she found Bente’s work number. The ice pack soothed her cheek while she waited for the ringing to stop.

“Bente? Miranda. Yeah. You got anything yet? Uh-huh. All right. Think you can by tonight? It’s urgent … well, Betty. Betty Chow. Yeah. She was murdered. Yeah. Yeah, I know. Goddamn right, it’s tied in. No, the whole fucking show. Yeah, Winters and Takahashi, the whole fucking thing. You kidding me? I was lucky to find the one I’m working with … no, Phil’s out of the picture for good. I’m going to have to wrap it up with string and slap a bow on it. Uh-huh. Air-tight … yeah. Yeah, rape too, though the chicken-shit bastards won’t—yeah. You too, honey. I know. Yeah, thanks, Bente. No, better make it late tonight, maybe nine or ten. Be better for you, anyway. Someplace safe … let’s try the Moderne at nine. If I’m late, wait for me—if I can’t make it, I’ll phone. What? Yeah, you too.”

Miranda hung up the phone, then sat back and stared at it. From her desk drawer, she took out a silver powder compact with a swan on it, opened it, and studied her face. Swelling down, bruises still visible. The phone rang, and she flung the compact back in the drawer, grabbing at the heavy receiver.

“Miranda Corb—yes, Mrs. Winters. As a matter of fact, I haven’t had a chance to—What? Why? Well, technically you can, but you lose the retain—Uh-huh. Uh huh. I see. So who are they? The ones who put you up to it. Sure you do—the men threatening you to back off or else. Don’t get excited … If you really want to find your daughter and your husband’s murderer … Mrs. Winters? Mrs. Winters?”

She clicked the receiver a few times, waited, her toe tapping. “Operator? Yeah, the call that just came in—was it terminated on the other end? Sure, I’ll wait.” Miranda reached for a cigarette.

“Yeah? That’s what I thought. Yeah, thanks.”

She leaned back, staring at the Chief tablet still on her desk, the expression on her face making her bruises hurt. So Helen Winters changed her mind. Or had it changed for her. Miranda inhaled, absentmindedly flicked some ash on the floor. She wasn’t worried about Helen. Helen could take care of herself. But somebody had found out about the hire already, somebody who didn’t want Phyllis found. And without a contract, Miranda didn’t have much protection.

She set the cigarette down on the Tower of the Sun ashtray, opened the Old Taylor, and waited for the shock of warmth to reach her.

Miranda shoved the pastrami sandwich aside, staring, again, at the newspapers she’d found in Winters’s room. Pages of Deaths–Births–Vital Statistics. She’d been over all of them, studied the advertisements. Nothing. Then the “In and Out of This Port” column. She jotted a note about the ship movements from the Thursday paper, and found herself focusing on the
Kamakura Maru
, from the NYK line … Winters’s company.

The report said it arrived Tuesday night, docked Wednesday, and departed Thursday. And Thursday was the day Lester was killed.

Miranda took a short inhale on the Chesterfield burning in the Tower of the Sun, then set it back down, hurriedly combing back to the small print section in Tuesday. Yes. There it was … TO ARRIVE. The
Kamakura Maru
, disembarked at the Ferry Building, Yokohama via Los Angeles. Large passenger carrier, 225 passengers. Docked at Pier 25.

She sat back, cigarette in her mouth, puffing furiously. Japanese ship. Eddie Takahashi dead. Winters worked for NYK, a Japanese shipping company.

She wrote “Kamakura Maru” on Winters’s list, hurriedly folding the newspapers, and walked to the safe to store them, not feeling the pain in her legs. Came back to the desk, tried to take a bite of pastrami, forgetting the cigarette in her mouth, set the cigarette down again, chewed a bite of the sandwich with pickle in it, and picked up the phone, too much in a hurry to look for the number.

“Operator? I need the Takahashi residence on Wilmot Street.” She pulled the Chief tablet toward her while she waited, flipping up the thin cardboard to look at Helen Winters’s neat, precise penmanship. Only a few blots around the name of her lover—a lawyer with a name Miranda recognized—leaked the shrillness of the woman. Of course, Helen didn’t confess … not in writing. She referred to him as “her adviser in this time of grief.”

“What? No phone, huh? No, that’s all right. Thanks.”

Her wristwatch read one. She must’ve missed the bell.

Holding the receiver in her left hand, she searched the Kardex again with her right, almost smelling the calling card before she found it. Better call to make an appointment. Her stomach clenched as tightly as when she walked into the morgue.

She stared at the card for a few minutes, breathing hard, her tongue unconsciously running over her teeth to make sure she didn’t leave any pastrami caught in between. She sat straighter, her right hand fingering the Spanish pistol next to the phone, the telephone cord pulled out to give it some slack.

She attacked the dial like a high dive into icy water, her finger plunging into the ring holes six times, the phone whining at the speed she was pushing it. She finished, hugging herself with her right arm. And waited.

The fifth ring answered.

“Dianne? Miranda Corbie. I need to see you. No. It can’t wait. Betty was murdered last night. Yes. No, rape and murder. Yes. Not yet.”

Miranda picked up the long, sleek black pistol, holding it in her right hand, while her voice dropped, cutting and cold.

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Dianne. But you see, I’m working with the cops. So you can either see me or see them, and I think you’ll prefer to see me. What? Simple. I want to know why and when Betty left. Details. Any clients to be wary of. And please don’t bother to profess your ignorance of how and when and where she came across those clients and what she did with them. You’re old enough to know better.”

She smiled at the silence at on the other end of the phone. “Shall we say teatime? Four-thirty.” Miranda leaned forward, still holding the gun. “And I don’t want to see them, you understand me? Send them to another room. No, a little thing called citizen’s arrest. As a matter of fact, I would, Dianne. On the contrary … you taught me very well.
Au revoir.
”

Miranda was still smiling, and still holding the Spanish handgun, when the door to her office swung open noiselessly.

In front of her stood a short Chinese man in his early sixties, dressed in a sharp business suit, hatless. And an Italian wearing a brown leather jacket, a fedora, and a placid expression.

There was a Smith and Wesson .38 in his left hand.

Sixteen

N
o one said anything. Miranda held the black pistol flat against the desk, in line with the abdomen of the older man. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes weren’t the flat, animal eyes of a killer.

The Italian was a different story. He’d been trained to hold the gun and fire it, and he did it well. But that was the limit and the range of his intelligence, beyond the necessities of eating, sleeping, fornicating. He didn’t have enough cunning to be or do anything else.

The older man put his hand out flat over the Italian’s .38, shoving it gently downward.

“Don’t need it, Bennie.” His voice, as reedy as the instruments the old men played on the corner of Washington and Grant, was not unkind.

Bennie shrugged, looked at the Chinese man, looked at Miranda, then walked over and sat down in a chair, his gun on his knee. The old man, his hair short and flat with streaks of grey, said: “You mind if we sit, Miss Corbie?”

Miranda’s eyes darted back to Bennie, who was staring out the window. She brought the pistol up, aimed it at the old man. “Tell him to put it away.”

The older one bowed his head, quickly walked to Bennie, Miranda’s pistol tracking him. He spoke clearly.

“Bennie. Put the gun in your holster, please.” The Italian looked up at him as if startled from a reverie.

“Sure, Mr. Wong.” He opened his jacket, already unbuttoned, and tucked the gun into a holster under his right shoulder. Looked up at his boss and whined: “Got a cigarette?”

Mr. Wong reached into his pocket, held a pack of Lucky Strikes out for Bennie.

“Only two. Tobacco isn’t healthy.”

Bennie shrugged, as if he’d heard it before, took two, put one in his mouth, thought for a minute on where to put the other one, finally deciding on his coat pocket, found matches in the same pocket, and lit the cigarette with a flame struck on his shoe. Then he folded his hands and looked out the window again. Mr. Wong turned to Miranda, smiled for the first time.

“You see? I am sorry about the gun. Bennie wasn’t sure what we would find. I understand you had an—accident last night.”

He was still standing. Miranda gestured with the pistol for him to take the other chair, and while he did, she lowered the gun to the desk, still keeping her hand on it.

She said slowly: “How exactly do you come by your information, Mr. Wong? First-hand experience?”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Corbie. I am here on an errand of my own. An errand of mercy.”

Miranda felt her face muscles pull tight, her throat constrict. She tried to calm herself inside. No weakness. Weakness could kill her.

She leaned forward, eyes digging into the Chinese man’s. “The kind you gave to Betty Chow?”

It was a wild swing, but she hit the Italian. His cheek twitched, his face flushed, his mouth opened. The older man sat limply, shoulders sagging. Defeat framed his features, surprising Miranda.

“It is precisely because of Betty Chow I am here, Miss Corbie. I want you to find Emily Takahashi before—before it is too late.”

She stared at him. Bennie was twitchy now, agitated by the mention of Betty’s name. The window no longer held interest. He finished the cigarette, dropping the butt on the floor, and lit another.

“Just who the hell are you, Mr. Wong?”

The older man looked at the gun on her desk. “I am a businessman, Miss Corbie. Businesses, as you know, often … merge. Acquire others. You can incorporate, form limited partnerships. If your stock is public, you may sell investments in your business, even suffer an … overthrow. It is the nature of business.”

Miranda reached across to the pack of Chesterfields, and removed one, keeping her hand near the pistol. She sparked the lighter with a flick of her left hand.

“You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

The old man shook his head. “It is your office. But you should limit your smoking. It is not good for the lungs.”

She inhaled deeply, then blew a stream of smoke toward Bennie, who watched, fascinated.

“I’ll keep it in mind. So you want to do business. You want me to find Emi Takahashi, and you are afraid for her life. Is that the only reason you want me to find her?”

Mr. Wong raised his eyebrows. “That is the reason I want you to find her, yes. But another reason is that she owes someone money. Or, more correctly, her brother owed someone money. And they want to collect.”

“What makes you think she has it?”

“The money is gone, she is gone. If—someone else—had the money, it would have been found by now.”

Miranda nodded, keeping an eye on Bennie. “And you think if I don’t find her first, she’ll be killed. That right?”