City of Dragons (30 page)

“You need to get home, Miranda, or you’ll wind up in a hospital.”

“St. James Infirmary.”

“What?” They looked puzzled. Gonzales looked away.

“Nothing. Just give me a shot of something. I’ll be OK.”

“But your cheek—”

“Never mind my cheek. I’ve got to get to my office, then to the Moderne.”

The men looked at each other. Rick pulled out a flask from his inside jacket pocket, handed it to Miranda. She drank it down, felt the liquid loosen her aching muscles, numbing the pain.

“Cigarette?”

This time it was Gonzales, offering her one of his French gold-tips. He lit it for her, his eyes angry and upset. Rick didn’t look happy, either, especially when looking at Gonzales.

Meyer rested his plump hand lightly on her shoulder. “The charge has been thrown out, my dear. No habeas corpus necessary … Duggan violated section 849 by not taking you before a judge—and there was one available, I checked. He also violated section 149 of the penal code with an assault on you, as reported by Mr. Franklin Hayes, who contacted Mr. Sanders about two hours ago. One call, and an explanation of your case, as provided by Mr. Sanders, and the new chief agreed that we’d just pretend it didn’t happen. The best outcome, I think.”

“He has been temporarily relieved from duty, Miss Corbie.” Gonzales’s soft accent felt like a caress after Duggan’s rasp. “He’d staked out Miss Laroche’s residence on his own initiative, anticipating your visit. Miss Laroche has agreed not to pursue any claim against him, as the matter is being dropped.”

Dianne and her reputation. Escort services advertised, she used to say; whores did not. Miranda inhaled Gonzales’s cigarette, the stronger tobacco helping to revive her. At least she wasn’t so incompetent that she’d failed to see a tail.

Her attorney cleared his throat and said: “The new police chief was also very unhappy to receive a call from Leland Cutler.”

“You phoned Cutler?”

Bialik shrugged, his paisley vest expanding with the gesture. “He owes you, Miranda. Given this Duggan’s propensity for theatrics, I thought it would make you reasonably secure for the future.”

She took another swig of Rick’s whiskey, dropped the cigarette in the ashtray, and put her hands in front of her on the table, pushing herself up and trying to stand. Gonzales moved to help her, but Rick was closer and lifted her by the elbow.

She stood, looked at Meyer Bialik and his formal suit, his eyes and smile benevolent. The other side of her face was too swollen to see properly.

“No worry on the moral turpitude clause?”

He shook his head.

She turned to Gonzales. Lowered her voice. “Did Phil know about this?”

“Phil is on a leave of absence, Miss Corbie. Since this morning.”

Fuck. Probably drinking again.

“I’ve gotta get to Bente and the Moderne. Can someone take me to the office in a hurry?”

Gonzales said: “I will drive you in a police car, Miss Corbie. It is the least we can do.”

Rick said quickly: “I’ll go with you, Miranda.”

Bialik looked at the two men, amusement playing across his good-humored face.

“I shall dine in Chinatown tonight, gentlemen, so don’t bother yourselves with me.” He bent over, took Miranda’s hand, and kissed it. “I’ll send you the bill, but it won’t be much.”

“Thanks, Meyer. With this face, I’ll need to keep it in the bank.”

“
Jamais
, my dear,
jamais
.
Adieu
, gentlemen.” He waddled out of the room, his cane tapping on the floor in a jaunty rhythm.

“Can I collect my things?”

“They’re here, Miss Corbie.” Gonzales gestured to a box in the chair opposite from where she’d sat, and lifted it on the table. “I had them brought to you.”

She looked at him. “Thank you, Inspector.”

Rick said, a bite in his voice: “Can we get on the way, if you’re going to insist on not seeing a doctor?”

Gonzales held the door open for them both, while Rick’s hand hovered protectively near her waist. She glanced back at the small, airless room.

“Thanks, Franklin,” she whispered to herself.

Nineteen

M
iranda tried to shove the tiredness out of her body and concentrated on the pain. The side of her face felt like a lead balloon. Too heavy to smile. Not that she had much to smile about.

Rick sat on her right, looking at her every few seconds when he wasn’t watching Gonzales’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

The detective maneuvered the large black Ford out of the Hall of Justice parking lot, and turned left on Jackson. He was taking the long way, and Miranda figured he had something to say.

“I have some information for you, but I’m not sure that Mr. Sanders—”

“—Mr. Sanders knows when to keep his mouth shut and his pencil in his pocket, Gonzales. Tell Miranda what she needs to know, and all of it is off the record.” No Irish lilt in the voice today.

Gonzales flashed a glance at Rick, came back to Miranda, and passed a man on a bag-laden bicycle rolling down Grant Avenue.

“We ran down the numbers you gave us this morning, Miss Corbie, cross-referenced them with late-model sedans. We have not located the car, but we think we found a match to one registered in Los Angeles and reported stolen. So it seems your visitors may not be local.”

“Any reports on the grapevine about L.A. muscle moving north? Italians, maybe even Sammy Martini?”

Gonzales shook his head, stifled a mild expletive when two teenagers jumped in front of the car and jaywalked across Stockton. Caution made his voice rougher: “We’ve heard something about Los Angeles. Something to do with drugs, nothing to do with killers. And nothing to do with Martini.”

Miranda glanced at Rick, who was staring at her. Came back to Gonzales’s eyes in the mirror. “They’re connected. L.A., Filipino Charlie, and Gillio’s boys.”

They were moving through the Stockton Tunnel, and Gonzales shook his head. “I can’t hear you properly. Just a moment.”

He pulled over to a parking space a block and a half later, in front of one of the ubiquitous cheap hotels that lined the area up the hill from Union Square. The space was big enough not to parallel park, and once the large car was secure, he turned around in the seat to look at Miranda.

“I thought I heard you say something about Filipino Charlie and Gillio’s …”

“You did. And Los Angeles. It’s all tied in, the Winters case, Eddie Takahashi … and probably Betty. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know the specifics yet. But Winters was carrying a matchbook from the Olympic Hotel in his pocket when he was killed. These boys from L.A. left me a calling card from Gillio’s at the Olympic Hotel. And Helen Winters called to tell me to drop the case … Why? Maybe she got a calling card, too.”

Rick pushed his hat up from his forehead and gave a low whistle. “That’s a big leap, Miranda.”

Gonzales nodded. “One matchbook, three murders? Slim evidence, Miss Corbie.”

She looked from one man to the other, impatiently. “Look … I don’t like coincidences. Men in a green car followed me after Eddie was killed. Then they tried to kill me. A Chinese business associate—what business, I don’t know—of someone connected, probably Filipino Charlie—walked into my office with an Italian gunman today, and asked me to find Eddie’s sister … because Eddie owed them money. And the man knew something about Betty’s death and Phyllis Winters’s disappearance.”

“Could be word on the street. Doesn’t necessarily mean they were involved.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “No. You’re wrong. And if you don’t believe me, go down to Japantown. Visit the empty storefront belonging to Eddie’s family. Except it’s not quite empty. Because inside you’ll find cargo boxes from Lester Winters’ shipping line that used to hold bags of cocaine.”

Gonzales made a sudden move, as if he might sprint out of the car. “Are you sure it was cocaine?”

Miranda opened her purse, carefully removing the envelope with the white powder. “Test it and see.”

Gonzales took it from her gingerly, while Rick leaned forward to look. Gonzales placed it next to him on the car seat, then looked up at her, his face holding admiration.

“Thank you, Miss Corbie. Miranda. That dovetails with what we heard about the Los Angeles connection. Cocaine and heroin, moving north in large quantities. Perhaps—perhaps that matchbook means more than I thought.”

Rick looked dubious. “I’ve never heard of Italians mixing with Oriental gangs, Miranda.”

“Nor have I. But the man that paid me a visit mentioned something about unwanted business associates moving in on them. I don’t know whether that’s the Italians, or the Los Angeles boys. Or both. We don’t know why Winters was killed, even if we can guess how he fits in. And we don’t know where his daughter is, or Eddie’s sister. But this Mr. Wong, as he called himself, said that if we didn’t find Emily Takahashi, she’d wind up like Betty. That’s enough fucking coincidence for me.”

Gonzales let out the clutch, and moved the car back into traffic. “Winters looks like a very professional job. Similar to a killing in Seattle last year. A man known as Needles, former nurse at a hospital in St. Louis. He was supposed to be hiding out in Portland.”

Rick asked: “Think he traveled south?”

“Possibly. Yet Takahashi was shot and Betty Chow was strangled.”

“And raped.”

Miranda stared out the window at the shoppers on Market, while Gonzales pulled into another spot about a block away from the Monadnock.

He flicked a glance at her, while Rick looked down at the car floor.

“And raped. And the men in the car—if they are the same as those we have been looking for earlier—”

“You mean the hit-runners that killed the old man last week?” Rick leaned forward. “We’ve been trying to get more information out of you guys ever since.”

Gonzales shut the engine off, turned around to face them again. A streetcar rumbled by, and he waited until it passed before responding.

“We have little to go on, Mr. Sanders. Other than the victim, an old man, retired from the gas company. From a fender at the scene, we believe it was a ’39 Dodge coupe, not an Oldsmobile sedan. The car that tried to run you down was an Oldsmobile, Miss Corbie. Large four-door model. Belonged to a real estate agent in Santa Monica. The earlier hit-and-run seems like a genuine—and unfortunate—coincidence.”

Rick grunted. “Maybe. But Clarion Alley isn’t known for its traffic problems.”

Miranda turned toward him. “I thought it was Seventeenth Street.”

“Clarion. Off of Seventeenth.”

Gonzales said: “I’ll follow up on the cocaine immediately. Regan in Narcotics will appreciate the lead.”

“See if he can find us one between Lester Winters, Filipino Charlie, and Joe Gillio.” Miranda gathered her purse and the Spanish gun, still in the holster, and started to open the door. “Thank you, Inspector.”

He jumped out, opened it for her before Rick was around the other side of the car. Took her hand, and she could feel the warmth in it.

“I’m sorry, Miranda. Duggan … what he did to you … I’m sorry. He’ll probably be suspended because of this—deservedly so. But I ask you—please don’t judge him too harshly. He used to be a good cop.”

“And now he’s a son of a bitch who’s goddamn lucky she’s not charging him with assault and battery. C’mon, Miranda.” Rick was standing impatiently at her side, Irish pugnacity aimed full force at Gonzales.

The inspector bowed his head, hair perfectly in place, smelling of French tobacco and aftershave. “You’re right, of course. Please be careful, and stay in touch. Call me directly with any information, or if you need … any help.”

Miranda shook his hand quickly. Rick stuck his own hand out immediately, gave him one quick jerk, and took Miranda by the elbow, around the police car, and on the sidewalk.

Gonzales stood next to his open door, watching them, and lit a French cigarette.

They didn’t say anything on the way to the Monadnock. Miranda could feel Rick’s irritation and impatience, and was grateful that he kept quiet.

The lobby was busy for past eight o’clock on a Tuesday. Gladys wasn’t working the magazine stand. Miranda was grateful; the fewer people who saw her face, the better.

She caught a few sideways glances, as people in the elevator tried not to stare, tried not to speculate on the woman with the dark bruises and circles under her eyes. None of their business if her husband gave her a slap now and again.

Not much noise on the fourth floor. You’d never know if the Pinkertons were busy, anyway. She and Rick walked by, catching a whiff of expense account on the way to her office.

She unlocked the door, while Rick waited, muscles tensed, anticipating someone to fight other than himself.

Miranda walked in, threw her purse on the desk, and finally collapsed in her chair, the leather caressing her, supporting her. She set the holster in front of her, and removed the black pistol, examining it for any damage.

Rick took off his hat, sat across from her, lit a cigarette. And asked: “Why the hell are you here, Miranda? You’re hurt. You’ve been through hell. I could blast Duggan and those bastards through the roof—get an investigation, get the boss involved. We’ve been looking for a cause for two months.”