City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (26 page)

In a hurry, she wroteout
Edmund
, chased it with
Lois Hart, Shadow, Photographic memory
. Something else, something else …

He’d thrown it away and she hadn’t paid attention, in a hurry to get to the party, but she remembered something, some offhand remark, Edmund’s sad smile, cheeks flushed red.

Something about the Picasso exhibit, he was nervous, wanted to get away …

Fuck.

Her eyes opened, and she set the pen down, gazing into space, seeing Edmund’s embarrassed face at the door.

“Just ended a relationship,” he’d said. “It’s so awkward when you run into old lovers, especially at social functions.”

Goddamn it. He’d seen someone at the Picasso exhibit, someone he’d had an affair with.

Could it have been … Jasper?

Miranda’s pulse was racing. She opened the drawer, took out a Chesterfield, lit the stick with trembling fingers.

Edmund knew art, one reason why Lois wanted him to go with her. She remembered how he’d laughed, called it information “picked up along the way.” Picked up from where? Old lovers? Picked up from Jasper?

She breathed out a long stream of smoke, willing herself to calm down. Jasper was queer, Edmund was queer. They were both at the exhibit. But there were a lot of queers in San Francisco. She’d need proof.

He saw someone he recognized—someone with whom he’d recently broken up—maybe, just maybe, that meant blackmail. Not by Edmund, not the knight, the perfect gentleman. But by the one person who knew his history and would stoop to use it, who’d make him toe the line or sell him out, or sell him out anyway, if the price was right. Someone who could have called, for example, Mr. Hart, the Lion of the Peninsula, and told him his wife’s shaming him with a nancy boy, or maybe a note to the senator, girlfriend’s slip is showing.

Dianne Laroche.

Miranda sat back in the chair, deep inhale. Dianne Laroche, the woman she never wanted to see again, never wanted to hear, sweet southern voice, poisoned syrup, mint juleps on the veranda, velvet curtains sodden with blood and tears.

Fucking Dianne Laroche.

Knock on the door. Miranda’s hand strayed to the drawer with the Spanish pistol.

“Come in.”

Young redhead from downstairs peered around the corner, eyes like saucers.

“Got another package for you, Miss Corbie. Delivered just a couple minutes ago by a policeman—he said his name was Gillespie, and he sent his regards. I figured you’d need it right away.”

She took a dollar out of her purse and handed it to the kid, who was gazing at the office looking for bullet holes. She stood by the door until it was firmly shut.

Ripped open the brown envelope.

Medical report on Mrs. Hart, preliminary on Edmund. Interviews with the chauffeur, husband, and son.

Three sessions with the chauffeur, five pages, three pages, and three pages again. One session each with Hart and son, two pages apiece.

She stared at the papers thoughtfully. Seven million dollars can buy you a lot of protection. Maybe even a couple of murders.

She picked up the Esterbrook, wrote
Old lover? Blackmail? Dianne?
under Edmund’s heading.

Dianne’s Escort Service and Tea Room, “catering to a select clientele.” 41 Grant Avenue, mister, no light in the window, come for tea and stay for dessert, cabdriver winks and drives on. Dianne’s, where all tastes were catered to, all ages considered, all habits indulged. Just phone EXbrook 9557.

No, no phone. She’d have to go in person, meet the spider in the web for tea, shake the strands and wait for the dance. Only way to tell. Dianne lived a lie, couldn’t tell the difference anymore even if she wanted to, which she didn’t, lies never leave you, never grow old.

One last drag on the Chesterfield. She faced Dianne for Betty Chow, and she’d do it again for Edmund.

Comrades-in-arms, prisoners on Devil’s Island.

Good soldiers. Good soldiers, all.

*   *   *

The phone rang, loud bell blending with a Municipal on Market. Miranda hesitated, then picked it up.

“Miranda Corbie.”

“I got some crazy message from Rick, saying he’s leaving and wanted to say good-bye—what the hell is going on, Randy?”

Bente Gallagher. Thank God she still had Bente.

“He left to join the army.”

Bente started to sputter, words fluent and sandwiched together.

“That bastard! We’re the—we’re the three musketeers, goddamn it! What about you? What about your mother? What the hell—Miranda—you didn’t sleep with the poor bastard, did you? I mean, I figured it’ll happen sooner or later, but timing is everything, and—”

“Bente! Rick left, OK? He’s got his own life. I’ve got enough problems keeping the goddamn D.A. from throwing me in jail.”

Her friend was quiet for a few seconds. “Gonzales. I bet it was Gonzales. He couldn’t stand seeing you and—”

“Can the crap or I’m hanging up.” Miranda’s jaw was sore and she realized she was grinding her teeth.

The storm subsided. “OK, OK. Tell me more when you feel like it. It’s not like I don’t care about the guy, you know? OK. So … what’s going on?”

“The D.A. thinks I’m a Red.”

“Yeah, right, and I’m Loretta fucking Young. Not every goddamn FDR supporter is a Communist, but you wouldn’t know it from the way these pricks operate. What’s it mean?”

“It means we’ve got to lie low for a while. I don’t know what O’Meara’s up to, or how far he’ll push his vendetta, but they might try to go after you. You’re a known associate.”

“And your best friend,” Bente added promptly. “Practically the only one you got, now that Sanders is gone.”

Miranda unraveled two Butter Rum Life Savers. “I’ll call you from pay phones. Hopefully the drunk at the Oceanic will take a message. And you can do something to help. You know about Edmund—”

“Goddamn shame.”

“Yeah. He was—he was a good man. I’ve got a lead, maybe not even a lead, but at least a marker. I need to know who Edmund’s recent lovers were, say, in the last year or two. It could really help. Think you could find out for me?”

“Maybe. Probably. I’ve got a lot of friends. The queers and the sapphists tend to live low-rent, too, unless they’re rich enough to pass as eccentric. We’re all in the same goddamn boat, sinking together, trying to keep one foot out of the hoosegow. Yeah, I’ll ask around, Randy, see what I can find out.”

Miranda could picture her friend, green eyes narrowed, full breasts heaving, red hair wiry and wild, a Viking goddess with an Irish temper and love of drink.

Her voice was warm. “Thanks. We’ll catch up as soon the case is over—and as soon as I’m out of hot water with the D.A. Got a lot to tell you.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll come back to you, Miranda. He always does.”

Miranda hung up the phone, passed a trembling hand over her forehead.

*   *   *

She rounded the corner and knocked on the outside door to Allen’s office. Shriek of protest from the desk chair and heavy footfalls before the door opened suddenly and the Pinkerton’s broad face was grinning at her.

“Hiya, sweetheart. Come on in. Catching up on my paperwork. I was just gonna come by and check up on you.”

She perched on the chair in front of his desk, reaching for a couple of lemon drops in a cut-glass dish.

“Thanks. I can only stay for a minute. Thought I’d give you an update and pick your brain on a couple of things.”

His grin stretched and widened. “Those couple of things wouldn’t be the Finocchio murder and the Hart woman, would they? I read the papers, sweetheart. You’re not the golden girl anymore.”

Miranda bit down on one of the candies and cracked it between her teeth. “Never was. I’m an ex-escort. I used to work for the most famous stripper in the world, regularly associate with undesirables—Communists and Chinese and Italian nightclub owners and queers, and incidentally even a disreputable Pinkerton op. O’Meara’s got Brady’s ear, so he’s putting the screws on … and the news rags eat it up like cake.”

The detective scratched his stomach under the brown vest and studied her thoughtfully.

“O’Meara’s still sore over the Pandora Blake murder. You made him look like a fool.”

“That’s not difficult.”

Allen shook his head and sighed. “Watch yourself, Miri. You’re a good shamus but still green. Don’t let ’em give you the bounce. What happened—your lawyer throw a habeas at ’em?”

“Edmund was an old friend and a new client—used to work for Dianne Laroche, and you won’t see that in the rags. Fisher hemmed and hawed at first, but he’s put his neck on the line for me. He’s letting me work the homicides on the QT, even sent me the forensic reports. Don’t know how much time I’ve got, though … and I sure as hell can’t afford to let him down.”

“What about the hush-hush for the feds? Don’t bother to deny it, I can read all the signs. And your mother … you dropped that bomb yesterday and damned if you didn’t shock the hell out of your old pal Allen.”

Miranda plucked out a Chesterfield, lighting it with a Rusty Nail matchbook on the Pinkerton’s desk. Inhaled, eyes meeting his.

“Hush-hush is still on. May even be connected to the murders … at least that’s the line I fed Fisher to help convince him. And my mother’s situation will have to wait. Rick was able to pull some information together before he left.”

Allen shook out a cigarette from the crumpled pack of Old Golds on the desk and placed it between his lips, mumbling around it while he struck a match.

“Sanders’s a good egg. He finally take a vacation?”

Miranda looked down at her cigarette critically. “Quit the
News.
Might join the army.”

Allen’s eyebrows climbed toward the top of his bald, shiny scalp. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—that’s a goddamn sudden decision, not that any of us’ll have any choice soon enough, but Jesus … so sudden. He was a good reporter. What happened?”

One last exhale, stream of smoke out the side of her mouth. Miranda bent forward and crushed out the cigarette in a chipped Scotch terrier ashtray.

“You’d have to ask him. Listen, I’m on a tail tonight, and I’ve gotta get going. Haven’t had a chance to read the autopsy report on Hart or the prelim on the Finocchio case yet, but I know we’re dealing with a good shadow. Edmund spotted him the night of the Hart murder … some thirtyish joe wearing a wide-brimmed fedora. Edmund had a photographic memory—no kidding—could be a factor in the killing. What I want to know from you is whether or not you’ve got any birds who like to go for the throat—garrote, knife, strangulation—someone just out of the can, maybe, with a nose for jewelry and a well-connected soak.”

Allen nodded his head. “I can check the files for you. I can’t remember a combination like that, though. Sounds like a smart, well-trained, well-disciplined crook. We got sex maniacs coming out our ears and run-of-the-mill stupid bank robbers and typical crazy gangster bastards flowing in from back east and out from under the rocks Prohibition built for ’em. I’ll check. What makes you think he pawned the jade?”

Miranda popped two more lemon drops in her mouth and stood up. “It’s out there somewhere, either with a fence or a collector or whoever hired him to steal it. Killer’s too smart to keep it for himself.”

Allen frowned. “Maybe. You’re talking as if there’s just one of these creeps, Miri. Chances are still pretty damn good you’re dealing with two separate murders. Be careful.”

She turned around, hand on the door.

“I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Thanks, Allen. For everything.”

Miranda pushed the elevator button and checked her watch. Lit another Chesterfield.

Time for tea at 41 Grant Avenue.

Twenty-four

Deep breath.

Her fist hit the door, loud rap.

Franklin opened it, raised his eyebrows.

“Miss Corbie. Business, I assume?”

“Worst kind. Not that Dianne indulges in anything else.”

The immaculately dressed majordomo nodded, his black skin smooth and young looking except for fine wrinkles around the eyes.

Howard graduate, summa cum laude, playing antebellum house slave on Dianne’s Southern Gothic stage. Franklin was Cecil B. DeMille and the Wizard of Oz rolled into one, dedicated to making the illusion possible, illusion of youth and beauty for Dianne, illusion of arousal for the clients.

There were no illusions for the escorts.

He’d anchored Miranda, helped her more than once, most recently when Duggan trapped and arrested her. He was the only source of quiet kindness at 41 Grant Avenue, and not for the first time did Miranda wonder why he stayed.

“Excuse me for a moment. I’ll see if she is available.”

Miranda nodded and lit a Chesterfield, smoke from the stick and burnt match helping to dispel the aroma of decaying magnolias and spilled burgundy.

She inhaled deeply, looking around.

Same goddamn crypt.

Red velvet curtains with faded gold sash, black-and-white marble table in the foyer, one crack through the middle. Silver candelabra, darkened with age, candles slightly bent. Hunting print on the wall, little men in red suits chasing a minuscule fox, and in a place of prominence but too high to examine closely, a thirty-five-year-old oil of Dianne, all coiled ringlets and powdered décolletage, waist cinched tighter than her goddamn bank account.

Dianne Laroche. As she was, or pretended to be. Dianne created her illusions young and lived in them ever since, slightly tattered but still in place, smile still girlish, Cupid lips still curving upward in a red velvet bow.

Franklin stepped quietly into the room, shutting the door behind him.

“She’s in the sitting room, taking tea. She’ll see you now.”

Miranda stubbed the cigarette out on the marble. “Thanks, Franklin. How’ve you been?”

His voice was measured, considered, as if really answering the question.

“I’m well, thank you, Miss Corbie. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“I wouldn’t have bet on it, either.”

“One thing—”

She turned around, surprised at the sudden emotion.

“If you are here about Edmund, as I expect—the papers are full of it today—please be careful. Miss Laroche has not been well. She was quite upset.”