City of Secrets (11 page)

“He's junior.”

“And a highly capable attorney.”

She grunted. “I'll meet you at noon. On one condition.”

“Name it, my dear—you know I have the utmost faith and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Listen to me. If I agree to this—and it's a big fucking ‘if'—I handle it my way. And if I uncover anything that corroborates the charges—anything—I turn it over to the cops at the same time.”

He sounded surprised. “Reciprocal discovery of inculpatory evidence. We'll talk it over when you get here.”

“You'll need to agree before we talk.”

The lawyer blew out a breath in frustration. “Miranda, my child, you do want to find the killer, do you not? And you do need a source of income?”

“The bulls think the killer's in custody. I've got ads in the paper. I'll be back on my feet in a week. What I want to know is whether you're willing to stand behind Duggan all the way down the line.”

Siren in the background, someone shouting. Meyer's voice gruff this time.

“Very well. You have my word—if you should choose to accept my offer. There are other private detectives, after all.”

She grinned. “And my guess is you've had a hell of a time finding any who will touch this case, or you wouldn't have agreed to my terms.”

Warm laughter poured out of the receiver. “Touché, my dear. I'll see you at twelve.”

Miranda slowly hung up the phone. Her hand crept up to her left cheekbone as she remembered the last time she saw Gerry Duggan.

*   *   *

She took a long shower, lathering up with Lady Esther's latest soap. Rubbed Dorothy Gray Salon cream on her face, concentrating on the age spots of eyes, nose, and throat. Miranda looked at herself critically. Back on the chain gang at the Club Moderne soon and couldn't afford to look thirty-three.

Made a pot of Hills Brothers coffee on the small stove, wrapping up the package of Ozzie's treasures, still strewn on the kitchen table. Drank two cups quickly, large hands wrapped around a jadeite coffee mug.

Chose a conservative suit, gray jacket, white blouse, demure hat, last year's style, tilted on the left with a black net veil and plastic pearls bunched toward the front. Miranda checked the mirror. Respectably dowdy, like a girl from the typists' pool.

Roy was the doorman on duty, his Adam's apple bobbing as she waved hello and good-bye. Poor nervous bastard, still worried someone would see him down at Finocchio's, waiting by the stage door.

She walked up Mason to Bush, sensible and ugly black Cantilever shoes like silk slippers after yesterday's pumps. Two blocks to the Stockton Tunnel, down the steps to catch the F line, off again at Washington, and two more blocks to Chinatown and the Universal Café.

Two eggs, sunny-side up, and bacon, two hotcakes on the side. The coffee was black and bitter with grounds, no sugar to soften it.

A youngish woman in glasses and a severely tailored coat dropped a nickel in the juke, and “Blue Orchids” swelled until Miller filled the counter and first dining room. Miranda wasn't in the mood for Hoagy Carmichael or fucking flowers of any color.

She picked up the morning
Chronicle
on the counter, relinquished by a middle-aged salesman with dandruff. Nothing new about Pandora or Annie Learner, and mention of an arrest but not Duggan's name or former occupation. Afternoon edition would be full of it.

Headlines blared that the Nazis were pushing on toward Dunkirk, already claiming Calais, the RAF squeaking out another day of survival for the trapped army. FDR assuring everyone in the fireside chat last night not to panic, defense was strong, but to beware the fifth column, the Trojan horse. She thought of Gonzales in Mexico and flung the paper aside.

The waitress pushed the order across with a smile, pouring more coffee, and Miranda looked down at the Buffalo China platter with the chip on the edge, covered in brown hotcakes, thick, crispy bacon, and perfectly cooked eggs.

Thought about what Gonzales said about Duggan. Tried not to think about Gonzales.

Good war record, used to be a good cop. Banged a lot of heads during Prohibition. Probably banged more than that, Miranda thought, and sipped the coffee.

Duggan was Irish and proud of it, tight family, and his brother died of syphilis. Lots of brothers in lots of cities died of syphilis, but he took it personally. Everybody knew that a woman who'd let you fuck her was a bad woman, not the kind you brought home for corned beef and cabbage on Saturday night.

She took another sip of coffee, poured syrup over the hotcakes. The Chinese waitress smiled at her.

Miranda remembered his face when she drew her .22.

She didn't hold much hope for Gerald Duggan.

*   *   *

She walked down the hill on Washington, chased by the smell of freshly fried sesame balls and red bean cakes, past the Chinese Telephone Exchange and the green undulations of Portsmouth Square. Strode through the archway and up the inside steps on the Kearny Street side, down the marble halls of Tara, sure she wouldn't hear any harps.

A couple of uniforms passed her. One turned back, eyebrows knitted in an effort of memory. Riordan. She smiled until she got to the booking desk and found Collins sitting behind it.

He thrust himself forward, arms across the desk.

“Well, well, well. Miranda Corbie. Somehow I'm not surprised. Your pimp-lawyer said you'd be showing up.”

She opened her purse and took out one of the Life Savers rolls she bought in Chinatown. Unwrapped the foil top with a white-gloved finger and opened her mouth, slowly placing it on her tongue and starting to suck it, not letting go of Collins's eyes.

Red flushed his cheeks, and he raised his voice. Slammed the fountain pen down next to the logbook, drawing the eyes of the two uniforms behind him and the bored secretary in the corner.

“He's talking to Johnson. Through the hallway, two doors down. You remember what the rooms look like.”

Miranda tilted her head to the side, caressing tone.

“Thanks, Collins. You talk to Johnson, too? Or you just rub him a little?”

His mouth fell open and one of the uniforms in back snickered. She pushed through the partition gate, wood oily and black from the years of dirty hands on both sides of the divide. Held her fist up to the door, hesitating for a second, then knocked.

Lieutenant Johnson flung it open, looked her up and down with a frown. Meyer was sitting at the table. Closet-sized but equipped with an exterior window to Jackson Street. The arched glass and wood supports were thick with dirt and the dried bodies of dead insects.

Air was still stuffy, and Miranda loosened the collar around her neck with a forefinger. Johnson motioned her in and closed the door, voice gruff without much effort.

“Miss Corbie. I understand you're going to be working for Mr. Bialik in an investigatory capacity.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I haven't signed a contract yet, Lieutenant.”

Meyer stood up, took her by the elbow. “My dear, we are between Scylla and Charybdis. The lieutenant here—who is heading the investigation—refuses to allow you to even speak to Mr. Duggan unless you have already signed the contract.”

She looked from one man to the other, from Johnson and his shaved blond neck and food-stained uniform and red rectangle of a face to Meyer's ornate vest, duck's-head ebony cane, and black-and-white spats.

“Lieutenant—may I speak to Mr. Bialik privately?”

He shrugged slightly. “Make it quick. We need to transfer Duggan over to Quentin and out of County Jail.” He closed the door behind him with a bang. She turned to Meyer.

“What the hell is going on?”

He held up a hand in pacification. Leaned closer. “I told you earlier. They're rushing this through. And Johnson, my dear, will use every hidebound rule in the book to get Duggan isolated and away as soon as he can.”

Miranda rubbed her neck, pearls on her hat wriggling. Couple of teenage girls were walking up Jackson Street, eating fortune cookies from a paper bag. Laughing. She looked away from the window, staring into her lawyer's dark brown eyes.

Said heavily: “Give me the goddamn pen.”

 

Ten

They walked outside through the north doors, down the sidewalk, and toward the alley that separated the jail from the Hall of Justice. Thicker building, ugly and brutal, hiding men who were the same way or learned to be. It crouched in the shadows of Washington and Dunbar, hiding behind the more respectable façade of its companion.

Miranda's hands were trembling again. She opened her purse and shook out a Chesterfield, lighting up with the Ronson while Johnson strode through the main hallway of County Jail Number One.

His long strides outpaced Meyer, whose cane taps were muffled by the woman in the torn wool coat with puffy cheeks, holding on to her sullen-faced son. More sobs from the main visitors' room, two hours a day to say, Goddamn it, I'm sorry, baby, it won't happen again, and Jesus, if I hear you're sleepin' around on me, I'll break your fucking face.

A couple of secretaries and a guard climbed in the elevator with them, making small talk about the Fair and Fiesta Days. Johnson was wordless, hands folded together, looking up at the ceiling as if it held stained glass.

Cigarette was three-quarters gone already. Miranda said. “What about the autopsy on Annie Learner?”

The door opened on three and the elevator emptied, the guard and secretaries sidling behind a partition in front of the thick steel gate that shut off the jail area. Johnson stood in front of the metal grid. Glanced down at her.

“Not completed yet.”

“I thought Duggan was charged with both crimes.”

Meyer took her by the elbow, bent pleasantly toward Johnson before the blond cop could open his mouth.

“I haven't been able to brief Miss Corbie yet, Lieutenant. We would appreciate a report on Annie Learner as soon as possible.”

Miranda stepped toward the counter, where the guard from the elevator was now stationed. He stared at her, curious, while she rubbed out the cigarette stub on the wood. She raised her eyes to his until he blushed and looked away. Said with her back still turned, “I figured you wouldn't nail one of your own without the whole works, Johnson. You sure you got the right man?”

Meyer's smile was nervous. “My dear, we should save the questions for Mr. Duggan.”

Miranda shrugged, pivoted, staring at Johnson, whose rectangular face was red and slipping into a trapezoid.

“If it's just a matter of pinning it on a dirty cop, you've got a lot to choose from.”

Johnson's back stiffened. He nodded to the guard, who depressed a switch and walked around the counter to shove the gate aside, metal shrieking against metal. Meyer angled close, leaned into her. Whispered: “Why, dear girl, do you insist on making things more difficult?”

“I told you, Meyer—I do this my way or no way at all.”

Johnson marched into the jail without looking behind him. Meyer sighed and gestured forward with his cane.

*   *   *

Duggan was sitting on his bunk, shoulders rounded, long arms dangling limp at his sides. Staring at the wall.

“You got fifteen minutes. As soon as the marshal gets here, we're transferring him to Quentin. Foster is around the corner if he starts acting up on you.” Johnson scowled down at Duggan before leaving, voice a rasp. “Goddamn disgrace.”

Meyer spoke quickly. “Marshal? This isn't a federal affair, Lieutenant.”

The blond cop stopped, slowly turned around. “Never said it was. But he was a part of this department for a long time. And I figured it would be smarter to ask a federal agent to transport him. Less to worry about.”

He slid the stubborn metal shut, red, pulpy hands caressing the bars. Said it to Meyer, not looking at Miranda: “Fifteen minutes.”

Meyer nodded. Turned toward his client. “Mr. Duggan?”

Miranda barely recognized him. Hair greasy, swept back, unkempt. Riddled with gray. Sunken cheeks. Duggan, sad-faced siamang, long hairy arms helpless, large hands, covered in scars, weak, white, empty.

Flare of energy when he met her eyes. Recognition.

Miranda sucked in her breath.

Misery, unspeakable pain. Anger still there, bubbling underneath the surface, but hurt sapped strength, too lethargic to strike out. Too listless to hate.

His lips were dry and caked with last night's saliva. He wetted them with his tongue, pink length of it darting at the corners, mimicry of a smile. Flicked a glance to Meyer, thick eyebrows raised.

“So you got Corbie. Think a whore can save me? Or is she here to finish the job? She started it … her and that fucking Mexican.” Spittle flew into the air. Meyer calmly reached into his breast pocket and wiped his face with a red silk handkerchief.

Miranda's hands reached for a purse that wasn't there. No cigarette, no Life Savers. She grabbed one of the rusty bars and held on, paint flaking off in her palm.

Deep breath. Get the voice under control. No weakness, not in front of Gerry Duggan.

“Gonzales always told me you used to be a good cop. Despite what you did to him. He was your best friend, you sonofabitch.”

Her hands were sweaty on the cell bar.

Duggan looked at her once, then his eyes retreated, roaming the corner of the cell. He faced the wall again, animal sound in his chest, strangled sob. Trapped. Rubbed his hands, repetitive motion. Miranda noticed the palms were chapped, rubbed over and over, never quite coming clean.

She glanced at Meyer. He looked at her nervously and cleared his throat.

“Mr. Duggan, Miss Corbie will do everything she can to corroborate your alibi. She's the best there is at what she does.”

Duggan was rocking now. Up and down, up and down. Mouth ground into a thin, bitter gash, jaw clenched shut, rocking, staring at the wall. Sudden spit of words streamed, anguish stretching them like a rack.