City of Secrets (13 page)

Instead, she eased the handle of the door, checking to see if it was locked, grateful, for once, she was wearing gloves.

It was unlocked.

Quick look around.

Against the Storm
was playing from the second-floor window of the apartment house across the street. Clang of a cable car bell on Powell a block away.

She bent down, pretending to tie her shoe, and quickly opened the car door, eyes still on the corner. Reached for the glove compartment.

It was locked.

Miranda cursed and quickly ducked out, shutting the door more loudly than she intended.

Her hand was still on the handle when she met Skinny's eyes, across the street.

*   *   *

He stared at her while he crossed, waiting for a single blue Dodge to pass him on its way up the hill. She smiled, opened her purse slowly. Shook out a Chesterfield.

Nothing to do but wait. If the bastards were gunning for her, they'd know she knew it.

Paper bag in one hand, car keys in the other. Stooped, like a lot of tall men who were too skinny to stick out a chest and gloat.

She stepped to the hood of the car, keeping it between them, holding out her cigarette.

“Got a match? My lighter won't spark.”

Six three, maybe six four. He kept his eyes on her face, dug around in the pocket of the linen jacket with the heavily padded shoulders. Couple of food stains on the lapel. Dark brown eyes, hollowed out, purple circles underneath that tunneled down to the bridge of his nose. Thin lips.

He held out a scratched-up lighter, flicked it once. She bent forward toward the flame, drawing down on the stick. Looked up at him again, showing plenty of teeth.

“Thanks. I was just admiring your car. I'm in the market for one myself. Didya buy it new, or pick up a deal on something used?”

His voice was slow, as if it took time and energy to travel up his long trunk and out the dry, pinched mouth.

“This here was a used model.”

She nodded, running her gloved hand on the hood. “I hear good things about these sedans. Plenty of go for the size. Where'd you say you picked it up?”

He opened the door, threw the paper back on the passenger side, knocking one of the matchbooks to the floor.

“I didn't, lady.”

Miranda backed up to the sidewalk while he turned on the ignition. She stooped down to the open passenger window, keeping the smile plastered on her face.

“Can't blame a girl for trying to find a bargain, can ya, Mister?”

He looked up at her. Slow, deliberate drawl.

“You'd gotta travel a long way. This car came from Los Angeles.”

He let go of the emergency brake, and Miranda jumped backward, watching the Cordoba tan Ford pull ahead and roll down Mason.

*   *   *

The Chesterfield couldn't keep her hands or legs from shaking.

Roy was back from lunch, sitting behind the desk. He brightened when she walked in.

“Didn't expect to see you so soon, Miss Corbie. A Pacific Telephone and Telegraph man was just here for you.”

Her voice was sharp. “What did he want?”

“Just to see how your phone service was working, Miss Corbie, nothing important. He said he'd come back some other time. Left a brochure and everything, wanted to make sure you knew how to operate the phone.”

He held out a pamphlet. Miranda grabbed it, looking it over carefully. Maybe she was being too goddamn anxious, seeing thugs around every corner. Maybe the skinny man with the Panama and the L.A. car was just some traveling salesman who lived in the neighborhood.

But she wouldn't fucking bet her life on it.

“What'd he look like, Roy?”

“Oh, I don't know, Miss Corbie. Kind of your average joe, I guess. Dark hair. Showed me a company card. I asked for identification, like you told me.”

“That's good—thanks. Don't let anybody—I mean anybody—upstairs without me giving you the OK first. OK?”

She opened her purse and fished out a couple of dollars. Roy turned red.

“N-no need for that, Miss Corbie. I'm j-j-just doing my job.”

She picked up his hand and put the money in his palm. “Take it.”

He closed his fist around it and coughed, beet red.

“Did he leave a business card?”

Roy shook his head. “No, ma'am. He showed me a card in his wallet that said he was from PT and T.”

“You remember his name?”

Roy shook his head again. “It was real quick. I think his first name was John.”

“Thanks.”

Miranda took a deep breath, started climbing the stairs.

Three months and three cases to try to knock her off, and no action.

Time to talk to Joe again.

Tonight.

*   *   *

She walked through every room, looking, sniffing, listening for any signs of intrusion.

The clock ticked, and it smelled the way it always did: warm wood, old coffee, cigarette smoke. A touch of Vol de Nuit.

Dug out a box of Arm & Hammer baking soda from the back of the cupboard, hoping it wasn't a solid rock of white. Shook it.

Still granular.

Set it on the counter and moved to the bathroom. Opened the shower door, plucked a long auburn hair off the wall.

Miranda picked up her purse and Pandora's package, held the baking soda with her right hand. Stepped over the threshold and set the packages down.

Sprinkled a fine layer of white on the inside of the foyer floor. Closed the door and locked it, carefully inserting the hair between the door and the frame so that it was held up by the lock mechanism. Stashed Pandora's package under her arm and walked downstairs.

“Keep this behind the desk for me, Roy. I'll be back for it later.”

His mouth fell open. She handed the doorman the box of baking soda and stepped out into Mason Street.

*   *   *

She caught a number 2 White Front down on Sutter, riding in a packed car of chattering women, shoppers returning home to the manicured lawns of small Berkeley houses, comparing bath linen prices at the White House. Stared out the dusty window at the chrome of the Club Moderne, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

Checked her watch. Three o'clock. She'd promised Ozzie she'd meet him tonight.

First was the Moderne, and she couldn't talk to Joe looking like a reject from stenographer school. Left her a few hours to go over the facts, such as they were, and make a few phone calls. Two murders and Duggan. And the little matter of somebody shadowing her, most likely mobsters who wanted to get even for the filth she'd helped clean out of Chinatown.

She took off her gloves, dirty with soot from the Ford sedan, shoved them in her purse.

A spasm shook her hand. She unrolled a Pep-O-Mint.

*   *   *

Gladys was working the newsstand. “Hi, sugar! Got a couple of packs saved for you.”

Miranda took out her wallet, smiled.

“I'll take some Life Savers, too, Gladdy. I'm cutting back on the Chesterfields.”

The bleached blonde looked at her with horror. “Honey—you can't just quit. You gotta see a specialist or somethin'. At least take a vacation.”

Miranda sighed. “Yeah. I'm just making 'em count.”

She scanned the news racks while Gladys shook her head and wrapped up the purchases. No headlines about Duggan. Picked up an
Examiner,
coverage on page four.
Chronicle,
page three. Arrest of an ex-police officer, Duggan named this time. Still no mention of “kike.”

Miranda frowned. “These the latest?”

“Fresh off the presses. We get the
Examiner
right away, you know, with the Hearst Building next door. The boys sometimes give me tips for Bay Meadows.”

A couple in their thirties with three kids in tow pulled Gladys toward the jawbreakers. Miranda shoved a dollar toward her friend, while the couple's sons jostled each other and their little girl tried to decide between a peppermint stick and Necco Wafers.

Miranda walked quickly to the back of the large lobby and the front desk of the mailroom. Didn't recognize the attendant, who looked all of nineteen.

“My name is Miranda Corbie. I'm expecting a package. Messenger delivery.”

The kid swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing underneath the cheap bow tie, and returned with a rectangular flat wrapped in brown paper.

“This arrived via Quick Way Messenger Service. From a Mister—Mister By-a-lick.” He handed it to her.

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

His face ran from red to white and back again. “I—I'm sorry, Miss Corbie. What is it?”

“My identification. I've never seen you before—how do you know I'm really who I say I am?”

He relaxed his shoulders and grinned. “Oh, that's an easy one, Miss. We all know what you look like. The boys described you to a tee.” His focus drifted downward and back up again, in a Little League attempt at a knowing look.

Miranda said dryly. “Thanks, Junior.”

She grabbed the package and left him tugging at his collar. She'd need a better outfit for undercover work.

*   *   *

Meyer's package and Pandora's lay next to each other on her desk, along with her .22.

She unlocked the left drawer and set the file from Allen next to the two packages. Then pulled out the Big Chief tablet, flipping the pages back to where she'd last made a note.

Pandora Blake. Who is Pandora Blake? Twenty-two, bleached blonde, pretty, parents? Jewish? Men?

No goddamn answers. And two more names to add, different pages, more questions.

She turned over the rough paper. Wrote, “Annie Learner.” Thought about it. Wrote, “Gerald Duggan.” Stared at Duggan's name.

Miranda didn't give a damn about what created Gerry Duggan, what precise combination of malice and weakness formed his brand of bully. All she wanted to know was whether or not he stabbed two women with an ice pick and defiled their bodies with a dirty word. Whether Meyer was right and Duggan was a patsy in some way, set up by his own department.

Crooked cop, meet crooked cop. One of you is going to the gas chamber.

She shook out another Chesterfield, lighting it with the One-Touch. Savored the smoke, watching it curl toward the open window.

Miranda pulled over the heavy desk phone, dialed the operator.

Bright voice, cheery. Must be new.

“Operator—I need to find out if a PT and T salesperson called on me this afternoon. He asked to wait in the apartment.… Uh-huh. Left a brochure with my doorman, no card. Would you? Thanks ever so.… No, a girl can't be too careful these days.”

Miranda grinned, took another drag on the stick.

“Hello, Sales?… Yes—OK.” She waited for a few seconds, looking down at the Big Chief tablet.

“Hello? Yeah. My name's Miranda Corbie. Drake Hopkins Apartments, 640 Mason. Number 405.… Very well, thank you.… No, can't say I do. Listen—the reason I'm calling is I need to find out if someone from your office came out to my apartment this afternoon. Said he wanted to see if I knew how to operate the phone properly. No, no card. Flashed ID at the doorman and left a pamphlet.… Uh-huh. Said his first name was John. Sure, go ahead.”

She tapped the ash into the Tower of the Sun, took one more long pull on the Chesterfield before regretfully rubbing it out. The salesman came back on the phone.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No—thank you. That's what I thought. Sure. Sure, I will.”

She let the receiver drop on the cradle, not hearing the clang.

No record of a Pacific Telephone & Telegraph sales call to 640 Mason Street.

 

Twelve

Miranda dialed Tascone's Coffee Shop downstairs. Chicken salad sandwich, lemon meringue pie, and coffee. Food would help blot memories, of speeding cars and a small, squalid bathroom on the edge of the International Settlement.

Unwrapped two more Pep-O-Mints, waiting for the pep to hit, and carefully untied the string around Ozzie's package.

Matchbooks, hanky, ring, photos, a couple of postcards, napkin from the Top of the Mark, lipstick still clinging to the soft white fiber. Scrapbook assortment, souvenirs from dates and dinners and time spent away from Artists and Models, nights when Pandora's dreams were just out of reach, shimmering on the debutante at the next table with the perfect manicure or reproduced in rotogravure on the cover of
Modern Screen
.

And the blond girl would sigh, walking down a dingy, dark alley to the one-room apartment, curling up in a wall bed next to Ozzie, Aquadonis and artist's model, sure they'd be discovered by some important Hollywood scout, smell of bougainvillea and sun-kissed orange orchards the next stop on their overnight to Hollywood.

Miranda flipped through the photos. All Pandora, small snapshots of her smiling, posing at the Tower of the Sun or in front of the Hollywood Show “Stage 9” at the Palace of Entertainment. Two with Ozzie in front of the
Evening Star
statue. The wind blew her hair while they held each other, dreaming of neon lights and movie premieres, of creaming ocean waves and beach houses, a chance to escape Ohio.

When you wish upon a star …

Miranda shoved the photos aside, plucking out matchbooks from Bernstein's Fish Grotto, Clinton's Cafeteria, and the La Fiesta Club. Dipped the pen, made notations in a separate small column by Pandora's name.

Two postcards. One was from Berenice Blake, 212 East 3rd Street, Lima, Ohio. Dated May 23, last year.

Dear Pandora, haven't heard from you. Are you alright? All fine here, Ben got a summer job at the refinery. Saw the Frisco Fair at the newsreels. Write soon. Your loving mother.

Miranda turned the card over. Lima Football Stadium, surrounded by green lawns and small houses. Edges of the card were worn and frayed, held and read over and over again.

The knock at the door made her jump, and she picked up the .22 before she remembered the chicken sandwich. Opened the door to a freckled teenager, silverware in his white coat pocket, holding a cup of coffee and the food on two Buffalo China plates, approximately as round as his eyes.