City of Secrets (20 page)

*   *   *

They didn't talk much on the way to Mason. Gillespie asked her if she'd heard from Phil; she said no. Silence after that, until he pulled off the Bay Bridge and turned toward downtown, mentioning how he knew Duggan when he worked vice, that he was a decent cop who got broken by circumstance. Miranda nodded, pain in her arm and the bruises on her knees and body making it hard to concentrate on anything other than making it home.

Gillespie drove up the hill, threw on the emergency brake to hold the heavy police car on the grade. Mason was quiet, bedroom lights from a couple of windows and the top floor of the Drake Hopkins.

“Can you get out OK, Corbie?”

He leaned over to help open her door, saggy eyes blinking at the bright light from the apartment lobby. She fumbled with the handle and climbed out on the curb, picking up her bag from the floorboard. Poked her head back inside.

“Thanks, Gillespie. I appreciate it.”

He grunted. “Yeah, well. You ain't such a bad shamus.” He started to put the car in gear.

“Say, Gillespie…”

“Yeah?”

“You hear anything about Duggan and the IRA? Irish Republican Army. I heard that's why the brass discharged him.”

He frowned, staring straight ahead over the steering wheel. “You oughta know why they broke the poor bastard—though you weren't the first woman he couldn't handle, not by a long shot. Kept himself to himself, Duggan did, but we all knew when he was on a tear. No, if he was involved in somethin' political, I never heard it.”

He revved the motor and slipped the car into first. “Be seein' you, Corbie.”

“Yeah, Gillespie. Thanks.”

She watched the police car crawl up the steep hill and turn right on Bush. Two steps to the entrance, struggle to open the heavy glass door of the Drake Hopkins Apartments.

Old Leo was sleeping, mouth open, false teeth put away in his blue overcoat pocket. Breath easy in, easy out, faint sinus trill.

Goddamn elevator still out of order. New goddamn building and fucking elevator broken most of the fucking time.…

Miranda readjusted her arm in the sling, tears of pain in her eyes. Climbed the carpeted stairs, pausing at each landing to rest, breath ragged, each exhale sending an electric shock through her arm and shoulder. The .22 in her bag felt like a fucking cannon, useless goddamn weapon when somebody tries to shoot you in the fucking back.

Finally reached the fourth floor, almost tripping and falling against the door, legs and body trembling in shock and exhaustion.

Flicked on the light and dragged herself inside, scattering the already dispersed baking soda. Wriggled out of the coat, biting her lip. Long gash in the thick wool on the left side. She stared at it for a second, dropping it on the couch.

Wobbled into the kitchen and poured herself a coffee cup of Four Roses, downed it in two gulps. Grabbed a satin comforter off the bed and dragged it into the living room, where she nestled under it in the overstuffed chair. Brought in the bottle of bourbon, placed it at her fingertips.

Dreamed of bright flashing lights and the roar of mortar shells, smell of oil and cordite bitter and overwhelming.

*   *   *

The ringing woke her before the pain did.

Gray light filtered through the pale yellow curtains, and she sat up, swearing at the knives twisted in her left arm.

Miranda pushed herself out of the armchair, staggered toward the bedroom phone. Sank on the bed, waiting for a voice.

“Miranda? My child, are you all right?”

Squeezed her eyes together, opened and blinked. Goddamn blue forget-me-nots. Stretched her neck backward, wondering if she'd ever feel better again.

“Yeah, Meyer. Give me a chance to wake up. What time is it?”

“Eight o'clock. On Tuesday. What happened? Was the shooting connected to Mr. Duggan in some way?”

“I don't know. Maybe.” The edges of the room started to sharpen. She looked down at the beautiful spring green silk, stained with blood, scuffed and torn on rocks and Gayway garbage. “You owe me a new dress. And a coat.”

“City of Paris, top of the line. Just tell me what is going on.”

Miranda yawned until it hurt too much. The pain was becoming sharp and localized, but her entire body felt like a green-and-yellow bruise.

“I was walking through the Gayway—main strip—and somebody took a shot at me. Grazed my upper left arm. I'll be all right.”

Reproving silence. “I'm your attorney, my dear. You should tell me everything.”

“You're not my attorney right now, Meyer. I'll be all right. Let me handle this in my own way, OK? I'm a big girl. I've been shot at before.”

Nonverbal noise of disagreement on the other end. “You could have been killed—”

“But I wasn't. Let it go.” Softer tone: “I can't use my left arm for much, so I've got to work smart and fast. I need you to send me Annie Learner's autopsy report—it's supposed to be released today, and Rick got an early peek. Did you know she'd been sterilized?”

His voice came out slow and shocked. “No. No, I didn't.”

Miranda pulled open the nightstand drawer, rummaging until she found a packet of cigarettes. Half a Chesterfield still inside. She shook it out on the bed.

“An abortion, too, apparently. Find out everything you can from the M.E. about this, would you? Whether the two operations were simultaneous, whether they were professional, estimation on how long ago they took place. It's important. They've been sitting on this information too long.”

“I'll call the coroner immediately, and ask for a copy to be delivered to your office.”

She clicked the small silver lighter with the Tower of the Sun stamped on it and drew down on the cigarette. Exhaled gratefully, placed the stick on the small glass ashtray next to the .38, still propped beside her lamp. Picked up the phone again.

“Thanks. Something else. Annie Learner knew Pandora Blake and Duggan. I'm heading over to Annie's apartment this morning. Rick got it from a cop who said both of their names were listed in her address book. That's physical evidence that you should have seen already, processed and booked and in a locker at the Hall of Justice.”

She could hear him breathing.

“I hope to God you didn't keep this from me, Meyer.”

His voice was quiet. “You should know better than that.”

“Had to ask. Find out what else they've got. Tear into the sonsofbitches. Don't play along.”

“In other words, use your tactics?”

She started to shrug, yelped from the pain in her arm. “Yeah. They work so well. I'll call you later today from the office. OK?”

“Take care of yourself, Miranda.”

“I always do.” She hung up the phone, took a deep drag on the cigarette.

Blew smoke at the pale pink wallpaper. Stared at the forget-me-nots.

*   *   *

Ripping off the bandages on her arm made her grind her teeth, so she threw back another shot of Four Roses. Took an hour and a half to shower and get dressed.

She called downstairs, and Roy ran to the drugstore at the St. Francis, bringing a package of gauze, tape, iodine, and Chesterfields up to the fourth floor like a dog with a prize duck. She tipped him a dollar, his blue eyes watery and blinking and worried, Adam's apple bobbing nervously.

“You need anything, Miss Corbie, you just ring me up. Oh, and here's your baking soda.”

She took the box and smiled. “Thanks, Roy.”

Miranda stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Bruises on her legs, skinned knees, strained right wrist, and above all an ugly puckered rip on her upper arm that would leave a scar.

So much for bathing suit season.

She dowsed the wound with iodine, holding one end of the gauze in her teeth. Wrapped it around, not too tight, the way they'd taught her at the Red Cross, and picked up the pieces of tape she'd cut earlier, securing the bandage. Let her arm slowly hang down until she couldn't stand the pain, then brought it back to a more rigid position.

Fuck the arm sling.

They'd hear it didn't work, hear the shot went wide. So they'd follow her, waiting for another chance, make it good the second time, put the Corbie broad on the slab, goddamn whore who killed Sammy Martini, bitch who thought she could compete with a man, thought she could win in a man's world, fight a man's war.

Miranda studied her reflection, practicing how to hold her arm.

Looking like a crippled woman wasn't a goddamn option.

*   *   *

She ate breakfast at the St. Francis, splurging on atmosphere. Eggs Benedict and a broiled grapefruit, enough coffee to take a bath in. The hotel was full, soldiers and ex-soldiers and families in town for Memorial Day, laying a wreath in the Presidio cemetery, remembering boys lost in Belgium. Last war, not this one.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow, between the crosses, row on row …

Miranda rubbed her forehead. Tried not to make her disability as obvious as it felt, not to show the pain on her face when she moved the wrong way or flinched at the sudden backfire on O'Farrell. Asked the middle-aged waitress for a
Chronicle,
remembering the pride in Lucinda's voice from last night.

Local news, and a full half page on Ozzie Mandelbaum, Aquadonis. She smiled at the photo of Ozzie next to Weissmuller and Esther Williams, at short, bald, and fat Billy Rose standing in front of his swimming pinups.

No mention of Pandora. Closed case, Gillespie said. Official.

Ozzie grew up in a lot of places, from Boston to Amarillo, where he worked for his uncle the chiropractor, helping little old ladies with back problems. Saved enough money to come west, try his luck in show business.

California, here we come. Right back where we started from.

Fame and fortune, name in lights, you oughta be in pictures, lady. You can give my regards to Broadway, but hooray for fucking Hollywood, where any shopgirl can be a top girl with a producer underneath.

The waitress pushed back a gray hair struggling out from under the white hat of the uniform, smiling wanly at Miranda while she poured more coffee. Miranda set the platter aside, lit a Chesterfield.

Climb a stairway to paradise called Los Angeles. Movie stars and movie palaces and wide boulevards with even wider cars, weather always an even seventy-two degrees.

Names in neon lights, lines at Grauman's. Duck hunting with Gable and bridge with Colbert. Love and adoration, what everybody fucking wants, writ big, writ large, filmed in Technicolor with music by Max Steiner and gowns by Edith Head. Live forever, admired, envied. Just make sure DeMille directs.

Until they got lost. Until the boulevards dead-ended in small, cramped hotel rooms off Wilshire. Vast, empty. All make-believe.

A desert disguised as paradise.

Better you should stay in Kansas, little girl. Live in a real city, where the predators can't promise you eternal life, forever young. Forever beautiful.

Miranda folded the paper and left it on the table with a dollar.

Walked outside into the fog, already starting to burn off above Powell Street.

Annie Learner's apartment was next.

 

Eighteen

Miranda stepped off a number 7 White Front, looking quickly to her left and right.

No thin man with a Panama. No tan Ford. Couple of teenagers walking toward Market Street, hand in hand, boy in his father's suit, girl in a carefully pressed calico.

She adjusted the wide-brimmed fedora, smoothed down the scalloped edges of the tailored navy jacket. It was pretty, feminine, and a little large, good disguise for her .38 when she needed to wear it. Hoped the jacket would make her look more mobile than she felt, hide the stiff way she held her left arm, bent at the elbow, pressed against her stomach.

No gun today. Nothing but a demure handbag, too small for anything other than her Baby Browning, and that was back at the office.

Click. Clack. Boom.
Polka dots, red and pink on white. Martini's brains splattered on a bathroom wall.

Three months ago she killed a man. She wasn't sorry.

Miranda dropped the Chesterfield on the sidewalk. Stared up at the two-story Edwardian, cream colored, brown trim, one of a series on this stretch of Haight. Old houses huddled together, comparing scars, dreaming of a single family again, servants' quarters downstairs and men with handlebar mustaches shouting for more port.

The Drexel Apartments looked purpose-built for the trade, larger and deeper than its neighbors. She climbed the short row of steps, examined the call buttons. Annie Learner's name was still on number eleven, neat writing, faded blue ink.

Peered through the dusty glass door. Long, narrow corridor, stairway to the left. First door on the left marked
MANAGER.

Her blue-gloved finger held the button down for ten seconds until she saw the door crack open, parchment thin hand snaking out around the edge.

Old lady, seventy or older. Wrinkled, bent, white hair curly, framing a face with a generous mouth and small, pointed chin. Blue eyes still clear. She'd been pretty once.

Miranda plastered on her best Sunday school smile, glad she chose a conservative suit. The old lady surprised her by moving quickly, neck craned upward to compensate for her crooked back.

Eyes roamed Miranda, looking for a fault and unable to find one. Another White Front car rumbled by, nearly drowning out the old lady's rasping voice.

“No vacancy. Best try the Seville Apartments down the street.” Up and down again, lingering on the navy pumps. “They ain't so particular.”

She started to close the door when Miranda reached for the handle. The old lady cocked her head, gathering her pink quilted robe tighter. Shuffled forward. Peered at Miranda.

“You ain't lookin' for an apartment.”

Miranda opened the door wide with her right hand and propped herself against it, trying not to wince from the stabbing pain in her left arm.