City of Secrets (25 page)

And Dianne's voice would purr back, hint of southern aristocracy, Spanish moss, and mint juleps dripping from her tongue. Anything you need, gentlemen. Anything you need. “Mrs.” just a suggestion, an honorific for the tearoom, Earl Grey at four
P.M.
, gentlemen, though I'm sure you'd prefer the countess.

Laughter all around. Franklin, clear the tea china, it's time for dancing. Black man served, watched, and waited, Howard graduate, knowing his lines.

Then cleared throats, startled, and some of them turned away, couldn't stand to look in her eyes. Others would ask her to dance, pressed close, her body bruised from oversize bellies, crushed against her, thighs and what was between them desperate for contact.

And one of them would choose her, not minding the eyes, relishing the challenge, enjoying the pain. Sometimes they'd be tall enough, young enough, fit enough, to make her forget, to get lost in acceptance, in reception, to drift away for a time, unheeding, because it wasn't her, and what happened didn't matter.

Never touched her. There was nothing to touch.

And then there was Phil, who felt sorry for her, wanted her too much, and wanted to protect her. Couldn't go out with Phil, could dance with him, serve him tea, but he was a cop and a decent man who drank too much and wanted her too much, and that was all he'd ever be.

She remembered when she saw Rick. First time after New York.

Lotta's Fountain, where survivors meet.

She remembered how he made her feel. How he made her remember.

The next day she quit Dianne's.

Miranda closed her eyes and inhaled, holding the smoke in her mouth, feeling the nicotine course through her body, finally exhaling in a stream through the fourth-floor window.

*   *   *

The answering service listed four messages, two of which were responses to her ads. One from a Mrs. Beringer, shrill voiced, forty-five, worried that her husband was unfaithful, another from Mrs. Dalton, missing a Chinese jade parure. High-toned Boston accent and a past spent in Pittsburgh.

She wrote down the names and numbers, hoping to string them along for an appointment next week, after she'd proven Duggan's innocence and found the murderer and incidentally rescued the fucking British Army.

The other message was from Rick. Last one was from Lucinda.

“Read it to me again, please.”

Girl working for the Teleservice Answering Company spoke slowly and carefully, despite the swollen adenoids.

“Yes, Miss Corbie. Here it is. ‘Need to talk. Am confused. Please call. Lucinda Gerber.'”

Miranda blew out a deep breath in frustration. “It's not like a fucking telegram, she doesn't have to pay per word.…”

“Sorry, Miss? I didn't quite catch—”

“Nothing. Thanks.” She slammed the receiver in the cradle, bell jangling in protest. Her hand poised above it, waiting for the connection to break.

Picked it up again, hitting the receiver until an operator came on. Pawed through her purse contents for her
Chadwick's Street Guide,
ignoring the sharp sting in her arm, and opened it to the William Rudko Valet ad in the back.

“Lucinda Gerber, please—any number at the La Salle Apartments, 650 Post?”

The operator was about fifty, probably the supervisor, with a tone that presumed it was always correct. “I'm sorry, Madame, but there is no one listed by that name and that address.”

“You mean she doesn't have her own phone number.”

Raised voice, peevish, as if Miranda were hard of hearing. “I'm sorry, Madame, as I said, no one is listed by that name and that address.”

“Just give me the number for the La Salle, then.”

“One moment, Madame.” Frosty silence while the operator dwelled on how much easier her job would be if only people paid attention. “I'm sorry, Madame, there is no phone listed at that address.”

Miranda swore, and the operator immediately clicked off. Miranda kept hitting the cradle until another one came on.

“Is there a number for the Artists and Models concession on Treasure Island?”

This one sounded less like the Legion of Decency, circa 1692. Still, Miranda didn't hold out much hope. Schwartz was a cheap bastard. Even the Nude Ranch paid for a phone, just dial FAirgrounds 1224 and breathe hard.

The operator came back on. “I'm sorry, Madame, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” She thought of Ozzie. “How about the Aquacade?”

Billy Rose needed phones to keep Tanforan and Bay Meadows in business. The woman at the switchboard sighed, and Miranda could hear her paging through paper, then, “One moment, please,” while she plugged in the right line.

Ringing. Brooklyn accent picked up after five or six times. Out of breath.

“Yeah? I mean, Billy Rose's Aquacade, how may I direct your call?”

Miranda grinned. Wondered what she'd been doing when the call came through.

“I need to speak to Ozzie Mandelbaum, please. He's an Aquadonis. It's urgent.”

The girl on the other end yawned. “It always is, sister, 'specially if you're an Aquabelle. Hold on.”

Miranda waited, hoping Ozzie was at practice early today. Lucinda knew something about Calistoga, whatever Pandora told her when she asked her friend to go to the Hotel Potter with the rent money, the exotic brunette, impressing Walter with her “hootchy-kootchy” looks.

Miranda picked up the autopsy report on Pandora again, reading over it until Ozzie's voice made her jump.

“Hello? Hello?” Sounded as though he'd been running.

“Sorry, Ozzie, it's Miranda Corbie. Didn't mean to worry you.”

She could hear the smile on his face. “Oh—Miss Corbie. I'm so glad it's you. What can I help you with?”

“Lucinda doesn't have a phone at her apartment, and I need to speak with her. Is she there?”

He sounded surprised. “I don't know, Miss Corbie. I haven't seen her all day, if that's what you mean. Lu usually meets me at night, before or after one of her shows.”

“Listen—can you have her call me, please? I'll be out of town tonight, but tell her to leave me a number where I can reach her tomorrow morning. It's important.”

“Sure thing, Miss Corbie.” He hesitated, somber again. “Is this—is this about Pan, Miss Corbie?”

Miranda reached for the pack of cigarettes on her desk. One more stick.

“I don't know, Ozzie. Don't forget—have her call me.”

She could hear girls giggling in the background and what sounded like the receptionist yelling at Ozzie for dripping water on the floor.

“All right, Miss Corbie. And thanks.”

She hung up and frowned, staring at the phone.

Sharp knock on the door.

She opened the bottom drawer and lifted out the .22, slipping the safety off with her thumb. Rubbed out the Chesterfield. Cradled the .22 in her lap.

Said in a voice loud enough to be heard: “Come in.”

The door opened wide enough for a man to walk in.

Short, well built, and in a trench coat.

 

Twenty-two

Man from the elevator, the one nosy about her reading material. He stood in the doorway, smiling, gray fedora dangling from his fingers, crooked red feather stuck sideways in the ribbon. About thirty-eight, thirty-nine. Small brushy mustache. Glint of gold on his ring finger.

She forced a smile on her face. “What can I do for you?”

He held the hat outstretched, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk. “Mind if I sit down, Miss Corbie?”

Her fingers clutched the .22 in her lap.

“Can't say until I know why you're here. I usually don't accept walk-in cases.”

He chuckled. Ran strong-looking fingers through curly dark hair flecked with gray. Sat down on the hard chair in front of her. Body compact and muscular, around five nine. Twirled the fedora back and forth. Smiling.

“My name's David Fisher. Inspector David Fisher.” He opened the trench coat, flashing a city-issued .38 in a shoulder holster, red suspenders, and a white shirt in need of starch. Pulled out a brown leather wallet crammed with business cards and old receipts and opened it to show his badge, eyes on Miranda. He smelled like cigarettes and Ivory soap.

She let out a breath, shoulders relaxed again, electric shocks through her arm. Lifted up the .22 and set it on her desk. He raised his eyebrows, smile still in place.

“You expecting other company, Miss Corbie?”

Miranda reached for the Chesterfield pack on her desk. Empty. She unraveled the last two Butter Rums.

“Excuse me, Inspector, but why are you here? The Pandora Blake and Annie Learner case is closed … and we're working opposite sides of it.”

He nodded, coat still open. Pulled out a pack of Old Golds. Phil's brand.

Said, “Mind if I smoke?” and she shook her head.

He lit the stick with a matchbook. “Want one?”

“No thanks. I'm still waiting for an answer.”

He drew down the stick, looking toward the open window. Church bells chimed twice south of Market. He cracked a smile, blew the smoke out through his nose and mouth.

“Those homicides are considered closed, yes. But some of us don't like how it's been played. Second reason, Miss Corbie, is that you were shot at last night. In case you didn't notice, that's illegal in San Francisco. Hell, it's illegal in the whole state.” He grinned, leaning forward, tapping ash into the Tower of the Sun ashtray.

“I think in my case the department will make an exception.”

He broke out into actual laughter, right hand resting on his knee, left still dangling the hat. Miranda wasn't used to cheerful, merry cops, and the Life Savers tasted like shit.

She walked to the safe. Shook out two decks of Chesterfields from the carton she'd stashed, shoved the rest toward the back, and slammed it shut.

He smiled, reached into his coat pocket, and threw her a matchbook. She caught it in the air with her right hand.

He said easily, “Light 'em with that.”

She looked down at the matchbook in her hand.

Black Cat Café. Same as Flamm's matches in her safe, “Mickey wants to see you…”

Miranda yanked her head up to Fisher, eyes narrowed.

“What's your goddamn game, Inspector? Because right now, I don't like it so much.”

He sighed. “I've been accused of dramatic flair. Maybe that's not the best approach. Cards on the table?”

Miranda sat down behind the large oak desk, Weinstein's special, big enough to buy time with bad customers and cops with a fairy tale to sell.

“You're the one who's dealing.”

“Fair enough.” He deposited more ash in the tray, eyes darting toward the papers on her desk.

Miranda reached across with both arms, fuck the shoulder, gathering most of the documents in a lopsided pile, anchored under the .22. The cop watched her, smile growing. Then leaned forward, lines on his face falling downward, more serious.

“A man named Eduardo Scorsone was shot and killed last night with a .22.” He nodded toward the pistol on her desk. “Body was found on the rocks below the parking lot on Treasure Island. He was carrying a .22 pistol, from which two bullets had been fired.”

“Let me guess—not the pistol that killed him.”

Fisher nodded again, crushing the Old Gold stub in the ashtray. “But we think one of the two fired was aimed at you.”

She settled back in the chair. “Lucky for me, only a graze. What's your point?”

“Miss Corbie, don't you want to know who shot you?”

“Sure, Inspector. I'd like to know who shot me. I'd also like to know who stabbed Pandora Blake and Annie Learner, and why our oh-so-noble crusading D.A. is railroading Duggan straight to the Quentin gas chamber. While we're at it, I wouldn't mind knowing how the goddamn Maginot Line turned into a picket fence, and if the Allied army's gonna live past Memorial Day. Let me know if you come up with any fucking answers.”

She ripped open a deck, lit a stick with the One-Touch. Waited for the smoke to warm her lungs. Grabbed her shaking left arm with her right hand and braced her back against the padded leather.

“They told me about you. They were right.”

“I was an escort, Inspector. I've heard all the lines.”

Fisher hunched at the edge of the wooden seat, hat dangling between his knees.

Reminded her of Gonzales.

She blew a stream of smoke toward the opposite corner of the room. Waited.

He took a deep breath. “OK, here it is. There's been some talk that maybe you killed Scorsone.”

Her lips curved upward. “After I was shot or before? I was in the hospital with Gillespie after the bullet hit me. He drove me home. Before that, I was working on the case I was hired to work on. Which was the only reason I was there.”

She tapped some ash in the tray.

“Of course, maybe somebody thinks I shot him and then he shot at me. And then he dragged himself across the entire Gayway to the parking lot, where he threw himself on the rocks, waiting for the waves like the fucking Little Mermaid.”

Fisher threw his head back and erupted in laughter again, dropping his fedora. Miranda raised an eyebrow, wondering if this was some sort of new police interrogation tactic. He bent down to pick up the hat, still chuckling.

“Actually, Miss Corbie, some people would like to think you killed him and then were shot by one of his confederates. Scorsone is—was—a dropper from Chicago.”

Goddamn it. Chicago.

She pointed the cigarette at him, smoke curling from the bright red tip.

“Who's trying to set me up?”

He held up his hand as if waving her back. “It's just talk, Miss Corbie. I'm not here to arrest you.”

Another tremor passed through her arm as she brought the stick to her lips. Her eyes never left the cop.

“Talk can kill people, Inspector.”

Fisher nodded, looking down at the fedora and twirling it around his finger, red feather split and splayed against the dirty black ribbon. Stopped abruptly, almost crushing the hat between his two large hands.