City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  Miranda hunched over the desk, hand clenching the phone tight, unlit stick between two fingers.

  “Listen, asshole, and listen up fast. I know you ratted out Louise and probably got slid a few sawbucks from the newshounds. I know you threatened Greer with whatever information you’ve scrounged up, just like you were gonna do to the high-ups at Alcatraz. I don’t really give a fuck about your penchant for blackmail, but the cops will. That nice little conversation you had about Louise and her family put me, my client, and my license in jeopardy, and that means I’m on your goddamn tail, George, and I promise you—you don’t want me there. So you either work with me or against me, and if you wanna stay out of fucking stir—you work with me.”

  A high-pitched whine rose in volume and wheezed through the receiver. George Blankenship was done.

  “Whaddya want? I told you everything before—”

  “No, you didn’t. You kept quiet about the book because I let it drop and you thought there was an off-chance Louise did manage to steal it and you’d be able to use it eventually. That didn’t happen. Louise doesn’t have it—the killer does. So I want the whole skinny, George—all the dope. What she told you about the book, how you were gonna use the information, what was in it for you.”

  “Don’t the goddamn writer know what’s in the goddamn book? Why do I gotta—”

  “Because you don’t wanna wind up living with the men you bullied on Alacatraz and because I fucking said so. Meet me after work. Eight o’clock, my office, Monadnock Building, fourth floor. And George … don’t be late.”

  Miranda dropped the handset into the cradle.

  She wiped her hands on her skirt and lit a cigarette, but the bad taste lingered.

  * * *

  She was rereading notes in the Big Chief when the redhead kid from downstairs knocked timidly on the door, bearing Fisher’s promised report on Alexander. Miranda gave him two bits and patted him on the shoulder, pushing the door closed and tearing open the brown paper.

  Nothing too outré in Alexander’s pockets.

  Loose change—what the rich call seventy-eight bucks in folding money—a Greer Sanitarium card, a gold-plated cigarette case, monogrammed, with brown-tipped cigarettes—probably French—inside, a small pocketknife, used for cutting cigars.

  Miranda frowned. The business card from a doctor in the Flood building rang a bell. Where the hell had she seen that name, Dr. Arthur H. White?

  The Flood housed a lot of doctors, some quacks, some frauds, mostly doing low-end business, not the kind that Alexander would normally visit. Was White an alienist, maybe the one who was treating Sylvia?

  She pulled the giant Pacific Telephone and Telegraph book toward her, rifling through the pages until she found the P’s. MDs, Ear, Nose and Throat, Eye, Feminine Hygiene … and there it was, plastered under Genito-Urinary and Chronic Disease, large square ad for Arthur H. White, 875 Market Street, Suite 1005, phone SUtter 1170.

  Miranda looked up, remembering where she’d seen him, where she’d heard about him.

  Arthur H. White specialized in syphilis.

  He’d been Dianne’s quack of choice, if the escorts on payroll, men or women, ever came down with symptoms. Dianne would speak in funereal tones, her petticoats rustling, the velvet on the walls weeping in contrition, the dogs in the English hunting scenes howling mournfully at the moon.

  “French gout,” she’d whisper, curls nodding, as she sipped the red wine. “French gout. Best to see Dr. White, my dear, and you’ll be back to good health in no time. I hope you’ve saved like I told you to … he isn’t cheap.”

  Syphilis wasn’t the clap, uncomfortable and painful but rarely fatal. Hell, some of the girls didn’t realize they had gonorrhea until Dianne made them take the twice yearly physical. Syphilis would destroy your mind and eventually your body, and even if you caught it in time to save your life, you could come out a cripple and a monster, pustules covering your misshapen body, features twisted into a nightmare form.

  Six months or more of painful shots, but at least it was successfully treated, thanks to Dr. Erlich and his magic bullet. Whether Dr. White knew what the hell he was doing or whether he was selling horse piss and arsenic as a cure-all, Miranda had no idea. Men or women, they never returned to Dianne after they saw Dr. White, and no one spoke of the sufferers ever after.

  Unlike Lot’s wife, Dianne Laroche never looked back.

  Miranda wrinkled her brow, trying to remember the names of the two women and the single man, the whispers that floated in the acrid, stale air of 44 Grant Street, Dianne’s insistence on rubbers, the creased, soiled card with ARTHUR H. WHITE in embossed black letters.

  Dr. Arthur H. White.

  Was Niles Alexander syphilitic?

  She shook her head. Didn’t make sense, not anymore, not with a steady mistress like Bunny and a former fleet of secretaries. The middle-aged Alexander yearned more for fame and wealth and respectability than the fantasy titillation of forbidden sex.

  Not like his wastrel son …

  Miranda eyes opened wide and she scrawled “JERRY—SYPHILLIS? DR. WHITE? TREATMENTS AT HOME??” on the Big Chief pad.

  Maybe—maybe Jerry stayed at his parents when he had the treatments from White. Maybe they wanted to make sure he was keeping at them, not brushing off the disease like some kind of cold.

  God knows he had plenty of chances to acquire it, to spread it around. Shit, maybe that’s why he was targeting Louise of late, maybe he knew his days of late-night parties at Sally Stanford were over, no more roughing up girls he picked up at the Wharf. Maybe he was looking for new and unused, or at least unabused.

  She turned to the last page of the report. Alexander kept a couple of old jujus in his desk and a silver-plated flask, about a quarter filled with gin. The flask came out clean, no poison, but in his overcoat pocket was a small, cracked bottle of Booth’s gin.

  There were traces of cyanide in the bottle and glass shards in the carpet.

  Miranda nodded, staring through the arabesques of smoke from the forgotten cigarette perched on the ashtray.

  Someone planned to poison him. Someone who brought in a bottle of gin—odds are the publisher’s favorite—and was surprised before he could transfer the poisoned gin into Niles’ monogrammed desk flask.

  The killer must’ve planted the poison in Louise’s desk before entering Alexander’s office, then was caught, maybe in the process of stealing the manuscript—Alexander returned sooner than anticipated—and tried to bluff his way out. Hit Niles, threw the gin at him.

  A struggle.

  An improvisation.

  Something large and weighty, waiting on the desk.

  Then he—or she—dragged Alexander’s body to the chair, picked up the bottle of drugged gin from the floor—where it had cracked, soaking the rug fibers—and put it in the publisher’s pocket.

  Maybe.

  She picked up the stick, deep inhale.

  She couldn’t see, not quite yet.

  But the shapes were getting clearer.

  * * *

  A sharp rap on the door made her start. She pulled open the front desk drawer and placed her hand over the .32.

  Raised her voice. “Come in.”

  Roger Roscoe pushed open the door, dark features twisted in deep lines.

  “Miss Corbie. May I come in? I’d like to speak with you.”

  No actor’s gift of charm today, no writer’s wit or flattery. He looked worn, his skin pasty, suit rumpled and askew.

  Goddamn it—he’d found out about her visit to Greer.

  “No more ‘Miranda,’ Roger? No more friendly chats?”

  “No, I—well, what the hell—why should I prevaricate? I came in here to tell you to leave Sylvia Alexander alone. I mean it.”

  He sat down suddenly in one of the wooden chairs.

  Roger’s face was haggard, dissipated, as though he’d been staying up too late and drinking too much. He’d attempted to hide the effects—there were traces of what looked
like makeup under his eyes, vanity preserved—but his white shirt, navy tie, and gray jacket were wrinkled and dotted with bits of lint. His presence, his palpable charm, the way he spoke, the way he formed words … all of it was off.

  Maybe the strain of Alexander’s murder, of Sylvia’s sudden collapse.

  Maybe something else.

  Snowbird, maybe? Was that how he bonded with Sylvia?

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. But here’s a suggestion: You don’t interfere with my job and I won’t tell you to stop using adverbs. Deal?”

  “Your ‘job,’ Miss Corbie, was, as I understand it, to investigate who the horrible person was who tried to harm Louise. What with Niles’ murder—may whoever killed him rot in hell—and Louise’s current, er, situation—it seems to me that you no longer have a job at all.”

  Her voice was silky. “How nice of you to worry about my employment. But you needn’t bother. Until I find out who was trying to murder Louise—whether or not the attempts had anything to do with Alexander—she’s still my client.”

  “Even if she’s in jail?”

  He snapped the words out like a small dog with a vicious bite.

  “I see you’ve read the papers. Words, words, words, Mr. Roscoe. Here’s the skinny: Louise is my client. Period. Seeing Sylvia was part of what I have to do to protect my client—and discover the truth.”

  He was gripping the brim of his derby hard enough to warp it. “But I assure you—it wasn’t Sylvia. She had nothing to do with—with any of this. She is a woman wronged, a woman hurt, and I ask you—no, I beg you—please let her be, let her find some peace!”

  Urgency and drama, the throb and lilt worthy of a Barrymore. Reminded her of dear old pater, reciting Shakespeare and clutching a bottle of rye, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth …

  Miranda leaned back in her chair, eyes on the author.

  “Whatever else she may be, Mrs. Alexander is a woman with information—information that could help find her husband’s murderer. Maybe even whoever tried to kill Louise, if they’re not one and the same.”

  “She knows nothing, Miss Corbie—Miranda—listen, I—Sylvia isn’t well, surely you see that—saw that. She’s staying an extra week at Greer now, and I believe it’s because of that stunt you pulled. I just came from there—stayed with her for a few hours until she calmed down again. I’m behind on my novel—terribly behind—but Sylvia comes first. ‘To be wise, and love, exceeds men’s might,’ as the Bard says, and I’m afraid I’ve exceeded mine. I’m at the end of my rope.”

  Miranda frowned. “Mrs. Alexander seemed better when I left, not worse—”

  “You don’t know the depths of her illness. I understand Louise is your client but Sylvia needs your help, too, she’s a fragile, fragile woman, a frail thing and I—I love her. Talking to her about Niles will only do her more harm. I implore you again—please—at least wait a few days. It won’t harm Louise’s chances and it might save Sylvia. Wait until she’s out of the sanitarium.”

  “I may not have that luxury. And if I don’t, neither will the bulls.”

  Roscoe rose from the chair, long fingers still mangling the brim of his hat.

  “Please. I’ll answer any questions, do whatever I can to help you, and of course I’ve told the police the same thing. Importuning them will do no good, but if at least you could allow Sylvia the peace she needs … she’s insisted on attending Niles’ memorial and then she’s going straight back to Greer. And I promise you—as soon as she’s out and back home, you can have all your answers, anytime you wish.”

  Miranda studied the tall, thin man, the lines around his eyes and the creases in his suit.

  “All right, Mr. Roscoe. Maybe I’ll get a break before then. I don’t have much more time to give this as it is.”

  He sank back in the hard wooden seat, tension relaxed, body less brittle. Gave her a weak smile.

  “Nor I. My own mystery is in a wretched state. I left my protagonist in a compromising position and now I can’t figure out how to get out of it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Does that happen often?”

  “More often than you’d think. Characters tend to take on lives of their own.”

  Another rap on the door—not as sharp, but heavy and loud—made Roger jump. He looked backward toward the shadow in the hallway, obscured by the mottled glass, then turned to Miranda.

  “I should go. You have a client. I was serious about what I said—I’ll help you in any way I can. Please call on me.”

  Miranda nodded. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  Roger crammed the hat on his head and tipped it hurriedly. Opened her office door and nodded at Rick, who looked surprised.

  “Just leaving, old man. She’s all yours.”

  Roger squeezed by him, and Rick tentatively stepped into the office.

  Miranda was already out from behind the desk.

  His brown hair was short and he looked taller in the uniform, more confident.

  More muscular.

  Less like Rick.

  She met the blue eyes. He smiled, crinkly corners. She took a step toward him, he took one toward her, a sudden dance.

  To her surprise, she found herself kissing him.

  His body was leaner, stronger, but his hands were still gentle, his posture straight.

  It took her a second to realize that he wasn’t kissing her back.

  She stepped backward, turned her face away. They spoke at the same time.

  “Sorry, I guess it’s the uniform—”

  “Miranda, I’m—God, I’ve missed you—”

  She felt herself flushing and slowly, reluctantly, raised her eyes to his. Goddamn it, why was this so hard? And what the hell had she done—she wasn’t Bette fucking Davis, saying good-bye to a man she loved, no Hollywood scene, just a friend, a good friend, maybe her best friend, a man she cared about and yes, loved, like the friend he’d always been.

  And still was.

  She took him in again, smiled with pride. Then the smile faded.

  “Rick—is it 3:30? My watch stopped and I haven’t been paying attention to the goddamn church bells…”

  He glanced at his wristwatch. “3:42. The taxi took a wrong turn.”

  “Jesus.”

  Miranda ran back to her desk.

  “Bunny? Miranda. Did Louise—she didn’t? No word? No, I assumed … yeah. Right away. I’ll call you.”

  She looked up at Rick. “I’ve gotta go. My client may be in trouble.”

  He was already on his way to the door. “I’ll help, whatever you need.”

  Miranda grabbed her purse and the cigarette case holding the Baby Browning from her desk.

  “A fast taxi yesterday.”

  She shut the door and locked it behind her, running to the elevator.

  Goddamn it.

  Where the hell was Louise?

  * * *

  Miranda threw a dollar at the grizzled driver, barely glancing up at the Glenarm Apartments, 1140 Sutter.

  Four stories, and if she remembered correctly, Louise was on the third floor.

  Rick held her elbow while they ran up the few steps to the buzzers and boxes.

  Adkins, Waller, O’Shaughnessy …

  #304—Crowley.

  Her gloved finger hit the button with force, held it down for three seconds, an anemic whine droning through the main door.

  No answer.

  Miranda clenched her jaw, face white. “Goddamn it…”

  She hit it again, holding down the motor until it started to sputter and a heavyset woman covered in flour threw open a second-story window.

  “Lady—take a hint—your party ain’t in—”

  Click.

  Door unlocked. Someone else, tired of the noise, buzzed them in.

  Miranda and Rick squeezed through the door into a respectably dilapidated foyer.

  No elevator.

  She turned to Rick. “Let’s go.”

  They raced up the three flights, feet poundi
ng against the worn brown carpet, Rick outpacing Miranda.

  “Knock if you get there first—I don’t know what we’ll find.”

  She was three steps behind him when he banged hard on #304, a corner room on the narrow third-floor landing.

  No answer. One of the doors behind them opened with an audible crack.

  Miranda grabbed Rick by the arm. “Can you break it down?”

  “I can try.”

  He lowered his right shoulder and threw himself at the door. It creaked, some splintering, but held. An old lady in faded gingham crawled out from behind #308, stood in the hallway with her hands folded.

  Rick tried again. This time the wood shuddered.

  Miranda turned to the old woman. “Call the Super and then call the police—hurry!”

  “You ain’t the police then? You ain’t got no right—”

  Third attempt, and this time the hinges gave, one of the panels splintering off.

  A sickly sweet odor, like rotten garlic, wafted into the hallway, and the old lady immediately shut her mouth, eyes wide, and scurried back inside.

  Miranda held her hands to her face, motioned at Rick. He swallowed a deep gulp of air and ran into the apartment, Miranda close behind.

  Louise.

  On the Murphy bed, next to a closed window, still in a nightgown, white and cold.

  From the small kitchen to the left of the bed, a soft hiss and no flame.

  Gas.

  Act Four

  The Rewrite

  “Take pains. Be perfect.”

  —William Shakespeare

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act I, scene ii

  Twenty-One

  Rick made a face like a blowfish, exhaled, and picked up the secretary in his arms, while Miranda held her gloved hand over her mouth and ran to the small kitchen area, trying to shut off the gas valve connected to the small, two-burner cooktop. The pilot light was off, the knob on the burner turned slightly on.

  Rick grunted at her, jerking his head toward the open door, Louise prone against his chest. Miranda nodded, twisting the burner knob to the off position and struggled again with the gas valve, her hands slipping against the black painted handle. No movement, and the gas was still softly hissing.