City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  Miller’s mouth compressed into itself, eyes wide with shock.

  “He shouldn’ta been fired, not George, knew there’d be trouble, sir, I told you, but I can fix it, I can fix her, too—”

  “Linkletter!” Miller regained control. “That’s enough.” He glanced up at Miranda, wiped his forehead with the limp handkerchief again. Pulled at his ear, rocked a little, back and forth in his throne.

  “Blankenship was an insubordinate fool, a moron with a low IQ who should never have been hired. He was guilty of—of behavior that we don’t tolerate in our inmates, let alone our troops. Our guards are top men—all top men.”

  Top men in uniform, like the men in Spain, like the men in Germany, keepers of order, keepers of peace …

  “Top men? With Linkletter here at the summit? Some of the—let’s call them ‘top men,’ shall we?—that I work for are wondering why Alcatraz gets strike after strike. They’re wondering what happened to Rufus McCain and Henri Young and William Martin and why the U.S. Attorney didn’t charge them for the escape attempt. They’re wondering about the fire in the mat shop and why Rufe Persful chopped off his own fingers and Roy Gardner killed himself. Maybe you can respond to those ‘top men,’ Warden Miller. And explain why exactly George Blankenship thinks he can blackmail you into giving him his job back.”

  Miller raised his face, emotions under lock and key, shut up in isolation. He glanced up at Linkletter, who stood tensed, pale eyes fixed on Miranda.

  “My message from the Bureau of Prisons said to cooperate with you, Miss Corbie. It also said your purpose in coming to Alcatraz was to find out more about Cretzer and Kyle. To that end, as I mentioned, I’ve prepared a small packet of information, including the special report given to Warden Johnston by the Bureau of Prisons.”

  Miller pushed a manila envelope toward her with his fingertips.

  “We do not expect nor will we experience any trouble from Mr. Cretzer or Mr. Kyle. Alcatraz has a habit of subduing even the most hardened, recalcitrant criminal type.” He bared his teeth at her. “Your fifteen minutes are up, Miss Corbie.”

  She looked from one to the other.

  End of the road.

  “I think you’re wrong, Warden Miller. I think there will always be strikes and escape attempts on Alcatraz … as long as you’re running it. Just as I think Rufus McCain and Henri Young are holed up in one of your dungeons on water and bread every three days, shitting in the dark until their minds rot out. And whatever they’re going through, William Martin’s getting it worse.”

  She stood, dropping the cigarette in the warden’s ashtray and twisting it until the tobacco splintered. Her eyes flickered over the two men, Miller seated and Linkletter standing at attention behind him.

  “Blankenship’ll talk. Whatever he knows, we’ll find out. And whatever Smith dug up on Cretzer and Kyle, we’ll find that out, too. And if it ties into two murders in San Francisco, one—or both of you—may reap what you’ve sown. Maybe your fifteen minutes are up, gentlemen.”

  Miranda scooped up the envelope and moved to the door.

  Miller’s voice rose behind her.

  “We sacrifice our lives to protect people like you, Corbie. Good, honest men living next to degenerates, all night, all day, so you can lead your life, free to go to the pictures or some two-bit roadhouse, free to fornicate or drink or whatever women like you do. We pay for your sins, you and millions like you. We pay for your freedom. You should get down on your hands and knees and thank God and Warden Johnston that we keep these men under control and off the streets. It doesn’t matter how, not to the mother with five children to raise or the accountant with a late-night job. It never matters how. All that matters, Corbie, is that we do it.”

  Miranda turned around in the doorway. She looked at both of them, the bull behind the warden, the pale blue eyes and the others shiny and hard, like the shells on black beetles.

  She spoke the words as if to herself.

  “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

  Then she pulled the door shut with an audible clack.

  Miranda stepped toward the left, looking for Henry.

  She shivered and her hands were shaking, knives at her back.…

  Linkletter’s light blue eyes, memorizing her.

  Act Five

  Publication

  “Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come,

  In yours and my discharge.”

  The Tempest, Act II, scene i

  Twenty-Seven

  The McDowell pulled up to the dock, regular Alcatraz transport boat, ready to take workers and wives back to the mainland, back to civilization.

  Christ, the small wooden ferry was the most beautiful boat she’d ever seen.

  She waved and smiled automatically at Henry, who wiped his brow and began the long climb back up the hill.

  Nice little man. Couldn’t help where he worked … or for whom.

  No flirtatious carpenters on the fifteen-minute trip to shore and Miranda stayed seated inside the cabin, studying the packet Meat Head Miller thrust at her.

  She’d seen all she ever wanted of the Rock.

  The report on Cretzer—and it was mostly about him, with very little on “Shorty” Kyle, other than some information on his wife, the former Thelma Crowley—found no “psychotic” trend, just a “very desperate, cold-blooded individual.” The rest of the small gang they worked with, off and on, had been apprehended. No other known criminal associations, no ties to the families, to the bootlegging dynasties, to the big-money men like Capone or her old acquaintance Mickey Cohen. No, Cretzer was just a simple jobbie with a ruthless streak, determined to escape, aided and abetted by the fact he figured it was the only way out alive, solution to the hopeless dead-end of a long, long sentence.

  She frowned, shaking her head.

  If he couldn’t handle McNeil, Alcatraz would kill George Cretzer more surely than the gas chamber. But this time, other men would go with him … innocent men, maybe, guards who weren’t part of whatever scheme Miller was running, men who just wanted to do their job and live their lives, grateful for a tough haul, quiet in the face of corruption and cruelty, not willing to rat on their fellow bulls.

  A blue shape wavered, reflecting in the window, and she quickly turned her head, expecting to see Linkletter standing in front of her.

  She took a deep breath. Just one of the laborers from Alcatraz, stretching his legs.

  Jesus Christ. More rattled than she expected.

  Miranda stared out the bleary window again, Van Ness pier fast approaching.

  She was looking for a killer, a clever one. Someone who could improvise, who could react, someone who’d killed Alexander and thought he’d killed Louise. Someone whose motive she still couldn’t quite see, picture as foggy as the goddamn window.

  The boat lurched slightly as it pulled in, and Miranda carefully slid the papers back into the office envelope Miller gave her.

  Maybe she was looking for a man in a uniform.

  * * *

  She grabbed a hamburger at Tascone’s, ravenous for meat, cherry Coke sweet and carmelly with the crinkle-cut fries. She read over the report again—the story of Cretzer before he came to Alcatraz.

  Spent 120 days in isolation, fed a “#435 diet” for the first 10. What the hell was that? Spiders and piss?

  Inmate is considered an outstanding problem on account of his attitude and determination to escape and he would not be particular about what method he uses …

  Meat Head must be sweating bullets over Cretzer, one more attempt, one more round of bad publicity and his head might be on the chopping block. Miller and Link, Link and Miller and throw in Blankenship, the ex-bull and aspiring blackmailer …

  She frowned and pushed the plate aside. A sailor, drunk already, put a nickel in the jukebox and hit “In the Mood,” weaving and leering his way toward Miranda’s counter stool.

  Miranda checked her watch. Only 10:45. Maybe Allen had some answers on why George Blankenship
was fired, maybe the voluminous Pinkerton files and government connections mouthed more than the word “insubordination.”

  She threw a quarter and a dime on the counter and hopped off the stool, bumping into the sailor.

  “Stand aside, swabbie.”

  He laughed, blond hair flat and sweaty under his hat. He stank of stale beer and cheap perfume and stood his ground, waving like a forget-me-not in an ocean breeze.

  “Ain’t ya in the mood, lady?”

  She grinned, gently shoved him backward, and headed through the door.

  * * *

  The Pinkerton sat back in his chair, spring squeaking, hands behind his head, beaming like a proud father at a piano recital.

  “You’re a crackerjack shamus, Miranda Corbie. Crackerjack. Who’da thought the little girl down the hall would get herself an interview at Alcatraz?”

  Miranda popped two lemon drops in her mouth. Looked up at the bald, stocky detective with a tired frown.

  “For all the good it did me—I’m confused as hell. Alexander’s murder and the attempts on Louise look like something personal, not a professional bump-off by a couple of trouble boys—especially with said trouble boys locked up on Alcatraz, and most of their associates lodged in hoosegows around the country. Then the manuscript’s stolen, George Blankenship crawls out from under a rock—make that the Rock—and Louise’s sister turns out to be Thelma Kyle. So what is it, Allen? What the hell is it? Am I missing something?”

  “Seems to me like you’ve covered all the bases.”

  “Not enough, not nearly enough. If I could just figure out how the Alcatraz connection works … I mean, there’s a connection somewhere, isn’t there? There’s gotta be. Something’s going down with George and Linkletter and Miller—something blackmail worthy. Graft? Grift? Who the hell knows?”

  Allen Jennings shook his head, tapping ash from a lit Lucky into a glass tray.

  “The record I found was a cable from the LA office—and the part about Blankenship was penciled in. All it said was ‘insubordination,’ nothing more. As for Cretzer and Kyle, we get regular reports from the Bureau, so tracking your Thelma was easy—got the whole skinny on her. I’ll see if I can dig anything up on Linkletter—he looks like your best bet. I can get you the dope on paper as soon as Hedy Lamarr takes a hike.” He made a face and a motion with his head toward the receptionist’s area at the front of the office, and Miranda laughed.

  “Another one who wants her name in lights?”

  The Pinkerton grunted. “Or on a marriage certificate. She’s been throwing herself at everything in pants that walks by.”

  “That’s why I just knock on your back door. I get tired of the up-and-down with a Lady Esther voice.”

  “Eh, female jealousy. Nothin’ quite as sharp, not even a stiletto. Seriously, though, Miri, I’ll get you what we have, but I don’t think it’s anything you don’t already know—unless I can find a line on that Linkletter bull. Sounds like you hit it off with the Thelma Kyle dame … maybe try another round?”

  “Thelma’ll want to see her sister as soon as she wakes up—if Louise is still Louise, I mean. Doctors don’t know how her brain’s gonna come out of all this.” Miranda shook her head, spoke glumly. “I can’t help feeling like I’m looking at everything upside down—or inside out.”

  The detective scratched the gray and black stubble on his chin.

  “Some cases’ll do that to you. What you need is a break so your head can reshuffle the deck. Why’ncha go out tonight? Hit the town, catch a band, dance a little. If Sanders is still on leave—”

  Miranda’s voice was sharper than she intended. “He’s in Santa Rosa.” Her eyes flicked up to meet Allen’s. “And I don’t have the time.”

  She gathered her handbag and stood up from the chair.

  His voice was soft.

  “I’m here if you need a sounding board.”

  Miranda smiled. “Thanks, Allen. Don’t know what I’ll do in London without you.”

  His face crumpled but he grinned, skin tight around his eyes.

  “Duck, mostly.”

  She laughed. “We’ll get back to the Rusty Nail before I leave, OK?”

  The Pinkerton nodded and rubbed his nose, large pores red and shiny.

  “That’s a confirmed date.”

  Miranda smiled once more before slipping out the door and into the hall of the Monadnock.

  * * *

  She pulled the Big Chief notepad closer, glancing at the watch on her wrist.

  11:52. Hoped she could catch the inspector before lunch.

  “Fisher here—that you, Miranda?”

  “Yes. Just back from Alcatraz.”

  One Mississippi, Two Mississippi …

  “Alcatraz? The prison? How in the hell did you get to Alcatraz?”

  “Don’t yell into the phone, Inspector—we need to be discreet about it. I was serious when I asked for a week to clear this up and I figured I’d start at the hot spot.”

  “Hot spot? Christ, it’s goddamn Alcatraz! How in the hell—”

  “Look, I don’t have time to explain even if I could. Point is, something smells. There’s a guard named Linkletter—Miller’s right-hand man—he’s the one Blankenship wanted to peddle Smith’s manuscript to—”

  “Miller? Associate Warden Miller?”

  “Inspector, please—”

  “You’re in deep, Miranda, too deep for me.” The cop at the other end of the phone took a breath. “But go ahead. I know why and I won’t ask how. Miller and Linkletter, you say? That’s who Blankenship wanted to blackmail?”

  “Yeah. Linkletter was promoted—he’s captain of the guards now, in addition to serving as Miller’s private Gestapo. Only information I could get on Shorty Kyle was a bulletin written by the BOP, outlines the facts on Thelma and an alienist’s evaluation of both prisoners. When I asked about Blankenship, they threatened me—Miller not in so many words, but Linkletter wasn’t as circumspect. All they’d admit to was firing him for ‘insubordination,’ but there’s something more. Something went down, something they’re trying to cover up. I think you should bring in George and hold him on whatever you can.”

  Rat-tat-tat of typewriters, a screaming child, and a guttural drone of voices were drowned out by a siren. Miranda held the phone away from her ear for a moment.

  “Inspector? You there?”

  His voice was heavy. “I’m here. But Blankenship isn’t. I pulled a man off another detail last night to watch him and he gave him the slip.”

  Shit.

  “Haul in a janitor at Greer by the name of Matthew—he’s a playmate of George’s. He’ll know something. We grilled them yesterday evening.”

  “You and Sanders?”

  Miranda reached for the pack of Chesterfields and shook one out. “Yeah. Blankenship thought he’d get the jump on me. Boy’s always thinking—good thing he doesn’t do it so well. Brace Matthew and you’ll find George, Inspector—and find him quick. What about Smith? He still under wraps?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got him locked down and so far he hasn’t shaken the tail. Looks like he’s the only one who can really spill the goods … presuming he remembers what was in his own damn book.”

  “He on a bender?”

  Fisher snorted. “He’s got two speeds—drunk and drunker. Wouldn’t give me much without his lawyer—oh yeah, he’s got a mouthpiece by the name of Crosby, no relation to Bing except for a love of ponies—a high-stakes gambler and a slick sonofabitch, excuse my French. Anyway, Smith coughed up nothing specific about Alcatraz, just some general hoohaw about how Cretzer and Kyle never had a chance. Insisted he had no idea why Blankenship or anyone else would want to steal the book, other than it was gonna be a bestseller and worth a pretty penny. I spoke to his agent, too—Charlie Segal. He’s flying in from Arizona, already on the way—should be here tomorrow morning.”

  “Mind if I try to get some sense out of him?”

  “Out of Smith? Be my guest. He’s at home or should be.
His pattern’s been to sleep til one or two in the afternoon and stay up all night. The boys are complaining about it, but I can’t hold him on anything, not with Crosby watching him like a broody hen. And he wouldn’t agree to official protection, so this is the best we can do.”

  “At least the morning papers carried the story about Louise—it’s the one way and only way we’re ahead of the killer. The hospital said they’re expecting her to live, but we don’t know the extent of damage to her brain, not until she wakes up. That dovetail with your report?”

  Fisher grunted. “Yeah, I got the update last night. I thought you were nuts at first, but you were right, keeping her under wraps is a good plan. Got two of my best men down there and Gonzales is overseeing them personally. Mrs. Kyle asked if she could wait for her sister to wake up so she’s down there, too. No word, not so far.”

  “Any witnesses at the apartment house?”

  “Maybe. Neighbor saw a milkman on the stairs yesterday morning—later than a milkman should be, and not the usual Meadow Glen dairy. Here’s the trouble: the ME and the hospital docs think Louise’s pilot light had to be shut off for longer than just yesterday morning. They calculated the size of the apartment, the rate of the leak, and the fact that one of the windows was cracked open, hemmed and hawed til I was about to pop a blood vessel, and then said they didn’t think it was likely she could’ve inhaled as much as she did if, say, a phony milkman somehow got in her apartment—while she was there—and blew it out.”

  “Did they give you an estimate?”

  “Half-assed. They thought ‘the night before’ was reasonable, but couldn’t be more specific.”

  “Any signs of a break-in?”

  “Not a one. I hope to hell Miss Crowley makes a full recovery—for her sake, and ours.”

  Miranda blew a stream of smoke at the faded Martell’s calendar on the wall, blond girl in pigtails.

  “Me, too, Inspector. Me, too. Please keep me posted, especially if you dig up something on Linkletter or if Blankenship turns up.”