City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  Miranda nodded, stepping into a pair of worn and comfortable navy blue pumps. “Thanks. One more thing: You know an Anastasia Decker? She lives at the Oceanic.”

  Bente raised her eyebrows. “Stacia? Hell yeah, I know her. She’s from Cleveland, strips at Bimbo’s. Girl in the Fishbowl. Wants to be the next Gypsy Rose Lee or Pearl S. Buck, whatever comes first. Why, she involved in this mess?”

  “Maybe. She’s one of the rejected authors Louise said might want revenge.”

  Bente snorted. “Stacia? Revenge? No offense, but your client’s loony or reading too many Spicy Detectives. Stacia wants money, fame, and respectability, in that order. She might be a lousy writer but she’s a good kid at heart. Her act’s classy. Sends dough back to dear old mother in Cleveland and doesn’t blow the wad on juice or dust or the ponies. No, she’s sensible, Miranda, even if she’s got ambitions.”

  Miranda nodded, studying herself in the bedroom mirror. “Thought as much. Thanks, Bente. Thanks for everything. C’mon, I’ll buy you breakfast before I meet Fisher.”

  Bente brushed lint and bread crumbs off her brown sweater and straightened her wool skirt, running fingers through wild red hair. The seam in her stockings was still crooked.

  She yawned. “Eggs, bacon, and a good cuppa Joe. Your coffee stinks.”

  * * *

  Fisher stared at the bowl of barely touched chow mein.

  “The food here is good. You should eat.”

  Murmuring laughter punctuated by soft titters and whispers filtered down the narrow staircase. A bell rang, and a small, fine-boned waitress of indeterminate age wiped her hands on a green-stained apron, grabbing two dishes from the dumbwaiter and hurrying past them with an order of fried rice.

  Fisher shook his head. “I was hungry when I walked in … but not anymore. No offense to the restaurant. I’m just—I don’t know, Miranda. Sometimes I wonder why the hell I’m a cop.”

  “Because you give a damn. Even if there’s nothing you can do. Like I’ve said before: you’re one of the good ones, Inspector.”

  “I’m good? Because I eat my gut out when a sonofabitch like Linkletter comes up clean? Because I’m worried about whatever farshtinkener bastard did that to you? Because I’m tired of looking the other way every goddamn day and shutting my eyes when I see what I’m not supposed to see and shutting my mouth when I hear ’em whispering about the ‘kike’ in homicide?” The stocky man ran thick fingers through his black and white hair. “I’d sleep better if I wasn’t so ‘good.’”

  “I didn’t expect you to find dirt on Linkletter. Too many friends in high places. Got a friend of my own looking in, well … other files.”

  “Pinkerton?”

  Miranda sipped the jasmine tea. “I’ll let you know if something turns up. In the meantime, Blankenship is on his way north, right? Not that I think he’s the murderer, but if we can get him to testify about Linkletter—”

  “It’s proof for the BOP. You sure Linkletter wasn’t behind that?” Fisher gestured toward her face.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I never saw the man before last night. And I don’t think Linkletter is Alexander’s killer, either. He should be locked up in his own dungeon for a few dozen years, and I’d love to help put him there—but he’s not the one we’re after.”

  “Then I’m charging Blankenship. Yeah, I know—and I don’t care. There’s pressure on me, Miranda, and not just from my own conscience. As soon as the sheriff arrives with Blankenship, I’m locking him up.”

  Someone on Washington started playing “Red River Valley” on a Chinese violin, while the smell of roasted pork and duck fat drifted in from the downstairs kitchen. Miranda stared at her swirling tea leaves.

  “I’m close, Inspector—close. Once I talk to Louise, maybe the pieces will finally start to fit.”

  “Let me know when they do.”

  She drained the teacup and stood up, gesturing to the chow mein and egg rolls, mostly untouched.

  “You really should eat your lunch. If I weren’t full from breakfast I’d join you. Try some of the mustard on the egg rolls.”

  “S’OK. Whatever I can’t eat I’ll take home—I’m off early today. Worked late last night … and you know you should’ve called me,” he added accusingly.

  Miranda gave him a lopsided grin. “Next time someone breaks in and I shoot him, I will. Meantime, go home and get some rest.”

  Fisher picked up an egg roll and dipped it in the saucer of hot mustard.

  “You’re right, stuff’s not bad. But rest? Not tonight. I promised my kids I’d take them to the Fair before it closes. Another ride on the Roll-O-Plane.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had kids. How old?”

  “Thirteen and ten. They teach me what’s important.”

  “What’s that?”

  His eyes met hers. “L’chaim, Miranda. L’chaim.”

  * * *

  Louise was asleep. Her eyes darted back and forth under thin, delicate skin, blue and white.

  Miranda looked up at Thelma, nodded toward the waiting room. They passed the beefy uniform sitting on a chair by the door. He glanced up and grunted, picking his teeth.

  Miranda led Thelma to a corner and lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper.

  “Anybody here but the doctors this morning?”

  The blonde shook her head, shoulders slumped. “I ain’t seen nobody. Been watching Louise.” She yawned, and Miranda noticed some of her teeth were missing. “The copper out there came in about nine-thirty this morning. I stayed all night ’cause they told me there wouldn’t be no twenty-four-hour protection, and I’m worried sick.” Her eyes met Miranda’s. “Sombody tried to kill my baby sister, Miss Corbie … I want the sonofabitch dead.”

  “I know. That’s the only way you’ll feel safe. We’ll catch the bastard, but in the meantime Louise’ll be able to go home soon, and we’ve still gotta keep her under wraps. She can’t go back to her apartment—”

  “I want her with me. She belongs with me.”

  “That’s fine, but you need rest. Until we get some answers and throw more smoke at the newshounds, they’ll track you back to Berkeley and you’ll both be in danger. So get some sleep while the flatfoot’s on duty and come back tonight—he’ll be here til around nine, from what the inspector told me. They cut the protection to twelve hours.”

  Thelma brushed stray hair from her forehead and yawned again.

  “Maybe you’re right. Gotta keep my strength up. I got enough cash for a few more trips.”

  Miranda dug in her purse and shoved a ten-dollar bill at her. “Take it. You can rent a room downtown for a night or two—however long the doctors make us wait.”

  The blonde looked at the bill in Miranda’s hand. “I don’t know what you think of me, Miss Corbie, but my family’s never been beggers.”

  “I know, Thelma. But you can’t be seen riding the train to Berkeley. Best just stash yourself somewhere—call me and let me know where, here’s my card—and then come back tonight.”

  The blonde nodded, and finally took the bill by the corner, folding and tucking it into a worn leather purse. “You—you get in trouble with your man, Miss Corbie?”

  “A stranger broke into my apartment last night. I shot him in the leg and he threw a flashlight at me.”

  Thelma’s blue eyes grew huge. “You think it was the same one? Same one that tried to kill Louise?”

  “No. But I do think the visit was related. Look, Thelma—I know the cops grilled you pretty hard. Is there anything—anything at all, even if it doesn’t seem important—that you can tell me about Alcatraz and Louise? Particularly about George Blankenship or a guard named Linkletter?”

  The blonde spoke slowly. “Well, she called to ask about whether I had enough money for Shorty and whether he was OK. That was right after we got word he was getting transferred. She was scared—told me she’d read some of a book at the office and didn’t know how bad things were, and said maybe she’d find a way to get some ex
tra money and be able to help. I asked her what she meant—McNeil weren’t so bad, Shorty said, but Cretzer was hell-bent on breaking out, he always is, the loony bastard—excuse my French, Miss Corbie—anyway, I’m divorcin’ Shorty and I told Louise it was finally over, and she seemed to calm down. Never did tell me what she was so worried about though. And she never mentioned that Blankenship fella but told me a man she was seein’ helped her get a job and Louise always sticks by anyone who does her a good turn … does—does that help?”

  “I think so. Look, did the doctor say we can wake Louise? I need to ask her a few questions if we can.”

  “They wake her up about every three hours. It’s just a little before that now—let’s try, Miss Corbie. Maybe she’ll remember more. She knew who she was and she knew me last time, but didn’t remember her boss or the murder or nothing.”

  The two women entered the room again, cop watching them with disinterest. Louise was in a different position, head turned, and her mouth was moving. Miranda glanced at her sister, then gently placed her hand on Louise’s shoulder.

  The woman—thinner, almost skeletal with her china-white skin and blond hair tight against a small frame—stirred, moving her head to the left. Thelma bent down over her sister and whispered.

  “Louise—Louise, it’s me, Thelma. Wake up, Louise. Wake up. Time to wake up…”

  Louise didn’t breathe for a moment then suddenly gasped for air and opened her eyes, blinking rapidly. Miranda stepped back.

  Thelma said: “That’s how she’s been waking up. Doctor said she’ll get better.” She bent close to her sister again. “Louise—it’s me, Thelma. Your sister Thelma. How are you feeling?”

  It took a few more seconds for Louise to fixate on the anxious face hovering above her. She swallowed. Her voice was hoarse. “Can I—can I have some water?”

  Miranda reached for the glass on a tray table next to the bed and handed it to Thelma. Louise took it gratefully, draining the cup. She licked her lips and looked around, eyes landing on Miranda. She blinked, brow furrowing.

  “I know you. You—you—you work in my building. You’re—you’re famous, aren’t you?”

  Miranda smiled. “Infamous, maybe. My name’s Miranda Corbie, Louise. I’m a private investigator. And your friend.”

  Recognition flitted briefly across the blonde’s face. “Corbie—Miranda. I know you. I like you. I think I—I hired you. And I … I didn’t tell you the truth, did I?”

  Miranda and Thelma looked at each other and Miranda leaned closer. “About what, Louise?”

  “About—about—about George and me. And, and … what was his name? Handsome and rich … shoulders like Clark Gable, but too rough, and he hit me, just like George…”

  “Jerry? Jerry Alexander?”

  The blonde inhaled sharply. “Yes—about Jerry. Was gonna tell you—but then … I got so sleepy … so sleepy. Couldn’t stay awake—not even for the milkman…”

  Miranda’s voice was sharp. “Milkman? You remember a milkman, Louise?”

  Her voice was weaker. “I’m hungry. Can I have some chicken soup? Mama always makes good chicken soup…”

  “Louise—please try to tell me. It’s important. What milkman?”

  “I dunno.” The blonde was starting to sound like a tired child. “I want some soup. Milkman brought me a free bottle but it wasn’t cold. Made me sign something for it … left it outside the door, I think, I don’t remember. Didn’t drink the milk. Was gonna tell you about George. Then I … fell asleep.”

  She looked from Thelma to Miranda, eyes wide. “Can I have my soup?”

  * * *

  Miranda closed her eyes, trying to picture Louise’s door before Rick broke it down.

  There wasn’t a bottle of milk in front of it, full or otherwise.

  A nosy neighbor did remember a milkman on Louise’s floor that morning … someone from a company who didn’t normally service the area.

  Miranda watched the traffic from the taxicab window, speeding toward the Monandnock in fits and starts, driver with a five o’clock shadow three hours too early, hairy hand slamming on the horn when someone pulled in front of him.

  A phony milkman was too much finesse for Linkletter or Miller.

  Too much goddamn finesse.

  And that’s what was wrong with the case: too much of everything. Too many clues, all leading to too many places and too many people. Too many motives, too many different styles, a fucking crazy quilt of murder.

  She lit a Chesterfield while the driver rolled down his window and yelled at a middle-aged woman in a yellow sedan.

  OK, start at the beginning. Someone tried to kill Louise—or at least make Louise think so. Why?

  So the secretary could be the fall guy. Louise was in a frame—set up to take the rap for Alexander’s death.

  Planted cyanide, letters typed on her machine. Jealous wife, pretty girl, too-obvious murder attempts, like something out of one of those genteel books where someone dies of strychnine poisoning right before a tennis party, murder as an inconvenience.

  Miranda took a deep drag on the stick.

  Fuck that.

  Louise was the patsy, that’s why there were two notes found in her room. She was supposed to kill herself out of guilt for the Alexander murder … but then the Alexander murder didn’t go to plan.

  Miranda closed her eyes again, remembering the murder scene, the detritus of a struggle, the spilled gin on the publisher’s shirt. Niles Alexander surprised his killer and his killer struck back, panicked.

  He improvised.

  And that led to the second note. After Blankenship leaked the Rock connection, after Louise’s personal history became a newspaper headline and beauty parlor gossip. The motive for her presumed death refined itself, became opaque: could be suicide, shame for her criminal ties or role in Alexander’s murder, could be murder most foul, committed by the same criminals.

  The real murderer wanted to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s and make sure all ends were covered.

  Didn’t sound like Linkletter, whose technique would be more obvious. Didn’t sound like Miller, who had the brains but not the creativity. But Linkletter and Miller had the only real motives for stealing that goddamn book …

  Miranda threw a dollar at the cabbie and hopped out at the corner of Third and Market.

  Fucking crazy quilt.

  Thirty-Two

  Miranda punched the fourth-floor button, striding out with two customers for Pinkerton and one for the Mexican Railway.

  No reporters, thank God.

  She turned the key in the lock and picked up the manila envelope marked “Miranda” that had been slid under the door.

  Allen—the Linkletter file. She was about to open it when the phone started to ring.

  “Miranda Corbie, private invest—”

  “Miranda? James here.”

  She sank down slowly in the black leather chair. “What’s wrong? You calling to tell me I’m bumped again? No trip?”

  “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, James. I’ve been trying to reach you for a couple of days, now—news for you and the BOP—and you finally phone me and sound like an undertaker with a head cold. Just tell me—give it to me straight.”

  The State Department man sighed. “Your trip is still on, Miranda. But—you’re not going to like this—you’ve got to lay off Alcatraz. Let it go.”

  Miranda groped for her handbag and shook out another Chesterfield.

  “Let me guess. Miller got to Hoover; Hoover got to your boss; you’re getting to me. Does that about cover it?”

  Electric crackles and a distant roar.

  “James? You there?”

  MacLeod’s voice was heavy. “I’m here. Just … let it go.”

  She leaned forward, edge of the desk pressing into her stomach.

  “You know what I found out, James? You the least bit curious?”

  “Miranda, I told you—”

&n
bsp; “Rape. Rape of prisoners by prison guards. That’s what’s happening, James, behind concrete walls on a godforsaken little island in the middle of San Francisco Bay. The black prisoners are disproportionately victimized, of course. They’re segregated already, so that makes it easier. I don’t know how the payoffs work, not yet, but Smith probably does and I can get more information out of him. That’s what was in his book—the Alcatraz book—and that’s why George Blankenship was gonna use it to blackmail Linkletter and Miller—”

  “Stop! Just … just stop, Miranda. If—if I can do something, I will. Believe me. But right now, Hoover’s got everyone whipped up about the Reds—and he’s got you labeled as one. Yes, Miller complained, said you were an agitator and wanted to abolish the prison system. He said a whole lot of crap. Right now, kid, you’re radioactive, and anything you say will be disbelieved because you say it.”

  She blew a stream of smoke before replying, watched it sail past the Martell Liquor’s calendar on the wall and fall apart by the Wells Fargo safe.

  “What if I told you someone broke into my apartment last night? Someone who nearly broke the side of my face with a flashlight—someone who was careful, clean, and smart and looked like a professional?”

  MacLeod spoke slowly. “I’d—I’d believe you, Miranda. But I always believe you, Ducks. You know that.”

  “Do I, James?” Her voice was soft. “Last time I looked, I wasn’t living in Spain under Franco, or Germany under Hitler. Last time I looked, Bureau agents didn’t break into innocent citizen’s apartments.”

  “Listen, Ducks, you’re going to be sailing soon anyway, just let this go…”

  “And tell what to my client? Sorry, I can’t catch who tried to murder you because the United States of America operates their own Gestapo? Because Hoover’s got a hammer and sickle up his ass and a hard-on for Hitler?”