City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  She lowered her voice. “Did you read any part of Smith’s book on Alcatraz?”

  “Afraid not. Howard’s like any writer in some respects—they all have their quirks and superstitions. He never lets me read anything unless he deems it finished. Oh, I know it sounds strange—he was working with a publisher—who was also a damn fine editor, believe me—but he wouldn’t let his own agent read the book. That’s because Howard associates me with the—how do I put it—‘filthy lucre’ side of the business. He sought out Niles as a fellow artiste. Plus, there was nothing for me to do—the contract had already been signed, so I wasn’t really involved.”

  Miranda frowned. “That doesn’t exactly dovetail with what I’ve observed, Mr. Segal. Your client seems very interested in money—and very aware of the value of the manuscript.”

  The agent took another sip of the champagne. “Oh, he’s aware, all right. He was born aware, you might say. But when he’s writing—like he’s supposed to be doing now on his new thriller—he separates the work from the business aspect. Once he’s done with a book, he’s done—and then he can haggle with the best of them. Sometimes I think he ought to be his own agent…”

  “So as far as the Alcatraz book goes, he treated you like a member of the public, then?”

  Segal laughed. “Well, hopefully not as badly as Howard treats most members of the public. But essentially that’s true. I’m just the guy that makes sure he gets paid.”

  She smiled. “Which is how you get paid, if I’m not mistaken.”

  The agent shrugged. “It’s a living. And not always all that profitable—ten percent of nothing is still nothing. But I’ve got high hopes for this novel Howard’s finishing up—I was actually relieved whoever it was took the Alcatraz book. I mean, I’m sure Niles would’ve promoted it and it would’ve sold some big numbers in the first month or so, but these exposé-type stories … they don’t have legs. Your royalty numbers are good for the short term, then it’s yesterday’s news. Tough to build a career that way. The novel on the other hand—Howard’s got passion for it, a real emotional investment. Plus, he’s been talking to Steinbeck—he’s here tonight, by the way, he and Howard’ll probably go out after the party—and I think some of that genius may’ve rubbed off. Hope so, anyway.”

  The agent downed the rest of his glass. Miranda said: “Is that why you flew out? To make sure he finished the novel?”

  “Partly. I was vacationing in Tuscon, so I thought I’d better check on Howard before going back to New York. Plus, I’ve been worried about him, what with Niles’ murder. Alcatraz gangsters? I mean, sounds like something from Niles’ pulp list. It’s no secret I wanted Howard to get out of his contract and let me find him a real publisher in New York. Somebody like Knopf, who likes to take chances and loves the tough guys. Now, with Niles gone … maybe he’ll listen to me.”

  The agent looked at the crowd assembled by the table. “I think they’re about to make a toast. Mind if I find Bunny? I hope I answered your questions.”

  Miranda nodded. “Of course, Mr. Segal. And thank you.”

  He smiled. “Call me Charlie. Anytime, Miss Corbie.”

  The thin man pushed his way past a fat matron eyeing a silk dress and merged into the roar of the party.

  Charlie Segal—another man who stood to profit from Alexander’s death. Hell, maybe the publishing world was breathing a collective sigh of relief …

  Richard Gump was at the podium, attempting to quiet the crowd. Roger was rubbing Sylvia’s arm as they huddled close, while Bunny stood behind Gump, red hair shining under the lights.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, please … may I have your attention…”

  Gump was a skilled raconteur, known for his wit and savoir faire. Unfortunately, those talents didn’t carry over into public speaking. He seemed to lack wind, voice straining to reach the third or fourth row of partygoers. Miranda could catch only every few words.

  “… literary giant … humble man … beloved…”

  “Conscience might make cowards of us but death turns us into heroes.” The voice was soft, amused. “Niles must be chuckling from below. Maybe Richard is planning to run for something.”

  Miranda turned toward her right. A tall, dark-haired man with surprisingly vulnerable eyes, set closely together in a rough-skinned face. He wore a thick mustache and was dressed in a simple white shirt, blue tie and jacket. He was smoking a brown cigarette and holding a flask of brandy. He smiled at her.

  “I—your last book should be required reading, Mr. Steinbeck.”

  He arched his eyebrows, high forehead creasing. “Thanks. The Pulitzer helped. Henry Fonda helped even more.” He tilted the flask. “You’re the woman private eye, aren’t you?”

  “My name’s Miranda Corbie.”

  He nodded. “That’s the one. Howard was impressed by you. Said you were a true woman of the people … whatever the hell that means when Howard says it. Have you seen him?”

  “No. When did you speak with him last?”

  Steinbeck squinted at the crowd. “This morning. He said he’d meet me here at seven sharp—wanted to show up for Niles’ sake, then hit Chinatown and Telegraph as soon as the toast was over. Which, it appears, is now.”

  Gump was raising a champagne glass. After a brief flourish, he threw it back and everyone else followed suit.

  Collective sigh, soft exhale, and the party started up again, salute made, mourning over.

  Miranda turned to the author. “You sure he said seven, Mr. Steinbeck?”

  “Call me John. Sure I’m sure. I was surprised—Howard’s always late. I think I even bet him five bucks he’d never make it on time.”

  “Thanks. Nice to meet you, Mr. Steinbeck.”

  “John. You, too.”

  The author melted into the recesses of the store, looking for a back exit, while Miranda hurried across the floor to Herb Caen.

  He turned around at the tug on his arm.

  “What is it, beauti— oh, Miranda, sorry I never got back to you—”

  She lowered her voice, spoke rapidly. “I’m worried. Smith should’ve been here by now. Look, Herb—call Inspector Fisher. Tell him to send someone to Smith’s apartment, pronto. Can you do that?”

  The curly-haired reporter blinked his eyes. “Sure, if you really think—”

  She’d already pushed her way to the crowds and out the main Gump’s door.

  * * *

  She hailed a Luxor cab on Post Street and promised him an extra buck if he could push the hack to the top of Nob Hill in less than ten minutes.

  The five-year-old Ford managed to reach 1201 California in seven minutes flat.

  She tipped the cabbie and hurried to the door, wishing for the tenth time she wasn’t in an evening gown.

  The ornate apartment house looked curiously empty. No flatfoot with careful eyes and dirty fedora waiting in the shadows. Had Fisher taken the watch off Smith? Or had the cop followed Smith to wherever he’d gone?

  Miranda climbed the stairs and hit 602 three times. No answer. She bit her lip and hit it again.

  A stocky man with red hair threw open a second-floor window, face softening when Miranda looked up, shielding her eyes.

  “I’m the superintendant, miss. Just getting the apartment ready now … I’ll buzz you in.”

  Miranda nodded. A few seconds later she was back inside the lobby, sleek front desk empty, sounds of heavy feet climbing down from above.

  She started up the stairs but he was already on his way down.

  He was about thirty-five, sweat under his armpits, with the air of a good time in the backseat and Sunday dinner with his mother.

  “Hold on, miss, we can take the elevator. I’ll go ahead and show you the apartment, since these are hard to come by and we expect a lotta interest—but the ad did say tomorrow morning, not tonight—”

  She cut him short. “I’m not here to rent—I’m trying to reach a resident, Mr. Howard Carter Smith in number 602. He didn’t answer.”

&n
bsp; The freckled face fell into tighter, disappointed lines. He gave her an up and down and lingered on her cheek.

  “What Mr. Smith does is his business, but … what happened to you, lady? Somebody hit you when you was doing something you ought’nt’a been doing?”

  “Speaking of business, why don’t you mind yours and get going? Unless, of course, you want me to report what you said to Mr. Smith…”

  His bravado caved like a toothless mouth. “Forget I said anything, lady, please. You should take the elevator the rest of the way up.” He yanked his thumb in a direction behind him and hastened around the corner toward an unmarked door.

  Miranda made her way to the self-service elevator and pushed six.

  Goddamn it, hurry up, hurry up …

  The door slowly opened and she shoved herself through, half-running down the hallway toward the stairs … 608, 606, 604 … 602.

  She knocked. No answer.

  Knocked again, held her ear to the door.

  Nothing.

  Miranda remembered the last time she saw him and shoved the door with both hands.

  The heavy door slowly swung open a few inches.

  “Smith? Smith? Howard, you here?”

  Miranda walked quickly into the living room. Strong odor of tobacco and booze, probably seeped into the paint.

  At least the place was tidier, carpet cleaned, no leftover glasses. No sign of Smith …

  She moved to the kitchen. Bright yellow and modern, with new appliances and a breakfast nook, cereal bowl and spoon still on the table. She opened the refrigerator door. Milk bottle half-full, some leftover Chinese food.

  Miranda’s stomach hurt. Goddamn it …

  Bathroom next, signs of a shower, probably earlier that day. Used razor left above the sink. She felt the soft cotton towel … dry.

  She pushed open the door to the bedroom. Blue wallpaper, with a heavy antique chest of drawers and man’s vanity, Corrubias and a Picasso on the walls. Bed wasn’t made, definitely slept in, closet door open. A hair tonic promoting a cure for baldness stood front and center on the vanity, along with a bottle of Bay Rum and a flask of Pour un Homme.

  One more room.

  She entered the study through the adjoining bedroom door, dark brown wood and heavily masculine, with a photo of Steinbeck and Smith sitting on the messy walnut desk.

  But no Howard Carter Smith …

  Miranda took a few deep breaths, trying not to panic. Her eyes fell on the typewriter, a late-model Royal.

  Paper fragment—apparently torn from a sheet ripped out in authorial pique—still hugged the platen. She flipped the paper release and pried it out.

  Left-hand corner, uneven tear, paper heavier and more expensive than what Alexander used in his office.

  It read:

  license

  hesitation can

  She gave me a look and I

  Dusty, decayed, dead, like all

  “I would—if only I knew how. She

  Miranda frowned. No fucking help. She grabbed a pile of bills and paperwork on the desk and thumbed through it quickly.

  Bekins Storage invoice, royalty statement from Charlie Segal, Incorporated, bills from Mausner Custom Tailoring and Magnin’s. She picked up the Bekins Storage invoice and looked at it again.

  What the hell was Smith storing? He wasn’t a collector, didn’t place much value on what he had—didn’t even realize how lucky he was to have it … so what the hell did he keep at Bekins?

  She folded the yellow invoice and stuck it in her purse along with the torn paper.

  Looked around the apartment once more before shutting the door.

  Goddamn it.

  * * *

  It was 8:45 by the time she got to Bekins on Geary, a tall brick building that loomed on Laurel Hill, brooding over the empty graves and abandoned cemeteries, rates and number and an advertisement for privately locked rooms painted in large white letters against the brick.

  Miranda held on to her hat and approached the office. A thin man in a blue uniform, stubble dotted on sallow cheeks, ambled to the doorway.

  “What’s wrong, lady? Forgot your key?” He looked her up and down. “Ain’t you dressed a little too fancy for storin’ something? It’s dusty in there.”

  She gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m just here to meet a—a friend.” Lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My family doesn’t want me to see him … he works in a garage down the street. But Howard and I are planning on—oh, I shouldn’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

  The thin man nodded knowingly, and spat a wad of tobacco with a sharp zing into a spittoon behind him. “One o’ them society elopements, I expect. Make sure he treats you right, though, miss, that’s all I can tell you. Name’s Frank. Whaddya need?”

  “He—he asked me to meet him here. His name’s Howard—Howard Carter Smith. I’m not sure which room…”

  “Just a minute, I’ll check.” The thin man retreated into the small, well-lit office and thumbed through a ledger. “Howard C. Smith, was it? Rents room number 167, one of our small specials. Says here he came by at 4:15 today. I weren’t on duty, so I didn’t see him. Say … your fella must be on the forgetful side, miss—he never did sign out. You sure he said to come by tonight?”

  Miranda grabbed a map from the counter. “Frank, do as I tell you, please, and don’t ask questions. Give me the key to number 167. Call the police and ask for Inspector Fisher. Tell him to get someone up here right away—tell him Miranda said so.”

  Frank blinked twice and spat another wad of tobacco. Plucked one of the many keys hanging on hooks and handed it to her.

  “I ’spect you ain’t exactly what you seem, miss. I’ll make the call. Bekins don’t want no trouble. Number 167 is middle aisle, first right and then two lefts.”

  Miranda started to run, pushing through the large main doors into a cavernous warehouse with small rooms, alcoves, and shelving filling every possible square foot. She found a large middle aisle, passing a fat man in a cheap tan business suit who stared at her while locking his cubicle.

  One left … two left. The rooms here were medium size, enough for maybe a few boxes and a couple of pieces of furniture, wooden doors hollow and cheap. Someone was talking or arguing in #152.

  She burrowed deeper, counting the doors, running, out of breath, must and mildew thick and heavy, and in this section a charred odor, like burnt wood …

  Number 167.

  She pounded on the door with her fist, catching her breath. Light was filtering beneath the flimsy door.

  “Howard? Howard, you all right?”

  The sound of her voice fell flat and powerless against the hallway with a hundred doors.

  Grasped the key, slick with sweat from her palms. Fit the lock on the second try and pushed the door open.

  The scent of carbon stung Miranda’s nose and she blinked. The electric light switch was still on, dim but bright enough.

  Dark, antique furniture loomed over the sides of the room and a few shallow boxes stood on shelves. An old typewriter, broken and worn, sat forlornly on an ancient desk.

  The concrete floor was lined with a faded Persian carpet and stretched across it, fingers almost touching a pile of charred paper, was a man’s body.

  Howard Carter Smith.

  Thirty-Four

  Miranda swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

  Smith’s skull was fractured on the right side. Brain and blood and fluid lay in a small puddle, restoring the color-faded carpet to a crimson red. A small end of rusted-out pipe, about two inches in diameter, was next to him, hair and skull fragments clinging to the jagged end.

  At least he was facedown, probably hit from behind …

  She knelt, careful not to get the hem of her dress near what was left of his head. Swallowed again and looked at the charred paper.

  Most of it was black tissue or gray ash, but a few fragments of brown-edged white were still discernible. She could clearly make out “island” and “pri
so” on one near the top.

  Goddamn it. The Alcatraz manuscript.

  On Smith’s left side was another piece of paper, not brown. In dark, penciled capital letters it read “DEATH TO STOOLIES.”

  Miranda stood up, stomach clenched.

  Too many goddamn clues, too many goddamn gangsters, too many goddamn murders. Sure, they’d saved Louise but Smith was under her watch, too, and for all of his pomposity and nascent social conscious and pseudo-intellectual posing, he was a human being and a talented one, a writer who could have, would have, made a difference.

  And now he was dead.

  Another one lost, another one killed, maybe not in the line of duty, not in cannon fire behind gray stone walls or under a hot summer sun in Aragon, but still a victim of war, while Hoover chased red shadows behind bedroom doors, and prison guards ran island kingdoms, dictators, potentates, fascists fucking all.

  She inhaled sharply, turned away.

  No time for mourning, no time.

  Miranda looked around the room more carefully. Still had a few minutes before the boys in blue showed up and threw her out of the crime scene.

  The furniture in the room was expensive, old and reserved, probably inherited or given to Smith, who’d rejected it for the sleek modernism of his apartment. Most of it was dusty, as was the old typewriter—surely a sentimental relic. But the boxes …

  The ones on the highest shelves were unmoved, black, low boxes with labels like “Salinas” and “MSS 2” and “1936.” Cleaner and newer boxes lined the lower shelves, neatly stacked and lidded except for three, which sat askew, lids pried off: “Crime,” “New,” and “MSS 4.”

  Miranda’s eyes widened. This was Smith’s vault, the place he kept his papers, first drafts, manuscripts, notes. Probably figured on donating them to a library when he was dead, last bid at immortality, take his place among the literary giants he so desperately wanted to join.

  Poor bastard never guessed it would be this soon.

  Quickly, she pulled a footstool from the desk—probably left there for the purpose—and climbed on it for a better angle.