City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  She stared into the open boxes.

  Nothing left.

  Footsteps outside. She stepped down from the stool and the door flew open, two uniforms with drawn guns and a plainclothes detective.

  Gonzales.

  * * *

  He was as awkward as she was, not following up with any specific questions, assuming Fisher would handle the rest.

  She watched him move. Even through the blood and smoke, she caught the scent of French cigarettes and leather.

  She wondered if she’d been right. Wondered if she’d ever been right.

  Then the moment fled, the weakness of needing comfort, of needing an act against the end, last call for life, last chance to make life, last call, last call …

  Miranda sighed and shuddered and sat on a crate a few doors down the warehouse aisle, smoking a Chesterfield.

  Frank answered Gonzales’ questions, still chewing his tobacco. Fisher was at Smith’s apartment, which was getting the once-over now that they knew he was dead.

  A hand fell on her shoulder and she looked up.

  His voice was gentle. “I see no reason to keep you here, Miranda. Inspector Fisher will want to see the crime scene for himself and will then return to the station. You could wait for him there, if you are not too exhausted.”

  She pinched the end of the stick, flicked her eyes up.

  “I’m all right. Thanks, Gonzales … I’ll go.”

  The hand squeezed her shoulder. “You must be more careful.” He nodded his head toward her cheek. “We are … we are friends, you and I. You can always call me.”

  Green eyes searched brown and she gave him a small half-smile.

  “That wouldn’t be playing fair, Mark. But I appreciate it—I really do.”

  She stood up, adjusted her hat, and started walking down the corridor, every door shut behind her.

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight before Fisher could see her.

  “Fitzgerald’s one of my best shadows. Had to do it, Miranda, the Mission District arson case turned into homicide last week, and I figured Smith wouldn’t pull anything, not after you talked to him—”

  “He didn’t. He wasn’t trying to ditch anybody. He was either meeting someone at Bekins or somebody followed him.”

  Fisher looked up, eyes shot through with red. “Yeah, we got that much from the scene. Smith was killed between four-thirty and five-thirty, the ME says. Hit with the pipe—and goddamn it, kids can pick up pieces like that all over the city, wherever there’s construction—plus junkyards, basements, you name it. Nothing there. But from the angle we know his back was turned, so it was either somebody he knew or somebody who surprised him.”

  “You got a man back on Louise around the clock?”

  The inspector sighed. “Yeah, but it won’t last. I’m telling you, Miranda, confidentially”—he lowered his voice—“they want this over and done with. The note clinched it—Dullea wants to put it out there that it’s a criminal gang and now that Smith is dead and the Alcatraz book is destroyed it’s over—meat for the Gangbusters, not SFPD. Got a lotta uppity-ups worried because Alexander got murdered and now Smith, think it’s a crime wave against the rich—”

  “Making Louise an afterthought. I guess secretaries don’t count.”

  “Miranda—”

  “Yeah, I know, I know, Inspector. If it’s all the same to you, tomorrow I’m gonna move Louise to Dante’s. I’ve worked with them before.”

  He grunted. “Go ahead. I’m still holding Blankenship, by the way.”

  “You won’t for long if he gets a lawyer who can read. George is lucky he was in police custody tonight—he can’t be a suspect for Smith’s murder, and if he’s not a suspect for Smith’s murder, it lets him off for Alexander’s … along with a tight alibi.”

  Fisher leaned back in his chair until it squeaked in sympathetic agony. “Don’t you think I know it? We put a trace on Smith’s calls from the last couple days, see if someone lured him to Geary. We’re talking to neighbors and I got a couple of men rounding up people at the party—even Steinbeck is staying in town—anyone who knows Smith. But Dullea’s friends with Gump and knows Smith’s father and Dullea wants this to be some crony or cronies of two men already in prison—”

  “That would make it all neat and tidy for Dullea and the DA, wouldn’t it? Smith’s killed because he wrote about two bank robbers, not because he uncovered rape and torture in a federal prison.” Miranda shook her head. “Somewhere out there is a sick bastard who murdered two men and thinks he murdered Louise, and the city’s best homicide cop is hamstrung because Dullea plays golf at the fucking Olympic Club.”

  His voice was quiet. “I’ll keep at it, Miranda.”

  “I know you will. But the trail’s gonna go cold and I don’t have a lot of time. Neither does Louise.”

  She stood up slowly, shoulder hurting again, legs wobbly. Leaned over his desk.

  “Ask yourself three things. Why destroy the Alcatraz manuscript now and not when it was first stolen? Why kill Smith at Bekins? And why the note—‘Death to Stoolies’? That’s out of a George Raft picture, not how button men work … and we both know it.”

  The cop’s head lowered until his chin nearly hit his chest. “I’ll do what I can, Miranda.”

  She stared down at the almost-broken man in front of her.

  “So will I, Inspector. So will I.”

  * * *

  She stayed up until after two, listening to the radio, listening to the world fall apart.

  At least they’d saved Louise …

  She tried to fill her mind with the one thought, wedging it in.

  No storage room left, lady, too many dead bodies, too many crushed-in skulls, too many dead girls on street corners, too many babies killed in a carnival road show.

  Too many, too many, too many …

  She turned the knob on the radio, Kaltenborn and Murrow and Elmer Davis, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, intoning stoic disapproval or admiration of British pluck, war from a distance and let’s keep it that way, America, forget the refugees, forget the Nazis, forget the war.

  Europe was cleaning house and there wasn’t room there anymore, no room for yellow stars or pink stars, just jackboots and spider flags, black shirts and the Blitzkrieg, no gentleness, no empathy, no art. No room here, either, unless you could make movies or make bombs, keep us distracted or keep us safe, otherwise sail back home on the St. Louis and into the arms of the Gestapo.

  There’s a quota on Jews, remember?

  She turned the knob, around and around, worldwide band, organ music here, band remote there, and everywhere refugees, bombs, war.

  A car barreled down Mason from the top of the Hill, back from a night at the Top of the Mark, while ferries rocked gently, docked at the Ferry Building and ready for Treasure Island, ready for doughnuts and Maxwell House Coffee and nude girls on donkeys and transparent cars, because this was America, Martha, land of the free and home of the brave and everything else was just news, only news, like a murdered publisher or a dead Red author, something to marvel at, something to read, something to pass the fucking time.

  Miranda downed another shot of bourbon and tried to sleep for three hours.

  * * *

  Thelma was at Louise’s bedside by the time Miranda got to Children’s Hospital.

  Another cop, not so bored, waited outside.

  It took the better part of four hours to get the secretary transferred to Dante’s Sanitarium. She’d be safer there, under Renata Dante’s care, a woman and not an institution. Children’s was a fine hospital but doctors and nurses and orderlies could make mistakes, look the other way, and Louise had already been there too long.

  Had to move around, keep one step in front of the killer …

  The secretary was better, more like herself, but still vague and childlike. Remembered more about the milkman, remembered he was wearing a kind of uniform she didn’t recognize, remembered he didn’t take any money.

  Thelma s
aid in low tones that she’d pay Miranda back. She looked better, too, not as frayed around the edges. She was staying at the Potter Hotel, Pandora Blake’s old rooming house.

  Miranda smiled sadly, wondered if it still smelled like cabbage.

  She didn’t mention Smith, but bought the papers at the hospital newsstand on her way out the door.

  Chronicle headline, page two: CRETZER GANG STRIKES AGAIN: AUTHOR MURDERED. San Francisco News, page one: CRIME WRITER MURDERED BY GANG. Call-Bulletin, page two: WRITER KILLED AT BEKINS STORAGE: CRETZER-KYLE GANG SUSPECTED.

  She lit a cigarette and rolled down the taxi window.

  * * *

  She wasn’t hungry but ate lunch anyway, cheeseburger and fries washed down with Coca-Cola. Needed energy to walk, to talk, and most of all, to think.

  Tascone’s was busy for a Monday afternoon, full of telephone operators and newshawks from the De Young and Examiner buildings. Gladys wasn’t working and Miranda’s stomach unknotted, no explanations of the still-visible bruise necessary, no worried friend to lie to.

  She punched the elevator button for six.

  The large double doors of Alexander Publishing were shut, doorknobs dull. She knocked loudly.

  “Bunny? It’s Miranda.”

  After three more loud bangs one of the doors opened a crack. Miranda recognized the bloodshot eye of Hank Ward.

  “I need to speak to Bunny.”

  He grunted and opened it wide enough for her to squeeze past. “Bunny’s in a bad way, Miss Corbie. We all are. Don’t know whether there’s going to be an Alexander Publishing, frankly. She called Emily and I in this morning to tell us about Smith.”

  Miranda nodded. “Where is she?”

  “In the big office. Go on in—all she can do is yell, and I’d honestly feel better if she would.”

  Miranda softly opened the door to the large office. Bunny was sitting at Niles’ desk, staring at a manuscript, body hunched over and tense. She looked up.

  “C’mon in, Miranda.”

  Miranda sat in one of the black leather chairs and lit a Chesterfield. Said: “I’m sorry, Bunny. More than I can say.”

  The redhead leaned back, hands shaking and eyes too wide.

  “Sure looks like somebody’s out to destroy Alexander Publishing, doesn’t it? First Niles, then Louise, and now Smith—on the very night we hold the memorial for Niles.”

  “The papers are pushing the Cretzer gang angle.”

  Bunny waved her hand in the air. “Bullshit. You know it and I know it. That may be how it winds up going down—and God knows, if you print something often enough, people will believe it, I mean, Jesus Christ, I’m public relations and marketing, I know that better than anyone—but that doesn’t make it true.” She bent forward across the desk, eyes glowing. “I’ll tell you one thing, though, Miranda—it won’t work. We’re not going away.”

  Miranda raised her eyebrows. “You’ve got enough material—good material?”

  “It doesn’t have to be good, just saleable. And thanks to Roger Roscoe, we’ve got saleable right here.” She patted the manuscript on her desk. “Saleable AND good. Surprising, really, it’s different from his other stuff, but he did say he was trying something new. Came in with it not half an hour ago, said he wouldn’t think of going anywhere else with it and he was in for the long haul. Of course it helps that he and Sylvia got married, you know, despite the horrible news about Smith. Found a JP in San Mateo and tied the knot.”

  Miranda exhaled a stream of smoke. “So they actually did it. I wonder—have you heard from Jerry? I didn’t see him last night…”

  Bunny shook her head. “Not a word. Roger didn’t mention him. But of course, with this horrible murder—another horrible murder—we’re just reeling. I thought I’d have to close up shop. That’s why I called in Hank and Emily this morning. Goddamn it … poor, poor Howard.”

  “Did he leave any other manuscripts you could publish posthumously? Or was that in his contract?”

  “Charlie Segal’s going over all that. Phoned this morning and said he’s working with the coppers—going through everything Howard left, trying to find something we can publish. I know Howard was finishing up a novel Niles was very high on—almost as much as the Alcatraz book—so maybe.” She glanced at the clock on her desk. “Holy Shit—two-thirty. I gotta talk to Emily and Hank, get them busy on this.”

  Miranda crushed out the stick in the ashtray and stood up. “Keep me posted, Bunny.”

  “Will do. Jesus—Niles had a few enemies, but this—” She shook her head. “But as long as we’ve got one good book to publish, we’re in.” The redhead stood, moving out from behind the desk with her usual alacrity. “See you in the funny papers, Miranda.”

  * * *

  The phone was ringing when Miranda unlocked the door.

  Name in the paper, “notorious” female private investigator, and dirty jobs poured in from the social register and gambling joints, with a few insurance companies thrown in for good measure …

  She picked up the heavy headset.

  “Miranda? Fisher. Got your message about Louise.”

  Miranda fell into the black leather desk chair and swiveled to face the window.

  “Good. You know where to find her. Thelma’s at the Potter Hotel, by the way.”

  “Yeah, one of our men tracked her there. Listen, Miranda, I’ve got maybe one more day on this before Dullea and the DA shut it down. O’Meara rang up the Bureau—”

  “That sycophantic bastard. Let me guess—they’re all in favor of turning the investigation over to Hoover, doffing their hats and saying ‘after you,’ passing up jurisdiction on a local murder case to suck at the federal tit. That about sum it up?”

  Fisher’s voice was heavy. “My hands are tied. The papers haven’t helped much, either—jumped all over that goddamn note. I don’t even know who the hell leaked it.”

  “Doesn’t matter, not now. The Bureau will bury any and all connections to Linkletter or Miller. They’ll blame the murders on some redhot already on their ‘wanted’ list and keep sniffing under bedroom doors for Communists. Hell, Smith was a Red, so they’ll do what they can to placate Daddy Warbucks, but the sooner this case is yesterday’s news, the better.”

  Sirens started to wail in the background. After a few seconds she could hear them through the window.

  Fisher spoke quietly. ‘We’ve still got today, maybe tomorrow. I’m sending you a copy of the inventory from Smith’s apartment and the storage room. Take a look at it. And I’ve had to let Blankenship go, but told him if he skips town I’ll lock him up and throw away the key.”

  “He give out with anything?”

  “Only what you already know. Got a mouthpiece and clammed up quick.”

  “Figures. You interview Jerry Alexander yet?”

  The inspector made a noise. “We can’t find him! I was about to ask you if you knew where the hell—”

  “I don’t. He wasn’t at the party last night, either. Contact a Dr. Arthur H. White … he’s a syphilis specialist and Jerry’s supposed to be getting treatments. You won’t find him in the usual dives—I warned him off the Settlement and Chinatown with the help of Sally Stanford. Try South City or maybe San Mateo, any well-established house that would cater to the bastard’s tastes.”

  Fisher’s voice held a note of incredulity. “Syphilis? Sally Stanford? Jesus, Miranda—”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you sooner. And listen—Roger Roscoe and Sylvia Alexander got married this morning. If you’re planning on interviewing them, better make it quick. And Louise’s memory is returning—slowly. That dim image of a milkman in an odd uniform isn’t going away.”

  More loud wailing in the background, and a kind of clatter, like something or someone falling over a chair.

  “Gotta go—I’ll talk to you later, Miranda. Oh, one more thing—someone called Smith yesterday morning from a pay phone at Schwabacher-Frey on Market—not too far from you. The other calls were Charl
ie Segal and Smith’s father.”

  “Just who the hell is Smith’s father?”

  “Jefferson Hamilton Smith.”

  Miranda frowned, recognizing the name from social columns and the business pages, a factory owner and Coolidge-era industrialist known for hiring scabs and smashing unions, with holdings in Oakland and San Francisco.

  “Thanks, Inspector, that explains a lot. Be seeing you.”

  She hit the switchhook rapidly and dialed the operator.

  “Long distance, person-to-person please.”

  A woman’s voice answered, monotone, emotionless.

  “I’ve got a message for Mr. James MacLeod. Tell him ‘Gangbusters taking over. If BOP doesn’t step in it, the newspapers will.’ Got that? Good.”

  She set the phone back in the cradle again.

  Big money men owned the papers, but maybe, if word got out about what was happening, if it spread …

  She shook her head.

  Maybe.

  Thirty-Five

  Miranda closed the compact mirror, frowning at the blue and purple under her makeup.

  Hell, count herself lucky. Lucky little girl blue …

  A soft knock made her jump, and she opened the right side desk drawer, fingers touching the .22.

  Allen poked his head through the door.

  “Hey, Miri. I’m about to head out for the day—thought it might be time for that trip to the Rusty Nail.” His smile dropped and he stared, squinting. “What the hell happened to you, kid? Some jackass wallop you or something?”

  She waved him in. “C’mon in. G-man broke into my apartment while I was sleeping. Threw a flashlight at me after I shot him in the leg.”

  Allen’s eyes opened wide, fine lines around the corners deep. He started to laugh.

  “Miranda, what the hell am I gonna do with you? You’re more grizzled than half the men on the Pinkerton payroll. What happened? Why was a federal cop in your apartment?”

  She brought out the bottle of Four Roses and a couple of Castagnola glasses, and they drank bourbon and smoked while Miranda talked. Shadows stretched along the walls by the time she finished. His eyes lingered on her face.

  “Miranda … you’re a hell of an investigator. A hell of a shamus. But maybe—maybe you should get out of this game. It’s damn tough without resources behind you. I don’t particularly like Pinkerton, don’t even agree with most of what they do. But when push comes to shove, it’s like havin’ an army at your back. It’s why my missus can sleep at nights.”