Dead South (A Bryson Wilde Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by R. J. Jagger

  He slid the case out of the rope and set it on the bed.

  It was locked.

  The key wasn’t on the dresser or anywhere else in sight. It was probably in Sudden Dance’s purse.

  It had something to do with the trouble the woman was in. Whatever was inside might even be the reason she was killed.

  Suddenly voices came down the hallway.

  Wilde grabbed the briefcase and made his way out the window. A glance back showed the door opening and a man and a woman already entering.

  Wilde ducked down before anyone turned their eyes.

  There was no time to shut the window.

  He knew the man.

  He was a private investigator by the name of Nicholas Dent, not one of Wilde’s favorite people in the world; not just because the man was an asshole, which he was, but because he didn’t serve in the war, ostensibly because of some kind of medical condition, asthma or some such nonsense. As far as Wilde was concerned, there wasn’t enough time in the day to worry about the guys who didn’t step up when the stepping was needed.

  The woman was his secretary, Janet.

  Wilde stayed low, made his way down the fire escape and vanished up the alley with the briefcase in hand.

  8

  Day Four

  August 6, 1952

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Back at the office Wilde tossed his hat at the rack, got a ringer, and kept the shock off his face as walked to the desk and set the briefcase on top. Alabama ignored the hat and concentrated on the mystery item.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Probably my obituary. Do the honors and get it open, will you? You’ll have to force it, it’s locked.”

  She got it open with a pair of scissors.

  Inside was money, a lot of money, tens and twenties and fives and ones, all jammed in.

  Alabama gave Wilde a look.

  “What’d you do, rob a bank?”

  Wilde set a book of matches on fire, lit a smoke, filled ’Bama in and said, “Count it. I want to know how much a life is worth.”

  “You think this is why Sudden Dance got murdered?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m sure of it. Too bad for the asshole that he killed her for nothing.”

  Alabama divided the bills into piles.

  It was adding up fast but that’s not what interested Wilde. What interested him was that underneath it all was a photo of Sudden Dance with another woman, obviously friends, both happy and smiling for the camera. No inscription, date or writing was on the back. The other woman, a blond, was similar in age to Sudden Dance, in her early to mid-twenties, and equally attractive. Wilde showed the photo to Alabama and said, “She had a friend.”

  “Or an enemy,” she said.

  Wilde blew smoke.

  “They look like friends to me.”

  “Yeah, well, enemies are nothing more than friends that you apply time to,” she said. “Maybe the friend is the one who killed her.”

  Wilde tried to picture it.

  The picture wouldn’t come into focus.

  “Either way, it’s something,” he said.

  “Everything’s something,” Alabama said. “I can’t believe how much money this is. It’s already over three grand.”

  “Keep counting.”

  She set a five to the side and tapped her finger on it.

  “That’s for a new dress,” she said. “Don’t even think about touching it.”

  He smiled.

  “Fair enough.”

  The photograph was taken outside in early evening. The women were standing in front of a building, one they might have just come out of. They looked a little drunk and had their arms around each other’s waist. Wilde didn’t recognize the building but was pretty sure it wasn’t from Denver. The color was wrong for Denver. It could be a bar or a hotel.

  He put the photo in his wallet, tossed the old butt out the window and lit a new one.

  “I can’t figure out what that sleaze Dent was doing at the room,” he said.

  “He was probably after the money.”

  “Yeah but how would he know about it?”

  Alabama gave him a look.

  “You’re making me lose count, Bryson. Stop talking.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Outside Larimer Street scurried and buzzed and tangoed to its own twisted little beat. Suddenly Wilde remembered something, something bad, something that made his temples tighten; namely that when he lifted the mattress up back at the Kenmark, he set his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. He never went back for it after finding the briefcase. It would have still been there, still burning, when Dent came into the room.

  Dent would have been smart enough to look out the window.

  He knew Wilde.

  True, Wilde never turned around, but Dent might have recognized him from behind. He would have seen Wilde making off with a briefcase.

  “I think I messed up,” he said.

  “Quiet. I’m counting.”

  The final count came up to $5,231.

  “That’s half a house,” Alabama said. “What are you going to do with your share?”

  “My share?”

  She ran a finger down his chest.

  “What’d you think, that I was going to keep it all? You’re entitled to some of it; I’d say, oh, I don’t know, twenty-five percent or thereabouts.”

  “You’re so generous.”

  9

  Day Four

  August 6, 1952

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Wilde couldn’t get the body at the bottom of the well out of his head. Somewhere out there in the world people were aching, not knowing where she was. She deserved to be out of there, away from the spiders and the grime and the pathetic insult of it all. She wasn’t just trash to be thrown away. She deserved to be properly buried and mourned. She deserved justice, too. Wilde lit a smoke, turned on the radio and twisted the dial until he got a tolerable song, T-99 Blues, one of Jimmy Nelsen’s better efforts.

  Then he pulled a map out of the bottom drawer, showed Alabama the location of the well and had her place a call to police headquarters. She ended up getting connected to Johnnie Fingers. She told him she was out exploring the country earlier today with a friend. They came across an old well. It looked like there was a woman’s dead body at the bottom.

  “We dropped some stones on her and she didn’t move,” Alabama said. “I think she’s dead.”

  Fingers grunted.

  “That’s a long ways from Denver.”

  “I know but she could be from here. Maybe someone from here is missing and that’s where she ended up.”

  “What’d you say your name was again?”

  “Jane,” she said.

  “Jane what?”

  “Jane Jones,” she said. “Someone should check that well out. That’s all I’m calling about.”

  She hung up and looked at Wilde.

  He blew smoke with approval.

  “Good job.”

  “Do you think he’ll follow up?”

  Wilde nodded.

  “Oh yeah, he’ll check it out,” he said. “He’s already thinking it’s Sudden Dance. Once he finds her he can nail me. That’s his ultimate goal.”

  T-99 Blues ended.

  Call Operator 210 took its place.

  Wilde let it play.

  “If the woman in the well is the witness, Fingers will make a beeline straight for me,” Wilde said. “If he isn’t knocking on the door by tomorrow, that means the body isn’t the witness. That means that the witness is still alive; still alive and in serious danger, to be precise.”

  Alabama punched him on the arm.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to go running off on a wild goose chase to save her,” she said.

  He tapped ashes out the window and sat on the ledge.

  “If someone tries to kill her it will be the same person who killed Sudden Dance,” Wilde said. “She’s our best connection to the guy. Our only c
onnection, actually.”

  “Wilde, let it go.”

  “We need to find out her name,” he said.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that we need to. We also need to figure out what that sleaze-bucket Nicholas Dent has to do with all this. Why was he in Sudden Dance’s hotel room? That’s what I want to know—”

  Alabama tilted her head.

  “If you really want to know, we can pay a visit to his office tonight,” she said. “He should have a file, right?”

  Wilde smiled.

  Dent was dumb.

  He always had to write everything down.

  Whatever he was up to, it would be there on paper in good old No. 2.

  “Good idea,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re really going to do it?”

  He nodded.

  “We just need to be damn sure we don’t get caught. I’m actually wondering if Dent and Fingers are somehow in some kind of cahoots with each other.”

  “Wow, now there’s a strange thought.”

  “I’ve had stranger,” Wilde said.

  “Maybe but they all involved sex. This one doesn’t involve sex, does it?”

  He smiled.

  “No, it doesn’t. Even Johnnie Fingers has his limits.”

  “Okay, then. My point remains.”

  Wilde turned his attention to the money, the money on the desk still piled in denominations, the beautiful and very tempting $5,231.

  “You’re thinking what to buy me,” Alabama said. “Start with lingerie.” She grabbed his hand and put it on her heart. “Feel that, you’re already getting me excited.”

  He pulled his hand away.

  “’Bama, get serious. This isn’t ours.”

  “Sure it is.”

  Wilde struck a book of matches. The pungent odor of sulfur filled and air and gray smoke snaked towards the ceiling. He let it burn for a second, lit a cigarette and tossed the flames out the window.

  “You’re going to burn down Denver,” Alabama said.

  “Worst things have happened. My guess is that Sudden Dance stole the money. That’s what got her killed. The money is our second best connection to the killer, after the witness, assuming she’s still alive. The money is our bait.”

  “Bait isn’t bait unless the rat knows about it,” Alabama said. “What we need to do is start flashing it around so he knows we have it. We’ll start with that lingerie I was talking about.”

  Wilde took a deep drag.

  “Actually, you might be onto something,” he said.

  “Lingerie?” She ran a finger down his chest. “You’re picturing me in it, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, not that much.”

  “But some—”

  “Maybe a little but only because you’re making me,” he said. “The flashing is a good idea. We’ll flash the briefcase though, not the money. The briefcase is pretty unique.” That was true. It was unusually thin, with tanned leather faded by wear and scuffed at the corners, with oversized black latches. “For right now we’ll stash the money someplace safe and keep our hands off it. And when I say our hands, I’m talking about the things at the end of your arms.”

  She held them up and wiggled her fingers.

  “These,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Precisely.”

  10

  Day Four

  August 6, 1952

  Tuesday Night

  Even though he was a sleaze-bag, or maybe because of it, Nicholas Dent got a lot of secret work from the local uppity-ups and correspondingly had an office that was a lot better than Wilde’s. It was a standalone structure of considerable size on Sherman, a stone’s throw from the guts of the financial district where the best-paying clients in Denver spent their working hours and hid their secret affairs and indiscretions. Once an ornate mansion, now the place housed only sleaze.

  After dark Tuesday night, Wilde drove past that palace of sleaze with Alabama in the passenger seat.

  The windows were black.

  No lights came from inside.

  “The pace is dead,” Alabama said.

  Wilde agreed.

  They parked on 16th, hoofed it back through the alley and found all the lower windows locked. Alabama pointed to an upper one and said, “That one’s half open.”

  “It’s too high.”

  Alabama spotted a rusty 55-gallon drum in the weeds and said, “Help me roll that over here.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going to get on it and then I’m going to climb up you until I’m standing on your shoulders and then I’m going to grab the ledge of the window and pull myself in.”

  “That’s not doable.”

  “Sure it is,” she said. “I don’t want you looking up my skirt though.”

  Two minutes later Alabama was up and in.

  She lifted up her skirt, stuck her behind out the window and wiggled it. Then she looked down at Wilde looking up and said, “Hey, you’re not supposed to be doing that.”

  Then she disappeared.

  Thirty seconds later the back door opened and Wilde was in.

  Dent’s primary office was on the lower level at the back. Wilde pulled the window coverings shut and powered up a flashlight.

  He expected a mess.

  That’s not what he got.

  Everything was clean and organized.

  A number of files were on the desk, each neatly labeled in thick black writing. None said Sudden Dance or Saturday Murder or Bryson Wilde or Johnnie Fingers or anything else of interest.

  “Check the file cabinets,” he said.

  Alabama obliged.

  One of the files on the desk was labeled Jackie Fountain. Inside were several pages of lined yellow paper with pencil notes.

  “Bingo.”

  “You got something?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Let’s see.”

  Page after page Wilde read, handing each one to Alabama when he was done. The story that emerged was so detailed that it seemed as if Wilde was right there.

  *****

  A woman named Jackie Fountain phoned Dent’s home number Sunday morning wanting to meet with him as soon as possible, before Monday if possible. They met at the office an hour later.

  “I’m a waitress at the Down Towner so I don’t have much money,” she said. “If this is going to cost a lot, I’ll pay you but it will have to be spread out a little here and there.”

  “This meeting is free,” Dent said. “Don’t worry about money for the moment and just tell me what’s going on.”

  She composed her thoughts.

  “Okay,” she said, “Saturday night me and a couple of girlfriends went to a club called the Bokoray. The band was from out of town but the guy who was drumming was a local guy named Bryson Wilde. I don’t know him personally but I see him at the clubs now and then. We’ve never talked or anything like that but like I said I’ve see him around.”

  Dent tapped two cigarettes out of a pack and extended one to Jackie who waved it off.

  “No, thanks.”

  Dent lit his and blew a ring.

  “I know Wilde.”

  “I figured that,” she said. “Anyway, during the breaks he was getting all cozy with a woman in a white dress. She was extremely pretty, almost like a model or something.”

  “Sounds like his type.”

  “She was getting drunker and drunker as the night went on.”

  “Sounds even more like his type.”

  “She was standing by the wall. Lots of guys went over to her but she brushed them off. She only had eyes for Wilde.”

  “Lucky him.”

  “Right,” she said. “Anyway, the night ended. I used the little girl’s room before I left and then headed for the car where my friends were waiting for me. I was walking down the sidewalk and just happened to look down the alley. I saw
a woman and a man in some kind of altercation—it was the woman from the club, the one in the white dress. The man had the woman by the hair and was yelling at her and she was yelling back. Then all of a sudden the man had knife in his hand, a really big one, and he stabbed her in the gut two or three times, real violently, almost as if he was trying to push the blade all the way through her body. She crumpled like a doll and fell down into the dirt. He stabbed her again, this time in the chest, two times. Then he pulled her body up, threw it in the passenger seat and took off. At that point he was coming right at me. I was like a deer in headlights, totally frozen. At the last second I somehow got my wits and jumped out of the way. The car squealed around the corner to the right and disappeared down the street.” She held her hand out. “Look, my hand is shaking.”

  Dent held it steady.

  “Was the man Wilde?”

  “That’s my assumption but I have to be honest, I can’t say for certain,” she said. “It was too dark when he was back in the alley. Then when he came at me, all I could see was the headlights. They were blinding. They were like two suns shooting at me.”

  “So Wilde got a good look at you and knows you’re a witness,” Dent said. “That’s what this comes down to.”

  She nodded.

  “Right, except like I said, I can’t swear it was Wilde. To tell you the truth, he never struck me as that kind of guy.”

  Dent grunted.

  “A guy who’s not that kind of guy can turn into that kind of guy if he’s drunk and the woman he thinks he’s going to end up with in bed suddenly changes her mind. That’s how devils get made and trust me, they get made every day.” He tapped ashes into the tray. “So what exactly do you want from me?”

  Her eyes darted.

  “My natural instinct was to file a police report,” she said. “The more I thought about it though, the more I didn’t want my name involved. I was worried that it would make its way to the killer. That might not be a problem if Wilde was the killer, but it might be a big problem if someone else was. Also, I never got a look at the guy, so I don’t know if I have all that much useful information to tell when you get right down to it.” She hesitated and then added, “What I want you to do is find out what’s going on. Find out who the woman is. Find out who the killer is. Figure out how much trouble I’m in for seeing what I did. The answers are important because if I’m in real trouble then I’m going to get out of Denver. I don’t want to do that if I don’t have to because I really don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t have any family or anything.”