by R. J. Jagger
“Are you CIA, FBI or independent?”
“Indy, fully sanctioned.”
Shade understood the term. It meant that the woman could kill her during capture if necessary and the CIA would ensure there would be no local charges or complications. She was as empowered as a cop bringing a scumbag into the station. She had full, unbridled immunity.
“Sanctioned,” Shade said. “At least, so they say.”
“So they say and so they do,” London said. “They’ve already proven themselves twice.”
“You’ve killed two people bringing them in?”
The woman nodded.
“Possibly three,” she said. “That will depend on you.”
Shade shrugged.
“Two’s enough.”
“I hope so.”
“How much do you know of what’s going on?”
“I know you’re a double spy,” London said.
“Alleged double spy.”
“It makes no difference. My job’s the same either way.”
THE FOOD ARRIVED.
The burger was hot.
The coke was cold.
Shade took a bite, chewed and said, “Not bad.”
“I’m surprised.”
“There’s a mole in the company,” Shade said.
London nodded.
“Right, you.”
“No, not me,” she said. “It’s been going on for some time. Mole hunts are always done internally by the company. What that means is that the people in the top 10 percent are never under scrutiny because they’re running the show. The mole in this case is someone in or very near that group. The white house has hired me directly to find out who the mole is. It’s the mole who’s setting me up. He or she found out I was snooping around. That’s what this whole thing is about.”
London wasn’t impressed.
“Easy to claim,” she said. “What proof do you have?”
“When you got the assignment, they told you to err on the side of killing me. They told you bringing me in alive wasn’t a top priority,” Shade said. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Silence.
London took a bite of burger and washed it down with a slurp through the straw.
“I’m part Navajo,” Shade added. “I have a half-sister named Visible Moon. Monday night she was abducted out of a bar she worked at on a reservation in New Mexico. A friend of hers, also Navajo, got brutally murdered at the bar that same night. She was actually scalped.”
“Scalped?”
Right.
Scalped.
“The man who did all of this is from Denver,” Shade said. “That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to find Visible Moon. I can’t do that if you get in my way.” She sipped coke through the straw and said, “Who in the company hired you? Was it Penelope Tap?”
72
Day Five
June 13, 1952
Friday Afternoon
THE WOMAN who may or may not be missing, Jennifer Pazour, lived in a small brick bungalow on the far east side of the city, almost all the way to Colorado Boulevard. The front door was closed, so were the blinds. Wilde found a spot for Blondie three doors down and headed back on foot.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” he said.
Alabama gave him a sideways glance.
“You always jump to the worst.”
“Saves time.”
He rapped on the front door.
No one answered.
He tried the doorknob and it actually turned.
“Unlocked,” he said. “That’s not good.”
He opened the door, stuck his head in and said, “Anyone home?”
No one was.
They entered and shut the door behind them.
“Shit.”
The word came from Alabama.
She was looking at a photograph frame propped up diagonally against a lamp on an end table. Inside that frame was a picture of two women in their early twenties with their arms around each other, sticking their tongues out at whoever it was that was working the camera. The woman on the left was the pinup girl from the top of the shed.
“Goddamn it,” Wilde said.
He didn’t know whether to punch the wall, slump down on the couch or storm out the front door. Then his fist decided for him. It swung with all its might into the wall, hitting drywall instead of a stud.
Wilde shook plaster off.
THEY SPENT the next hour going through every crack and crevice in the house, assembling anything and everything that had any possible lead as to who the people were in the victim’s life or what she’d been doing over the last month. What they didn’t find was a red book of matches with a gold B.
“We’re screwing up a crime scene,” Alabama said.
Wilde frowned.
That was true.
Hearing the words made it even truer.
It was very possible—even probable—that the woman was abducted from this very place. That would explain why the door wasn’t locked. The guy didn’t bother with it. He got his pretty little pinup fun into the trunk of a car and then got the hell out of there.
“What we’re doing is probably a felony or something,” Alabama nodded.
“Add it to the list of reasons I’m going to end up in hell.”
She smiled.
“How long is that list?”
“Ballpark?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, two or three miles.”
“No way,” she said. “You’ve put two or three miles on just since I’ve known you.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
“You’re welcome.”
They dumped all their goodies into a pillowcase and left. On the walk back to Blondie, Alabama said, “Now what?”
“Now I make an excuse to see Senn-Rae and get her out of the office so you can have a look around.”
“That’ll be two break-ins in one day for me,” she said. “That’s not a personal best, in case you’re wondering. Not even half a personal best.”
Wilde knew he should smile.
He didn’t though.
He was too preoccupied thinking about something they found in the house.
73
Day Five
June 13, 1952
Friday Evening
EARLY EVENING in a rented Ford Customline, Jundee and Fallon swung by Rebecca Vampire’s stoic Capitol Hill residence, which turned out to be just three doors down from the governor’s mansion. It looked like a castle dropped into a park and then surrounded by a six-foot stone wall with spikes on the top.
“I’ve seen smaller countries,” Jundee said.
“Like Transylvania for instance.”
He smiled.
“Like all the ’Vanias put together. Whatever she’s doing, she’s doing it right.” A beat then, “If we get busted in there, we’re in some serious trouble. She’s got to have connections to beat the band. She’ll make sure we fry.”
“Then let’s forget it,” Fallon said. “This whole briefcase thing is cursed. We ought to just take the one we have, burn it at the stake and call it a day.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“We need to figure out if it’s a bomb.”
“You already said it is.”
“True, it is, we do know that, at least I’m pretty sure we do. But we also need to know who had it, how they got it and where it was going. I don’t know if it was our bomb being smuggled to the Russians, or theirs being smuggled to us, or what.”
“Why do we care?”
“Because we need to know who the players are before we jump into the game.”
“What game?”
“Whatever game is going on,” he said. “The only thing I know for sure is that the stakes are high. That means there’s money to be had. I’m not talking about wallets full of money. I’m talking about wheelbarrows full of it. Big, overflowing wheelbarrows.”
“I still say forget it."
&n
bsp; “Look, you can live twenty lifetimes and not get lucky enough to get even one chance like this,” he said. “We got that chance right out of the box. Do you really want to walk away from it?”
She retreated in thought.
“Yes.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Fallon grabbed his forearm and squeezed.
“This isn’t a game, Jundee.”
He frowned.
“Look, we’re either in this together or we’re not,” he said. “We need to get that decided and we need to do it right now.” He paused. “So what’s it going to be? Are we going to be partners and do what it takes to see this thing through or did we topple over the cliff back there for nothing?”
She exhaled.
“We’re going to rot in hell.”
“Does that mean you’re in?”
“I think it does.”
“No thinking.”
“Okay, it does.”
JUNDEE SWUNG AROUND THE BLOCK and drove past the place one more time. The driveway gate was open. The woman’s car was parked on the cobblestone next to a fountain up near the house.
“We’ll bide our time until dark,” Jundee said. “The briefcase is in there, I can smell it. It will be too big to fit into a safe. She’ll have it hidden somewhere but it won’t be in a safe.”
“Jundee, you’re a lawyer.”
“And?”
“And if you get caught you’ll be disbarred.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes you do.”
“Okay, I care but it’s worth the risk.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
Fallon watched the mansion disappear behind them, then the corner of her mouth turned up ever so slightly.
“Except for when you talk,” she said.
Jundee laughed.
Right.
Except for when he talked.
Then he got serious.
“I’m glad that car hit you down on Larimer Street. If I ever find the guy who was driving I’m going to buy him a beer.”
74
Day Five
June 13, 1952
Friday Noon
SHADE WIPED SWEATY PALMS on her legs, exhaled and locked eyes with her captor. They both knew that the time had come. Shade didn’t know how it would end, only that it would. From the expression on London’s face, she didn’t know either. The next few minutes would tell it all.
Shade drank what was left of the cherry-coke.
An ice cube fell into her mouth.
She chewed.
“That means sexual frustration,” she said. “Chewing ice.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It relieves the tension.”
Shade reached across the table and put her hand on London’s arm. “Do you know why you were chosen for this job as opposed to every other person in the universe?”
No.
She didn’t.
“Because you have two priors,” Shade said. “They don’t want me back alive.” A beat then, “I’ve been in this establishment before. There’s a window in the ladies’ room. I’m going to go use the facilities. After I do, I’m going to climb out that window. You can shoot me or not but that’s what I’m going to do. I’m staying at the Kenmark Hotel, room 318. If you decide not to shoot me, meet me there tonight at eleven.”
London frowned.
She pulled her arm back.
Shade’s hand came off and dropped to the table.
“I can’t let you go.”
Shade studied her.
The woman was resolved.
“Do you have any family?” Shade said.
“I have a sister.”
Shade said nothing.
She let the words hang.
Then she stood up and said, “I’m going to go now.”
She got two steps when the woman said, “Hey.”
Shade stopped and turned.
“Just for your information, I hate her.”
“Your sister?”
“Right.”
“That’s too bad,” Shade said.
Then she headed for the ladies’ room.
75
Day Five
June 13, 1952
Friday Afternoon
WILDE DIALED SENN-RAE and poured milk in a saucer for Tail while the phone rang. The poor cat must have had sandpaper for a tongue because it couldn’t wait for the flow to stop before he stuck his head in. Wilde drenched the poor thing before he realized what he was doing. With the fur matted down, the head shrank to half size. “That’s not a good look for you,” Wilde said.
Alabama stepped in from the adjacent room, pulling her zipper up.
“What are you doing to Tail?”
“Tail did it to himself.”
“God, Wilde, I can’t leave you alone for ten seconds.”
Suddenly Senn-Rae answered.
“It’s me,” Wilde said. “I need you to stop over at my office and look at something.”
“What?”
“I’ll show you when you get here.”
“It’s not something that lives behind a zipper, is it?” she said.
He laughed.
“No, something else, although you’re welcome to—”
“When?”
“Now.”
A pause.
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
He hung up and told Alabama, “Okay, you’re up. She’ll be here at least an hour, an hour and one minute if I make love to her.”
“You can last a whole minute?”
“It’s hard but I have a secret.”
“Which is what?”
“I bite my tongue and at the same time think of something unpleasant.”
“Like what?”
“Like doing the dishes, whatever,” he said. “The important thing is that you don’t cross paths with Senn-Rae on her way over. Swing around her.”
“Aye aye, captain.” She headed for the door. “Try not to use up any of Tail’s lives while I’m gone.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Senn-Rae rapped lightly on the door and walked in without waiting for an answer. By the look on her face, she expected just about anything other than for a cat to run over and rub against her shin.
She picked it up.
“What happened to your head? Did that mean man over there do something to it?”
Wilde smiled.
“We were playing a game called Milk Head.”
“It looks like the cat lost,” she said. “What’s his name?”
“Tail.”
“Is he yours?”
Wilde shrugged.
“I think so,” he said. “You want to buy him? He’s on sale today.”
“How much?”
“A half-hour of sex.”
“In that case, I already own half of him.”
Wilde considered it.
“More like two-thirds.”
HE TAPPED A CAMEL out of a pack, dangled it in his lips and struck a match. Tail jumped out of Senn-Rae’s arms and scampered into the corner.
“He’s getting better,” Wilde said. “You should have seen him the first time.”
Senn-Rae held her arm in front of Wilde’s face.
Blood was dripping out of a scratch mark.
“This is better?”
Wilde shrugged.
“I didn’t say perfect.”
He wiped her arm with a Kleenex, got serious and said, “I found out who the dead pinup girl is from the shed. Her name’s Jennifer Pazour. Me and Alabama snuck into her house this morning and looked around for anything that might identify who was in her life or how she’d been spending her time. It’s all over there inside that pillowcase.” He nodded towards the desk. “Your job is to go through it and see if any of it relates to your client.”
“Relates how?”
“Relates in any way, shape or form at all,” he said. “Did they know each other? That’s th
e thing I’m most interested in figuring out.”
Tail came out of the corner.
Slowly.
Timidly.
He jumped up on the desk and sat next to the pillowcase.
“Tail will help you.”
A HALF-HOUR INTO IT, Senn-Rae got a look on her face as she studied a photograph of two women—the victim and another woman, one with a raven-black Bettie Paige haircut and a seriously stunning face.
“Got something?”
Senn-Rae tapped on the stunner.
“I’ve seen this woman somewhere.”
“Where?”
She concentrated.
Her face got soft.
“I don’t know.”
WILDE TOOK the photo out of her fingers and studied it.
“She’s pinup quality,” he said. “They both are.”
“Would it be hard to track her down and find out who she is?”
Wilde shook his head.
“Should be doable.”
76
Day Five
June 13, 1952
Friday Evening
BLANCHE GOLDEN’S HOUSE wasn’t anything to brag about. Her job teaching physics at the University of Denver didn’t pay as well as people thought. The discretionary money she did manage to set aside got used to support her travel addiction. She was only thirty-eight but had already been to more places than National Geographic. “It’s the journey, not the destination.” That’s what she told people and that’s what she wanted carved on her tombstone.
People who knew her thought they knew her.
They were half right.
She had a second half, a carefully hidden half, that almost no one knew about.
Last year, that other half got her into trouble.
She ended up needing a lawyer.
The lawyer she got was Jundee.
She had to tell him secrets.
He got her out of trouble.
More importantly, he did it in a way that her secret life remained secret. She paid him every cent he had coming, but that didn’t mean she still didn’t owe him, not to mention that he still knew what almost no one else knew.
At 7:47, a rap came on her front door.
Standing there was Jundee and a strikingly beautiful younger woman. In Jundee’s hand was a briefcase. It looked like it had been shot to death. He wiggled it and said, “This is it.”