by R. J. Jagger
“The Daniels & Fisher Tower,” Shade said.
Mojag shrugged.
“Whatever,” he said. “The building has an elevator operator. I got a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet and held it in my hand and said a man just dropped it on the street and I wanted to give it back to him. I described the guy. I said he just came into the building a couple of minutes ago.”
“That’s Baxter Fox,” the guy said. “He’s an attorney up in Browne, Denton & Savage on the ninth floor.” He held his hand out. “I’ll give it to him if you want.”
Sure.
Thanks.
“I got his address and paid a visit to his house while he was still at work,” Mojag said. “Tehya’s scalp was tacked to his bedroom wall like some kind of trophy. When I saw it, it was all I could do to stop myself from going down to where he worked and shoving it in his mouth until he choked to death. Instead I left it where it was and marked the mailbox. You never showed up last night.”
“You know why,” Shade said.
“No I don’t.”
“You haven’t heard?”
No.
Heard what?
She told him about the encounter with Jack Mack.
“You need to get out of Denver,” he said. “We should just leave, right now.”
She shrugged.
“Maybe.”
They drove in silence.
MOJAG CONTINUED.
“When you didn’t show up I decided to just take care of him myself,” he said. “It was about midnight. He was sound asleep in his precious little bed when I yanked him out and punched him in the face. I pulled Tehya’s hair off the wall and said, Where’d you get this? At first he tried to get out of it. He said he bought it from someone. I had to lay pain on him, lots and lots of pain, before he finally admitted it.”
“He admitted it?”
Mojag nodded.
“Right to my face,” he said. “He even told me the woman worked at some dive Indian bar down in New Mexico. Where’s the other woman? What’d you do with her? That’s what I said. When I said that, he knew exactly what I was talking about. He didn’t say anything like, What other woman? What he said was, She’s dead.”
He pulled a pack of Marlboro’s out of his shirtsleeve and tapped the pack.
There was only one left.
He lit it, took a long drag and handed it to Shade.
“When he said, She’s dead, I lost it. I stuck my thumbs in his throat and choked the life out of him with every muscle in my body. He shit in his pants before he died. I never smelled anything so good in my life.”
114
Day Six
June 14, 1952
Saturday Afternoon
NATALIE LEVINE’S BODY was staged in pinup fashion behind the roofing ductwork, exactly like Stuart Black’s macabre memoirs described. She wore the same clothes as the painting from Dames in Danger. “This proves the lawyer’s our man,” Wilde said. “This body’s never been found. The fact that she’s here isn’t public knowledge. Only the killer would know it.”
“And now us,” Alabama said.
Right.
And now us.
“We should call the police and let them handle it from here on,” she said.
Wilde already knew that wouldn’t work.
“He knows someone broke in,” he said. “I left the files on a table near the back door. He’s undoubtedly spotted them there, not to mention he would have seen the bottom drawer of the file cabinet jacked open. Those files are history. They’re up in flames by now.”
He scouted the skyline.
Everything was small and distant.
Nothing seemed important.
He took one last look at the body and said, “Come on, we’re going to Senn-Rae’s.”
WHEN THEY GOT THERE, Alabama dialed Stuart Black’s office and held the receiver between her ear and Senn-Rae’s. The man actually answered.
“Is this Stuart Black?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Black, my name’s Katie White. I had a little run in with the police.”
“What kind of run in?”
“They think I stole a car,” she said. “I’m out on bail. Is this the kind of thing you handle?”
Yes.
It was, but not today.
“Stop by Monday.”
“I will.”
He gave her directions.
She said she’d be there at nine and hung up.
WILDE LOOKED AT SENN-RAE.
“Well? Is that your mystery client?”
She wrinkled her brow.
“I’m not positive.”
“I need a yes or no.”
“I can’t give you a yes or no,” she said. “It sounds like him but I can’t say for a hundred percent that it is.”
“Well what percent would you give it?”
She tilted her head.
“Eighty or ninety.”
Okay.
Eighty or ninety.
Close enough.
Wilde headed for the door.
Before he stepped out he said, “He knows someone’s on to him. You’re his next target. The pressure might make him move his timetable up. Keep your door locked and don’t open it for anyone. Until further notice, the law office is closed.”
He waited for an argument.
She didn’t give him one.
HEADING DOWN THE STAIRS Alabama said, “Hey, I forgot to tell you something. Do you remember when we were in Jennifer Pazour’s house the second time and you stuck her checkbook in your pocket?”
Right.
He remembered.
Jennifer Pazour was the pinup girl from the shed.
“I flipped through it,” Alabama said. “There was something a little bit weird in there.”
“Like what, a dead fly?”
“No, not a dead fly.”
“A dead what, then? Don’t tell me a dead elephant because it wouldn’t fit. If you tell me a dead elephant I’m not going to believe it.”
“Get serious for a minute, Wilde,” she said. “You’re impossible sometimes. There were two large deposits into her account.”
“How large?”
“Five thousand.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Times two,” Alabama said. “Two deposits of five thousand. Ten thousand total.”
“You could buy a house with that,” Wilde said.
“Right.”
“She was a cab driver.”
“That’s my point,” Alabama said. “Where’d the big bucks come from?”
Wilde shrugged.
“Maybe she had a sugar daddy. She was pretty enough.”
“That’s a lot of sugar.”
“Maybe she was worth it.”
“No one’s worth it,” she said. “And remember, her raven-haired friend and the dog were buried out there behind the shed. Something was going on.”
THEY CAME OUT of the building.
The Denver sun was bright and hot.
Wilde opened the passenger door so Alabama wouldn’t acrobat over it and screw up the springs.
“You’re such a gentleman,” she said.
“Right. We’ll go with that.”
He walked around and got in.
“Ten thousand, huh?”
Right.
Ten thousand.
“Is it still in there?”
“Most of it,” she said. “Why? Are you thinking we should take it?”
115
Day Six
June 14, 1952
Saturday Afternoon
A BRIGHT SUN forced its way through the window covering with such intensity that it pulled Fallon out of a deep sleep. Alone in a soft bed, she rolled onto her back and stretched. The events of last night jumped into her brain. Whoever stopped at her car wasn’t there when she got there. She didn’t know if the person wrote her plate number down or not. She made it home without incident shortly before sunrise, told Jundee what she’d done then crashe
d into the sheets and closed her eyes.
The world immediately disappeared.
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed to find she was still in the same clothes from last night. She sWildeed them off as she headed for the bathroom, took a long hot shower, then found Jundee in the kitchen making pancakes and eggs for her.
He handed her a cup of coffee.
“Afternoon sleepyhead.”
She yawned.
“What time is it?”
“Three.”
It was dark in the house.
All the coverings were closed.
“What’s with the windows?”
“Just a precaution,” Jundee said. “I got a bad phone call a little while ago.”
She took a sip of coffee.
“About what?”
He peeked outside, saw nothing of importance and let the blind fall back.
“Do you remember that PI I hired?”
‘Whitecliff,” she said.
“GOOD MEMORY, I’m impressed,” he said. “Anyway, I gave him another assignment, to see if the Vampire woman had contacted the guy you stole the car from. He did some snooping around. The Vampire woman must have written down the license plate of the car you were driving out there in the desert, because when Whitecliff called the owner to see if he’d been contacted, he had.”
“By Vampire?”
“No, by an investigator down there in Santa Fe by the name of Randy Richardson,” Jundee said. “Whitecliff knows the guy pretty well and called him to see if he’d tell him what was going on. Richardson was pretty cooperative. He said he was hired to find out who stole the car. He did a little snooping around and found it was taken from a restaurant parking lot, the same restaurant where you worked and never showed up at that morning. He told his client that the person who stole the car was probably a young woman named Fallon Leigh.”
She shoved a forkful of pancakes in her mouth.
“That’s my name.”
“Yes it is,” Jundee said. “Richardson stopped being cooperative when Whitecliff asked him who his client was. That information, he wouldn’t divulge.”
“It has to be Vampire,” Fallon said.
Jundee shrugged.
“Whitecliff had the impression it was a man.”
“Vampire's not a man.”
“True,” Jundee said. “The bottom line is this. Someone’s looking for you, someone who wants to find you bad enough to throw money at a PI, enough money to make him drop everything he was working on.”
“It’s the briefcase,” Fallon said. “They don’t want me, they want the briefcase.”
“That may be but their sights are on you,” he said. “They know your name. They probably know what you look like.”
Fallon frowned.
“What we should do is just take the damn briefcase, put it on Vampire’s doorstep, ring the bell and run.”
Jundee shook his head.
No.
No.
No.
“They’re all spies or something,” he said. “If they get that briefcase, they’ll have the complete package. I guarantee you it will be in the hands of the Russians by this time next week.”
“So let’s just destroy it.”
“Can’t,” he said. “It’s our only bargaining chip if they capture you or me.”
HE RUBBED HER SHOULDERS.
“Thanks for doing what you did last night.”
Sure.
No problem.
“Do you really think Vampire’s a spy?”
“Look at it this way,” Jundee said. “She was out there in the middle of nowhere when the guy went off the cliff. She was out of her car waiting for you when you came up. She wrote down your license plate number, we now know that in hindsight. She went down to the wreck and got the second briefcase.”
“If that’s true then why didn’t she just confront me when she had the chance?”
“You had the guy’s gun, remember?” he said. “That probably saved your life.” He exhaled. “Either she’s a spy or someone found out about her after the fact and is getting her to cooperate with them.”
“Why would she?”
“Maybe they’re pretending to be FBI or CIA or something,” he said. “I don’t know. My money is on her being a spy all along. One thing I do know for sure, you’re a serious target.”
“Then so are you,” Fallon said. “Vampire’s seen you. She’s seen us together. Sooner or later she’ll put a name to your face.”
He nodded.
“That’s why the blinds are closed,” he said. “We need to get that briefcase out of your hotel room and find a new place to hole up.”
116
Day Six
June 14, 1952
Saturday Afternoon
WITH VISIBLE MOON DEAD, Shade had no more business in Denver. The CIA was in town hunting her down. The cops were after her in connection with the shooting of Jack Mack. The only rational course of action was to get out now while she could.
Mojag couldn’t stress that enough.
“Don’t go back to your hotel, don’t flash your face around for even one more minute, don’t do anything except get in my truck and head back to the reservation with me,” Mojag said. “You’ll be safe there. Let things cool off and then decide what you want to do.” He nodded at London and said, “You can come too, darling. You’re more than welcome.”
London looked at Shade.
“He makes sense.”
A cop car rolled through the intersection up the street.
Mojag flicked his cigarette into the street.
“I need to beat feet before that lawyer starts stinking up a storm and the cops start wondering who got him that way.” He walked towards the truck and said over his shoulder, “You can come or not, your choice, but I’m not hanging around to see what the local jails look like.”
Shade stood there and watched him.
Mojag got to his truck, hopped in, slammed the door and fired up the engine. In the rearview mirror, he watched them for a few seconds, then jammed the clutch into reverse and squealed the tires until he got back to them.
The brakes went on, hard.
The truck jerked to a stop at the curb.
He leaned over and stuck his head out the passenger window.
“Last chance.”
“We’re wanted,” Shade said. “You’ll have a better chance without us.”
He shook his head.
“Your funeral.”
Then he was gone.
117
Day Six
June 14, 1952
Saturday Afternoon
DRIVING BACK TO THE OFFICE, Wilde couldn’t get the sight of Natalie Levine’s dead body out of his eyes, he couldn’t get the stench of her death out of his mouth, he couldn’t get the injustice of her killer walking around free and easy out of his heart.
He lit a cigarette and paced by the windows.
Alabama sat on the desk, keeping him in the corner of her eye, not saying anything, letting him work through whatever it was that he was working through.
He stopped and looked around.
“Where’s Tail?”
“I told you,” she said, “when I got here this morning Shade and London were in here. They said the door was open when they got here. Tail wasn’t around when they came in.” A pause. “Want me to go out and look for him?”
Wilde shook his head.
“You’ll never find him,” he said. “He’s probably being served up for lunch over at Wu’s.”
He lit another cigarette.
The cupboard door from the shed where Visible Moon had been held prisoner had been leaning in the corner. In it were the scratches that replicated the markings on the floor under the mattress. Wilde pointed and said, “What happened to the wood that was over there?”
Alabama shrugged.
“Shade must have taken it.”
Wilde blew a smoke ring.
SUDDENLY HE MASHED THE BUTT in the ash
tray, grabbed one of the red matchbooks out of his desk, dipped his hat over his left eye and headed for the door.
“Where you going?”
“To close in on our little killer friend,” he said. “The time’s come.”
She fell into step.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No you’re not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you got the looks,” he said. “I don’t want you on the guy’s radar screen.”
“Wilde—”
He put a finger on her lips.
“It’s not open for discussion. While I’m gone, follow up on Shade’s issue. Find out how much the cops know about that Jack Mack incident. Talk to Jacqueline White at homicide. Tell her the information’s for me.”
“She hates you.”
“Only 25 percent of the time,” he said. “Call her four times if you have to.”
HE HEADED DOWN THE STAIRS two at a time and pointed his shoes towards the lawyer’s office, the same office he broke into earlier today.
Hopefully the man was still there.
Wilde needed to get a look at him.
He needed to figure out how he was going to handle things.
He needed answers.
Two blocks, that’s how far he walked at a brisk pace, before he even once looked behind him. When he did he saw something he didn’t expect.
Alabama was fifty steps behind.
He stopped and waved her over.
“What are you doing?”
“Watching your back.”
“You don’t take directions very well, do you?”
“Apparently not.”
“Tell me again why I put up with you.”
She ran a finger down his nose.
“Because you know that sooner or later you’re going to flop me on my back.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. You said it yourself that I got the looks.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Relax, Wilde. It’s destiny. Just accept it.”
WHEN THEY GOT WITHIN SIGHT of Stuart Black’s office, the man was in the process of swinging the front door shut and heading for the sidewalk.