A Way With Murder (Bryson Wilde Thriller)
Page 13
He drove into the financial district, found a parking spot on 17th Street near the Brown Palace, and killed the engine. Three minutes later he walked into the offices of Jackson & Reacher, Denver’s second-largest law firm.
A bun-haired receptionist with a wrinkled face looked up.
“I’m here to see Gina Sophia,” Wilde said.
“Is she expecting you?”
“I doubt it.”
Two minutes later he was in the office of the law firm’s only female attorney, about twenty-eight. Her face had minimal makeup and her attire was gray and conservative. That didn’t stop Wilde from seeing the beauty underneath. She looked at him without saying anything, then closed the door and sat on the desk, dangling nylon legs.
“I’ve seen you around,” she said. “You play drums down at the Bokaray.”
Wilde nodded.
“Guilty.”
“You tried to pick me up once,” she said.
Wilde didn’t remember.
“Did it work?”
“No.”
“My loss.”
“Maybe you’ll have better luck next time,” she said.
“One can only hope.” A beat then, “How come it didn’t work the last time? Did I use a corny line or something?”
“Actually you did,” she said. “If I remember right it was something like, How do you like me so far?”
Wilde smiled.
That was one of his staples.
“That is pretty bad by the light of day.”
She nodded.
“Blame it on the alcohol,” he said. “So, what line would have worked better?”
She pondered it.
“I don’t know. I don’t pick up girls.”
Wilde shifted his feet and explained that he was a private investigator working on the murder of Charley-Anna Blackridge, who got dropped to her death from the roof of a building after leaving the El Ray Club last weekend.
“I talked to the bartender, Michelle Day,” he said. “She said you were in there last night and told her about leaving Friday night with a guy who looked like Robert Mitchum. Is that true?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because he’s my main suspect,” Wilde said. “If he was with you, then everything I’m thinking is wrong.”
“Then everything you’re thinking is wrong.”
“Are you saying it’s true?”
“I’m saying it isn’t for public disclosure,” she said. “You see where I work and what I do.”
“It’s not going beyond me, I assure you,” Wilde said.
She looked for lies.
“He picked me up, we left and spent the night at his hotel,” she said.
“The whole night?”
“Every single minute.”
“You’re sure?”
She smiled.
“Trust me, it’s not the kind of thing I’d forget.”
Wilde paced.
“He has a tattoo,” he said.
She nodded.
“That’s true.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“It’s on his arm,” she said. “It’s a pinup girl standing in front of a war plane.”
Wilde nodded.
That was him all right.
“What’s he in town for, did he tell you?”
She shrugged.
“We didn’t pick each other up to talk.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Any other questions?”
Wilde thought about it.
Yes.
There was another question.
One more question.
“What did he use for an opening line?”
She smiled.
“He said, How do you like me so far?”
“So, it worked for him?”
“Right.”
“But it didn’t work for me?”
“Not the first time.”
“How about the second time?”
“We’d have to wait and see.”
Wilde was almost at the lobby when he came back and knocked lightly on the door of the woman’s office. She looked up from a pile of papers.
He said, “How do you like me so far?”
She smiled.
“Get out of here before I call your bluff.”
59
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Night
Tuesday night after dark a mean thunderstorm rolled off the Pacific and pounded San Francisco with heavy fists. Waverly and Su-Moon kept their faces down and held tight onto the railing as they climbed the fire escape at the back of Bristol’s building. The city was dark, almost black. They were nothing more than deep shadows in an equally deep world.
At each floor, they tried the exit door.
At each floor, the knob wouldn’t turn.
They climbed to the top, which stopped at the highest occupied floor.
That door was locked too.
Waverly’s heart raced.
She didn’t know whether she’d be able to do the next step.
The wind was fierce.
Her clothes were soaked to the skin and her skin was soaked to the bone. Next to her Su-Moon was fighting to get the rope and grappling hook out of a black bag. The plan, when they talked about it earlier, seemed simple and straightforward—hook the roof parapet then climb up.
Now it didn’t seem so simple.
Now it seemed insane.
Su-Moon coiled the rope loosely and said, “Watch your head in case this comes back down.”
“We should just forget it.”
“It’s too late.”
“We’ll come back tomorrow when the weather’s better.”
“We’re here now.”
The grappling hook wasn’t heavy, five pounds or thereabouts. The rope was half-inch braid, knotted every two feet for grip.
“Here goes.”
She twirled the grappling hook twice then sent it flying at the parapet. It hit the side, two feet short, and tumbled back invisibly, ricocheting off Waverly’s arm.
“Go down a ways until I get this done,” Su-Moon said. “There’s no use both of us being exposed.”
“No.”
“Just do it,” Su-Moon said.
“Let me throw it. You go down.”
“Fine.”
On the third try, Waverly got it hooked on something. She tugged and found it secure.
“Got it.”
True, she had it, but there was a problem. It was off to the side instead of directly above them. She let the rope slacken and found that it fell to the right of the landing. If they lost their grip climbing, the fall wouldn’t be ten or fifteen feet to the landing, it would be all the way to the ground.
“No harm,” Su-Moon said. “I’ll go up first then move it over.”
“Let’s just forget it. I got a bad feeling.”
“We’re fine. Just relax.”
Su-Moon tugged on the rope and then put her full weight on it.
“It seems secure.”
She climbed up on the railing, grabbed the rope just above the highest knot she could reach and said, “It’s slippery.”
“Don’t do it.”
“Just be careful when it’s your turn.”
With that, she shifted her weight off the railing and onto the rope, dangling in the darkness two or three feet to the right of the landing.
Then she climbed.
The wind whipped rain into her face with all the subtlety of a hundred needles.
60
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Afternoon
Five minutes. River didn’t want to be in the house of Charley-Anna Blackridge any longer than that. If he couldn’t hit dirt in five minutes, he’d abort.
Five minutes came and passed.
River didn’t abort.
There was something here.
He could smell it.
He was careful to put everything back
as he found it, except for a photo of the woman from one of a hundred he found in a shoebox in the closet, which went into his wallet. Several minutes further into the search he found something of interest, namely two spent airline tickets, four months old, roundtrip from Denver to San Francisco, one in the name of Crockett Bluetone and the other in the name of Charley-Anna Blackridge.
Crockett Bluetone.
River had heard that name before.
Where?
For some reason it pulled up an aura of power and money.
Who are you, Crockett Bluetone?
River stuffed the tickets in his wallet and kept searching. Five minutes later he hadn’t found anything else of interest and left.
No one saw him, at least that he was aware of.
He pulled next to the first phone booth he came to, left the engine running and checked the book. Crockett Bluetone, it turned out, had two numbers. One was for a residence in Capitol Hill, the coordinates of choice for Denver’s rich and relevant, an area replete with lush lawns, tree-lined boulevards, wrought-iron fences and stone lions guarding cobblestone drives.
The other number was a work number.
It was for the law firm of Colder & Jones, one of Denver’s largest law firms if not the largest, with offices in the swank Daniels & Fisher Tower on 16th Street.
So, you’re a lawyer.
What were you doing, taking a trip to San Francisco with Charley-Anna Blackridge four months ago?
Was she a client?
A witness?
A lover?
River drove over to 16th Street, found a place to park two blocks over on 14th and doubled back on foot. The Daniels & Fisher Tower was the highest structure in downtown Denver, in fact all of Colorado.
He approached it with a quick step.
Five minutes later he was in Crockett Bluetone’s office behind closed doors.
The man—in his late thirties—had a square jaw and predator eyes. His sleeves were rolled up enough to show strong forearms and hands. At six-two, he was bigger than River expected, better looking too.
River bypassed the leather chair in front of the lawyer’s desk, instead walking to the window, looking down for a beat, then back at the lawyer.
“I’m not really here about a legal matter,” he said.
“No?”
“No. Does the name Charley-Anna Blackridge mean anything to you?”
A beat.
“No.
“No?”
“No.”
River raked his hair back.
“Let me help your memory,” he said. “I’m talking about the Charley-Anna Blackridge you went to San Francisco with four months ago.”
The lawyer didn’t move.
Then he leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and said, “What’s your connection to her?”
“Nothing, just a friend,” River said. “She got murdered last weekend.”
The lawyer nodded.
“I know.”
River walked over and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Are you the one who did it?”
“Wow, that’s quite a question.”
“Yes it is.”
61
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Afternoon
Alabama showed up late afternoon, tapped a Camel out of Wilde’s pack, lit it and handed it to him. Then she sat on the edge of the desk and dangled her legs. “I talked to Mitchum point blank and asked him where he went after he left the El Ray Club,” she said. “He said he left with a woman and they spent the night at his hotel.”
Wilde blew smoke.
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t tell me her name,” Alabama said. “He said she was a lawyer and she made him promise to be discrete.”
“So, no name?”
“No but he was telling the truth,” Alabama said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I could tell, that’s how.”
“Well, that’s an interesting story.”
“Why?”
He told her about getting a call from the bartender, Michelle Day, who gave him the name of Gina Sophia, a lawyer at Jackson & Reacher. “I went over to her office to get the story straight from the horse’s mouth. She left the club with him and was with him all night. She even knew about his pinup-plane tattoo, so there was no question we were talking about the same man.”
Alabama jumped off the desk, turned around and shook her hips.
“You hate it when I’m right,” she said.
Wilde nodded.
“Luckily it doesn’t happen that often.”
“Actually it happens more than you know.”
“I’m not sure it happened this time, to be honest with you,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, Mitchum was at the El Ray Club the night Charley-Anna got murdered,” he said. “He also frequented Dollface in New York, where Brittany Pratt was the night she got murdered.”
Alabama wasn’t impressed.
“No one says he was there that night,” she said. “Two people went to the same club on occasion, big whoop de do. As far as Denver goes, Mitchum was with the lawyer all night. That means case closed, end of discussion, done deal.”
“Maybe not,” Wilde said.
Alabama shook her head in confusion.
“What are you talking about?”
“What I’m talking about is that maybe the lawyer was lying. Maybe she’s in cahoots with Mitchum and she’s giving him a false alibi.”
Alabama wrinkled her face.
“You don’t quit, do you?”
Wilde got up, walked to the window and looked down. A hillbilly song came from the radio of a car sitting outside.
Wilde flicked the butt out the window, tapped another stick out of the pack, set a book of matches on fire and lit up from the six-inch flame.
He turned to Alabama.
“Find out if Mitchum and the lawyer, Gina Sophia, knew each other before the night in question. If they did, she’s giving him a false alibi. If she’s giving him a false alibi, it’s because he needs one.” A beat then, “Don’t let him know you’re looking into it. Don’t let him know that you know the lawyer’s name. Any questions?”
“One. Are you crazy?”
Wilde nodded.
“I am but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” he said. “The more I think about it, if she went to the club so she’d be in a position to give him an alibi, that means they had to set it up beforehand. That means she’s not just giving him an alibi after the fact, she was in on the alibi from the start, meaning she’s more in the nature of co-conspirator.”
“Why would she?”
“I don’t know,” Wilde said. “In fact, the more I think about it—”
“You already thought about it more.”
He smiled.
“Right, now I’m thinking about it more a second time, and what I’m thinking is that maybe she’s not giving him an alibi at all. Maybe he’s the one who’s giving the alibi. Maybe he’s giving it to her.”
“Are you saying she’s the killer?”
He shrugged.
“Maybe I am.”
Alabama shook her head in wonder.
“Do me a favor, will you?”
He nodded.
Sure.
“Shoot me if I ever get as twisted as you.”
62
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Night
Su-Moon made it to the roof without dropping to her death. She disappeared over the parapet, checked the access hatch to be sure it wasn’t locked, and shouted down to Waverly, “Come on!”
“Move the rope over.”
“Can’t. There’s nowhere to hook it.”
Waverly swallowed.
Su-Moon barely made it and she was stronger.
A gust of rain lashed at her face and pushed her body sideways. She waited for it to subside, then got
up on the railing, shifted her weight onto the rope and climbed up hand over hand with every ounce of strength she had. At the top, Su-Moon grabbed her arm with both hands and pulled her over the parapet.
She landed on her back.
The weather pelted her face.
She didn’t care.
She was up.
She was alive.
“Come on,” Su-Moon said. “No time for naps.”
The access door led to a steel interior stairway. On squishy feet they took it down to Bristol’s floor, hearing no one, seeing no one, encountering no cleaning crews or guards. A trail of dripping water followed them.
So far, so good.
The door to Bristol office suite was locked. Su-Moon busted the glass with her foot, reached through and unlocked the bolt.
They were in.
She shut the door and relocked it.
“Which way to Bristol’s office?”
“Follow me.”
They ended up in a corner office that faced the street. The windows had blinds but they wouldn’t completely seal the lights.
“We should have brought flashlights.”
“Too late now.”
They moved a banker’s lamp from the top of the desk to under it then turned it on. That gave them enough to see by without overdoing it.
Then they searched.
They weren’t careful.
They weren’t neat.
Ten minutes into it they still hadn’t found anything of relevance. Then Waverly had an idea to pull the drawers out of Bristol’s desk and see if anything was taped on the backside or underneath.
There wasn’t.
Five minutes later they found a hidden compartment under a piece of removable wood in the top drawer. Inside was a black address book together with an envelope.
Su-Moon slapped Waverly on the back.
“Bingo.”
Suddenly a noise came from the hallway outside Bristol’s office.
“Shit!”
Su-Moon flicked off the banker’s lamp.
The room fell into darkness.
The women froze.
They didn’t make a sound.
63
Day Two
July 22, 1952