“None.”
“Are you sure?”
“If they owned part of this hotel,” she said, “why would they be trying to buy it? Why not just come forward and show me the papers?”
“Good point.”
“I have all my business papers here, in this desk,” she said. “There is not a slip of paper with the Garvin name on it.”
“That’s good, then,” he said.
“What’s your next move?” she asked. “Going to see the Garvins?”
“I did that already,” he said. “They weren’t there.”
“So what did you do?”
Clint shrugged and said, “I left them a message.”
Clint and Lily went to the dining room. For some reason, they were both hungry—ravenous, in fact.
“What’s your next move?” she asked, when they both had steak platters in front of them.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Clint said. “That building where the crate almost fell on you?”
“Yes.”
“I want to find out who owns it.”
“And how will you do that?”
“I’ll have to get inside.”
“But didn’t you try that, already?”
“I did,” he said, “but I didn’t really try as hard as I could.”
“And this time you will?”
“Oh, yes.”
Over the meal he also told Lily that he was working with the police. He explained how Burns and Logan were working on the other murders.
“Looking to connect them?” she asked.
“I think it’s all connected,” he said. “It has to be.”
“My husband’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“You mean . . . I’m actually going to find out who killed him?”
“If I have anything to say about it.”
“I thought that was a lost cause.”
“No lost causes, Lily,” Clint said. “Not while we’re alive to pursue them.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No,” he said, “you’re staying here. I may have to move very quickly to get inside that building.”
“Are you saying I can’t move quickly?”
“I’m saying I can’t afford to have to worry about you,” Clint said. “I’m going to have enough problems worrying about myself.”
“I want to be there when you find him,” she said. “I want to see who killed my husband.”
“You will be,” he said.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Clint returned to the place where Lily had almost been killed. But instead of going up to the building, he went across the street to the hardware store.
“Back again?” the clerk asked.
“I’ve got to get into that building across the street,” Clint said. “And the doors are locked.”
“Knock.”
“Doesn’t work.”
“Break a window.”
“Too noisy,” Clint said. “I want to try to get in without being heard.”
“What do you want from me?”
“A way in,” Clint said. “A tool.”
“Tool?”
“Something that will get me inside.”
The man thought a moment, then walked away and returned carrying something.
“A crowbar,” he said.
Clint took it.
“Thank you.”
“Hey,” the man said, as Clint turned to leave. Clint looked at him and the man put his hand out. “Pay me.”
Clint crossed over to the building and walked along until he found an alley. It wouldn’t do to put a crowbar to one of the front doors in broad daylight. He needed to find a side entry or a back entry. Door, window, it didn’t matter.
He moved along the alley, found some windows that were too small or too high for him. He kept going until he got to the back of the building. There was room back there for deliveries, which meant buckboards and horse-drawn carts could pull right up to the building and unload. There were several doors to choose from, and windows.
He tried the doors first, just in case they were unlocked. Same with the windows. When he found them all locked, he went about choosing one that would be the easiest to pry open with the least noise.
He picked out a window that swung open from the top. All he had to do was slide the crowbar beneath the rim of the window and pry it open. He did so quietly, set the crowbar down on the ground, and climbed inside. He closed the window behind him.
He turned and looked at the room he was in. It was obviously storage, with crates and barrels all around him. They were unlabeled, so he had no idea what was in them, but it didn’t matter. That wasn’t what he was there for.
It was dim inside as he moved farther into the room, but his eyes adjusted quickly. The room was cavernous, with a high ceiling, but it wasn’t large enough to take up the entire floor, so there were obviously others. And he could hear sounds above his head, which meant there were people on the second floor—the floor from which the crate had almost fallen on Lily.
Clint decided the downstairs was completely for storage, so he started looking for a stairway to the second floor. He found one at the end of the room to his far left. From here he could still hear sounds from upstairs, but now it included voices.
Cautiously, he started up the steps, hoping they would not creak beneath his weight. They didn’t, and he made it to the top without incident. He was on the second floor, now, still storage. In fact, he felt he was looking at the window the crate had probably fallen—or been pushed—from. He could still hear voices, though, so he moved along toward them, trying to locate the offices.
Finally, he could see a door ahead of him with a light glowing beneath it. As he got closer the voices got louder.
He stopped right in front of the door.
“. . . Had done your job right, we shouldn’t be in this mess,” a woman said. Christine Garvin, no doubt.
“Now, take it easy, Chris . . .” a man said. He didn’t recognize the voice, but from the tone he assumed it was her husband, Harold Garvin.
“Why should I take it easy? This nitwit has put us in hot water from the start. How stupid was it to try to kill Lily Kingsforth with a goddamn crate.”
“It seemed like a good idea, at the time,” a deep male voice said.
“Well, it wasn’t!” Chris Garvin said.
Clint listened until he was sure there were only three people in the room. Then he drew his gun, kicked in the door, and stepped into the room.
The Garvins were at one end of the room, near a desk. The other man—presumably the one with the deep voice—was closer to Clint. As the door flew open, the man turned and grabbed a gun from his belt.
“No!” Chris Garvin yelled, but it was too late.
Clint had no choice. He pulled the trigger once and put the man down.
THIRTY-NINE
“Don’t shoot us!” Harold Garvin shouted, putting his hands out.
“Oh, Harold, relax,” Christine said. “He only shot Zack because he had a gun. We don’t have any weapons at all.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Clint said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” He holstered his gun as they obeyed, first replacing the round he had expended.
“This is the man who tried to kill Lily Kingsforth with a crate?” he asked.
“Ah, you were listening at the door,” Christine said. “Yes, it was his brilliant idea.”
Chris seemed calm while Harold, her mate, was sweating and looked as if he was going to faint. He was very pale, and Clint didn’t know if that was his normal pallor or not. He had narrow shoulders, a prominent Adam’s apple, and listless, sparse brown hair. To Clint they made a very odd couple. He wondered why Harold conducted all the business when it seemed Chris had all the backbone.
“What’s this all about?” Chris asked. “Lily, or more than that?”
“Oh, more,” Clint said. “Much more. Try Peter
Forrest’s murder.”
“What do we have to do with that?” she demanded.
“You were his partners,” Clint said, “at least, in the Lucky Lady. So now you own it.”
“So? That doesn’t make us murderers.”
“What I’m interested in is who else you’re partners with.”
“Why?” Chris asked. “What business is it of yours?”
“I’m working with the police to solve three—no, four—other murders counting Walter Trench’s and Paul Kingsforth’s.”
“Four?” Harold asked. He looked at his wife. “What the hell is he talking about?”
“How should I know?” she snapped back.
Clint wondered why Harold would think his wife would know.
“Kingsforth, that’s crazy,” she said, looking at Clint. “That was years ago, and he was robbed on the street.”
“I’m not so sure it was robbery,” Clint said.
“And who the hell is Walter Trench?” she demanded.
“A Pinkerton agent,” he said.
“What would we know about a Pinkerton agent?” she asked.
“Well, if your business is not so legal, I guess you’d be interested in him,” Clint said, “or in getting rid of him.”
“Look,” she said, “we’ve got nothing to say and unless you have a badge, you can’t stop us from leaving.”
“You own this building?”
“So what?” she asked.
“Just answer the question.”
“We own it.”
“Then you can go,” he said. “I’m sure I can find the records I’m looking for in these files.”
There were several file cabinets in the room. This was obviously where the Garvins kept their business records.
Harold looked around, nervously.
“You can’t go through our files,” he said.
“Why not?”
“You—you’re not the law.”
“So stop me,” Clint said, putting his hand on his gun. The move caused Harold to flinch.
“You—you’re a killer,” he said. “You killed Zack for no reason.”
“I killed him because he went for his gun,” Clint said. “I can kill you and stick a gun in your belt and claim you threw down on me, too. What do you think of that, Harold?”
Harold’s eyes popped.
“Y-you wouldn’t.”
“Of course he wouldn’t,” Chris told her husband. “He’s bluffing just to scare you, and it’s working.”
“W-we have to get out of here,” Harold said.
“So go,” she said, folding her arms. “I’m staying right here. Mr. Adams is gonna have to go through me to see these files.”
“Sure, go ahead, Harold,” Clint said. “Leave. I get the feeling you’re not the businessman everybody thinks you are. I think you’re the front for your wife’s brilliant business mind.”
“C-Chris—” Harold stammered.
“He’s right, Harold,” she said. “Get out.” She settled her pert butt on top of the desk and regarded Clint from beneath heavy lids. “Mr. Adams and I have some business to discuss.”
“B-business—”
“Yes, business, Harold,” she said. “Damn it, pull yourself together and get out. Wait for me at home.”
“Home being the hotel on the Coast?” Clint asked. “Yeah, you might have some cleaning up to do there, Harold.”
“What are you—”
“Go home, Harold,” Chris said. “Now!”
Looking like he was going to cry, Harold slid past Clint and went out the door.
“Okay,” Clint said, “now what?”
“I don’t know about you,” Chris said, “but I suddenly feel like having sex right here on this desk.”
“Christine—”
“Maybe it’s seeing you shoot somebody?” she asked, undoing the top buttons of the simple dress she was wearing. Clint had the feeling that was what she had been wearing when the desk clerk told them he was at their hotel, and she hadn’t had time to change when she and her husband ran out the back. And then they had come straight here.
To do what?
“What do you think?”
Clint had allowed his attention to wander for just a minute. A sign of age, he thought. Luckily, rather than grabbing a gun from her desk, Christine Garvin had simply dropped all of her clothes to the floor.
FORTY
“You’re crazy,” Clint said to her. “Get dressed.”
She laughed.
“Make me.”
He approached her, leaning over to pick up her clothes. She kicked them away before he could pick them up, then wrapped her naked body around him. Her breasts were large and firm, her skin hot, the scent of her heady. He knew if he put his hand between her legs, he’d find her wet and ready. He also knew if he did that, he’d be lost.
“Chris, stop—” He tried to disentangle himself from her but she held on tight. She slid her hand between them, cupped his crotch, and laughed again.
“Oh, my,” she said, “you’re as ready as I am. Why fight it?”
“Chris—” She silenced him with a kiss. She pushed her tongue into his mouth as she rubbed his crotch. He put his hand on one of her thighs to try to pull her leg off of him, but his hand slid along her smooth flesh, and suddenly he was cupping her crotch.
He was right about two things.
She was sticky wet and ready.
And he was lost.
Together they pulled off his clothes, and then he lifted her onto the desk. This was a first for him, having sex with a woman with a dead man in the room. A lot of firsts for him this trip to San Francisco.
He spread her legs and bulled himself into her, and she urged him on as he fucked her. Apparently, having a dead body in the room had them both excited, both thrusting against each other in an attempt to achieve their own pleasure. At one point they were just two bodies writhing together, making the temperature in the room rise. He felt her explode beneath him when he was just moments from his own climax. He groaned and exploded into her, and although they didn’t begin the ascent at the same time, they did come down from it together.
He had removed his holster and put in on the desk. Now he reached out and slammed his hand down on top of hers just before she could draw the gun from the holster.
“You’re a cold bitch,” he said, climbing off her and picking up the holster.
She drew her legs up and stared at him, smiling.
“Don’t kid yourself,” she said. “I did want to fuck you, but yeah, then I was gonna kill you.”
“And that didn’t work,” he said, gathering up his clothes. He moved across the room from her to dress. As he was pulling his trousers on she turned over onto her belly, showing him her ass. It was a great ass, but it wasn’t worth dying over. He heard the top drawer of the desk open and as she turned over with the gun, bringing it to bear on him, he drew his gun and shot her. Her body jumped as the bullet struck her, and she made a sound like “oh.” A look of surprise came over her face, and then she dropped the gun she was holding and slumped onto her side on top of the desk.
Clint finished putting his boots on and then strapped on the holster before walking across the room to check her. She was as dead as she could be.
He backed away from her and replaced the spent shell in his gun with a live one. He stood staring at the two bodies, one on the floor, the other on the desk, wondering how he was going to explain this to Burns and Logan. After all, she was naked.
He could have just walked and not called the police, but the clerk in the hardware store could identify him. He’d tell the police the story about the man who came in to get a crowbar.
No, he was going to have to call the police, but first he decided to have a look around.
He searched through the files and found many sets of partnership papers. Apparently, the Garvins were partners with many people—senior partners, from the way the paperwork read.
The dead man on the floor, who
they had called “Zack,” was their partner in this building. His name was Zackary Bolden.
That name struck Clint as being familiar. He didn’t find it on any other papers, but he did find some papers with a company name on them. That is, it wasn’t a man’s name listed as partners with the Garvins, but a company called House of Cards Holding Company.
Zackary Bolden . . . okay, yeah, now he remembered where he had seen the name. And he remembered that he’d been told that Bolden was already dead—which, obviously, had been a lie.
He was going to have to have a talk with the man behind the House of Cards Holding Company, and he knew just where to find him.
But first, the police.
FORTY-ONE
The office was busy with policemen, both in uniform and out of uniform. As the bodies were carried from the room, Burns and Logan stood aside with Clint. Lieutenant Hargrove came walking over to them.
“Naked? On the desk?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Clint said.
Hargrove shook his head.
“Are you going to tell me she had sex with the guy on the floor, who’s not her husband?”
“Okay,” Clint said, thinking that sounded good so far.
“And you walked in on them.”
“Yeah.”
“The man pulled a gun, you shot him.”
“Right.”
“The naked woman pulled a gun.”
“Yes.”
“From where?” he asked. “She was naked.”
“Top desk drawer.”
Burns opened the drawer, looked inside.
“Got some gun oil stains in here, Lieutenant,” he said.
“So she pulls a gun from the drawer and you’ve got no choice but to shoot her.”
“Right.”
“Don’t you do some of that trick shooting?” Logan asked. “Couldn’t you have, like, hit her in the shoulder?”
“I don’t do trick shooting when my life’s on the line,” Clint said. “This isn’t like shooting at targets, Inspector.”
“Hey, I was just askin’,” Logan said. “You say that’s what happened, I believe you.”
The other policemen followed the body out, carrying boxes of files, and then Hargrove closed the door so that it was only the four of them inside.
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