City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

“You’re here early. Pulled an all-nighter?”

  The Pinkerton chuckled, pale yellow shirt and red suspenders stretched tight against his paunch. “Age, Miri, age. I’m gettin’ to be an eight-hour-day man these days, early to bed and early to rise, all that malarkey. The missus likes it that way. What about you? You’re not usually here til closer to lunch.”

  Miranda sank into the chair across from his desk, facing him, and popped the lemon drops in her cheek.

  “Too virtuous to sleep.”

  The laugh was long and hearty before petering out in a coughing fit. He leaned forward, crushing the Old Gold in the ashtray.

  “Warn me if you pull a Gracie Allen, OK? Take pity on an old man. And catch me up. Haven’t seen you in a week or so … you working on something or did your ship finally come in?”

  Blue eyes wreathed in wrinkles, shrewd smile.

  God, she’d miss Allen.

  “Both. Got a call for the Cameronia in about a month, if she survives the U-boats. Took my last case and hope I can finish it.”

  The detective rubbed his nose. “Last case? You’re a good op, Miranda. You sure about pulling up stakes? I know you want to find your mother, but looking for someone in wartime is as close to impossible as it gets. Hell, you were in Spain, you know what it’s like. Bombs, evacuations, refugees and displaced people everywhere…”

  “Yeah. I know what it’s like.”

  Her tone was sharper, words quicker than intended. She looked up at Allen. “I just don’t see any other choice. If she’s there, I’ve got to get her out. I’ll have a couple of weeks to dig up more information before I go, try to find a lead on where she went. Soon as this case is over.”

  His gravelly voice was serious as he studied her.

  “You’ll be missed.”

  She waved a hand. “Not by the blue boys, not by Martini’s old gang, not by the Musketeers…”

  “Good ops make more enemies than friends. Solitary work for solitary people, and that’s us.” He held her eyes for a long moment, then looked down at some papers on the desk, clearing his throat. “So … what can I do for you?”

  She smiled, reading the signal, and stood up. “Nothing much in the way of what I’m working on, at least not yet. It’s a local affair—concerns Alexander Publishing, sixth floor.”

  He raised his thick eyebrows. “Watch out. Cases close to home can come back and bite you—they don’t have far to go.”

  “I’ll be careful. You aggravate your wife again?”

  She gestured toward his left ankle, brown peeking above the creased, well-worn oxford. Allen scooted his chair back and crossed his legs, ruefully examining his right shoe and thick black sock.

  “She was asleep this morning when I left and forgot to lay ’em out last night—up too late playing bridge. All right, Miss Sherlock, get back to your office. I’m here if you need the Pinkerton files.”

  Hand on the doorknob, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at the stocky man behind the desk, hard muscle softer now, wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, bald head shining under the lamplight.

  “Be seeing you, Allen. And thanks.”

  She shut the door softly behind her and leaned against it, breathing in the stale, musty air of the Monadnock Building’s fourth floor.

  Just down the hall, the gold lettering on her office door glinted in the low light: MIRANDA CORBIE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.

  She closed her eyes for a moment.

  Goddamn it, she’d miss her life.

  Five

  Louise prodded the ginger ice cream with her spoon, doubt creasing her forehead.

  “You sure about this place?”

  Miranda looked around. No teenage boys, Chinese and Filipino, crowding the end of the counter. No girls clustered across the room, five in one booth.

  We meet … and the angels sing …

  Martha Tilton and the jukebox, Filipino Charlie’s gang and Eddie Takahashi, the Rice Bowl Party in February … eight months and a lifetime ago.

  Miranda bit into the burger, swallowing with a swig of ice-cold cherry Coke.

  “No one from Alexander Publishing would step foot into a Chinatown soda fountain. Besides—it’s a taste of San Francisco.”

  “If you put it that way…”

  Louise took a tiny mouthful of the ice cream, laughed, and ate the rest with an appetite. Miranda finished the hamburger and plucked at the French fries, a young man with spectacles and a chocolate-sauce-stained waiter’s jacket rushing over to replenish her cherry Coke.

  “You sure you don’t want something else?”

  The blonde shook her head. “I splurged at the Carlton this morning—up too late settling with the Sky Room after the party.”

  “The hotel on Sutter?” Miranda opened her notebook. “That’s near where you live at the Glenarm, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, just down the street.”

  “And the Glenarm is where the second incident—when the car tried to run you over—occurred?”

  Louise shook out a Viceroy from a silver cigarette case and lit it with a tabletop matchbook. “Not in front. About a half block away.”

  “So on Sutter, half a block from your apartment house doors. You were alone?”

  Louise took a sharp inhale. “Yes.”

  Miranda frowned. “You were out with Jerry Alexander that night. If he didn’t park and go up to your apartment with you, why didn’t he drop you in front?”

  Louise and her small-town provinciality, comfortable in working hard and getting ahead, cash wrapped in plain paper and sent back home to mamma, virtue still intact. Miranda watched it redden her cheeks and neck, the secretary’s voice higher-pitched, syllables sharp.

  “You’ve met him. You know what he’s like.”

  “I know he’s a probable rapist who gets off scot-free because he’s a football star and his father pays for ads in the Cardinal program. What I don’t know is why you were with him and what you were doing and how you came to be dropped off half a block from the Glenarm Apartments.”

  Louise bit her lip, eyes on the Formica counter.

  “Jerry was—he was very persistent. Kind, too, believe me, he can be quite charming when he wants something. I’d only been working for about a week or so when he started coming into the office, every day, sometimes more than once. Niles even remarked on it … frankly, I was worried about my job and finally just gave in.”

  Miranda leaned back against the green leather of the booth.

  “How far?”

  Deeper hue, crimson cheeks. She dropped ashes in the glass tray, second “Fong” at the bottom barely discernible.

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “Only if you want to know who is trying to kill you.”

  “It’s not Jerry! I mean, you can see he’s not—not—insane. Wild, yes, but—”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Did you sleep with him?”

  Her eyes darted across the drugstore. “I’m starting to regret hiring you, Miss Corbie.”

  “You know my terms.”

  Louise looked away, up, down, toward the door, blue eyes starting to well. She twisted out the Viceroy in the ashtray.

  “To answer your question, no, I did not sleep with Jerry, and that is why I was walking to my apartment from Larkin. We’d had an argument and I got out of the car.”

  “Because he wanted to come upstairs with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had you encouraged him?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your busi—”

  “Did he become violent before or after the argument?”

  The secretary’s face contorted. Whatever she’d done with Jerry Alexander and whatever he’d done to her, she didn’t think of herself as innocent.

  Miranda stubbed out her Chesterfield. “Look, Louise. I don’t give a damn what you’ve done and who you’ve done it with. What I want is to keep you safe and figure out what the hell is happening to you and why. That means I’ve got to know who you’re inv
olved with—who you’ve been involved with since you moved here.”

  The girl sat numbly in the booth. Miranda reached impulsively across the table.

  “Louise—somebody tried to kill you. Someone who knows where you work and where you live, who knows you like chocolates with crème centers. We both know what Jerry Alexander is. Tell me what happened.”

  Louise looked up, tears tracing her cheekbones. Miranda opened her purse and handed her a handkerchief. The secretary blew her nose.

  “I can take a blow, Miss Corbie, I know it’s hard on a man to not have a good job, I—I understand, women talk too much anyway, we’re always looking for a man to save us and then we complain about it. I was—I was attracted to Jerry. But I never intended to go to bed with him. He invited me to his apartment—he lives over on Filbert, by Telegraph Hill—and I said no. Then he wanted to come upstairs. And then he hurt my wrist and—and I need my wrists for my work, for typing, so I jumped out at the next stoplight. At Hyde and Sutter.”

  “Then what happened?”

  The blonde smiled ruefully, gathering composure. She wiped her eyes again with the handkerchief edge.

  “Jerry sped by, very angry. He drives a red Lincoln Zephyr convertible. He didn’t say anything. I’d walked for most of the block and was crossing on my corner—Larkin—when I heard a loud motor, like a bus or a truck, coming up behind me, and—well, I was just afraid, reacted instinctively. I ran across and leapt for a grocer’s step, the shop lights were still on, and then I felt—felt a whoosh, this gust of air, and I think—I think I screamed. The gust knocked me down and I remember looking up and seeing a black car, a four-door I think, ride up on the curb and turn right down Larkin. It all happened so fast, and I was already upset.”

  “This was about 1:30 in the morning, right?”

  Louise sipped the ice water still on the table. “Yes. About that.”

  Miranda scribbled some notes. “Do you remember the make of the car?”

  The secretary shook her head. “No. Only that it was large and loud, so it must have had a big motor. It was definitely a four-door.”

  “Had you ever seen it before? When you were pushed the Friday before, for example?”

  “Not that I recall. It was a common sort of car, except for the sound it made. Not too new, not too old.”

  Miranda turned a page of the notebook. “Tell me about Alexander Publishing. How many people are in the Monadnock every day?”

  “Niles and I are the only people in the office every day, all day. Bunny—”

  “Miss Berrigan?”

  “Yes, Bunny’s her nickname, her real name is Berenice. Anyway, she’s in and out throughout the week.”

  “She’s publicity, right?”

  Louise nodded, sipped the water again.

  “And Emily Kingston and Hank Ward—they’re the editors Niles keeps on staff—they’re in irregularly, two or three times a week at the most, usually to pick up a submission or pitch one of their own to Niles.”

  “Any copy editors? Cover artists? Typographers?”

  The secretary smiled faintly. “You’ve been doing your homework, Miss Corbie. Niles mostly uses freelance copy editors and artists, although Emily has been filling in as the main copy editor lately. Our printers supply typographers and layout artists for each project. Copy editors come to the office only to pick up and drop off manuscripts, and artists may meet with Niles once or twice at the most, and again—they’re only in the office to drop something off. Most of them never read the book they’re working on—Niles just tells them what he wants.”

  Miranda’s voice was dry. “Niles seems to do everything but write the books.”

  Louise gave a hesitant laugh. “Sometimes the books are practically his by the time he’s done editing them.”

  “OK. Let’s talk about the earlier incident with the White Front. That was the week before the car attempt, and you were just off work—six o’clock?”

  “Yes. I’d walked down a block to my favorite flower seller—I wanted some carnations for my room. Actually, Roger suggested flowers … I was feeling rather blue that day, I think.”

  “Roger Roscoe? He was there?”

  “Oh, yes. Roger usually comes in on Fridays for an hour or two. He likes to check up on things, update Niles on his progress.”

  “I thought he hated Alexander.”

  The secretary smiled. “Roger is frustrated about his contract. And overly theatrical. Niles can be infuriating, too.”

  Miranda frowned, tapping the Formica with her pencil. “Roscoe was there when you found the poison in the chocolates and that was Monday.”

  “Oh, surely you can’t suspect Roger! He’s a friend, one of the few I’ve made since I started working here. And he was in the office on Monday because he couldn’t come in on Friday last week. Said he had a doctor’s appointment. Besides, he lives close to the office and sometimes comes in more than once a week. I’m sure Sylvia has asked him to report on—well, report on Niles.”

  “And whether or not you’re sleeping with him?”

  Color rose in her face again. “Which I am not, never have, and never will.”

  “Has he asked you to?”

  “Not in so many words. Look, Miss Corbie—Miranda—I needed a job. I knew Mr. Alexander found me—well, found me attractive. But I never encouraged him. I just try to do my work.”

  Miranda gazed at the secretary thoughtfully and played a hunch.

  “Has he ever suggested—in so many words—that you sleep with a client?”

  The secretary’s voice was still tired but more sure, color in her face steady.

  “Not ‘suggest.’ Insinuate is the strongest word I could use. He—he has insinuated that I ‘make friends’ with a book reviewer and one of his authors. I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “Which author? Roscoe?”

  She shook her head. “Howard Carter Smith.”

  Miranda raised her eyebrows. “Why Smith?”

  The secretary closed her eyes for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said wearily. “Smith has no family that I know of, doesn’t seem to know anyone socially. Niles is priming him for the New York Times list, even mentioned the Pulitzer. Seems to think the next book is going to be a big, big seller—make him famous.”

  “What’s it all about?”

  “You’ll have to ask Niles. He handles Smith’s drafts by himself—actually locks them in the safe. I never see them, much less read them.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  The secretary’s eyes drifted toward the large double doors again.

  “I suppose it is. The publishing business is pretty cutthroat, Miss Corbie, and there are a lot of competitors out there—even in San Francisco. But honestly, Smith and I barely know one another, whatever Niles intends. He can’t possibly be involved in this. He drinks too much and doesn’t like people, sure, but not enough to make him target me or anyone else.”

  Miranda’s voice was sharp. “Your impression of Smith or Roger Roscoe’s?”

  “Mine. And Roger’s, certainly. He knows him better than I do.”

  The blonde sipped the water again, determined denial. No one she knew or worked with was trying to kill her. It was just a stranger, could only be a stranger, someone who knew her address, knew which streetcar she took, knew which chocolates she liked …

  “Let’s get back to the White Front. You bought carnations and were waiting for a car—”

  “The #3. I walk two blocks to Sansome and Sutter, that way I don’t have to change.”

  “You take the #3 every day? And everyone knows it?”

  “I saw no reason to keep it secret, even if I could. I don’t own a car and it’s how I get to and from the office every day. We all have our routines.”

  “Was Roscoe with you?”

  “No. Roger left me at—let me think. Oh yes, at Montgomery. I think he was going to get a dinner and a drink at the Palace. That’s his routine, too, except on Friday
evenings, not Mondays.”

  Miranda flipped a page. She asked without looking up: “What do you think of Roscoe as an author?”

  “He’s usually on time, though not as fast as Smith, and right now he’s very late with his novel. He’s a good writer when he tries. Niles really should let him out of his contract, but he won’t, even though he hasn’t invested anything in Roger’s career. And Niles is like that—as long as someone else wants him, he won’t let him go. So I think Roger tries to make the best of things for Sylvia’s sake.”

  “And their relationship is acceptable to Alexander?”

  The blonde gave a short laugh. “‘Acceptable’? It’s utterly convenient for him. Niles doesn’t want to think about Sylvia.”

  Miranda nodded, staring at her notebook with a frown.

  “All right. So you were holding pink carnations and waiting for the #3 and right before it pulled up someone shoved you from behind.”

  “That’s right. I started to fall, almost under the car, when an old Chinese woman and a man in a pin-striped suit pulled me back.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”

  “I wasn’t sure, not at the time. I assumed it must have been an accident. I was embarrassed, to tell the truth. I thought I’d stumbled, had a dizzy spell—it was—well, it was that time of the month—and I sometimes do get dizzy.”

  “But you still wrote what happened that evening?”

  “I couldn’t be sure. I could feel a push, a shove between my shoulder blades, and it felt—well, it felt too directed. And that’s why I thought maybe one of the crackpots had done it.”

  “One of the rejected writers?”

  “Yes.” Louise checked her watch, nervously clearing her throat. “I’m running out of time.”

  “Just a few more minutes.”

  Miranda set the pencil down and looked up. “Roscoe figured out why I was at the party last night. He also thinks Alexander makes a much better murder target than you do.”

  Louise’s eyes were wide and puzzled. “How awful! Why would he say such a thing?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. Has Alexander suffered any threats that you know of? Any enemies?”

  “Too many. Former authors, current authors, rejected authors, agents, editors, other publishers … Niles is not a well-loved figure in the literary world, but honestly, who is? It’s a tough business. I mean, shouldn’t you be looking for someone, well … sick? And the idea anybody would try to kill or hurt me in order to get at Niles—that makes even less sense than one of the mysteries we sent back this morning.”