“Jesus, that Sanders was a lucky bastard—”
“Oughta be more good-time girls turnin’ private dick—beats Pinkerton all to hell…”
“Miss Corbie, what do you know about this case? Were you employed by Mr. Alexander?”
“Hell, I’d like to employ her sometime…”
“Lay off her, Simon, can’t you see the lady needs some air?”
From behind the second row of reporters another man, young, with curly hair and a peculiarly lopsided smile pushed his way to the front.
Herb Caen.
He studied Miranda, grinning. “I haven’t seen anything that enticing since—well, since my honeymoon. Step aside, boys—my middle name is exclusive.”
“Now wait just a goddamn minute, glamour boy—”
The columnist held up a hand. “Be good and I promise to feed you all later. Miss Corbie is here to meet me.”
“Since when? Does Bea know about this?”
“Sanders joins the army and this jerk gets the girl? What gives?”
“You’d better make with the story, Caen, or you’ll be makin’ an appointment with your dentist…”
“Don’t be such poor sports—or ugly wolves.”
The columnist extended an arm to Miranda, impish grin adding curl to his hair.
“Happy to be your knight-errant, Miss Corbie. Inspector Fisher is waiting.”
* * *
The reporters, disgruntled, parted like the Red Sea. Caen walked on his toes, comedic version of Prince Charming, while Meyer protected Miranda from the rear, brandishing his cane and fending off the battery of hurled questions with a flat, well-manicured hand.
She glanced sideways at the columnist. “Thanks. You could’ve said something earlier.”
His eyebrows met his hairline. “And miss that little number you put on? I promised Sanders I’d look out for you, Miranda, but every man has his limits. And sister, do you know how to make an entrance and cause a traffic jam, all at the same time…”
Two uniforms were guarding the outer doors of Alexander Publishing, and Caen unhooked his arm.
“You’ll find Inspector Fisher inside. He’s waiting for you—and your friend, I suppose.” The reporter eyed Meyer with curiosity. “And don’t make a liar out of me, now—I expect that exclusive when you’re done.”
He grinned at her, tipping his fedora before backing down the hallway. Miranda looked up at the bulls.
“Miranda Corbie. We’re here to see—”
“Yeah, sister. In you go.” The older one opened the door for them, holding up a fist and yawning. The office was empty except for Louise sitting on the edge of a chair in the waiting area, biting her nails.
“Oh—Miss Corbie—thank God—”
The secretary flew toward Miranda, face too taut and eyes too wide.
“The reporters came right after the police did, and Inspector Fisher is still in…”
She looked toward her former boss’s office, weaving slightly. Miranda held out a hand to steady her.
“It’s all right, Louise. This is Meyer Bialik, my attorney. He’s here to help.”
The secretary held up a hand to her throat. “You think—oh, Miss Corbie—”
Meyer bowed, plucking up Louise’s other hand and holding it to his lips.
“Please—do not alarm yourself, Miss Crowley. I am here only as a shepherd among wolves.” He gave the blonde a benevolent smile.
Her eyes darted back and forth and she nodded, sinking back into a Windsor chair.
Two uniforms emerged from the door leading to the other offices, Bunny Berrigan close behind. The cops slipped inside Alexander’s office while Bunny lit a cigarette and stared at Miranda and Meyer.
The redhead was red-eyed but in control. “Who’re you?”
“Miranda Corbie, Miss Berrigan. We met the other night at the Sky Room.”
“Why are you here?”
Meyer interjected. “Miss Corbie represents Miss Crowley.”
“What about you?”
Meyer’s voice was smooth. “I represent Miss Corbie.”
Niles Alexander’s head of marketing frowned, her normally fast-talking, friendly chatter replaced with steel. “What is she, a mouthpiece?”
Miranda said dryly: “I’m a private detective.”
Bunny jerked a thumb toward Meyer. “And him?”
“The mouthpiece.”
The statuesque redhead smoothed her wrinkled wool skirt down thick thighs. “I knew there’d be one hanging around. Better that than those goddamn reporters. What’s the lay?”
“Miss Crowley hired me on a confidential matter, but one that might have a bearing on Alexander’s death.”
Bunny held Miranda’s eyes for a few seconds, drawing down hard on the cigarette before she exhaled.
“I hope you’re tougher than you look. The cops’re calling it murder.”
Louise buried her face in her hands, breath ragged, dry sobs.
“I—I found him, Miss Berrigan—I didn’t know what to do—I called Miss Corbie—”
“Yeah, I know, kid, you told me already. Listen, Miss Corbie, I’ve got a business to run. Those boys in the white coats carted out Niles about ten minutes ago down the back staircase, but Alexander Publishing is in the middle of setting up print runs and fulfilling orders and publishing books—that’s why I got here early this morning, figuring I’d beat Niles to the office.”
She shook her head, blowing out a billow of smoke.
“I beat him, all right. The poor sap never saw it coming.”
“When did you get here, Miss Berrigan?”
“About five minutes after the coppers did. Sylvia Alexander is in there with her son, and she’s asked me to see that things are taken care of. You’re a private cop, I know, but I’d appreciate it if you can help speed things up a little—maybe talk to that Fisher guy and move it along.”
“Inspector Fisher is in the office?”
Bunny dropped some ashes in the overflowing tray. “Takes his damn time. I could publish the Encyclopedia Britannica by the time these bureaucrats make a move.”
“I’ll do what I can, Miss Berrigan.”
Miranda turned to Meyer, low voice.
“Would you stay here with Louise? Try to get her to calm down and tell you exactly what happened. And keep it on the QT.”
Meyer nodded. Bunny threw herself in a chair next to Louise with a sigh.
“May as well get off my feet. Try to hurry them, OK? I need to get into Niles’ safe.”
Miranda opened Alexander’s heavy office door, the two uniforms inside starting toward her.
“It’s all right, boys. Hello, Miranda.”
Inspector David Fisher was grayer than the last time she’d seen him, but still compact and muscular, the small mustache he’d sported a few months ago shaved and replaced with stubble. His mouth betrayed no emotion but his eyes looked glad to see her.
Miranda nodded. “Inspector. Sorry to see you under difficult circumstances.”
“Only kind we know. Herb Caen said he’d get you through the front lines outside.”
Alexander’s office was large by Monadnock standards, with multiple windows facing Third and Stevenson, mahogany desk designed to intimidate. Leather chairs sat in front, cowering in thick red-orange carpet and surrounded by walnut bookshelves, straight rows of Alexander publications broken only by a small alcove with a safe discreetly installed into the wall.
Tucked below it was Sylvia Alexander, shrinking into an overstuffed chair, eyes red and dilated. Jerry sat next to his mother, holding her hands between his. Neither one paid any attention to Miranda.
Fisher motioned toward the mother and son with his head, voice barely audible.
“Miss Crowley said she phoned Sylvia Alexander immediately after she telephoned us. Jerry arrived with his mother about thirty minutes ago, before we could officially notify either one of them. He apparently spent the night at his parents’ mansion on Nob Hill.”
“He�
�s got his own place—why the old family homestead?”
“We don’t know yet, but we’ll find out. Seems he has a suite of rooms on a lower floor with a separate entrance, in case he needs it. At least that’s what his mother said before she cracked up completely—we made the mistake of letting her see the body get taken out.”
Miranda shook her head. “Jerry’s not the family reunion type.”
“That’s an understatement. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“What about Bunny Berrigan? What’s she doing here so early?”
Fisher suppressed a snort. “The redheaded tornado? She flew in on a broom about five or ten minutes after we got here, said she was planning to get to the office at the crack of dawn because she’s got a deadline to manage. She just got out of a preliminary with Grant and Cantrell over there.” He gestured toward the two uniforms who’d approached Miranda.
“So what about you? Miss Crowley’s your client—that much she told us—but what’s your timing on this?”
“Louise called me a little before seven. I forgot to check the clock for the exact time—I was up late last night and groggy. Told her to phone you immediately and I dressed and got here as fast as I could, collecting my attorney along the way.”
Fisher gave her a wry smile. “So soon? Thanks, by the way—Miss Crowley said you insisted she ask for me directly. Question is, how much did she tell you?”
“Very little—she was hysterical and from what I got out of her I figured it was a homicide. Louise hired me on a personal matter but the cases may be related.”
The inspector raised thick eyebrows. “How? Your client’s alive.”
“Not for want of someone trying. So what happened to Alexander?”
“We’re waiting on a toxicology report from the lab—the deceased had alcohol dribbled down his shirt front—and he was fully dressed, apparently from a night on the town—we’re checking that angle, clubs and so forth—but we’re pretty sure it wasn’t demon drink that killed him. There’s also no sign of forced entry on the main office door or this one, so we’re looking at anybody who had ready access.”
They moved in measured steps toward Alexander’s desk. Two gold-framed photos of Sylvia in better times lined the smooth, tawny surface, next to a desk calendar, yesterday’s date still displayed, along with a Ronson touch-up lighter and cigarette box and an award from the Rotary Club. All were covered in a fine, dusty powder.
The sticky brown-red pool on the opposite side had stopped spreading across the mahogany some time ago, liquid slowly evaporating, becoming thicker and more viscous, streaks and droplets, spatter and smears, tiny hairs and dust motes trapped like flies in amber, slowly swirling in a Technicolor kaleidoscope whenever the light caught the angle just right.
A matching desk chair leaned back drunkenly, facing the window, as if unable to bear the sight, while Miranda stood and stared at the once-shining wood.
“See that spot where you’d normally put a pen set, if you’re the pen set kind?”
Fisher pointed to an empty space between the calendar and the award and she blinked, taking a breath.
“Heavy Bakelite, held two pens on either side of one of those modern-looking female heads—a combination desk set–artistic piece. Somebody, late last night—the ME gave me a three-hour window—smashed his skull with the thing.”
To the right of the publisher’s opulent desk and chair the thick, bright carpet was crushed, fibers like a forest after an avalanche. Two faint tracks leading from the middle of the room toward the desk itself could barely be made out.
“Was he struck while sitting at the desk?”
Fisher stifled a yawn, shaking his head. “Not enough coffee this morning. It’s funny you should ask—”
Running footsteps behind them and a yelp from one of the bulls.
Roger Roscoe was halfway across the room, office door flung wide open. He stopped suddenly, taking it in, thin body jerking, while the uniforms grabbed at his arms.
He looked from Sylvia, still lost to another time and place, and Jerry, who glared back at him, over to Fisher and Miranda. The novelist’s blue eyes locked on Miranda’s, fearful and faintly accusatory.
The younger cop planted his feet and struggled to hoist Roscoe out of the room.
“Come on, you—”
Fisher held up his hand. “I expect this is Mr. Roscoe. Mrs. Alexander asked for him earlier.”
Roger moved toward the desk like a sleepwalker, mouth twisting in a tighter grimace with each step. He stared down at the blood, shiny and glistening under the bright overhead lights.
“Oh, God—poor Niles.”
He shuddered, turning his pale face toward the inspector.
“Please—I came to help Sylvia.”
“No more dramatic entrances, please, Mr. Roscoe. We’ll have questions for you later.”
He held out his hands, palms up. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
Jerry stood up, shooting Roger an ugly look as the older man approached, hand still outstretched. Sylvia rocked back and forth, lips moving but no sound, eyes blind and ears deaf. Roger sank into Jerry’s vacated chair and picked up her palm, holding it in his, rubbing it and whispering to her.
Disgust twisted Jerry Alexander’s handsome, full mouth. He lit a Lucky Strike and stalked off toward the far-left window.
Miranda spoke softly. “By the way, Inspector—Miss Berrigan asked me to help ‘move things along.’ She wants to open that safe.”
He grunted. “According to Mrs. Alexander—in the few minutes she was able to talk—there’s money in there and some kind of precious manuscript, the next All This and Heaven Too or something.”
The inspector crooked a finger at the tallest of the two uniformed cops in the room.
“Grant, go bring in Miss Berrigan—tell her we’ll clear out temporarily as soon as the safe is open and she gets what she needs, but the lab boys will be back and we’ll expect her at the Hall this afternoon. And tell her this office’ll be off-limits for a day or two.”
He whispered to Miranda: “We already dusted for prints—no luck. If this was a robbery, I’ll eat my hat.”
Bunny Berrigan flew through the door in a red and white blur, landing at Sylvia’s feet.
Elegant, dark hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, long thin fingers clenched into a frozen ball, Sylvia Alexander gazed down at her, while Roscoe made inarticulate sounds meant to soothe, the three united in grief, Pietà on the sixth floor of the Monadnock.
Jerry watched them from a few feet away, thrown outside the composition. Anger and jealousy stretched his face as he inhaled the Lucky.
Bunny was pleading, trying to reach the thin woman with dead eyes.
“Sylvia—we’ve got to open the safe. Only you and Niles have the combination, remember? We’ve gotta open it up—he told me he kept over ten thousand dollars in there, in case of emergency, and we need it to keep the company running.”
Something in her words—or maybe Roger’s palpable, throbbing sympathy, ardently applied—finally clicked.
Sylvia stood and took a few haltering steps toward the safe. She reached up a shaking hand to turn the knob first left, then around to the right, twice, then back again, slowly … slowly … to the left.
No one spoke, the mechanism’s click the only sound in the room.
Sylvia Alexander flicked the door with her fingers, and it swung open with a sigh, as other sighs were sent to heaven at the sight of several stacked bundles of cash. Bunny stood up and peered into the small, rectangular opening.
Several seconds later, she braced backwards against the bookcase, face blanched white to the roots of her red hair.
“What the hell—Smith—his manuscript … Niles said he locked it up just a couple of days ago.” She looked around the room like a woman with a lost child.
“It’s gone.”
Ten
Fisher snapped his fingers at the uniforms behind him, yelled something about “prints” and “pronto
,” then trotted toward Bunny, the redhead still pale, still supported by Alexander’s bookshelf.
Sylvia stood apart, face an arctic wasteland. Roger’s arm was around her shoulder, the novelist rubbing her arm, mouthing words she couldn’t hear.
Jerry Alexander, meanwhile, lit another Camel, staring at Roger and his mother with ever-obvious distaste.
Miranda slid out the door. Questions were coming.
Meyer was all alone in the waiting room, dozing in one of the Windsor chairs.
“Where’s Louise?”
Her urgency woke him with a start. “Your Miss Crowley said she had to fetch something for the police from the files.” He gestured toward the door leading to the other suite of offices.
“New twist, Meyer. We’ll be here a little while longer.”
The attorney nodded, yawning. “Your client is rather reticent, my dear. Perhaps you’ll have better luck, but she was quite incoherent with me.”
The inner office door swung noiselessly, opening into a common area with three more doors facing Miranda. The one immediately in front of her bore a gold nameplate: BERENICE BERRIGAN. The other two were faceless.
All were closed.
No sounds, except for the trampling hooves of running bulls in Alexander’s office.
She opened the door on the left. No Louise.
The room was large, with a long rectangular table filling the center, file cabinets, and a few smaller tables—some with cover proofs and piles of manuscripts—lining the walls. A corkboard and a chalkboard hung on the far right, and an older-model typewriter perched on top of a small wooden desk by the lone window.
Powder sprinkled the table surfaces. Miranda looked with dismay at the palm of her glove, and pulled out a crushed linen handkerchief from her purse, using it to turn the knob of the room on the far right.
Dank, dark, and overrun with dog-eared manuscripts, pens, ink, blotters, and two typewriters on two different desks, both scratched and obviously second- or third-hand, the small, windowless hole could only belong to Kingston and Ward, the editors who shared an office at Alexander Publishing.
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