City of Sharks

by Kelli Stanley

  She handed over a folded piece of notebook paper. Miranda took it from her friend without looking at it and tossed it into the small paper bag of cigarettes and Lifesavers.

  “Thanks, Gladdy. Be seeing you.”

  The blonde’s curls bounced in disbelief. “Aren’t you gonna read it?”

  “Later. Thanks for saving the Chesterfields.”

  Gladys’ eyes grew large again, her lips turned downward in concern. “All right, Miri. But remember what my mamma told me—you could use a little sweetness in your life.”

  Sweetness.

  Sweet red wine, sweet smell of sweat. Why did he smell so good, no cologne, not even any water to wash in, sweat from lying out on his belly in rich, red soil, made redder with the blood of the men he was writing about, trying to live like them, be like them, capture their quiet courage, their fierce, undying loyalty, their love of country, love that killed their brothers, mothers, children, wives?

  Other men had smelled like oakmoss and tobacco, whiskey and spice and leather; other men’s sweat had smelled like oil, rancid and flaccid.

  But nothing was ever—would ever be—as sweet as his skin, dirty, dusty, unwashed, and dry—the scratch of brown hair against her, the essence of him on her and in her, the smell of the two of them entwined, enshrined, enveloped and one.

  There’s a somebody I’m longing to see …

  Miranda closed her eyes and punched the elevator button for the sixth floor.

  * * *

  One uniform was still on duty at the publisher’s office, cleaning his nails with a pocketknife, eyes half-lidded and bored. He recognized Miranda with a grunt and she walked past him into the erstwhile castle of Niles Alexander.

  Louise’s desk was covered in dust. A chair was turned upside down in the waiting room, seemingly for the hell of it.

  Alexander’s door was closed, but the one to the other suite of rooms was wide open. A high-pitched feminine whine could be heard from the direction of Bunny Berrigan’s office.

  “But Bunny—I haven’t been paid for the last book I turned in, and really—I just don’t think I can continue on in this fashion. I’d been planning to speak to…” The voice trailed off, slightly confused.

  “Niles. I know, Emily, I know. Here—this should help make up for any inconvenience.”

  Miranda moved closer to the open inner door.

  Sound of paper tearing—probably an envelope. The whine metamorphosed into a pleased trill.

  “Oh—thank you, Bunny! I hope you know I don’t mean to add to your list of troubles, and I’m happy to take on the project—I just—well, you know I must provide for Mother, and I haven’t been sure if there would be an Alexander Publishing after today, and—”

  Bunny. Curtly.

  “There will always be an Alexander Publishing, Emily. I appreciate your understanding. I need the manuscript back one week from today.”

  “Yes, Bunny. I’ll have it done.”

  Footsteps on carpet, light ones, sound of a desk drawer shutting, chair pulling back. Miranda took a few steps in retreat, quickly sitting in a waiting-room chair.

  Moments later, a small woman in her forties—mouse-brown hair, red-rimmed eyes, quick, nervous, and blue—dressed in a long gray dress five years out of date and carrying a large brown-paper-wrapped bundle—wandered out from the anteroom, looking for the exit as if she didn’t know where to find it.

  She spotted the door and moved toward it, head slightly bent forward. Her eyes lit on Miranda, sitting calmly in the chair, and she yelped, halting in her tracks.

  “I—who are you? What do you want?”

  The yelp brought fast, heavy footsteps and the person of Bunny Berrigan, out of breath and glaring at Miranda.

  “She’s a peeper, Emily, works for Louise. Go on home, I’ll take care of her.”

  The mousey woman peered at Miranda through horn-rimmed spectacles. “A—a ‘peeper’? You mean there are women who actually work as private detectives?”

  “A few. Maybe you didn’t hear—we got the vote nineteen years ago.”

  The woman’s face lit up. “Have you met any—any hoodlums? You know, the brunos, the button men, the wrong numbers?”

  Miranda rose. “You read too much Spicy Detective, sister.”

  The redhead put a hand on Emily’s back, ushering her to the door. “Miss Corbie works in the building. You can interview her later.”

  “Oh—of course—yes, Bunny. I’ll be back in two days with the first corrections.” She squeezed out the door and into the corridor, looking up at the cop with a fascinated stare. Bunny pulled it shut behind her.

  “One of your editors?”

  “Emily Kingston. Niles gave her part of an office and let her call herself an editor—and quietly threw away any books she happened to recommend—too much of an appetite for blood. She’s actually a copy editor, one of the better ones.”

  “Are they all that crazy?”

  “For the most part. It’s a thankless job, one readers never notice unless they fail at it. What the hell are you doing here, Miss Corbie?”

  Miranda looked at her steadily.

  “They’re holding Louise for the murder. Found poison in her desk.”

  Bunny fell backward a step. “I’m depending on Louise to help me save this company—save Niles’ legacy—you mean the cops actually think she killed him? With poison? But Niles was—the blood—”

  “I don’t think they think she killed him, with or without poison, but that doesn’t matter. They need a warm body to hold accountable, and—unless I can get her an alibi by tomorrow morning—they’ll charge her.”

  Bunny shook her head. “Jesus. Does Louise even have one? An alibi, I mean?”

  “Maybe.” Miranda dug for the pencil and reporter’s notebook buried in her handbag. “Just a few quick answers, Bunny. If you need Louise to help save this mess of a company, help me.”

  Bunny leaned against the door leading to the editors’ offices, eyes on Miranda.

  “Let’s be clear, Miss Corbie. I don’t trust you. I’m fairly sure I don’t even like you. But if it means keeping Alexander Publishing afloat for a few more weeks … what do you want to know?”

  Miranda grinned and held out her hand. “Even my enemies call me Miranda.”

  Bunny paused before enveloping Miranda’s palm in her own firm grip. “How can I help?”

  “What’s Smith’s address? I hear he’s driving up from Monterey and I’d like to get to him before the cops do.”

  “Come into my office and I’ll find it for you.”

  Bunny flung open the door with her name on it and strode quickly to her desk, a modern blond affair. She shoved aside various manuscripts, finally locating a black bound ledger.

  “I’m trying to maintain some kind of publication schedule—which is why Emily was in the office. We’re also planning a celebration of Niles’ life at Gump’s—a private party. Would you like an invitation?”

  “Very much so. Was Niles friends with the Gump family?”

  The redhead nodded while scribbling on a piece of paper, which she handed to Miranda.

  “Smith’s address in town. What else?”

  Miranda glanced down. 1201 California #602. Cathedral Apartments on Nob Hill.

  Smith’s expensive shoes belied his lumberjack clothes—and so did his address.

  “You ever see Louise with a large man, a little rough-looking?”

  Bunny raised her eyebrows. “I’ve seen plenty of men around Louise, but she’s always giving them the polite brush-off. Nobody like that, ever.”

  “OK. You said you called in Emily Kingston. What about the other editor? Has he been in and is he a ‘real’ editor?”

  The publicity woman frowned. “He’s as real as they get. Hank Ward. I haven’t been able to reach him.”

  “Let me know when you do?”

  “If you can find Louise an alibi and get her back to work.”

  “It might come down to him. She said he misplaces offi
ce keys and one’s missing.”

  “In that case, I’ll let you know right away. Anything else?”

  “I should try to speak with Sylvia—Jerry, too. Do you know where they are?”

  A spasm of pain, immediately controlled, crossed the redhead’s face.

  “Roger took her to Greer Sanitarium. It’s where she usually stays. I wouldn’t pursue it, though—Sylvia is worse than I’ve ever seen her. Her husband murdered—God, even a completely healthy woman would go to pieces.”

  The publicity woman’s eyes drifted to her desk, lines around them thrown in relief. “I’m walking and talking because I have to. Because it’s what Niles would want.”

  Miranda made her voice soft. “And Jerry?”

  Bunny blinked a few times. Raised her face to Miranda.

  “Jerry, as far as I know, went home like the cops told him to.”

  Greer Sanitarium. The envelope she’d spotted on Louise’s desk the day before was hand-addressed to Greer Sanitarium, apparently the home away from home for highflyers and hopheads who could afford the tuition. Sylvia Alexander would be there for a long time, waiting, maybe in vain, for the grief to become comprehensible and the fog of loss to clear.

  “Thanks. Can you give me everyone’s address? The Alexanders’ Nob Hill residence, Jerry’s apartment, Roscoe’s place?”

  “Just a minute.”

  Bunny opened up the large black register again, searching with her finger until she found what she wanted, then repeated the process. The third address she wrote from memory, handing Miranda another sheet of stationery.

  “Here you go. Is that it?”

  “For now.”

  The publicity woman shook her head. “What if there is no alibi?”

  Miranda folded up the paper and put it in her bag.

  “Louise has an alibi, Bunny. I just need to find him.”

  * * *

  She sank into the chair, pulling the thick Pacific Telephone and Telegraph book closer, green cardstock cover making a slithering noise against the shiny black wood.

  Blair, Blanchette, Blanco …

  Blankenship. Only three in the book.

  Only one with an initial G.

  G. D. Blankenship resided at the optimistically named Cliff House Apartments, 4740 Balboa … close to Playland-at-the-Beach.

  Miranda frowned, tapping the book with her finger. Flipped an inch of pages over to the yellow business section.

  “The Greer Home, Inc.,” 36th and Fulton—a long walk or a short ride to Playland and G. D. Blankenship. She could try Sylvia first and then stake out George.

  She reached into the bag of cigarettes and candy and pulled out Gonzales’ note.

  Miranda stared at it for a few seconds, the “Miranda Corbie” in a strong, sure hand.

  Goddamn it.

  Found screw-capped test tube of potassium cyanide in the top drawer, right side, of your client’s desk. Tube was about half-full, no dust, no prints, 16 × 150 mm. Might want to check scientific or industrial chemical supply companies.

  No signature.

  Miranda folded the note and placed it in a drawer with the cigarettes and Lifesavers.

  Lifesaver.

  He’d been that, just a few months ago. And for whatever reason—because he was still in love with her, because he still hoped she’d marry him—Inspector Mark Gonzales was passing on information that could help her client.

  Miranda ran a hand down the back of her neck.

  Jesus Christ, she needed a shot of bourbon, but no goddamn time. Not enough time to call him up and thank him, not enough time to let him down again, words and anger in her voice belying the heat in her body, the desire in her skin.

  Mark Gonzales. And the worst part of it was she couldn’t even think of him without that other bastard’s face fading in, lopsided grin, bullshit-brown eyes, Irish accent learned from a drunk singing “Mother Machree.”

  Always there, whether she wanted him or not, always watching. And now he wasn’t there but the memory, the presence of him, lingered, always wanting what he couldn’t have, Miranda and Johnny, Johnny and Miranda, and in the corner of the room Rick Sanders, the tattered knight in a rented car on a lonely Napa road, the unasked-for assistant in a ridiculous Robin Hood costume, the man who always wanted too much and asked for too little.

  Rick and Gonzales, Gonzales and Rick, men who’d tried, men who’d failed …

  And Johnny Hayes, the one man who’d won.

  She walked to the ancient Wells Fargo safe, older than her, older than her mother, older than the goddamn Monadnock. The door opened soundlessly for once, and she was shoving a fin and two Hamiltons in her wallet when someone knocked on the door.

  Miranda picked up the Baby Browning from the top level. Watched the shadow behind the frosted glass and said, in a calm voice, “Come in.”

  Allen poked a shiny bald head around the door. “Don’t shoot, lady, I’m unarmed.”

  She broke out in a grin. “Your timing is awful. I’m just about to leave.”

  The Pinkerton ambled inside, white shirt stained with mustard.

  “Got time for lunch?”

  “No. And I’m hungry. Got less than twenty-four hours to find my client an alibi for a murder rap.”

  Allen plucked an Old Gold out of his shirt pocket. “Jee-sus. Miri, why the hell is it that your clients are usually dead or in jail?”

  “I’m lucky that way. This one’s got someone trying to kill her, too.”

  “The same one already on the hook for the homicide?” He struck a match with his thumb but it wouldn’t light. “They don’t make these things like they used to.”

  “The desk lighter works, tough guy. And yeah. It’s the Niles Alexander killing.”

  “I go to Livermore and step in cowshit only to find more of the same when I get back here.” He studied her, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “Front-page story again. I don’t know how you do it. You need something from me? When you called I was in some shanty of a cow office, helping the feds bust a counterfeiter.”

  “Thanks, Allen. Anything you can get on a Louise Crowley, about twenty-three, born in Olympia, Washington, and a George D. Blankenship, San Francisco, lives out on Balboa. Especially if there’s an Alcatraz connection somewhere.”

  Thick brown eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Alcatraz? Alcatraz? You gotta be pulling my leg. The most secure federal prison in the whole goddamn country? Alcatraz?”

  Miranda grinned, grabbing her coat off the rack in the corner and shoving the Baby Browning in the pocket.

  “Nutty, I know. But if you find anything…”

  He opened the door for her while she brushed against the black and gold letters painted MIRANDA CORBIE—PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.

  “I’ll tell you. Jesus, just be careful, OK?”

  “I always am. You be careful with the next hot dog.” She nodded at his shirt as they walked down the hall.

  Allen reached his office door and laughed, one hand on the doorknob, his other waggling a thumb at his shirt front.

  “You should have seen the other guy.”

  * * *

  Mustard and sauerkraut helped fill the bun, and Miranda wolfed down the sandwich, chasing it with a bottle of Coca-Cola.

  She checked her watch. Just a little after two.

  The wind was starting to blow heavy sand again, straight across the walkway at Ocean Beach. She held on to her beret, flinching at the screams from the Big Dipper, ignoring the popping guns at the shooting gallery and low whistles from the carousel grifter, Laffing Sal’s cackle drifting high on the wind, pushing her toward the White Front stop. She paid the seven cents after the conductor told her he’d be leaving in two minutes.

  Only about ten blocks up from Playland, the crazy house. And if it was anything like Napa State Hospital—anything at all—she’d need to face it on a full stomach.

  Memories of flatly intoned verse from Ecclesiastes, the shrill, inhuman screams behind barred doors, and worse than the tortured p
atients, Grace, the misnamed behemoth who enjoyed giving pain, and the gynecologist-butcher determined to make America pure again.

  Miranda shuddered, shrinking against the back of the seat.

  Goddamn it.

  * * *

  Sanitarium. Such a funny word for a nuthouse.

  The Cairns Hotel was built right after the Quake, an optimistic attempt to lure tourists to the cold, cold beach and away from the warmer Bay. Then the hotel went belly up and the Greer Home moved in.

  She stepped out on the curb, shielding her eyes against the wind, staring at the red brick.

  Dim memories surfaced of giving it a wide berth, on the rare days she could find or beg a nickel and hop a train down to the Chutes. Whispers about the mad people who lived there, confined to rooms, chained in beds, carrying knives, kidnapping and killing children if they escaped …

  Miranda hurried across the street, modest homes and rooming houses and half-century-old workers’ shacks dotted here and there, sand filling spaces developers hadn’t. Stepped under the large, self-important arch and knocked on the door.

  A tall, thin woman with gray hair answered, dressed in a nurse’s uniform but not looking nurse-like. She smiled at Miranda, the well-practiced smile of the well-trained seller of snake oil.

  “May I help you? Are you here for a preliminary visit, perhaps?”

  About as preliminary as it gets, sister. Try never on your fucking life.

  She gave the gray-haired woman a charming smile.

  “I’m here to see a friend.”

  The thin woman stepped aside. “Oh, please—come in. We always encourage relatives and friends to visit their families—and of course, they become like our family, too.” She gestured toward a desk, large, brown, and confrontational, in the middle of the entrance room—what would have been the lobby of the old hotel.

  “You may sign in with Eustacia there—she’ll help you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs.…”

  “You may call me Matron Peters.”

  Miranda nodded, and the thin woman smiled graciously, moving off to another area where food smells, boiled potatoes and some kind of meat, were wafting out. Either the kitchen or the dining room. Miranda was glad she’d eaten already, because the smell would’ve killed her appetite.

  She strode to the desk, comforted by the cold metal of the gun in her pocket, and looked up at the dark-haired nurse with the thick, flat eyebrows and flatter eyes sitting behind it.