R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

She checked the bra size-34C.

“I think you gave me a little more credit than I deserve.”

“I took my best shot.”

She dropped the towel into her lap.

Bouncy breasts came into view, one with the tattoo of a rose on the cleavage side. She paid no attention to River and put the bra on. It was too big but not by much. She tightened the straps.

There.

Good enough.

In the other bag were more feminine clothes-three dresses, nylons, garter belts and black high heels. She held up the simple short white one and said, “I haven’t worn a dress in a hundred years.”

River turned his head.

“Try it on.”

“Why?”

“Because I pictured you in it,” he said. “I want to see if I was right.”

He focused on two BNSF workers turning a wrench under a flatbed coupler as the woman rustled behind him. Then she said, “Okay, turn around.”

He did.

What he saw he didn’t expect.

Take away the tattoos and she’d be a pinup girl.

“Were you right?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“No, I wasn’t even close.”

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Morning

Last Monday night,London broke into a temple on the Avenue of the Dead. “No one had ever been inside. It wasn’t big or overly remarkable, definitely not the kind of place where you’d expect a king or queen to be entombed. What intrigued me about it was the curse.”

Wilde set a book of matches on fire.

“The curse?”

Right.

The curse.

“I don’t believe in all that ancient voodoo crap,” he said. “There’s no such thing as a curse.”

“That’s what I used to think,” London said.

“Used to?”

The flames drew her attention.

“The curse drew me to it because it still exists to this day,” she said. “The reason for the curse was long forgotten but not the rumor. Anyway, I felt it was worth going into so I did it.”

The fire was down to Wilde’s fingertips. He looked out the window, found no one below and dropped it out.

“And?”

“And it was a burial site of someone important,” she said. “Live people had been chained to the wall.”

“And left to rot?”

London nodded.

Wilde screwed his face in disgust. “That’s sick. Why?”

“I don’t know,” London said. “Maybe they were sacrifices, maybe they were some kind of soul currency, maybe they were virgins he was taking to the next place.”

Wilde pictured it.

“What a way to go.”

“Here’s the important thing,” London said. “The person was buried in a stone casket with a wooden top. When I took off the top, there was a painting on the underside. As soon as I saw it I knew what it was. It was a map of a catacomb system.”

She pointed to the map.

“This section here is the entrance,” she said. “It’s been buried with rock for thirty feet.”

“Why?”

“To prevent looting, that’s my guess,” she said. “These squares most likely denote rooms where past kings and queens were buried. The system was probably guarded as well, possibly for decades and maybe even centuries.”

She lowered her voice.

“When I was inside the tomb, my flashlight dropped and went out. I was in the blackest blackness you could ever imagine. All of a sudden there was something behind me. Something alive. I could hear it breathing.”

Wilde pictured it.

“What was it?”

“I don’t know,” London said. “I like to think it was just a stray dog that followed me in, or something like that. It only lasted for ten seconds or so and then disappeared as quickly as it came, but it was real, it wasn’t my imagination. I made my way to the entrance and got out alive. I almost got the hell out of there, but I was too close to history. The past had a fist around my throat and was pulling me back in. I grabbed my other flashlight and a paper and pencil and went back in. Then I made a sketch of the painting on the underside of the casket lid.” She tapped on the map. “That’s what this is. Then I scraped the painting off with a rock, all the way down to the wood.”

Wilde tilted his head.

“So this is all that’s left.”

London nodded.

Then she got a distant look before refocusing.

“Something strange happened. That night, starting even before I got out, the sky exploded with lightning bolts, one after another after another after another. The sky literally screamed with thunder.”

Wilde wasn’t impressed.

“Don’t tell me it was the curse.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no such thing. There’s only science.”

“Maybe you’re right,” London said. “But this particular science started right over where I was and then set off for Mexico City. It ended up burning down a good portion of it.” She exhaled and added, “There was no rain, only lightning.”

“That happens sometimes.”

“Maybe.”

“It was just a coincidence.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Someone brokeinto my place yesterday,” she said. “I didn’t notice it until this morning, but things were definitely moved. They were careful but not careful enough.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know but they were after the map,” she said. “I want you to take possession of it and keep it safe.”

Wilde looked at it.

“Sure. Anything else?”

She nodded.

“Actually there is. I want you to find out who’s after it,” she said. “I want you to persuade them to go away. And most importantly, I want you to protect me in the meantime.”

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Evening

San Franciscowas so exotic and atmospheric that Waverly could live there forever, starting right now. The trolley cars, the hills, the water, the bridges, the diversity, the fog, the harbors, the downtown skyline, it was all conspiring to make her stay.

Sean Waterfield didn’t see the need to leave Chinatown for dinner and took her to a place called the Hong Kong Clay Pot at 9 thand Grant.

He looked nice.

Better than nice, actually.

“A woman named Kava Every used to work at your firm,” Waverly said.

Waterfield raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right. Do you know her?”

“She’s my cousin. That whole temp thing today, that was sort of unintended,” she said. “I came to town to see if I could find out what happened to her. That’s why I came to the firm, to see if anyone might know something.”

The words sunk in.

Waterfield’s face changed.

“So you aren’t really a temp?”

“No, but after you wanted me to get you food, well, you seemed nice so I figured, what the hell,” she said. “Then one thing led to another …”

Waterfield shook his head in amusement.

Then he got serious.

“Kava was a good person,” he said. “It was a damn shame, what happened to her.”

True.

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

Waterfield got a distant look.

“There’s one little thing,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s anything or not.”

“Tell me.”

He hesitated.

“Do you live in San Francisco?”

“No, Denver.”

“That’s a long ways off.”

Right.

It was.

“I’m actually thinking of moving here,” she said. “Trade the sunshine for fog.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do to convince you to do it, let me know.”

“I will.”

He speared a shrimp,chewed and swallowed, washing it down with a sip of tea. “The cops talked to a number of us at Bristol after the fact. The theory was that it was a murder rather than an accident or suicide and that the murder was done by someone who knew her and knew her well, a boyfriend or lover to be precise. None of us at the firm knew anything about a boyfriend or lover.”