R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

“So it was a dead end,” Waverly said.

“It was. Over the years it’s been gnawing at me. She was a vibrant woman. She wasn’t the kind of woman to not have a sex life. In hindsight, I think she was seeing someone in the firm. I think they were keeping it quiet to avoid complications.”

“Who was it?”

“Two people come to mind,” he said. “One is an associate architect named Brian Fernier.”

Waverly tried to picture him and drew a blank.

“He wasn’t at work today,” Waterfield said. “The other is Tom Bristol. Actually, he makes the most sense. If he was having an affair with one of the firm’s architects, there’d be cries of favoritism every time she got assigned to a good project or promoted or whatever. They’d have a motive to keep it close to the vest.”

“Tom Bristol.”

“Right, Tom Bristol.”

“Tell me about him,” Waverly said.

Waterfield frowned.

“He’s a hell of a man, actually. You don’t build up a firm like ours and raise it to national recognition without being something of a force.”

Waverly took a sip of tea.

“I’m going to come back tomorrow and continue temping,” she said. “I need to see him up close and personal.”

Waterfield’s face tightened.

“Be careful.”

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Evening

River had no intentto bring January with him to bury the bikers’ bodies but she insisted and had already learned how to get her way. He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened but it was a fact. It wasn’t just a product of her being attractive. He’d had plenty better. There was something else at work, something he couldn’t put his finger on.

He pulled to the shoulder, turned off the headlights and killed the engine a half-mile short of the scene.

The sun had already crept behind the mountains.

Twilight was thick.

By the time he got to the bodies, visibility would be down to thirty steps.

He popped the hood and disconnected the positive battery cable.

January would stay with the car. If anyone stopped, she’d tell them it broke down and that her boyfriend had gone to get help.

That would explain the car being there.

River would head into the terrain for fifty steps and then walk parallel to the road until he got to the bodies. He’d bury them deep enough to keep the coyotes out.

He got the shovel out of the trunk.

January stepped out and watched.

The air was quiet except for crickets. A bat zigzagged overhead.

“Be back in a jiffy,” River said.

“Wait.”

She put her arms around his neck and pressed her stomach to his. It was the first time they had touched. It felt nice. It felt right.

“Don’t go. Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, just something.”

He looked around.

Everything was normal.

“It’s just the night playing a trick.”

She looked around, then raised her lips so close to his that he could feel the warmth of her breath.

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He headed into the darkwith the shovel in hand, counting fifty steps then turning left. An orange moon lifted off the horizon.

The terrain dipped and the temperature followed.

The road was a strip of black to his left, darker than the surroundings but not by much. It was visible enough to follow and that’s all he needed.

In his pocket was a flashlight.

He’d only use it if he couldn’t find the bodies.

A whoosh came overhead.

He looked up and saw nothing, but pictured a bat snatching a bug.

“Bad night to be a bug,” he muttered.

Somewhere in the distance a coyote barked.

No pack joined in.

It wasn’t a hunt.

Maybe it was just a lost soul out there in the world alone, separated from his kind.

Something’s wrong.

That’s what January said.

Something’s wrong.

River suddenly realized she was right.

Something was going to happen.

Something bad.

He shook it offand kept going.

He didn’t need the flashlight to find the bodies, the rancid smell pulled him in. He shined the light down to find something he didn’t expect, namely that both men had been torn apart by coyotes. Their faces and necks were mostly gone, their hands too.

Now the flies were having their turn.

He went through their pockets.

There he found a folded up newspaper article. It was about the murder of a businessman in Kansas City last week. He shoved it in his wallet and started digging.

The soil was hardly soil at all.

It was mostly rock.

He should have brought a pick.

It took over an hour to dig a hole for the both of them to where they were under a good foot. He filled it in, disbursed the extra dirt, rolled a couple of big rocks on top and then raked everything down. If anyone wandered out here it would look suspicious for a couple of days. After that the wind would make it less and less visible. The first good rain would cloak it completely.

He headed back for the car.

When he got to where it should be, it wasn’t there.

He must have passed it or not gone far enough.

He hiked in one direction down the road far enough to know it wasn’t that way, then turned around and went the other way.

It wasn’t there either.

It was gone.

January James.

He should have never trusted her.

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Afternoon

Wilde knockedon Michelle Day’s door, trying with all his might to put the image of this morning out of his head. The harder he tried the more vivid it got. He could see her hips wiggling with all the clarity of the movie screen down at the Zaza Theatre. He could feel her passion and taste her breath.

Suddenly the door opened.

It was Michelle Day, dressed now and brightly awake, wondering who he was.

She was short, not much more than five feet, built in shades of brown-brown hair, brown eyebrows, brown eyes and brown skin. The hair matched up and down, a fact Wilde shouldn’t know but did. She wore shorts, brown, and a T, brown.

Her feet were bare.

Wilde pulled the photo of Charley-Anna Blackridge out of his pocket and handed it to her.

After she studied it, he said, “My name’s Bryson Wilde. I’m a private investigator. The woman in the photograph was killed Friday night. Before she got killed she was at the El Ray Club where you were bartending. I’m trying to find out if you saw who she left with.”

The woman processed it.

“How’d she die?”

“She fell from a roof.”

“ Fell from a roof. Was she pushed?”

“The theory is that she was pushed or dropped,” he said. “Same landing either way.”

The woman nodded.

“Right, I suppose so.” She turned and headed for the kitchen. “Come on in. I remember her.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, she tipped me.”

“Good.”

“Not everyone does,” she said. “You’d be surprised.”

“I probably would.”

“There are a lot of cheapies out there. They can rot in hell as far as I’m concerned. Do you ever get stiffed by your clients?”

He did; not often, but on occasion.

“Then you know what I’m talking about,” she said.

He did.

He did indeed.

The kitchen wasn’t muchmore than a closet with faded appliances, but it was large enough to hold a newly made pot of coffee that got poured into two cups.

“Sorry, no cream,” she said.

“This is fine.”