R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

“Anyone home?”

No one answered.

He headed upstairs.

The steps bent slightly under his weight.

The third one creaked.

Day Two

July 22, 1952

Tuesday Afternoon

Late afternoonWilde got an unexpected call from Michelle Day, the bartender from the El Ray Club, and pulled up an image of her wiggling on the bed with her hand between her legs. Halfway through the conversation he wrote Gina Sophia on a notepad and underlined it twice, then once more even bigger. Two heartbeats later he was bounding down the stairs two at a time with his hat in hand and the paper in his shirt pocket.

At street level he dipped the hat over his left eye and tried to figure out where he parked Blondie.

He couldn’t remember.

It wasn’t in sight, either direction.

He tapped a Camel out of a pack, lit up and walked west towards 14 th. Thirty steps later Blondie’s back end came into sight, parked on the opposite side of the street, peeking out from behind a delivery truck. As soon as he saw it he remembered where he parked-right there.

The top was up, mostly to keep the riffraff from using it as a waste can for butts and candy wrappers and RC bottles. The sky above was a tasty crystal blue. He briefly played with the thought of taking it down before deciding that he was too cramped for time.

Instead he removed the window curtains and took off, almost clipping some drunk zigzagging on a bicycle with a beer in his left hand and a battered White Sox cap up top.

He drove into the financial district, found a parking spot on 17 thStreet near the Brown Palace, and killed the engine. Three minutes later he walked into the offices of Jackson amp; Reacher, Denver’s second-largest law firm.

A bun-haired receptionist with a wrinkled face looked up.

“I’m here to see Gina Sophia,” Wilde said.

“Is she expecting you?”

“I doubt it.”

Two minutes laterhe was in the office of the law firm’s only female attorney, about twenty-eight. Her face had minimal makeup and her attire was gray and conservative. That didn’t stop Wilde from seeing the beauty underneath. She looked at him without saying anything, then closed the door and sat on the desk, dangling nylon legs.

“I’ve seen you around,” she said. “You play drums down at the Bokaray.”

Wilde nodded.

“Guilty.”

“You tried to pick me up once,” she said.

Wilde didn’t remember.

“Did it work?”

“No.”

“My loss.”

“Maybe you’ll have better luck next time,” she said.

“One can only hope.” A beat then, “How come it didn’t work the last time? Did I use a corny line or something?”

“Actually you did,” she said. “If I remember right it was something like, How do you like me so far?”

Wilde smiled.

That was one of his staples.

“That is pretty bad by the light of day.”

She nodded.

“Blame it on the alcohol,” he said. “So, what line would have worked better?”

She pondered it.

“I don’t know. I don’t pick up girls.”

Wilde shifted his feetand explained that he was a private investigator working on the murder of Charley-Anna Blackridge, who got dropped to her death from the roof of a building after leaving the El Ray Club last weekend.

“I talked to the bartender, Michelle Day,” he said. “She said you were in there last night and told her about leaving Friday night with a guy who looked like Robert Mitchum. Is that true?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because he’s my main suspect,” Wilde said. “If he was with you, then everything I’m thinking is wrong.”

“Then everything you’re thinking is wrong.”

“Are you saying it’s true?”

“I’m saying it isn’t for public disclosure,” she said. “You see where I work and what I do.”

“It’s not going beyond me, I assure you,” Wilde said.

She looked for lies.

“He picked me up, we left and spent the night at his hotel,” she said.

“The whole night?”

“Every single minute.”

“You’re sure?”

She smiled.

“Trust me, it’s not the kind of thing I’d forget.”

Wilde paced.

“He has a tattoo,” he said.

She nodded.

“That’s true.”

“Can you tell me what it is?”

“It’s on his arm,” she said. “It’s a pinup girl standing in front of a war plane.”

Wilde nodded.

That was him all right.

“What’s he in town for, did he tell you?”

She shrugged.

“We didn’t pick each other up to talk.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Any other questions?”

Wilde thought about it.

Yes.

There was another question.

One more question.

“What did he usefor an opening line?”

She smiled.

“He said, How do you like me so far?”

“So, it worked for him?”

“Right.”

“But it didn’t work for me?”

“Not the first time.”

“How about the second time?”

“We’d have to wait and see.”

Wilde was almostat the lobby when he came back and knocked lightly on the door of the woman’s office. She looked up from a pile of papers.

He said, “How do you like me so far?”

She smiled.

“Get out of here before I call your bluff.”

Day Two

July 22, 1952

Tuesday Night

Tuesday night after darka mean thunderstorm rolled off the Pacific and pounded San Francisco with heavy fists. Waverly and Su-Moon kept their faces down and held tight onto the railing as they climbed the fire escape at the back of Bristol’s building. The city was dark, almost black. They were nothing more than deep shadows in an equally deep world.

At each floor, they tried the exit door.

At each floor, the knob wouldn’t turn.

They climbed to the top, which stopped at the highest occupied floor.

That door was locked too.

Waverly’s heart raced.

She didn’t know whether she’d be able to do the next step.

The wind was fierce.

Her clothes were soaked to the skin and her skin was soaked to the bone. Next to her Su-Moon was fighting to get the rope and grappling hook out of a black bag. The plan, when they talked about it earlier, seemed simple and straightforward-hook the roof parapet then climb up.

Now it didn’t seem so simple.

Now it seemed insane.

Su-Moon coiled the rope loosely and said, “Watch your head in case this comes back down.”

“We should just forget it.”

“It’s too late.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow when the weather’s better.”

“We’re here now.”

The grappling hook wasn’t heavy, five pounds or thereabouts. The rope was half-inch braid, knotted every two feet for grip.

“Here goes.”

She twirled the grappling hook twice then sent it flying at the parapet. It hit the side, two feet short, and tumbled back invisibly, ricocheting off Waverly’s arm.

“Go down a ways until I get this done,” Su-Moon said. “There’s no use both of us being exposed.”

“No.”

“Just do it,” Su-Moon said.

“Let me throw it. You go down.”

“Fine.”

On the third try, Waverly got it hooked on something. She tugged and found it secure.

“Got it.”

True, she had it, but there was a problem. It was off to the side instead of directly above them. She let the rope slacken and found that it fell to the right of the landing. If they lost their grip climbing, the fall wouldn’t be ten or fifteen feet to the landing, it would be all the way to the ground.