R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

“No harm,” Su-Moon said. “I’ll go up first then move it over.”

“Let’s just forget it. I got a bad feeling.”

“We’re fine. Just relax.”

Su-Moon tuggedon the rope and then put her full weight on it.

“It seems secure.”

She climbed up on the railing, grabbed the rope just above the highest knot she could reach and said, “It’s slippery.”

“Don’t do it.”

“Just be careful when it’s your turn.”

With that, she shifted her weight off the railing and onto the rope, dangling in the darkness two or three feet to the right of the landing.

Then she climbed.

The wind whipped rain into her face with all the subtlety of a hundred needles.

Day Two

July 22, 1952

Tuesday Afternoon

Five minutes.River didn’t want to be in the house of Charley-Anna Blackridge any longer than that. If he couldn’t hit dirt in five minutes, he’d abort.

Five minutes came and passed.

River didn’t abort.

There was something here.

He could smell it.

He was careful to put everything back as he found it, except for a photo of the woman from one of a hundred he found in a shoebox in the closet, which went into his wallet. Several minutes further into the search he found something of interest, namely two spent airline tickets, four months old, roundtrip from Denver to San Francisco, one in the name of Crockett Bluetone and the other in the name of Charley-Anna Blackridge.

Crockett Bluetone.

River had heard that name before.

Where?

For some reason it pulled up an aura of power and money.

Who are you, Crockett Bluetone?

River stuffed the tickets in his wallet and kept searching. Five minutes later he hadn’t found anything else of interest and left.

No one saw him, at least that he was aware of.

He pullednext to the first phone booth he came to, left the engine running and checked the book. Crockett Bluetone, it turned out, had two numbers. One was for a residence in Capitol Hill, the coordinates of choice for Denver’s rich and relevant, an area replete with lush lawns, tree-lined boulevards, wrought-iron fences and stone lions guarding cobblestone drives.

The other number was a work number.

It was for the law firm of Colder amp; Jones, one of Denver’s largest law firms if not the largest, with offices in the swank Daniels amp; Fisher Tower on 16 thStreet.

So, you’re a lawyer.

What were you doing, taking a trip to San Francisco with Charley-Anna Blackridge four months ago?

Was she a client?

A witness?

A lover?

River droveover to 16 thStreet, found a place to park two blocks over on 14 thand doubled back on foot. The Daniels amp; Fisher Tower was the highest structure in downtown Denver, in fact all of Colorado.

He approached it with a quick step.

Five minutes later he was in Crockett Bluetone’s office behind closed doors.

The man-in his late thirties-had a square jaw and predator eyes. His sleeves were rolled up enough to show strong forearms and hands. At six-two, he was bigger than River expected, better looking too.

River bypassed the leather chair in front of the lawyer’s desk, instead walking to the window, looking down for a beat, then back at the lawyer.

“I’m not really here about a legal matter,” he said.

“No?”

“No. Does the name Charley-Anna Blackridge mean anything to you?”

A beat.

“No.

“No?”

“No.”

River raked his hair back.

“Let me help your memory,” he said. “I’m talking about the Charley-Anna Blackridge you went to San Francisco with four months ago.”

The lawyer didn’t move.

Then he leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and said, “What’s your connection to her?”

“Nothing, just a friend,” River said. “She got murdered last weekend.”

The lawyer nodded.

“I know.”

River walked over and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Are you the one who did it?”

“Wow, that’s quite a question.”

“Yes it is.”

Day Two

July 22, 1952

Tuesday Afternoon

Alabama showed uplate afternoon, tapped a Camel out of Wilde’s pack, lit it and handed it to him. Then she sat on the edge of the desk and dangled her legs. “I talked to Mitchum point blank and asked him where he went after he left the El Ray Club,” she said. “He said he left with a woman and they spent the night at his hotel.”

Wilde blew smoke.

“Who?”

“He wouldn’t tell me her name,” Alabama said. “He said she was a lawyer and she made him promise to be discrete.”

“So, no name?”

“No but he was telling the truth,” Alabama said.

“How do you know?”

“Because I could tell, that’s how.”

“Well, that’s an interesting story.”

“Why?”

He told her about getting a call from the bartender, Michelle Day, who gave him the name of Gina Sophia, a lawyer at Jackson amp; Reacher. “I went over to her office to get the story straight from the horse’s mouth. She left the club with him and was with him all night. She even knew about his pinup-plane tattoo, so there was no question we were talking about the same man.”

Alabama jumped off the desk, turned around and shook her hips.

“You hate it when I’m right,” she said.

Wilde nodded.

“Luckily it doesn’t happen that often.”

“Actually it happens more than you know.”

“I’m not sure it happened this time, to be honest with you,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, Mitchum was at the El Ray Club the night Charley-Anna got murdered,” he said. “He also frequented Dollface in New York, where Brittany Pratt was the night she got murdered.”

Alabama wasn’t impressed.

“No one says he was there that night,” she said. “Two people went to the same club on occasion, big whoop de do. As far as Denver goes, Mitchum was with the lawyer all night. That means case closed, end of discussion, done deal.”

“Maybe not,” Wilde said.

Alabama shook her head in confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“What I’m talking about is that maybe the lawyer was lying. Maybe she’s in cahoots with Mitchum and she’s giving him a false alibi.”

Alabama wrinkled her face.

“You don’t quit, do you?”

Wilde got up, walked to the window and looked down. A hillbilly song came from the radio of a car sitting outside.

Wilde flicked the buttout the window, tapped another stick out of the pack, set a book of matches on fire and lit up from the six-inch flame.

He turned to Alabama.

“Find out if Mitchum and the lawyer, Gina Sophia, knew each other before the night in question. If they did, she’s giving him a false alibi. If she’s giving him a false alibi, it’s because he needs one.” A beat then, “Don’t let him know you’re looking into it. Don’t let him know that you know the lawyer’s name. Any questions?”

“One. Are you crazy?”

Wilde nodded.

“I am but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” he said. “The more I think about it, if she went to the club so she’d be in a position to give him an alibi, that means they had to set it up beforehand. That means she’s not just giving him an alibi after the fact, she was in on the alibi from the start, meaning she’s more in the nature of co-conspirator.”

“Why would she?”

“I don’t know,” Wilde said. “In fact, the more I think about it-”