R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

“You already thought about it more.”

He smiled.

“Right, now I’m thinking about it more a second time, and what I’m thinking is that maybe she’s not giving him an alibi at all. Maybe he’s the one who’s giving the alibi. Maybe he’s giving it to her.”

“Are you saying she’s the killer?”

He shrugged.

“Maybe I am.”

Alabama shook her head in wonder.

“Do me a favor, will you?”

He nodded.

Sure.

“Shoot me if I ever get as twisted as you.”

Day Two

July 22, 1952

Tuesday Night

Su-Moon made itto the roof without dropping to her death. She disappeared over the parapet, checked the access hatch to be sure it wasn’t locked, and shouted down to Waverly, “Come on!”

“Move the rope over.”

“Can’t. There’s nowhere to hook it.”

Waverly swallowed.

Su-Moon barely made it and she was stronger.

A gust of rain lashed at her face and pushed her body sideways. She waited for it to subside, then got up on the railing, shifted her weight onto the rope and climbed up hand over hand with every ounce of strength she had. At the top, Su-Moon grabbed her arm with both hands and pulled her over the parapet.

She landed on her back.

The weather pelted her face.

She didn’t care.

She was up.

She was alive.

“Come on,” Su-Moon said. “No time for naps.”

The access door led to a steel interior stairway. On squishy feet they took it down to Bristol’s floor, hearing no one, seeing no one, encountering no cleaning crews or guards. A trail of dripping water followed them.

So far, so good.

The door to Bristol office suite was locked. Su-Moon busted the glass with her foot, reached through and unlocked the bolt.

They were in.

She shut the door and relocked it.

“Which way to Bristol’s office?”

“Follow me.”

They ended up in a corner office that faced the street. The windows had blinds but they wouldn’t completely seal the lights.

“We should have brought flashlights.”

“Too late now.”

They moved a banker’s lamp from the top of the desk to under it then turned it on. That gave them enough to see by without overdoing it.

Then they searched.

They weren’t careful.

They weren’t neat.

Ten minutesinto it they still hadn’t found anything of relevance. Then Waverly had an idea to pull the drawers out of Bristol’s desk and see if anything was taped on the backside or underneath.

There wasn’t.

Five minutes later they found a hidden compartment under a piece of removable wood in the top drawer. Inside was a black address book together with an envelope.

Su-Moon slapped Waverly on the back.

“Bingo.”

Suddenly a noise camefrom the hallway outside Bristol’s office.

“Shit!”

Su-Moon flicked off the banker’s lamp.

The room fell into darkness.

The women froze.

They didn’t make a sound.

Day Two

July 22, 1952

Tuesday Afternoon

The lawyer,Crockett Bluetone, denied killing Charley-Anna Blackridge. He had a brief affair with her four months ago and took her to San Francisco for a long weekend out of sight of the wifey-poo. Shortly after that the fire went out for both of them. He hadn’t seen her in over three months. “We parted on amicable terms. That was it.”

River had a question.

“Is anyone after you for any reason?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Yes.

He was.

Absolutely.

“Why?”

“Because sometimes people kill one person not to get to that person but to get at another person.”

The lawyer frowned.

“No one’s after me. If what happened to Charley-Anna was murder, it had nothing to do with me.”

River studied the man’s eyes, found no lies and headed for the door.

“See you around.”

The lawyer stood up.

“There’s a saying,” he said. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Don’t worry about it. I could care less who you stick your dick in.”

River got hometo find January in white shorts and a white tank top. She hadn’t come across any mysterious envelopes taped anywhere. No one called. If a hitman was lurking around, she hadn’t seen him.

She ran a finger down River’s chest.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

He frowned.

“It’s dangerous for you here.”

“Too bad.”

He studied the horizon. The mountains were a dark jagged band against the sky. The sky above was filled with light.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said.

“Where?”

“Down by the river. I want to see how good you can shoot a gun.”

“You’re so romantic.”

He nodded.

“The first rule of being romantic is to not be dead.”

Walking with his armaround January’s waist, River told her about an old friend named Charley-Anna who got dropped from a roof last weekend. That’s where River was this afternoon, checking the woman’s house and subsequently feeling out a hotshot lawyer named Crockett Bluetone.

“Do you think he did it?” January asked.

“I’m not sure. He admitted having an affair with her four months ago but says they split up amicably shortly after that.”

“You don’t believe him.”

No.

He didn’t.

“Why would he kill her?”

“It could be any number of reasons,” he said. “The obvious one is that she might have been blackmailing him. She might have threatened to tell the wife about the affair unless he paid her off. She might have even set that up from the beginning. Maybe that’s why she was keeping the airplane tickets-they were the proof. Or she might have found out some dirt on him during pillow talk time and was blackmailing him about that. There’s also the possibility that he was in trouble with some third party and they sent him a message by killing her. For all I know he was still seeing her. He says he wasn’t but who knows? She might have been precious to him and someone else knew it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I need to chew on it.”

“You want me to seduce him? I can get him to talk.”

River laughed.

“No, no seducing.”

“Why not?”

River picked her up, flung her over his shoulder and slapped her ass.

“Because.”

Day Two

July 22, 1952

Tuesday Evening

Tuesday eveningWilde headed outside under a darkening sky for a jog. The air was moist, just short of rain. To the west, charcoal clouds churned over the mountains and worked their wicked way towards Denver. A storm was coming, a mean storm. Blondie’s top was up but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure the window curtains were tight.

Alabama had left the office shortly after four and hadn’t come home yet.

As usual, Wilde ran too fast starting out and used up all his wind, which forced him into a more sustainable beat. His best distance was the quarter-mile. He’d never been fast enough out of the blocks to be competitive in the hundred or two-twenty. Nor could he keep up a full sprint for a half-mile.

The quarter-mile, however, was his.

He was fast enough out of the blocks and had the stamina to sprint the whole thing. His best time so far was 55.3, which wasn’t world-class by any means but respectable enough.

The streetlights kicked on.

Right now, the dark beauty London Marshall was holed up in Wilde’s office with the lights out and the door locked. After the jog, Wilde would go over to her house to check and make sure no little surprise visitors were waiting for her in the closet. Then he’d call and tell her the coast was clear.