R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

“That’s because I never slipped it to you,” London said. “Like I was saying, the plan was that I would slip it to you. Then, at exactly one o’clock in the morning, Crocket would break in. He’d attack you. He wouldn’t kill you or hurt you too bad, but you’d know you were attacked. Then he’d abduct me. I’d disappear and you’d make a police report the following morning. I’d never show back up again. Then, whoever the third party was, they’d think I was actually gone forever. They’d get off my tail.”

Wilde frowned.

His vision blurred.

Then he focused and said, “So I was your witness?”

“Right.”

“That was wrong.”

She nodded.

“To a point,” she said. “Remember, though, I was fighting for my life. I hired you to protect me. The plan-if it had actually gone as planned-would have gotten the result. You would have played your part, although I admit it wasn’t the way you envisioned. You also got paid pretty well.”

Wilde shook his head.

“That’s bullshit,” he said. “Don’t try to justify what you did.”

London shrugged.

“If you’re looking for an apology I’ll give you one,” she said. “But someday when it’s your neck on the line, you’ll understand.”

“I already understand.”

“Do you? Deep down?”

“Yes,” he said.

But he wasn’t sure.

Not really.

Not down in his bones.

“Anyway,” London said, “I didn’t go through with the plan.”

True.

Very true.

“Why not?”

“Simple. I had a feeling that Crocket was going to double-cross me,” she said. “He had the map, or at least he thought he had the map. He didn’t need me anymore. I had a sneaky feeling that what he was actually going to do was kill me instead of pretending to abduct me.” Her lower lip trembled. “So instead of slipping you something, I kept you as you were. Then when he came in, I woke you. Good thing too, because I was right. He actually tried to kill me. Not directly-the guy who showed up was hired by him.”

“You still don’t know that.”

“Wake up, Wilde,” she said. “It’s for sure. If it was a third party looking for the map, they wouldn’t kill me. I wouldn’t be any use to them dead. The only person who had a motive to see me dead is someone who thought they already had the map. That’s Crocket Bluetone.”

It made sense.

“That’s why he showed up this morning,” she said. “Everything went wrong last night. He knew I was skipping town and headed over to grab me. The only thing that stopped him was you being here.”

Wilde chewed on it.

It fit.

It all fit.

His fingers were hot.

He looked down to see the cigarette almost burned to the end.

He threw it in the toilet.

Then he lit a book of matches on fire, watched the flames for a few heartbeats and lit another cigarette. He waved the flames out and threw them in the toilet.

He looked at London.

“You set me up to kill Bluetone last night. You knew he’d show up. You knew I’d kill him. You turned me into a murderer. You did it so you could have the whole treasure for yourself.”

London buried her head in her hands.

Then she looked up and held his eyes with hers.

“I told you it wasn’t pretty,” she said.

“Well you were right.”

“I felt bad afterwards,” she said. “When I said I was going to cut you in on half, that was the truth. That part of it was real. It still is real, Wilde. Let’s do it. Let’s go get the treasure and then live the rest of our lives on an island. Come on, just you and me. Screw the rest of the world.”

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Morning

Waverly put a nicklein the payphone every ten minutes but never got anything except ringing until just before her flight was called for boarding-then Su-Moon answered. She had big news. “A woman named Bobbi Litton got killed in Cleveland in May of last year,” she said. “She fell off a building in the middle of the night. Bristol killed her, I can feel it in my gut. Where are you by the way?”

Waverly explained.

She was getting ready to board a plane to follow Bristol and the spanked woman to Denver.

“Why are they going to Denver?”

“I don’t know,” Waverly said.

Silence.

“I know,” Su-Moon said. “He killed the woman there Friday night but now something’s gone wrong. For some reason it’s coming unraveled. He’s going there to clean it up.”

“What do you mean, unraveled?”

“I don’t know,” Su-Moon said. “Maybe there was a witness and he found out about it. Maybe he figured out that a hotel clerk or someone had too much information. I don’t know. Did you call that guy you know at Bristol’s firm, the Marlboro Man-”

“-Sean Waterfield-”

“-right, him. Did you call him to see if Bristol has business in Denver?”

“No.”

“Do it. If he doesn’t have business there, that means he’s going back to clean up a mess.” A beat then, “We’re to blame, no doubt. It’s because of the pressure we’re putting on him that he needs to be extra careful.”

“You think?”

Yes.

She thought.

“I’m going to go to Cleveland and run down Bobbi Litton’s murder,” Su-Moon said.

Waverly wrinkled her forehead.

“Why? This isn’t your fight.”

“It is now. We’re too close. Are you going to be staying at your house in Denver?”

“Apartment, not house.”

“Give me the number there.”

She did.

“I’ll call you,” Su-Moon said. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

Waverly droppedanother nickel in the phone and dialed the Marlboro Man. “Where’s Bristol?”

A beat.

“Let’s have lunch,” he said.

“Can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

“Not today, honest. Where’s Bristol?”

“I don’t know. He left the office.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “He just up and left. Supposedly he won’t be back for a day or two.”

“Did he go somewhere on business?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Would you know, if that was the reason?”

“Yes, I’d know.”

Waverly exhaled.

“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t know if it means anything, but I actually do like being with you.”

“Then prove it.”

“Maybe I will but I can’t at the moment.”

Thirty minutes latershe was buckled into a window seat of a shaky four-prop plane with the armrests in a death grip, swooping up into a turbulent cloudy sky.

Bristol.

Bristol.

Bristol.

I’m going to nail your ass so hard that they’ll hear your screams in China.

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Morning

The vehiclefrom River’s rearview mirror skidded to a stop next to him. A man in a black T-shirt with a rough, no-nonsense face got out. He flicked a butt to the ground and headed over. It wasn’t until he came around the front end that River saw his right hand.

In it was a gun.

It came up and pointed into his eyes.

“Do you know who I am?”

River studied him.

He was cold.

He was capable.

A scar ran down his forehead, across the right eye, down the cheek and over the upper lip. He wasn’t nearly as big as River but was still a good size, six-one or more. His body belonged to a street cat, sinewy and hard. The cuffs of his T were rolled up, flaunting taut arms built for pull-ups. A red rose was tattooed on his left forearm. Sticking in the rose was a black dagger. He looked like he’d been kicked around and had learned how to kick back ten times harder.