R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

River didn’t know him.

He didn’t want to know him.

“Where’s January?”

“You mean the little tattoo bitch?” The man tilted his head towards the trunk. “In there.”

“Let me see her.”

“She’s a crappy lay. You can do better.”

River fought down thunder in his blood.

“I want to see her.”

The man pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his back pocket and tossed them to River. “Sure, put these on first, behind your back.”

River hesitated.

The man hardened his face.

“Do it or things are going to get real ugly real fast.”

River’s chest tightened.

He’d been stupid to stop. He should have aborted. He should have set a trap. He should have done anything except what he did.

“Do it I said!”

River pictured the cuffs on his wrists. He’d be totally beaten at that point. He’d be defenseless. He’d be a mouse in the tiger cage.

The man twisted his face, pointed the barrel of the gun at the trunk and cocked the trigger.

“You have three seconds. Then she gets some air holes.”

River swallowed.

It could be a fake.January might not even be in there. River didn’t know that for sure though.

He snapped a cuff on one wrist.

It was cold as death.

“Behind your back.”

River exhaled and then complied.

He was cuffed.

Everything in the world was instantly different.

The man smiled.

“There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it? Now we can get down to the business we came here for. Where’s Alexa Blank?”

“I’ll take you to her.”

“Damn right you will.”

“First let January go.”

“That’s good, a sense of humor. I like that.”

“I’m serious,” River said.

The man whipped the weapon, so fast that it caught the side of River’s head in spite of his pull back. Rage exploded inside his skull.

He’d kill the little bastard.

He’d kick him to death.

“There’s a lot more of that if you want it,” the man said. “Take me to Alexa Blank.”

“Screw you.”

The man opened the trunk. Inside was a woman, tightly hogtied with multiple wraps of rope. Her mouth was gagged. Her eyes were open and flicked with life but had so much fear in them that they were hardly recognizable as January’s. The man put the gun to her forehead and looked at River.

“I’m done being nice, asshole.”

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Morning

“When I saidI 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.”

Screw the rest of the world.

Get the treasure.

Live on an island.

The images filled Wilde’s brain. He let himself get drunk on them, just for an instant, then broke loose. He took a deep look into the woman’s eyes, those beautiful eyes, those tricky little eyes. Then he headed for the door.

“Good luck.”

He was gone.

Walking to Blondie under a crisp blue sky, on his mind was one thought and one thought only, namely Secret St. Rain. He needed her in his arms. He needed her breath on his lips. He needed her body against his. He’d been a fool to think about London, even for a moment. That particular piece of weakness was over, dead and buried and forever gone.

He headed to Secret’s hotel.

She wasn’t there.

“She left a half hour ago,” the guy at the front desk said.

“Did she say where?”

“No but she was dressed to kill.”

Wilde tilted his head.

“She couldn’t have been too dressed to kill. After all, you’re still alive.”

The man smiled.

“Barely.”

Wilde hopedthat Secret was at the office. She wasn’t but Alabama was. Wilde dangled a Camel from his lips, set a book of matches on fire, lit the cigarette from the flames and let them burn as he poured a cup of caffeine. Alabama dangled her feet off the edge of the desk and watched. Then she said, “How’d it go with London?”

“Bad.”

“Bad?”

“Right, bad.”

“How bad?”

“Real.”

“I knew it.”

Wilde filled her in on what a fool he’d been. Alabama’s face got tighter and tighter. When the full story was out she said, “She set you up to kill someone? That bitch is going to rot in hell.”

Wilde couldn’t disagree.

Alabama hopped off the desk.

“You want me to go over and beat the shit out of her?”

Wilde frowned.

Then he opened the desk drawer, pulled out an envelope full of money-London’s retainer-and counted what was inside. It was drawn down $75 from when it was fresh. He took that amount out of his wallet, shoved it in and handed the envelope to Alabama.

“Do me a favor and deliver this to London.”

The woman grabbed it.

“With pleasure.”

Wilde squeezed her arm.

“Don’t hurt her. Don’t even say anything. If she’s not home just slip it under the door and leave.”

Suddenly the door openedand the last person Wilde expected to see stepped in-London. She hesitated briefly as she caught the look on Alabama’s face and then walked towards Wilde.

She didn’t get two steps before Alabama grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her to the floor.

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Afternoon

Waverly didn’t goto her apartment when she landed, just in case Bristol was laying in wait. She couldn’t rule out the possibility that his trip to Denver was orchestrated, knowing the whole time she was watching and would follow. It would be brilliant, actually. Luring her out of town would split her from Su-Moon plus get her away from whatever evidence was still in San Francisco that she hadn’t yet found. More importantly, by luring her to Denver as opposed to some other city, he’d know where she’d be staying. It would be easier to kill someone in an apartment than a hotel.

The money Shelby Tilt gave her was almost gone.

Denver was hot.

The sky was packed with sunshine.

From an airport payphone, she called Emmanuelle LeFavre at the Clemont and got patched through to the woman’s room. The phone rang but no one answered.

“Would you like to leave a message?”

“No. She’s still registered there though, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

She took a cab into the city and checked into the Ambassador Motel on Larimer Street under the name Marilyn White. For 25 cents she got the key to room 212, which turned out to be a smoke-stained cube with a squeaky bed and a cracked window. She checked the hot water to see if it worked.

It did.

So did the door lock.

She headed outside to a phone booth, opened the yellow pages and started calling the most expensive hotels. Bristol and his little spankee woman, it turned out, were staying at the Brown Palace.

“Would you like me to ring their room?”

“No, that’s okay. What room are they in?”

A beat.

“Four-sixteen.”

“Four-sixteen.”

“Right.”

“Do me a favor, will you? Don’t tell them anyone called. I’m going to surprise them later.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, you’re a peach.”

The man chuckled.

“Then peaches smoke cigars.”

Waverly pulled up an image, one that made the corner of her mouth turn up.

“What’s your name?”

“Jake.”

“You have a good day, Jake.”

“You too, whoever you are.”