R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

Waverly had been insidethe Brown Palace on only a few occasions-all for work, never for pleasure. It was historic and opulent, full of dark wood, important conversations and pockets stuffed with money. She wouldn’t fit in, not dressed the way she was.

She headed over to 16 thStreet and bought a black dress, matching high heels and fresh lingerie, then took a shower back at the hotel, towel-dried her hair, fluffed it out with her hands and painted her face.

There.

The room had only one mirror, a small book-sized deal over the bathroom sink. She checked herself out as much as it allowed and found the reflection passable, assuming she kept moving and put on airs.

Then she headed down the dark, cinderblock stairwell.

The man at the front desk-a study of grease framed in a white sleeveless undershirt-was impressed.

“You changed,” he said.

She sensed trouble.

“Nice of you to notice.”

“I can stop up later if you want.” He smiled, pulled a half empty bottle of wine out from under the counter and waved it seductively. “Me and my friend, that is. Room 212, see, I remembered. I don’t remember everyone’s, so take it as a compliment.”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

His face tightened.

“Okay, but your loss.”

“Have a nice evening.”

“I’ll see you around.”

Outsidethe city smelled like a combination of exhaust fumes, French-fries and bar carpet. Seventeenth Street was two blocks north; the financial district was five or six blocks to the right. That’s where the Brown Palace was-a cab ride for someone with money, within walking distance otherwise.

For her it was a walk.

She spotted a street vendor and stopped long enough to buy a hot dog and an RC.

The streets buzzed.

The workday just ended.

Everyone was scampering to get home or to the bars or wherever it was they were headed.

The Brown Palace appeared up ahead.

Waverly wiped grease off her mouth with the back of her hand and headed for it.

She didn’t have a plan, at least nothing conscious. All she knew is that she had to make contact with the spanked woman.

That was first and foremost.

That was the priority.

She told herself it was mostly to warn her.

In reality though it was just as much to convert her, to solicit her help, to get inside Bristol’s world without him knowing it.

She walked past a doorman dressed in a monkey-suit who gave her a curious look, then pushed through heavy revolving doors before he could say anything.

The smell of money assaulted her.

Bristol wasn’t in the lobby.

She walked to the elevators like she owned the place, pressed the Up button and stepped inside when the doors opened. Her hand went towards the floor buttons and almost pressed 4. Then she drew an image of the doors opening ten seconds later with Bristol standing right there.

It would be better to press 3.

Get off at 3 then take the stairs up to 4.

Then what?

She still wasn’t sure.

Press her ear to Bristol’s door and see if he was in?

Try to get a maid to open the door if he wasn’t?

Then, just like that,a saner plan came to her. She stepped out of the elevator, headed across the lobby and walked up to the man at the registration desk.

“Are you the cigar-smoking peach?”

He smiled.

“That’s me. It’s nice to put a face to a voice.”

“Likewise,” she said. “I need paper, pencil and an envelope. Please and thank you.”

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Morning

The man pushed the barrelharder into January’s forehead, turned his cold steely eyes to River and said, “You got two seconds asshole.” The tone was unmistakable. The man was serious. He’d pull the trigger and that would be that.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll take you to her.”

The man twisted his face, almost as if upset that River gave in before he got to splatter January’s brains all over the inside of the trunk. He froze for a heartbeat before pulling the gun away from January’s face and letting it fall to the side.

“Where is she?”

“Not far. Five or six miles up the road.” A beat then, “January’s not part of any of this. Let her go.”

The man tilted his head.

Then he looked around, saw no cars coming from either direction and said, “Get on the ground, facedown.”

River’s instinct was to resist but he saw no rage in the man’s eyes. The man’s plan wasn’t to shoot him in the back.

He complied.

“Don’t move a muscle.”

“I won’t.”

The man tucked the gun in his belt, snatched January out of the trunk and flung her over his shoulder. “Get up and start walking. Stay in front of me.” They headed into the brush and didn’t stop for two hundred yards. Then the man set January’s hogtied body on the ground behind a rabbit bush and checked the ropes.

They were tight.

They were inescapable.

He patted her head.

Then he said to River, “You can come back and get her later. If you screw up, you die and she rots to death. Do we have an understanding?”

River nodded.

“Good. Let’s go.”

River took a last lookat January and said, “I’ll be back. I promise.” Then he turned and headed for the car with the man three steps behind. Halfway there he stopped and stared into the man’s eyes.

“What’s your name?”

The man smiled.

“Now there’s a question I didn’t expect,” he said. “Keep walking.”

River complied.

Twenty steps later the man said, “Spencer.”

“Spencer?”

“Right, Spencer.”

“Is that your first name or last name?”

“Last.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Vaughn.”

“Vaughn Spencer.”

“Right.”

“Nice to meet you, Vaughn Spencer. I’m Dayton River.”

“I know. Keep walking.”

At the car,River got in the back and said, “Just drive straight. I’ll tell you where to pull over.”

“No tricks.”

“No, no tricks. Do me a favor, though. If you kill me, come back and let January go. She doesn’t have anything to do with any of this.”

The man tilted the rearview mirror down until he got River’s face in the glass.

“What’s your obsession with that girl? She’s dirt.”

“We’re all dirt,” River said.

The man chuckled.

“Can’t argue with that.”

“She won’t rat you out if you let her go,” River said. “She’ll just disappear. Give her that.”

“Just do what you’re supposed to and you can let her go yourself.”

The vehicle sped forward.

A thought sprang into River’s head.

“You killed Charley-Anna Blackridge,” he said. “You put her in a red dress and dropped her off a roof.”

The man turned from the road long enough to look into River’s face.

“Someone got dropped off a roof?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Not by me.”

“Sure by you.”

“Nice try but you’re wrong.”

“Friday night,” River said.

“Friday night I was in San Francisco. Whatever you think happened, it didn’t happen by me.”

River staredat the back of the man’s head.

He could twist his foot up and kick him hard, right in the back of the skull. If he got a good enough contact, he might knock him out. Even if he only got a glancing blow, he might get enough contact to make the guy lose control of the wheel. The car would roll and eventually come to a stop. River might get a chance to kick the guy to death. The key to the cuffs was probably in one of his pockets. He’d get loose then go back and get January.