R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

His heart raced.

Try it or not?

“How much farther?”

River looked out the windshield.

“Just around that bend.”

“There’s nothing out here.”

“Trust me.”

The man raised his hand over the edge of the seat. In it was the gun, held in a tight grip. The barrel pointed into River’s face. “If she’s not there you had your last chance.”

“She’s there.”

“We’ll see.”

“Keep your feet flat on the floor and don’t even breathe.”

River swallowed.

It was time to decide.

The man had told him his name.

Vaughn Spencer.

He wouldn’t have done that if he was going to let River live.

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Morning

Alabama wasn’t a matchfor London, not in the long run, but had enough anger and surprise going to get the woman to the ground and then use the momentum to pin her arms above her head. London struggled but Alabama straddled higher up on the woman’s chest and reigned down with all her weight.

Wilde looked at London and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Get her off me.”

Wilde exhaled.

“Okay, Alabama, enough.”

The woman didn’t move, not for a few heartbeats, then stood up and said, “When I get back you better not be here.” Then she was gone, slamming the door behind her. Wilde listened to her heavy steps pounding down the stairs, then ran to the window.

“Hey, you’re sexy when you’re mad.”

She looked up.

“Prove it.”

He laughed.

Suddenly London was right behind him, straightening her hair.

“How about me? Am I sexy when I’m mad?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t look like you were mad.” He picked up a pack of Camels from the desk, tapped one out and lit up. “So, now we’re back to my original question. What are you doing here?”

“I have something for you.”

She pulleda piece of folded paper out of her purse and handed it to him.

“That’s the original map,” she said. “You were right this morning to walk out. I got weak. I let the map change me. It’s time to get my old self back. Whatever riches I might get aren’t worth turning into who I was becoming.”

Wilde unfolded the paper.

The drawing was quicker and sketchier than the last paper she’d given him. It looked more like what you’d expect if you were alone in a dark tomb copying something by flashlight from the underside of a casket.

“It’s real,” London said.

Wilde took a deep drag and blew a ring.

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

London came close.

She ran a finger down the outside of Wilde’s arm.

“Give it to Bluetone,” she said. “Get him off my back. Negotiate a truce. He gets the map but he has to promise to leave me alone. Make him understand that the only thing I want at this point is out. I want to be left alone. He goes his way, I go mine. I’m going to stay in Denver but quit the law firm.”

Wilde frowned.

“I’d do it if it would work, but it won’t work so I won’t do it.”

London wrinkled her face.

“Why won’t it work?”

He tapped ashes into the tray.

“Lots of reasons. This is a simple map. You could have a copy or even have it memorized. You might secretly have a plan to beat him to it. The only way he can know for certain that you’re going your way is to kill you. That’s what I’d do if I was him.”

London shifted feet.

“We could go to the police,” she said. “We’ll tell them everything. If I end up dead they’ll know he did it.”

Wilde wasn’t impressed.

“He could hire somebody, he could make it look like an accident,” he said. “He’ll have an alibi. It won’t work. If he wants you dead-which he does-you’re going to end up dead. The only reason he didn’t kill you this morning is because I was there.”

He handed the map back.

“Get out of Denver and do it now,” he said. “If you want, I’ll escort you down to the train station or the airport.”

She laid the map on the desk.

“I don’t need an escort because I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “Get Bluetone off my back, please. At least try.”

She gave him a worried look.

Then she was gone.

Wilde watchedfrom the window as she headed up Larimer and disappeared around the corner. As much as he hated to admit it, if Secret didn’t work out, London was the one.

There was something between them.

It was animalistic but it was real.

Alabama showed upfive minutes later, took a quick look at the map and tossed it back on the desk. “It’s another fake,” she said. “All she’s doing it trying to get Bluetone off her back. She’s playing you again, just like before.”

Wilde lit a book of matches on fire.

They burned down to his fingertips then he tossed them out the window.

“Maybe,” he said.

“There ain’t no maybes about it,” Alabama said. “Stay away from that woman before you end up dead.” A beat then, “You said I was sexy.”

He smiled.

“You were.”

She came close.

“Does that mean you’re ready to prove it?”

“Maybe later,” he said. “Right now I have to run.”

He grabbed his hat, dipped it over his left eye and headed for the door.

“Where you going?”

He almost answered.

He almost said he was chasing after London to be sure Bluetone or one of his cronies wasn’t sneaking up behind her.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

Then he was gone.

Down on the street,he heard Alabama shouting something from the window. He stopped, looked up and focused.

“I said, she’s trouble. Stay away from her.”

Wilde shifted his feet.

Then he said, “I can’t.”

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Afternoon

Waverly’s note was simple.“Your life is in danger. Meet me at the Flamingo Bar on Larimer Street at 10:00 p.m. tonight and I’ll explain. Do not tell Tom Bristol where you are going and be sure he doesn’t follow you. This is not a joke.” She folded the note, put it in the envelope, licked the glue and sealed it shut. Then she handed it to the Brown Palace receptionist-the cigar-smoking peach-together with a dollar bill.

“What I need you to do is slip this to the woman staying with Tom Bristol in room 414,” she said. “Don’t let Bristol see you. Tell the woman to read it in private, away from Bristol. Is that something you can do?”

He took the dollar and stuffed it in his pants pocket.

“Done,” he said.

Waverly kissed his cheek.

“Thanks.”

“It’s the least I can do, and that’s what I always do.”

Waverly smiled and left.

Now what?

From a phone boothdown near Colfax she called Emmanuelle LeFavre’s hotel again only to find that the woman still wasn’t in.

Damn it.

She headedto her fleabag room, changed into her grungy clothes, laid the dress neatly on the bed and took the bus to her apartment, getting off a block after the fact and circling back on foot.

From across the street, everything looked normal.

No Tom Bristol’s or trolls were loitering around.

She wasn’t going to stay there, not tonight at any rate, but it wouldn’t hurt to check things out, just to be sure everything was all right. She trotted across the street, shot into the building and bounded up the stairway two steps at a time.

Her door was locked as it should be.

She opened it.

The place was trashed.