R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

Her legs were shapely.

Her nylons had a seam up the back.

Her hair was bouncy and blond.

She leaned against the building and smoked as she waited. A passing car honked at her and someone shouted, “Hey, baby!”

She ignored it.

She must have the envelope by now. Would she show up at ten?

For half an hour, not much changed. Then Bristol emerged. With him was a female, conservatively dressed, holding a pencil in her hand as if she’d been taking notes. She looked familiar, Waverly had seen her around somewhere before.

Where?

Then she remembered.

She saw her at the El Ray Club last weekend, Friday night, dressed like a slut and getting drunk. She was having no problem getting men to keep her glass full. One of those men had an uncanny resemblance to Robert Mitchum.

She got introduced to the red-dress blond, smiled and shook hands, mouthed a few words and disappeared back into the building.

Bristol and the red-dress walked up the street.

Waverly followed,cutting through the traffic onto their side. Passing by the law firm, she stopped long enough to read the names stenciled on the door.

There was only one female name.

Gina Sophia, Esq.

She memorized the name and continued up the street. If she got the chance later, she’d break into the slutty little lawyer’s office and see what her precious notes said; either that or somehow get her out for a drink and let the liquor loosen her up.

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Morning

River’s windwas giving out and his legs were getting heavy. He kept running, fighting through the pain, but his body was working against him. January was either dead or dying and he was to blame. He’d hunt Spencer’s ass down to the ends of the earth. That would be his life mission from this moment on.

Screw everything else.

From behind him, a noise cut through the silence, something in the nature of an engine. He twisted and saw a motorcycle approaching, still a ways off but coming fast.

He brought his body to a stop.

His chest heaved.

Sweat rolled down his forehead.

As the bike got closer, he got in front of it and waved his arms for it to stop. It slowed to twenty or so but then held steady. The driver was a man, a big man.

The man didn’t stop.

He gave River a look, then swung around and accelerated.

Shit!

River grabbed a rock the size of a baseball and threw it with all his might. It connected with the driver’s back near the shoulder. The front tire wobbled violently then the bike went down and raked against the road with an awful noise.

River ran over.

By the time he got there the man was on his feet, squared off with a long blade in his grip.

“I need to borrow your bike,” River said.

The man charged.

Five minutes later,River was on the bike with a serious twist on the throttle. He didn’t kill the biker. He just beat him enough to get him out of the way.

Miles up the road he came to the place where January had been dumped.

Spencer’s car wasn’t on the shoulder.

That was good.

Maybe the man had just kept going.

River turned left off the road, into the terrain. The bike bucked violently but River kept the handlebars in a python grip.

When he got to January, she wasn’t there.

She was gone.

Spencer had taken her.

River twistedthe throttle, spun the rear wheel in a one-eighty and accelerated towards the road. The front end wobbled.

The tire was flat.

River kept full-speed on the gas.

That was a bad move.

The rubber shredded off and the rim dug into the dirt, jerking the bike to the left and throwing River over the handlebars.

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Afternoon

Wilde called Secret’s hotelto be told she wasn’t answering her room phone. He mashed a butt in the ashtray, hopped in Blondie and headed over. When he rapped on the door no one answered. He paced, tapped a Camel out and lit up. Was she inside, dead? He flagged down a maid and got her to open the room. Clothes were spread out on the bed and toiletries sat on the bathroom sink.

Secret wasn’t there.

She wasn’t there dead.

She wasn’t there alive.

Wilde told the maid “Thanks,” gave her a full dollar, got a hug and ear-to-ear smile in return, then left.

Now what?

London popped into his brain.

That wasn’t exactly true because she’d never completely left. It was more accurate to say she got bigger in his brain. Either way, he headed over to her house to see if she was okay and tell her he’d taken a run at Bluetone.

He found street parking for Blondie a block away and inhaled a cigarette on the way, flicking it on the grass as he walked up the steps.

He rapped on the door.

No one answered.

He rapped again.

A turn of the knob worked, the door was unlocked. He pushed it open and stuck his head in.

“London, you home? It’s me, Wilde.”

Sounds came from the upper level.

He headed upand found London sitting on the floor of her bedroom, scrunched in the corner. A bottle of whiskey was in her hand. When she looked up, Wilde saw something he had never seen in her face before, some type of strange combination of fear and despair.

“Wilde-”

He slumped down next to her and took her in his arms. Her body trembled.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s a woman, Alexa Blank,” she said. “She’s in trouble and I’m responsible.”

“Alexa Blank?”

“Right.”

“Who is she?”

“A friend.”

“From where, the law firm?”

“No, back. Way back.”

Wilde tapped a cigarette out and lit up.

“You’re not making sense,” he said. “I talked to Bluetone this morning.”

“I don’t give a shit about him any more.”

“Well you should,” Wilde said. “I gave him the map and told him to lay off you. He said Sure but he didn’t mean it. Like I told you before, he’s still going to kill you, map or no map. You need to get out of town.”

She looked over.

“You gave Bluetone the map?”

“Yeah, that’s what you wanted me to do.”

“So he has it?”

“Right.”

She brought the bottle to her mouth, took a long gulp and handed it to Wilde. He hesitated then took a hit, not a big one but enough to feel the sting in his mouth.

“You need to get it back,” she said.

“Get what back? The map?”

She nodded.

“If I don’t turn it over, Alexa’s going to die.”

“Turn it over to who?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t get it.”

“He’s just a voice on the phone,” she said. “He’s serious though, I can guarantee you that. He’ll kill her. He let her talk for just a second so that I knew he really had her. She was terrified.”

Wilde blew smoke.

“Back up and start from the beginning.”

The storywas more serious than Wilde expected. At age fifteen, London was walking on ice at the edge of Clear Creek on a cold February day when it caved in. She got swept into the icy waters and ended up lodged under the ice against a log. Without even a split-second hesitation for her own safety, Alexa Blank pounded through with her feet and got London dislodged. Both of the girls got swept downstream but miraculously got out before they drowned or froze to death. They were already friends up until then but became inseparable from that moment on.

That was back in high school, tenth grade.

After high school, they drifted socially and in almost every other way but still stayed in touch. London already had her sights on becoming a lawyer and was focused on college. Alexa took a more relaxed path and was currently employed as a waitress at the Down Towner.