R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

Now a strange man had Alexa.

If London didn’t give him the map tonight, Alexa would be dead by morning.

“How does he even know about the map?”

“I don’t know,” London said.

“How does he know that you and Alexa were close?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is Bluetone behind this?”

“No,” London said.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know, I just do.”

Her hand trembled.

“He’s going to call me at eleven o’clock sharp tonight,” she said. “I need to get the map back from Bluetone before then.”

“Not I, we.”

She squeezed his hand.

“You’re quite the guy, Wilde,” she said. “If I was you, I would already have kicked me to the curb ten different times. At this rate, I may have to give you your retainer back.”

He smiled.

“That’s sort of how all this started, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Now it has a life of its own.”

“It’s the map,” London said. “It’s cursed. I told you that before.”

Wilde blew smoke then pulled London to her feet.

“Come on,” he said.

“To where?”

“My office for starters,” he said. “You’re going to make a fake map just in case we can’t get the original back from Bluetone. While you’re doing that, I’m going to try to figure out who took your friend.”

“There isn’t enough time.”

Wilde opened his mouth to deny it but the words didn’t come out. “We’ll see,” he said.

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Night

The Flamingo Baron Larimer Street was jammed with drunks of both sexes when Waverly walked in at a quarter to ten. The only light came from behind the bar, filtering through half-empty bottles of scotch and whiskey. Most of the place was dim to dark. It smelled like a forest fire that someone tried to put out with beer. A scratchy song from a jukebox tried to rise above the noise with little success. Waverly ordered a screwdriver and leaned against the wall near the back by the restrooms, keeping an eye on the entrance.

If Bristol’s little spankee didn’t show, that would be her problem.

All Waverly could do was try.

This was that try.

She checked her watch-9:55-then stepped into the ladies room. There was a window cracked open a couple of inches. She raised it as far as it would go and stuck her head out. The drop to the ground wasn’t far. The window was over-painted and wouldn’t go all the way up but raised enough for her to slither her body out if it came to it. She could escape this way if Bristol showed up to trap her.

Back in the bar, the spankee still hadn’t shown up.

Waverly downed what was left of the screwdriver, ordered another and receded into the back corner.

Ten o’clock.

That’s what it was now.

Game time.

The front door openedand a blond walked in, a blond in a red dress. She looked around as if expecting to meet someone. It was the spankee, alone, without Bristol. Waverly didn’t move. The woman looked at her watch, didn’t see anyone approaching, then took a seat at the only empty barstool, at the very end of the bar. As she ordered a drink, Waverly crossed the floor, stepped outside and looked up and down the street. If Bristol was hiding out there somewhere he had hidden himself well. There were a few unsavory types here and there but they looked like ordinary lowlifes, not guns for hire.

She headed back inside, stepped next to the woman and said, “I’m glad you came.”

The woman studied her.

“You’re the one who wrote the note?”

“Yes. Where’s Bristol?”

“He’s back at the hotel.”

“Did he follow you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t think he did.”

“Did you check, while you were walking?”

“No-”

“How’d you get away?”

“He thinks I’m in the lobby bar having a drink.” She took a swallow of alcohol. “Tell me who you are and what’s going on. I don’t have much time.”

“Tom Bristol’s a murderer,” Waverly said. “He dangles women off the tops of buildings and then drops them. They always have a red dress, just like the one you’re wearing right now. Let me ask you something. Is that something you bought yourself or did he buy it for you?”

Suddenlythe front door opened and a man’s figure appeared.

It wasn’t Bristol.

It was a man in a black T-shirt.

He was strong but not like a gorilla, more in a taut way. It was too dark to tell if he had a scar on his face. Waverly grabbed the woman’s hand and said, “I think one of us was followed. I know a way out the back. Hurry!”

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Night

Night creptout of the east and smothered Denver in a deep darkness. River sat on top of the middle boxcar staring east into the city lights. Next to him was a knife. Next to the knife was a bottle of Old Milwaukee with only a few sips left. Next to the bottle was a three-battery flashlight. Next to the flashlight was a Colt 45, not his old one-that was still out in the field somewhere with empty chambers-but his new one, the one just like it that he purchased this afternoon.

The chambers were full.

He checked twice.

He had racked his brain all day, going over every inch of his past, trying to detect the slightest clue as to who had hired him all these years, and consequently currently had Vaughn Spencer under employment.

He’d come up empty.

In hindsight he’d been a fool to let such an arrangement creep into his life. He should have resisted the money. He should have just lived a normal life.

Spencer would come for him.

Hopefully that would be tonight.

River would be here.

Come on.

Kill me.

I’m waiting for you.

The specter of tearing through the terrain on the motorcycle towards January’s hogtied body-only to find her gone-kept ricocheting around in River’s brain. Spencer must have been pissed beyond belief to go to the trouble of fetching the woman after he already had what he’d come for.

Where’d he take her?

He took her to the same place as Alexa Blank, clearly, but where was that?

River had spent all afternoon going from one hotel to the next, big and small, luxurious and flea-bagged, knowing that Spencer would now have a more secret place but hoping against hope that he might have taken a comfortable room when he first got into town, which was most likely in the last few days. No one had a registration for Vaughn Spencer, not at any point in the last month.

No one recalled a man with a scar down his face or a tattoo on his forearm.

So where was he?

Was he down in the old abandoned warehouse district?

Did he break into a vacant house that had a For Sale sign in the front yard?

Did he kill a farmer out in the sticks?

Did the person who hired him rent a house for him?

Something flewover River’s head, swooping within feet. It was too dark for birds. It had to be a bat. He checked the skyline and saw nothing, not for some time. Then there it was, a dark silhouette darting back and forth in a rapid, jagged flight.

River found a piece of gravel the size of a marble and waited. When it came close, he tossed it up. The bat darted for it, thinking it was a bug, then diverted just before it hit and knocked itself out.

River nodded with respect.

Good reflexes.

His eyeswere getting heavy. It had been a long, long day. His thoughts drifted back to January and finding her gone. Nothing in his life had been as empty as getting to where she was and then not having her there.