R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

What was he doing with an attorney?

Was he being sued by someone for breaking into their house?

Waverly opened the file.

Inside was a single piece of paper.

7/23/52

Meeting with Tom Bristol.

To do: Hire a PI to investigate the murder of Charley-Anna Blackridge. Got dropped off a building last weekend. Find out if there were witnesses. Find out what the police know. PI should keep Bristol’s name out of it. Keep this case strictly confidential.

Retainer received.

Pay PI well. Get him on the case immediately. Pay more than hourly rate to ensure loyalty and confidence.

Waverly passed the paper to Jaden and said, “Read it.” She waited for the woman to comply and then said, “There’s your proof. Bristol must have gotten wind that there was a witness. He hired Gina Sophia to hire a PI to find out who that witness is. Once he finds out, that witness will end up having an accident, a fatal accident. Doing the investigation this way keeps Bristol’s name out of it. The attorney is bound by law to keep his file confidential, even if she suspects later that Bristol hired her in hindsight to locate and kill a witness to one of his prior murders. You got to hand it to the guy, he’s a smart fellow.”

Waverly looked into Jaden’s eyes.

The woman was processing it.

It didn’t take long.

Her eyes narrowed.

“So what do we do now?”

Waverly tapped her foot.

“I don’t know but I’ll tell you one thing, I’ll bet he’s done the same thing with some of his other murders. I’ll bet he’s hired other lawyers to hire PIs to get information.”

“We need to find out what the PI is finding out,” Jaden said. “What’s his name again?”

“John Stamp.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not personally,” she said. “I know him by reputation.”

“Which is what?”

“Which is, he has phone numbers, lots and lots of phone numbers, people low, people high, people in between, lots and lots of phone numbers. Put enough money in his hand to spread around and he’ll find out anything you want to know.”

Jaden tilted her head.

“So how do we get inside his world?”

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Night

River picked his waythrough the pitch-black terrain in the direction of the road, knowing he was probably veering off to the right or left but going in a straight enough line to hit it sooner or later. The land rose slightly upward, barely perceptible except for slightly heavier legs as he walked. Thirty steps later his head must have crested a rise because the Indian’s taillight came into view.

He exhaled.

Good.

Good.

Good.

No, not good, great.

He got there as fast as he could, fired it up and pointed the front tire into the terrain, slowly, weaving around yucca and boulders. The prairie cactuses were nestled in the undergrowth and impossible to see. The only way he could deal with them was by luck.

The stars were silent but the engine was consuming.

It sputtered and coughed.

It didn’t like the slow speed.

River shifted into neutral and revved it up with enough RPMs to smooth it out.

How far had he come?

With no marker on the road, it was impossible to tell.

The front end of the bike felt mushy.

Was the tire losing air?

Did it have a cactus thorn in it?

The headlight lit up the top of it up very well but from River’s angle it was impossible to tell if the rubber was compromised. He didn’t see a thorn. That didn’t mean anything though.

He kept going.

The bike got more and more difficult to steer.

He brought it to a stop, got off and felt the tire.

Damn it.

Damn it.

Damn it to hell.

It was soft.

Whatever air left in it wouldn’t be there for long.

He got back on and headed farther into the terrain. Within moments the rubber was flat and unwieldy. River kept the handlebars in an iron grip to keep the bike upright.

As best he could tell,he was about where he should be. Any farther and he’d be overshooting. He stopped, swept the headlight around and shouted, “January!”

She didn’t answer.

“January!”

No answer.

He looked back towards the road, or at least in the direction he thought the road was. He memorized the direction in connection with the position of the moon. Getting disoriented wouldn’t be good.

He killed the engine.

The silence of the night was complete, uncut by even a wisp of wind or the batting of an insect’s wings.

“January!”

No answer.

“Make a sound if you’re out here. Anything.”

No sounds came.

He listened harder, holding his breath, stilling the passage of air in and out of his lungs.

No sounds came.

He’d probably veered to the right or the left, but which? He fired up the engine, turned the front end to the right and paralleled the road.

January didn’t appear.

Then something bad happened.

The tire broke away from the rim, shredded or cut or whatever. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The rubber was off. Only the rim was left. As hard as it had been to control the front end with a flat, it was ten times worse with just the rim. The metal dug into the dirt.

Turning was hard.

He kept going.

Suddenly the front end stuck and the bike tipped to the left. River braced his foot down but not quick enough to get leverage.

He lost control.

The bike went down.

The headlight shattered.

The world went black except for a red glow at the rear end. River got the bike upright and turned the headlight switch on and off. It did no good. He felt the light and found jagged glass.

It was shattered.

A strange smell wove through the air.

What was it?

Gas?

Yes, that was it, gas.

What happened?

Did the gas line get pulled loose?

River got oriented with the moon and continued parallel to the road.

He could see nothing except stars.

The smell of gas got worse.

It must be getting on the engine or exhaust and burning.

Suddenly the engine died.

River cranked it over.

It wouldn’t start.

Damn it.

He tried again.

It wouldn’t start.

He tried again.

Same.

A rock twisted his foot. River worked it out of the earth to find it was the size of a basketball. He raised it over his head with both arms and smashed it down onto the guts of the bike with every ounce of strength he had.

The sound was terrible.

The taillight went out.

There.

They were even.

He lookedat the sliver of moon, got oriented to the road and headed that way at a quick walk. Thirty steps later he stumbled on something.

It was January.

Day Three

July 23, 1952

Wednesday Night

When the line died,thunder pounded through Wilde’s veins. “This is a problem,” he said. “I don’t know who was on the other end of that line but I do know one thing, it wasn’t who I thought it was.”

“You mean that Tarzan guy?”

He nodded.

“Dayton River,” Wilde said. “It wasn’t him. I can’t believe it wasn’t him. How come it wasn’t him?”

“Maybe it was that other guy, Mitchum.”

Mitchum.

Robert Mitchum.

The name hadn’t been in Wilde’s brain for some time. Hearing it out loud made his shoulders tighten.

“Maybe,” he said. “Either way I have a bad feeling about this whole thing.”

“So what do we do? The cab’s waiting-”