R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

It was unlocked, just like they’d left it when they ran out last night, just like he left it after he checked the place last night.

Two doors down, a rough dog barked.

Wilde stepped inside.

The air was still and quiet.

“London?”

No one answered.

“London? You here?”

Silence.

The lower level was as before. He headed upstairs, not bothering to take the gun out of his belt. London’s bedroom was vacant.

Wilde sat on the edge of the bed.

She was dead.

She was dead because he was stupid.

He flopped back and closed his eyes.

He thought he was tough.

He was wrong.

He was just a guy who did stupid things and got people killed.

He needed to get out of the PI business.

He needed to get out of Denver.

He needed to put all this behind him and hope to never get anyone else killed.

Day Four

July 24, 1952

Thursday Morning

Just east of the financial district,over on Grant Street, a number of former mansions had been converted into upscale offices over the years. One of those structures had a fancy wooden sign to the right of an oversized maple door that said, John Stamp, Private Investigator.

Waverly headed for it down a fancy cobblestone walkway and put her hand on the doorknob.

She paused long enough to consider the sanity, or lack thereof, of what she was about to do.

Then she mumbled, Just do it , and stepped in.

That step brought her into a two-story foyer with a winding staircase that led to the second level. Beneath her feet was Mediterranean tile. The walls were paneled and the window coverings were an expensive weave. It was the Brown Palace on a private scale.

A stately drop-dead-gorgeous redhead with deep cleavage and curvy hips appeared from another room.

“Are you looking for John?”

Yes.

She was.

Five minutes later she was in his upstairs office with the door closed.

The manwas a movie star.

He tapped two cigarettes out of a pack, offered her one, then pushed hers back in when she declined. He lit up from a gold lighter and blew a perfect ring.

“What’s your name?” he said.

Waverly leaned forward in her chair.

“Tom Bristol killed Charley-Anna Blackridge,” she said. “You’ve been hired by him, through Gina Sophia, because Bristol found out somehow that there was a witness. After you find out who it is, that person is going to end up dead.”

The corner of Stamp’s mouth turned up ever so slightly.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re the one who’s been nipping at Bristol’s tail out in San Francisco.”

The words took her by surprise.

She kept the expression of her face.

“Yes.”

“You’re ruining the man’s life,” he said. “Leave him alone.”

“He’s a killer.”

Stamp leaned back in his chair, unimpressed.

“I generally don’t share information about my clients with third parties,” he said. “Here’s a piece of fact though. I’ve been hired to find out who killed Charley-Anna Blackridge. Once I figure that out- and I will -I’m giving the name and all the supporting evidence to Bristol. He’s then going to give it to you.”

“To me?”

He nodded.

“He wants you off his back,” he said. “Getting you on the right track is his way of accomplishing that.”

Waverly hardened her face.

“Charley-Anna isn’t the only one he killed,” she said. “There was another woman out in San Francisco by the name of Kava Every. She was a young female architect in Bristol’s firm. They were having a secret affair. There was another woman out in Cleveland, too. Her name was Bobbi Litton.”

Stamp’s face reacted, not much, but enough to show he hadn’t been privy.

Waverly stood up and walked to the door.

Halfway through she turned and said over her shoulder, “It looks like you don’t know your client as well as you thought. If you proceed from this point on, you’ll be an accomplice. I’ll be sure you end up being held accountable as such.”

Then she was gone.

Day Four

July 24, 1952

Thursday Morning

River’s sense of intrusionwas well founded because the dark silhouette of a man was approaching, fifty yards away on foot, closing hard with a purpose. He was strong and carried his body like a warrior. His posture was vaguely familiar.

River threw on clothes and had the gun in hand by the time the figure was close enough to recognize.

It was Robert Gapp.

He looked more like Robert Mitchum now than ever.

River motioned the man into the boxcar and closed the door.

They hugged.

The man focused on January, at first her face, then her tattoos, then her eyes. “You’re too good for him,” he said.

She smiled.

“It’s the other way, actually.”

“No, trust me, I have it right.” Then to River, “We need to talk.”

“I already figured that.”

They stepped outside.

Gapp got right to the point.

“There’s a dick named Bryson Wilde running around town trying to figure out who dropped that red dress off the roof this past weekend. I was buying her drinks and squeezing her ass right up until the minute she left.”

“That was stupid.”

“It would have been if I was the one who killed her,” Gapp said. “That’s not what happened though. What happened is that you killed her and set me up to take the fall. You paid her to pick me up and be seen with me. Then you killed her.”

Gapp stopped talking.

He let the words hang in silence.

River studied his face to see if he was joking.

He wasn’t.

“That’s bullshit,” River said.

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is, total, one hundred percent, falling down dead drunk bullshit. Why would I do anything like that?”

Gapp tightenedhis brow.

“I’m still chewing on it but once I get my brain convinced, I’m going to have to kill you. You know that. The only surprise in all this is that I’m giving you a warning.”

River let the corner of his mouth turn up.

“You’re going to kill me?”

“You forced me,” Gapp said. “You’d do the same.”

River picked up a piece of gravel and threw it at a pigeon down on the tracks.

He missed.

The bird and three more like it took to the sky.

He turned to Gapp.

“What we need to do is get this PI off your ass. We’ll do it tonight. Meet me back here at nightfall.”

Day Four

July 24, 1952

Thursday Morning

Wilde stayed alonein London’s bed until dawn, neither sleeping nor awake, then headed over to Alabama’s hotel and rapped on the door until her groggy face answered. Her hair was a mess, clearly the loser in the fight with the pillow.

She stretched.

“What time is it?”

Wilde stepped inside and shut the door.

“Time to get to work,” he said.

“Did London ever show up?”

Wilde shook his head.

“No.”

“That’s not good. I got to pee and take a shower,” she said.

“Do ’em both at the same time. The clock’s ticking.”

She headed for the bathroom and said over her shoulder, “There needs to be a law against having to wake up to you. I’m going to need coffee.”

“Fine.”

“I mean, as soon as I step out of the bathroom.”

“What does that mean? You expect me to go fetch it while you’re showering?”

She nodded.

“There you go.”

An hour laterthey pulled up to an abandoned warehouse in the old industrial area north of the BNSF rail yard. The building was brick, four-stories, and boarded tight. Wilde worked at a window in the back until they got access, then led the way up the interior stairway to the roof.