R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

“How?”

“Sneak up from behind.”

“I’m coming with you.”

River considered it.

“One of us needs to stay here,” he said. “If we both leave she might too.”

“You stay here,” she said. “You’re the target. Let me go get her.”

River studied her.

“Are you up for it, after last night?”

She nodded.

“I’m fine.”

River frowned.

“It’s too risky,” he said. “Spencer might be there.”

“Did you see him?”

“No.”

January put her armsaround River’s neck, brought her mouth up to his ear and nibbled on it. “I’ll take the car and head the opposite way,” she said. “After I’m good and gone and out of sight, I’ll swing around to the back and park way off where she won’t see or hear anything. Then I’ll close in by foot. You stay here and keep her focused on the prize.”

River ran his fingers down her back.

It was risky.

Still, there was no way everything was going to come to a resolution without risk.

“Okay but be careful,” he said.

They stepped back inside.

January slipped River’s gun into her jeans and draped the T-shirt over it.

“When you get her, signal me from the roof,” River said. “I’ll head over on foot. Bring her down to the ground level but stay in the building. Once I get there, you can tell me where the car is. I’ll go get it and bring it over. Then we’ll get her in the trunk.”

January kissed him.

“Deal,” she said.

Day Four

July 24, 1952

Thursday Morning

Wilde’s officewas dark and undisturbed when he got there. No one had broken in. He kick-started the coffee machine, dangled a cigarette in his lips and called Secret St. Rain at her hotel.

She actually answered.

“You dropped off the face of the earth,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“Where have you been?”

“It’s complicated.”

“We need to talk.”

A tone must have been in his voice because she said, “About what?”

“About you not really being Secret St. Rain,” he said. “About you being Emmanuelle LeFavre.”

A pause.

“How’d you find out?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is that you lied to me. What I want to know now is how many more lies were piled on top of that one.”

Silence.

“Tell me none,” he said.

“I can’t do that. I’m sorry Bryson, I really am. I didn’t mean for things to get like this.”

The line went dead.

Two minutes laterthe door opened.

London stuck her head in, saw Wilde was alone and ran to him. She wrapped her arms around his body and laid her head on his chest. Her blood trembled. Her breath was quick. She wore the same clothes as last night.

“I thought you were dead,” she said.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, that’s the problem. The taxi guy dropped me off at the phone booth but the call never came,” she said. “I waited an hour. Then a car stopped on the opposite side of the street. I ran. I didn’t wait to find out what was about to happen.”

Wilde rubbed her back.

“It’s okay.”

“I was too scared to go home,” she said. “I went to your house. You never showed up. I figured you were dead.”

Wilde shook his head.

“I almost was. He took a shot but not a good one. I drove all over the damn city looking for you,” he said. “Then I waited outside your house.”

She exhaled.

“Do you think he killed Alexa?”

“I’m positive he did unless he was smart enough to figure out the map was a fake,” he said. Hearing the words out loud elevated his thoughts to a new level. “That’s what we need to do. We need to tell him it was a fake.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” A beat then, “Dayton River has some kind of connection to this guy. Alabama has River’s place staked out. If the guy shows up, maybe we can communicate with him-tell him he’s got a fake.”

London pulled back and looked into Wilde’s eyes.

“Why don’t we just tell River to give the guy the message?”

Wilde considered it.

He’d been hoping to ambush the guy.

The problem now was time.

Time was critical.

He lit a pack of matches on fire and watched the flames.

“Even if we get the message to him, he’ll think it’s a trick. He’ll probably think we’re just trying to draw him out.”

“We’ll get the real one back from Bluetone,” she said. “Then we’ll tell him what the problem was. The story’s the truth and he’s got to recognize it. It’s too convoluted to make up.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

Wilde paced.

“The other option is to wait and hope he shows up,” he said. “I’m tired of him being the one in control.”

Day Four

July 24, 1952

Thursday Morning

Waverly calledthe Chicago investigator, Drew Blackwater, to see if he’d found out anything about Bristol or the tattoo guy who broke into Waverly’s apartment. It turned out that he had.

“The guy you described with the scar and tattoo-the one I thought sounded vaguely familiar-he’s been around town before,” he said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You got a name?”

“Not yet,” Blackwater said. “What I have is a bartender who remembers him. That’s all.”

“Did you check the hotels?”

“Yes, for him and Bristol. Nada on both of them.”

“Can you keep digging?

“I can but the bill’s racking up.”

“I’m good for it, I promise.”

Silence.

“Where can I contact you?”

“You can’t.”

“Then call me in a couple of hours.”

“Thanks.” She almost hung up but pulled the phone back and said, “Drew, you still there?”

He was.

“When did that bartender see the tattoo guy?”

“He wasn’t certain but it was a ways back,” he said. “More than a year.”

“Two years?”

“Possibly.”

“August of ’50?”

“Possibly.”

“So he’s the one.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Well he certainly could be the one.”

“I’ll give you that much,” he said. “Maybe he works for this Bristol guy.”

“Maybe.”

“Can I give you a piece of advice?”

“No.”

He laughed.

“Good, because here it comes. Let it go. That’s my advice, let it go.”

“Someday.”

“If you don’t it will kill you,” he said. “Either from the inside or the outside, but one or the other for sure.”

“I’ll call you later today. Have something for me.”

Waverly’s stomach growledand she ended up at a ratty diner with a plate full of meatloaf and mashed potatoes in front of her and a glass of milk at the side.

She needed to check in with the boss man Shelby Tilt but couldn’t.

If he had any idea how deep she was, he’d pull her off faster than he’d yank her panties down if she ever gave him half a chance.

His cigar-stained face was best left in the dark for right now.

Clouds were building up outside.

Their bellies were black.

A storm was coming.

When she got backto her hotel, Su-Moon was sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the building with her knees hugged up.

“Big news,” she said. “I just called my investigator back in Cleveland to see if he had anything else for me. It turns out that Bristol wasn’t just in town the exact same day as when that woman-Bobbi Litton-got dropped off a roof, but there was a piece of paper in her purse that said: