R. Jagger - A Way With Murder

“I assume that’s a happy ending,” Waverly asked.

“A very happy ending,” Su-Moon said. “Happy for us too. More money that way.”

“What about the cops?”

“What about them?”

“They don’t, you know, interfere?”

Su-Moon smiled.

“All the massage parlors are controlled by an organization,” she said. “That organization puts money in the right hands to make sure things operate smoothly.”

“What kind of organization? Like the mafia?”

“Basically yes,” Su-Moon said. “Except all Asian, no outsiders. I don’t own this place. The organization does. I only manage it. Right now we have three girls working. Tonight we’ll have ten.”

At the end of the hall was a door.

Su-Moon unlocked it then relocked it after they passed through.

On the other side of it was a wooden stairway.

On the second floor was an apartment.

“This is where I live,” Su-Moon said. “And now you.”

The place was a throwback to another land and time, filled with all things eastern, knickknacks and treasures, large and small.

“There’s only one bed,” Su-Moon said.

“I can sleep on the floor.”

“It’s big enough for two,” Su-Moon said. “I don’t mind sharing if you don’t mind.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

They had tea.

Then Waverly got directions to the San Francisco Public Library and headed out.

Time was ticking.

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Afternoon

River got the chainsand ropes and supplies situated at the graveyard and headed back across the topography under a warm Colorado sun. As his car came into sight something was wrong. The passenger door was open and some scumbag was inside ripping him off.

He broke into a sprint, a silent sprint, not shouting, not giving a warning.

There was nothing worth stealing.

That wasn’t the issue.

The issue was respect.

Someone didn’t respect him enough to leave his stuff alone.

That was a mistake.

If someone wanted to screw with him, fine, but do it to his face.

At least be a man about it.

Don’t be a rat-faced sneak.

Rat-faced sneaks ended up dead.

Two choppers with narrow grips came into view at a standstill on the other side of the car. There were three figures total, a woman and two men, heavily tattooed, wearing leather vests and bandanas. The men looked strong even at a distance; the woman too, for that matter.

One would be no problem.

Two would be tricky but doable.

Three was pressing his luck.

If he was smart he’d just hang back and not give them the chance to screw up his life.

Let them go.

Concentrate on tonight.

It made sense but he couldn’t get his feet to stop. He couldn’t control the fire in his brain. He slowed a little so he wouldn’t be totally winded when he got there, but he kept going.

Someone was about to get hurt.

They spotted him charging.

One of the men grabbed a six-foot length of chain from the back of a bike and whipped it through the air.

The man in the car pulled a knife and stepped out.

He was already in a warrior position.

The woman had something in her hand, too small to make out. River sensed a box-cutter. She picked a rock off the ground with her other hand.

“Come on, asshole!”

River stopped ten steps away.

The men were stronger than he thought.

They were dangerous.

He’d seen eyes like that before.

The man whipped the chain on the ground. Dirt exploded. They were already spreading out trying to box him in.

He backed up.

“Come on, asshole,” the woman said. “Don’t chicken out now.”

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Morning

Upstairs Wilde founda naked woman laying face down in bed on the top of the sheets. She was flipped the wrong way with her head at the bottom and her feet by the pillow. Her arms were sprawled out, her right knee was up and her legs were spread. He approached slowly trying to figure out if she was sleeping or dead. Her body had no movement and no sounds of breathing came from her mouth.

He was pretty sure she was dead even though he saw no blood or bruises.

Who did it?

Robert Mitchum?

Suddenly she moved.

Her head came up and flipped to the other side.

There was nothing wrong with her face.

It hadn’t been stabbed or punched.

She hadn’t been suffocated.

Her legs twisted around for a more comfortable position and then all movement stopped.

She was already back asleep.

Wilde stood coffin-quiet, breathing with an open mouth, letting her drift into an even deeper unconsciousness before he took a step. Just as he was about to tiptoe out, something bad happened. The woman rolled onto her back, raised her arms above her head and stretched. Her eyes opened but were faced the other way.

Four steps.

That’s how far Wilde was in the room.

There was no way he’d get out without making a sound. The floor was wood, his shoes were leather, his body was heavy.

He didn’t move, not a muscle.

Go back to sleep.

Go back to sleep.

Go back to sleep.

Suddenly the woman put a hand between her legs and massaged herself in a slow, steady motion. She closed her eyes and spread her knees.

It felt good.

Wilde was six feet away, directly behind the woman’s head. If she turned her face even a bit, or looked up at the ceiling, she’d probably pick him up in her peripheral vision.

The tempo of her motion increased.

Her legs stiffened and spread even farther.

Wilde was just about to take a step back when the woman’s eyes opened and pointed at the ceiling.

He didn’t dare move.

Any movement would be detected.

The woman moaned.

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Afternoon

The San Francisco Public Libraryhad all the past ghosts of the Chronicle on microfiche in a musty old basement corner that was three times quieter than a tomb. If Waverly died there, no one would find her for a week. It took some time and eyestrain but she eventually found a June 12, 1949 article titled Woman Falls to Death , reporting about a woman found at the base of a building in the downtown area early Saturday morning.

The cause of the fall was unknown.

The woman was 24-year-old Kava Every, an architect who worked at Bristol Design Group. She was an attractive blond with a white smile and a Haight Street address.

There was no mention of a red dress.

Shelby Tilt.

That was the reporter’s name at the top of the article.

Waverly hunted down a librarian, got a copy of the microfiche printed for five cents and headed out of the guts of the building into very welcome sunshine.

The air was in the low-70s, a good 20 degrees cooler than Denver, and had a salty hang to it.

It felt more like spring than summer.

From the library in the Civic Center, she hopped on a red Cal Cable trolley that took her into the downtown area on the east side of the city.

The buildings were taller than Denver.

The buzz was louder.

The traffic was faster.

She found the addressshe was looking for, took the elevator to the third floor and got dumped in a vestibule. To the left was a copper door set in a glass cinderblock wall. Lights and movement on the other side distorted through the rounded glass bricks.

The place was hopping.

Above the door was red lettering.