City of Dark Corners by Jon Talton (novels to read .txt) 📗

be a son of a bitch all the time. After she left the room, he read the report like a predator stalking dinner.

“He lives at 321 West Almeria. Nearly new house. But I don’t see anything I can use to lean on him.”

I handed him an envelope. “That’s why I’m returning your five hundred. I’ll keep the gold piece for my trouble. Greenbaum seems untouchable, even for you.”

“Why can’t you do private detective things? Follow the man? Maybe he’s a rape-o who likes jailbait. Or a weenie wagger? That would be rich. Or better yet, a homosexual. Why not try?”

“Because I don’t want to make enemies of the Chicago Outfit or a guy who came up under Meyer Lansky.” I thought about that car parked across from my apartment in the middle of the night. It might have had nothing to do with me. Or everything.

I said, “We’re talking about a stone-cold killer here. Look, Kemper, people come to the West to reinvent themselves. Maybe that’s partly Greenbaum’s story. You’re going to be richer and more powerful with your liquor distributorship. If you want a piece of Greenbaum’s action, you need to negotiate with Chicago. Offer them a piece of your liquor action.”

“What’s mine is mine, and I’m keeping it. That’s why we have to be vigilant about the communist threat. Do you listen to Father Coughlin on the radio?”

“No.”

“I never trusted Catholics, but the man makes good sense about the Reds and the Jews. America needs to wake up. You don’t approve of my methods, but what we did to that camp sends a message that Phoenix won’t tolerate this. It’s bad enough that we’re stuck with the lungers in their tents up in Sunnyslope, with that rich do-gooder from Cleveland, John Lincoln, protecting them at the Desert Mission. The more money he gives, the more we’ll attract these sick vagrants. It’s too damned bad the Klan died out here.” When I didn’t respond, he gave a reptilian smile. “By the way, what really happened with that young lady who was found dead by the tracks?”

I fought to keep my expression neutral, forced a casual shrug. “I read about it in the newspaper. Sad thing.”

“Might be worse than that. I heard she was murdered.”

“Where did you get that?”

“I have my sources, Hammons. I own some city detectives; don’t think I don’t.”

I didn’t doubt it. I asked why, if this were true, he didn’t ask them to help with his Greenbaum problem.

“Because you have brains, Hammons.”

Great. Kemper Marley considered me a brain. I tried to steer the conversation gently back, asking which sources had told him about the dead girl. But he leaned in to lecture me on the danger of “bums and communists and shines” on the move across America, that even our womenfolk weren’t safe from their depredations.

I silently added Kemper Marley to Frenchy Navarre on my list of suspects. Either one of them could have procured my business card and planted it in the victim’s purse. Why either man would want to set me up was a different question.

“I’m not done with you, Hammons,” he gave his benediction and tossed the money back. “As I said, it’s a retainer.”

“For what?”

His eyebrows squirmed. “Something will come up, trust me.”

I didn’t trust many people, especially after being kicked off the police force. Victoria, I trusted. Don, most of the time. Marley, never. I left the money beside my tea and left, declining his invitation to show me his horses.

Outside with his steeds, he called, “I can take one of these out on the range and survive on jerky and beans for weeks.”

I shook my head and walked to the car. He’d be a clown if he weren’t so dangerous. But I never much liked or trusted clowns.

Now, after lunch and back at the office, I saw Marley’s envelope on my desk again, wrinkled from its repeated journeys like an old man’s face. I’d heard of a bad penny. This was a bad five C-notes. Gladys said a delivery boy had dropped it off. I sighed and put it back in the safe.

More important matters required my attention. I tightened my gut and wielded my letter opener like a trench knife, mercilessly slitting open the envelope and letting the photograph and a sheet of paper spill onto my blotter.

It was her.

The black-and-white photograph showed an image of a ravishing blonde in a light-colored dress, sitting on a bench in a garden. She was stunningly alive, with a broad smile. I studied her features, trying to wish this ugly reality away like the morning after a vivid nightmare. But it was no good. The paper answered the basic questions I had asked: nineteen years old, five-feet-four inches tall, one hundred ten pounds, blue eyes, a birthmark on her left arm.

It was her.

The dead girl.

“Our body.”

I picked up the phone and dialed. For once, Don answered.

“Come to my office now, please.”

“On my way,” he said.

* * *

Don locked on the photograph. His shiny, expensive new shoes were propped up on my desk. He took his time.

Finally: “Ezra Thayer is big in mining. He sold the Monte Christo mines in Yavapai County back in ’26 for a million bucks. He might wish he had them back if Roosevelt goes to silver coinage after he’s inaugurated in March. The man also lives in Phoenix.”

I remembered that now. Thayer was a major player in the Arizona mining industry. “How could he have a nineteen-year-old daughter? Thayer is older, right?”

“Mid-seventies.” He lowered his feet on the floor and reached for the phone.

“Long distance,” he said. That would be money I didn’t care to spend. “I want to speak to the operator in Prescott, Arizona.” He lit a nail while waiting and took a drag. “Hello, this is Detective Hammons of the Phoenix Police Department. Can you tell me if there’s a number in the Prescott exchange for an Ezra Thayer?” He spelled both the first and last names. “What about other Thayers?” Then he thanked her