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

“God, that’s good. The professors don’t like to see students smoking. We’re supposed to set an example.” She expertly blew smoke rings.

“Carrie,” I prompted.

“Something has happened to her, hasn’t it?”

I nodded. I hesitated to give it up but decided to take a chance.

“She was murdered.”

“Oh, my God.” Pamela put her hand over her mouth. She shook and looked as if she’d been punched in the gut. You can tell a lot about someone by the reaction when you first disclose the homicide of a loved one or friend. I was satisfied that Pamela was genuinely shocked. I resisted the temptation to give her a comforting hug.

“She was such a sweet girl, at least at first. From Prescott, you know. We were good friends her freshman year, but she struck me as very naive. First time she’d been away from home.” More smoke rings. “Then we drifted apart when she started running with a fast crowd.”

“You seem like a fast crowd all by yourself.”

She laughed. “Not like this.”

“Tom Albert?”

“Him? He can’t decide whether to be a bohemian artist or a hoodlum. He was almost expelled for selling cocaine. I was surprised he wasn’t expelled, but I guess they needed him on the football and baseball teams.”

“But she broke up with him.”

“Word was she was seeing an older man.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t ask me his name, because I never knew. Could he have been involved in her death?”

I said I didn’t know and asked her to keep the killing quiet.

“Consider it on ice, Gene. You can count on me.”

I hoped so.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” She hiked her skirt higher.

“Yes.”

“A serious one?”

“A serious one, Pamela. This fast crowd Carrie was running with. Tell me more.”

She dropped her skirt and looked out on the lawn.

“Students mixing with older men. Dressed like you. She started going into Phoenix. She had money, where before she was barely getting by like most of us. Sometimes she stayed late and got into trouble with the dorm proctor. I asked her what was going on. Told her to dish. But she wouldn’t. She was a very different girl from when she first came here. She didn’t want to be a teacher anymore, wanted to go to New York City and be a writer. She was very big on Edna St. Vincent Millay, Pearl Buck, Willa Cather. A pretty eclectic lot.”

“Did you read anything of hers?”

“She wouldn’t show me. Said she wasn’t good enough yet. I think she liked the idea of being a famous writer more than actually doing the work. By this time, last semester, she had assumed this persona. Not at all like the old Carrie, taught to be a good girl. She knew she was beautiful and used it to get what she wanted. She reveled in being the bad girl, cutting classes, smoking openly on campus, breaking hearts, trashing friendships. It was repellant to watch but hypnotic, too, because she was so lovely, you see? Like watching a skyscraper burn down.”

“Like Millay’s ‘First Fig’ poem,” I said. “‘My candle burns at both ends…’”

“A cop knows poetry.” She tossed her hair. In the sun it was the color of a new penny. “I’m impressed. Yes, Carrie loved that one. Frankly, I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t come back this semester. But I had no idea she would end up like this. It’s awful. If you’re a Sir Galahad, I hope you’ll save me and not go for the hopeless bad girls.”

I ignored that last line. “Why would Carrie have one of my business cards?”

“God, I have no idea.”

I thanked her and stood.

“May I have one of your cards?” she smiled. “Never know when I might need a private dick.”

I hesitated, then handed her one.

“If you think of anything else, call me. And be careful.”

She smiled. “All honey, honey.”

* * *

I drove back to Phoenix, past the Insane Asylum, with too many clues in my head.

Frenchy Navarre buying butcher tools.

The mysterious telegram and photo of Carrie.

Kemper Marley knowing about a murder that the police department was keeping on the down low.

Jimmy Darrow seeing a Packard parked by where the body was found.

A voodoo marking in the dirt of the crime scene—had the killer returned or was something else going on?

Carrie’s boyfriend working at a slaughterhouse.

The fast crowd.

Carrie was pregnant.

A naive girl turned into a fast girl, a hard girl—or a wronged girl?—then into a dead girl.

How much misdirection and coincidence were hiding in all this?

I caught sight of Zoogie Boogie shuffling along by the auto courts and pulled into a driveway in front of him. He tried to turn and make a run for it, but I got out.

“Don’t you rabbit on me. Get in the damned car.”

His shoulders drooped and he complied.

Zoogie Boogie aka Henry Joshua Porter. He was thirty-five, average height and build with a pinched face. Today he wore a cream sportscoat with dirt on the edges and tan flannel pants well past their prime and way too inadequate for the cool weather. His shoes were blown open at the toes. You could tell the Depression in how many people wore shoddy shoes. He was one of my snitches.

“You get out of Florence, Zoogie?”

He wobbled his head up and down like a child’s toy. “I did.”

“Only a four-year jolt for knocking over that candy store with a gun. You’re a lucky man. Staying clean?”

“Straight and narrow.” He held his hands eight inches apart in front of his face and moved them up and down in formation. “Keepin’ it straight and narrow. Except, when I went in the joint the economy was roaring along and now…” He dropped his hands in his lap.

“Well, it’d be a shame if I patted you down and found some reefers. Your probation officer would have you back on the next bus to prison.”

“Please, Detective Hammons…”

It was so convenient that few people knew I had been cut loose from the cops. I actually felt sorry for Zoogie Boogie. He was a vet and came back from France with severe