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

the Yavapai County Courthouse. More people were in Western wear, and not for show. It was how they dressed. A couple of horse-drawn wagons competed with automobiles for space at the curbs. These had mostly disappeared from Phoenix in the ’20s. The town was winding down for the night.

We checked in at the Hotel St. Michael at the corner of Gurley and Montezuma streets, using the names Mr. and Mrs. Gene Hammons. We decided to leave questions about the hotel as origin of the telegram about Carrie for later and went upstairs to get warm.

The next morning, a look outside the window showed more than a foot of new snow on the ground. My sweater, leather jacket, and jeans were maybe enough, but not my shoes. Victoria was similarly unprepared, as any Phoenician would be. After breakfast, we went to a store and bought winter boots with zigzag soles to keep our footing in the snow, mufflers, and gloves. The hundred bucks from Captain McGrath was drawing down.

Then we set off in search of Carrie’s father. I had done many death knocks. They never got easier, and you never knew how the parents, siblings, or other next of kin would react.

We walked several blocks west, beyond the Pioneers’ Home, to find the address on Park Avenue. Amid Prescott’s many Victorian and craftsman homes, this property was little more than a shack beneath a tall ponderosa pine. The snow leading to the porch had no footprints. But smoke was coming from the chimney, and one window showed the glow of a light.

We mounted the creaky steps to the porch and prepared to knock. I cocked my head for Victoria to stand away from the door. I did the same on the other side. You never knew when someone might shoot through the door. I knocked, three times, loud.

The door exploded with automatic-weapons fire, the unmistakable sound of a Thompson submachine gun. Victoria crouched, a terrified look in her eyes. I fell to the porch. She did the same. When the firing stopped, the bullet holes in the wood of the door outlined a cockeyed circle, which then fell out. It would have been funny, if the situation were not so deadly.

“Mr. Dell!” I called. “It’s Gene Hammons, Phoenix Police. I need to talk to you about your daughter! Put down the Tommy gun and open the door.”

I got on my haunches, the .45 in my hand, and waited. In a few minutes, the door squeaked open, and we beheld a gaunt man in overalls with a scraggly white beard that had tobacco stains on it. He was unarmed, so I holstered my weapon.

“C’mon,” he said, and turned back inside. We followed him. “Sorry ’bout that. Never know when revenooers will come back here for my still. Had to rebuild it twice already. Want some?”

We took a pass.

The living room, if you wanted to call it that, was crowded with ancient furniture, heavy and dark, and it smelled of gun smoke, alcohol, and piss. A surprisingly well-made fire presided on the hearth. I took the Tommy gun, removing the magazine and the round in the chamber. Then I joined Victoria on a sofa losing its stuffing. He sat across on a tumbledown love seat.

“Hello, pretty lady. Are you police, too?”

“Police photographer,” she said. “Victoria Vasquez.”

“Ah. Big-city stuff. Now what’s this about my Carrie?”

I showed him the photograph of the live girl, the picture that had been sent to me from Prescott. He took it in his left hand and identified it as his daughter. Then I gave him the bad news. As is often the case, he first denied it. Must be a mistake. It was no mistake. After a pause, he sagged and began weeping, his bony shoulders heaving. Victoria sat next to him and put her arm around him.

When he could speak, he asked for the details. I gave him a highly sanitized version, and this brought on more sobbing. He reached for a bottle on the side table and uncorked it, taking a deep pull, stifling a belch. Sharlot Hall was correct: he was a juicer.

He held up the bottle. “Want some?”

We declined again.

“I’m not a good man,” he said finally. “I know that. But I tried to do my best for her after her mother died in ’23. That was when I started drinking, though. I thought she’d be better off down in Tempe. She’d be the first in the family with a college degree. Had her whole life ahead of her. Who would want to do this to her?”

“We don’t know yet,” I said. “Did she have any enemies? Anyone who would wish her harm?”

“No! My God, no. She was the sweetest girl. Everybody loved my Carrie.”

“Any boyfriends here?”

“Nothing serious.”

I asked if we could see her room, and he led us down a hall, opening a door.

Unlike the rest of the house, Carrie’s bedroom had bright wallpaper, a well-made bed covered with stuffed animals, neat student desk and chair, a trophy, phonograph, and records. On the walls were pennants for Prescott High and the Arizona State Teachers College Bulldogs.

I leaned to Victoria and whispered, “Diaries, letters, photos, anything that might be useful. Look under the mattress and beneath drawers.”

She nodded, and I steered Ezra Dell back to the mess of a living room.

I told him about the telegram I received from “Ezra Thayer,” asking me to find Carrie.

He simply said, “Oh.”

“What ‘oh’?” I stood close to him, one arm on each side, nowhere for him to go. It was easier for me to breathe through my mouth. I wondered how long since he had a bath.

“I sent it,” he said. “Sent down the picture, too. Thought you were a private detective.”

“Never mind that. Why did you want me looking for her?”

“I was worried. Hadn’t seen her for months, then she stopped writing, stopped wiring Mrs. Carter money to buy me groceries. I understand why she wanted to keep her distance, my drinking and all, but she still