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

and bawling. “Is that what happened to her? Oh, my God. It wasn’t me. I haven’t seen her in months. You’ve gotta believe me, sir. I’m innocent.”

Unfortunately for my investigation, I did. He didn’t seem to have the ability, cool-headedness, and cruel imagination to plan and carry out something like Carrie’s murder. He also didn’t fit the profile of someone who had been following me, leaving threatening notes, and setting off the smoke bomb that allowed pilfering of Carrie’s love notes and diary.

Still, I asked him where he was the day and night before her body was discovered. He claimed he was in classes during the day and working at the stockyards that night. If it checked out, he could be removed from the list of potential suspects.

I drove him back to campus and let him out. He looked back at me several times as he walked away, no confidence in his movements, wishing I were a bad dream.

* * *

Tom was the easy mark. Things became more difficult with the others. Kemper Marley knew about Carrie—too damned much. And he was curious about the case, asking Navarre what was going on. He was worried that I might investigate it. Frenchy bought butcher tools, and he was certainly capable of the worst violence. Her diary mentioned him as her lover. If either he or Kemper or Big Cat got her pregnant and she demanded he leave his wife or else—things might have escalated from there. Means, opportunity, and motive.

Unfortunately, bracing them like I had Tom Albert wouldn’t work. Both were too cool and connected. Nosing around their properties carried unacceptable risks. I didn’t even know who Big Cat was. Making progress would require other means. And every time I seemed close to catching a break, something kicked the solution further away, whether it was the office break-in that got Carrie’s writings or the murders of three men.

This last pushed me into a fight with Victoria that night. I told her she needed to get out of town. However much she wanted to help me, however much she was confident with her .38 Special, she was a target. I didn’t want her to be the next Ezra Dell, Jack Hunter, or Zoogie Boogie. She knew everything I did, and this would make her especially vulnerable.

Her response was clear and fierce. “There’s no way I’m leaving you alone to face this, Eugene! You wouldn’t leave it alone and now it’s too late, for both of us. We either catch this bastard or he kills us.”

No games or manipulative tears from my lover. It was one of the many things that drew me to her. But I also knew I’d never forgive myself if she was hurt or killed. So I manipulated her and didn’t feel guilty about it.

She said she needed to work on her portfolio, but only so many photographic opportunities could be had in little Phoenix, a burg people in New York would look down on. What if she took a month’s vacation to Los Angeles, a real city that was so much more photogenic? She could stay with her brother there. I would keep her up to speed on my investigation. Then she could come back.

She steamed. “Maybe you want to make love to Pamela while I’m gone.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“What is true with you, Eugene? When Don pulled your business card out of Carrie’s purse, all you had to do was walk away.”

“And let her murderer get away with it? Find a new way to frame me? Or kill somebody else?”

“Well, too late for that, isn’t it?”

I tried to touch her but she pulled away.

Two nights later, I walked her to a dark green Pullman car on the westbound Sunset Limited. She tipped the redcap extra for lugging her equipment. I received a chilly kiss, the briefest embrace. Then the conductor called all aboard, the locomotive unleashed its bell and gave two long toots of the whistle, and the long train started rolling. Big wheels with body-cutting flanges rolling against steel rails. The last car, its Sunset drumhead lighted, disappeared into the darkness. And I was alone.

Twenty-One

As I walked back to my car on Fourth Avenue, I heard a ruckus on Madison Street. It was the unmistakable sound of a man on the losing end of a fight.

At first they were shadows, four figures in the darkness kicking a man who lay in a fetal position against a boxcar beside a warehouse. As I got closer, I heard his moans as he received each kick. Then bones breaking.

Drawing my .45, I walked closer, fired the pistol in the air, and shouted, “Police!”

The beating stopped, and I was close enough to see four muscled-up white men assessing their fight-or-flight options. I wasn’t willing to offer that.

“Don’t make me kill you,” I said. “Hands in the air, now. Face the boxcar and put your palms on it, keep ’em up. I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

They shuffled to the AT&SF freight car, which proclaimed “The Scout: For Economy Travel West” on the side, and put their hands against it. Their knuckles were raw and bloody.

The victim was on his knees, spitting up blood and picking a tooth from the street. His suit was a mess from where they had pulled the coat down halfway to immobilize his arms as they assaulted him. Keeping the .45 on the thugs, I reached out my other hand and hefted him up. A grateful, if bruised and bloody, face caught the light.

“Thanks, Geno, you saved my life.”

Frenchy Navarre.

I left him to put himself together as best he could and searched the crew. Thug One carried a .25 caliber Baby Browning and a switchblade. Thug Two was armed with a “broomhandle” Mauser—I hadn’t seen one of these since the war. The third goon was underdressed—only a pair of brass knuckles. Thug Four had a snubnosed Colt Detective .38 in a shoulder rig. It was amazing they hadn’t decided to turn all this firepower on