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

was now telling me that Carrie Dell was running a call-girl service out of the Arizona Biltmore. She was doing it under the protection of a vice detective who loved her, Frenchy Navarre. Pamela said Carrie was running with a fast crowd. Indeed, she was.

The gut was informed by more than a good breakfast at the Saratoga as I wrote a letter to Victoria. Over the past two days I ran down the list of incoming calls to Summer Tours. I dialed each, innocently saying I had reached a wrong number once they answered.

The numbers took me to switchboard operators at the state capitol, city hall, a bank, two respectable law offices, the Grunow Clinic—where Winnie Ruth Judd had worked as a medical secretary—and Central Arizona Light and Power Co.

I wondered how many legislators, doctors, lawyers, and executives were clients of Summer Tours. The only thing missing from the lineup was an Indian chief. In one case, the number was answered by a woman who said, “Racing News.” Greenbaum? Fast crowd.

Several calls were made from rooms at the Westward Ho, San Carlos, and other hotels. Every few days a call came from the Arizona Biltmore, but I suspected that was from Carrie. Several had repeatedly called Summer Tours, a few only once. The total individual numbers calling totaled thirty-five between May and September last year.

Two numbers didn’t require a call because I already knew them. One was the number to the detective bureau at police headquarters. The other was Kemper Marley’s line.

Only one number gave me pause: It rang directly to Barry Goldwater’s home on Garfield Street.

Barry was one of the handsomest men in Phoenix. He could have any woman in town that he wanted, and if the stories were true, he’d already had quite a number of them. Why would he want a prostitute? I’d never been with one, not even when I was a soldier. I was afraid of getting the clap. The mystery continued when I worked vice cases, although I suppose the appeal of no-strings-attached sex was strong for some and the only option for a married man. Still…Barry?

Maybe my gut was wrong. Carrie’s business might have been involved in liquor or gambling. Maybe Summer Tours was simply that—pretty girls chastely on the arms of lonely older men at restaurants. I was too cynical to buy that.

That afternoon I walked over to Goldwater’s, which occupied a four-story building with Dorris-Heyman Furniture Company at First Street and Adams in the heart of the retail district. I purchased a silk tie with an abstract design to protect myself from Barry’s scolding once I found him.

He was alone in his office, feet up on his desk, working a crossword puzzle.

“The pressure-filled life of a department store executive,” I said.

Barry’s face lit up, and he set the puzzle aside.

“Gene! Come on in. I hope you came to shop…”

I held up the necktie.

“Ah, very good. What’s up?”

“Tell me about a young woman named Cynthia.”

“Cynthia?” He wasn’t a good liar, and I told him so.

He lowered his legs to the floor, sighed, and said I’d better shut the door.

He ran his hands through his wavy dark hair. “How do you know about Cynthia?”

“That’s not her name, for starters.”

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it.

“Her name was Carrie Dell. Blonde, blue eyes, about five-five, beautiful, from Prescott, and a student at the teachers’ college.”

“Goddamn it all to hell, Gene. What are you trying to tell me? The description sounds familiar. Unforgettable, really. But what’s this about being a student and from Prescott? Cynthia was a writer, visiting last year from Cleveland. She’s the granddaughter of John Lincoln. You know, the Lincoln Electric millionaire? His wife has tuberculosis, and he brought her to the Desert Mission in Sunnyslope to recuperate. She got much better. Now he’s giving big bucks to the mission, promoting Phoenix for health-seekers. Anyway, I got to know Cynthia last summer.”

Oh, Carrie was an even better liar than I gave her credit for.

I pulled out a Chesterfield and asked if I could smoke. He asked for one, too, and I lit us both.

“Barry, what do you mean you knew the girl?”

“What do you mean?” His voice was angry.

I didn’t back down. “You damned well know what I mean.”

He quickly cooled. “Did I sleep with her? Sure.”

“Did you pay for it?”

His face reddened. “That’s not the kind of thing I usually do, but…”

I asked how much.

“Three hundred. It was worth every penny. Even though she made me use a condom.”

Now it was my turn to fight for words. That was an astounding sum. The highest-priced call girls who worked the hotels in Phoenix during the height of the tourist season charged fifty bucks. The girls at Marley’s disreputable house charged far less and netted even lower sums because of Kemper’s overhead charge.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Gene. I really like this girl. I’ve never met anyone quite like her. She’s smart as hell. Creative. Are you sure she lied about her name and all?”

I nodded and asked how he met her, expecting him to mention Summer Tours.

He said, “She’s a friend of Gus Greenbaum.”

Big Cat?

I waited until he was willing to meet my eyes.

“Well, she’s dead, Barry. Murdered.”

His hand shook and ash fell on his tailored vest. He didn’t even notice.

I sat in one of the chairs facing his desk. “I hate to have to tell you, my friend, but you were taken in.” I gave it to him straight, and although it was inconceivable that Goldwater killed her, I asked him where he was on the day she was murdered. He had an alibi, working at the store all day, then a party at the Arizona Club on the ninth floor of the Luhrs Building. He grew angry at having to answer until I spoke next.

“She was pregnant, Barry.”

When I finally stood and exited the office, I’m not even sure Barry was aware that I had left.

Twenty-Five

I am in Belleau Wood again. Unlike so much of the tree-denuded