City of Dark Corners, Jon Talton [top 10 best books of all time TXT] 📗

trade I learned many years ago. I’m sure you can do it, too.”

That much was true, even though we were on different sides of the law.

“So why pick my lock?”

After savoring his Cuban, he spoke. “I didn’t expect to find you at home. I supposed you were off with your girlfriend. See, I have a problem. I foolishly got involved with a girl who got herself killed. She went by Cynthia, but I learned her name was really Carrie Dell. I gave her a loan to help get her business started, and she paid me back in more ways than one. But something went wrong and she was murdered. A little birdie at police headquarters told me you were investigating that killing, even though you’re officially off the force. I assumed you might have some of her records that might be embarrassing to me.”

I set the .45 beside me and lit a nail. “That might implicate you as her killer?”

“Not at all. Killing is bad for business, especially the way the poor girl was sawed apart.”

I had to admit the Dell homicide was more like a lust murder, like the University Park Strangler, than an organized crime hit.

I said, “Maybe I can help if I know what you’re looking for?”

He chuckled. “You’d like to help put me in the gallows for killing her. Nevertheless, Carrie might have written down my name and phone number. I’d prefer that not become public record.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I’m enjoying becoming part of respectable Phoenix. I like this little city. It’s going places. The truth is I was going to find this information and pilfer it.”

“Is that so, Big Cat?”

He looked confused enough that I knew he was not Big Cat.

I said, “My problem, Gus, is that somebody set off a smoke bomb below my office and used that distraction to steal the records I found from Carrie.” I lied about his phone number in the list from the answering service. “So whatever worries you was taken. My expectation is that whoever took it has already stuck it in an incinerator. I don’t think they’re going to give it to the newspapers, and what if they did? Carrie is still classified as a suspicious death, not a homicide.”

“Or they’re going to try to blackmail me. Look, Gene, I’m a married man. A divorce lawyer could make sure my wife could take half of what I own. I don’t need that distraction. And I answer to people in Chicago who wouldn’t like it at all.”

It was such a prosaic answer that I almost believed it. “A guy like you could arrange an ‘accident’ to eliminate your wife. Otherwise, I expect you know how to handle blackmail, Gus. But if you hear from someone in that racket trying to lean on you, let me know. I can help.”

He set the cigar in the ashtray.

“I expect you could.” He leaned forward. “Now, if you won’t plug me, I’d like to stand and leave and thank you for the conversation.”

“Not quite yet,” I said. “You know how Carrie was murdered. Please don’t tell me about your buddies on the force feeding you information. I know all about Frenchy as your bagman. He went off the reservation and got quite a hammering for it.”

“That was Cyrus Cleveland, my man on the South Side. I agreed something had to be done. But Frenchy pinning a murder on a Negro didn’t sit well with Cyrus, so I let him set Navarre straight. What’s your point?”

I said, “Who murdered Carrie Dell?”

He shrugged. “A psycho. This was deeply personal. The year I was born, 1893, Chicago held a world’s fair to celebrate Columbus reaching the New World. A very big deal, the White City. Only trouble was a guy named Dr. Holmes who built a hotel catering to single women. And he murdered them there. I’m told it had soundproof rooms and mazes. He confessed to murdering twenty-seven, but it might have been two hundred. He dissected some. Maybe Carrie ran into a Dr. Holmes, and if that’s true you have more victims. Or…”

I studied his face but it was grim, unreadable.

“Or?” I prompted.

“There is no ‘or,’ Hammons. Just a figure of speech. Carrie ran into a maniac. Phoenix is turning into a real city.”

After he was gone, I locked the door and propped a chair against it. A long hour passed before I fell asleep, the pistol under my pillow. I dreamed of taxicabs.

Twenty-Six

Friday, June 28th, 1929. Juliet took in a double-feature at the Fox and walked west on Washington in a crowd as the other theaters let out. I followed half a block behind. It looked to be another fruitless night, and McGrath would shut down my attempt at baiting the killer.

Then a taxi pulled up and paced her.

I heard the driver lean out and call. “May I take you somewhere, pretty lady?”

She came two steps closer to the curb. I thought: Do not get in that cab!

It might have been innocent, but I realized here was one thing that had evaded our attention: a driver and vehicle that could go anywhere without raising suspicion.

Suddenly, he opened the door and started to wrestle her inside. She yelled and kicked him.

Then I was there with my Detective Special out. Don was soon at my side and we braced him against the taxi with difficulty. Although he had a meek face and average build, he was strong as hell. It took both of us to get him in cuffs, with a nipper for good measure. He argued, then begged to be let go. But the game was up.

In the back seat were ropes, barbed wire, a sock, and a rag soaked in chloroform. A penknife was in his front pocket.

We sweated him for twelve hours until finally, under my continued questioning, catching him stumble through lie after lie, as he told and retold his activities on the dates of the murders, he broke. It happened when I lied to him and said