A Way With Murder

enough to hold a newly made pot of coffee that got poured into two cups.

“Sorry, no cream,” she said.

“This is fine.”

Wilde tapped out a Camel, lit it and held it out to see if she wanted it, which she did. He fixed a second for himself and they ended up outside on the front steps.

“I remember her, but I didn’t see who she left with,” the woman said. “When I’m working my world’s pretty much the three feet that’s in front of me. Everything else is a blur.”

“Understood.”

“Sorry.”

Wilde blew smoke.

“According to a friend she was with that night, the woman was hanging around to maybe take a run at some guy who looked like Robert Mitchum. Do you remember him?”

Her face brightened.

“I do,” she said. “He was one of those cheapskates I was talking about. He came over and flashed his smile and said, What’s your name baby? I told him and he shook my hand. He said, I’m Robert. He ordered a beer but didn’t tip. I guess he thought that telling me his name and flashing me his teeth was going to help me pay the electric bill. Three more times after that he ordered but didn’t tip, not once. He had money though, you could tell by his clothes.”

“Did you ever see him there before?”

She shook her head.

“No, never,” she said. “I hope I never see him again, too.”

“Who’d he leave with?”

“I don’t know. I’m just glad he did.”

Wilde asked more questions but the woman didn’t have any more answers. He said his thanks, tipped her a five and was headed down the driveway when the woman called after him and said, “I just remembered one more thing.”

He walked back.

“What?”

“He had a tattoo on his left arm, up high,” she said. “It was a war plane.”

“How big?”

“I don’t know, average? It wasn’t flying. It was sitting on the ground. A woman was standing in front of it posing. She was one of those pinup girls with the big smile and the big tits.”

Two minutes later he fired up Blondie and headed for Larimer. Halfway there he remembered something bad. He’d left London’s map sitting on the top of his desk.

The window was open.

The fan was blowing.

He wasn’t sure he locked the door.

Suddenly police lights appeared in his rearview mirror.

He looked at the speedometer to find he was fifteen over.

26

Day One

July 21, 1952

Monday Night

Su-Moon didn’t have a car but did have a 90cc scooter she called Vibrator together with the guts to use it in San Francisco traffic. When Waverly told her about what she’d learned today, Su-Moon said, “Let’s go find out if this guy-Tom Bristol-and the girl who got dropped were doing the nasty.”

Waverly raised an eyebrow.

“And how do you propose we find that out?”

Su-Moon lit a cigarette and blew smoke.

“When it comes to being a criminal, you’re not exactly a natural, are you?”

Under a black night, wearing sweatshirts and long pants, they took Vibrator across the Golden Gate Bridge into Sal Sausalito, which was an upscale community across the bay, given to bigger-than-necessary houses with hundred-dollar views carved into the hillsides and marinas down below jammed with floating houseboats.

The air was moist, salty and chilly.

According to the phone book, Tom Bristol lived at 22C, Last Lighthouse Marina.

They pulled to a stop a hundred yards short and studied the place through an eerie fog. “The docks must run in order, A, B, C, et cetera. C would be the third dock. I’m guessing that 22 is the 22^nd slip down that dock.”

“You’re getting better,” Su-Moon said.

“At what?”

“At being a criminal. Let’s walk by and see if anyone’s home.”

“For the record, this is nuts.”

“For the record, duly noted.”

A cool breeze pushed the air, strong enough to wrinkle the water and rock the boats. Waverly put the hood of her sweatshirt up.

“It’s winter,” she said.

“Always.”

They walked through a nearly-packed gravel parking lot, past a large land-based building and into the docks, turning right at the third one.

The houseboats were more houses than boats, technically floating but not built for waves or much of anything other than stationary sitting.

Front porches had flowerpots.

One even had a white picket fence.

It was after ten on a Monday night.

Most of the structures were dark.

The shadows on the docks were thick and deep.

They encountered no one.

Some of the boats were numbered-fifteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

The one they wanted, 22, was dark.

They walked past, keeping an eye on it, then turned at the end of the dock and doubled back.

Waverly’s heart beat.

“He might be gone but he might be sleeping,” she said. “There’s no way to tell.”

Su-Moon said nothing.

The boat was a large box with a flat roof and a ladder up the side. Su-Moon stepped onto the front porch, transferring her weight carefully.

Waverly followed.

Su-Moon put a hand on the front door and twisted.

“It’s locked,” she whispered.

They stepped back onto the dock and then walked down a finger alongside the boat. The windows were down and the shades were drawn.

When they got to the last window, something happened that they didn’t expect.