That stumble didn’t happen.
He checked her house.
She wasn’t there.
He parked down the street and kept an eye on her front door. Midnight came and went, then one, then one- thirty, then longer. He must have fallen asleep at that point.
He zipped up.
Back at Blondie, the gun and knife were sitting on the passenger seat. He grabbed the gun, tucked it in his waist and headed for London’s front door.
It was unlocked, just like they’d left it when they ran out last night, just like he left it after he checked the place last night.
Two doors down, a rough dog barked.
Wilde stepped inside.
The air was still and quiet.
“London?”
No one answered.
“London? You here?”
Silence.
The lower level was as before. He headed upstairs, not bothering to take the gun out of his belt. London’s bedroom was vacant.
Wilde sat on the edge of the bed.
She was dead.
She was dead because he was stupid.
He flopped back and closed his eyes.
He thought he was tough.
He was wrong.
He was just a guy who did stupid things and got people killed.
He needed to get out of the PI business.
He needed to get out of Denver.
He needed to put all this behind him and hope to never get anyone else killed.
113
Just east of the financial district, over on Grant Street, a number of former mansions had been converted into upscale offices over the years. One of those structures had a fancy wooden sign to the right of an oversized maple door that said, John Stamp, Private Investigator.
Waverly headed for it down a fancy cobblestone walkway and put her hand on the doorknob.
She paused long enough to consider the sanity, or lack thereof, of what she was about to do.
Then she mumbled,
That step brought her into a two-story foyer with a winding staircase that led to the second level. Beneath her feet was Mediterranean tile. The walls were paneled and the window coverings were an expensive weave. It was the Brown Palace on a private scale.
A stately drop-dead-gorgeous redhead with deep cleavage and curvy hips appeared from another room.
“Are you looking for John?”
Yes.
She was.
Five minutes later she was in his upstairs office with the door closed.
The man was a movie star.
He tapped two cigarettes out of a pack, offered her one, then pushed hers back in when she declined. He lit up from a gold lighter and blew a perfect ring.
“What’s your name?” he said.
Waverly leaned forward in her chair.
“Tom Bristol killed Charley-Anna Blackridge,” she said. “You’ve been hired by him, through Gina Sophia, because Bristol found out somehow that there was a witness. After you find out who it is, that person is going to end up dead.”
The corner of Stamp’s mouth turned up ever so slightly.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re the one who’s been nipping at Bristol’s tail out in San Francisco.”
The words took her by surprise.
She kept the expression of her face.
“Yes.”
“You’re ruining the man’s life,” he said. “Leave him alone.”
“He’s a killer.”
Stamp leaned back in his chair, unimpressed.
“I generally don’t share information about my clients with third parties,” he said. “Here’s a piece of fact though. I’ve been hired to find out who killed Charley-Anna Blackridge. Once I figure that out-
“To me?”
He nodded.
“He wants you off his back,” he said. “Getting you on the right track is his way of accomplishing that.”
Waverly hardened her face.
“Charley-Anna isn’t the only one he killed,” she said. “There was another woman out in San Francisco by the name of Kava Every. She was a young female architect in Bristol’s firm. They were having a secret affair. There was another woman out in Cleveland, too. Her name was Bobbi Litton.”
Stamp’s face reacted, not much, but enough to show he hadn’t been privy.
Waverly stood up and walked to the door.
Halfway through she turned and said over her shoulder, “It looks like you don’t know your client as well as you thought. If you proceed from this point on, you’ll be an accomplice. I’ll be sure you end up being held accountable as such.”
Then she was gone.
114
River’s sense of intrusion was well founded because the dark silhouette of a man was approaching, fifty yards away on foot, closing hard with a purpose. He was strong and carried his body like a warrior. His posture was vaguely familiar.
