A Way With Murder (bryson wilde) Read online

  A Way With Murder

  ( Bryson Wilde )

  R. J. Jagger

  R. J. Jagger

  A Way With Murder

  1

  Day One

  July 21, 1952

  Monday Morning

  Monday morning everything in Bryson Wilde’s life changed. It happened when he was in his office, pacing next to the windows with coffee in one hand and a smoke in the other. It happened when the door opened and a woman walked in.

  She wasn’t dressed to impress.

  Down below were sandals and up top was a baseball cap, slightly tilted to the side, with a dishwater blond ponytail hanging out the back. Between the two was an uneventful pair of loose cotton pants and a plain white blouse.

  She looked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four.

  Her eyes were lagoon blue.

  Her face was mysteriously hypnotic.

  Her body was curvy.

  “I’m in trouble,” she said. “I was hoping you could help me.”

  Wilde tapped a smoke out of the pack and handed it to her.

  She took it and said, “Thanks.”

  He lit her up from his.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Secret,” she said. “Secret St. Rain.”

  “I’ve never seen you around town.”

  “I’m not from here.”

  “Too bad. So what kind of trouble are you in, Secret St. Rain?”

  She blew smoke.

  It was the sexiest thing Wilde had ever seen.

  “I guess I should rephrase it,” she said. “I’m not sure if I’m in trouble or not. I guess that’s what I want you to find out-whether I am or not.”

  Wilde took one last drag on the Camel, which brought the fire as close to his fingertips as the law allowed, then flicked the butt out the window.

  Damn it.

  That was a bad habit.

  Alabama had told him a hundred times to not do that.

  He leaned out to be sure it hadn’t landed on anyone down at street level.

  To his disbelief, there it was smack dab on the top of a gray Fedora, moving down the street compliments of a man who didn’t have a clue.

  “Hey, you!”

  The man looked around but not up.

  “Your hat’s on fire.”

  Wilde ducked out of sight as the man looked up.

  “Sorry about that,” he told Secret. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Secret pulled a paper out of her purse, unfolded it and handed it to Wilde. It was a page out of the Rocky Mountain News, Saturday edition. She tapped her finger on an article titled, “Woman Falls to Death.”

  “Did you hear about this?”

  No.

  He hadn’t.

  “Read it,” she said.

  He did.

  It was a short piece about a woman in a red dress who was found horribly smashed at the base of a building on Curtis Street, the victim of a fall Friday night. Police were investigating the incident as a possible homicide.

  When Wilde looked up, Secret said, “I was there when it happened, down below on the sidewalk.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded.

  “Interesting.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “So what happened? Did she jump or what?”

  “She didn’t jump,” Secret said. “Someone was dangling her over the edge, holding her by the hands, then he let her go.”

  “Ouch.”

  “She almost landed on me,” Secret said. “Here’s the problem. It was murder. The guy who dropped her was just a black silhouette to me. There were no lights shining up there. I have no idea who he was.”

  “Okay.”

  “The opposite isn’t true though,” she said. “I was under a pretty strong streetlight.”

  Wilde tapped two more sticks out of the pack, lit them both and handed one to Secret.

  She took it, mashed her old one in the ashtray and said, “Thanks.”

  “So you’re a witness to a murder,” Wilde said. “That’s what it comes down to.”

  She nodded.

  “I want to know if the guy saw my face good enough to recognize me,” she said.

  Wilde frowned.

  “How am I supposed to figure that out?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said. “First figure out who he is. Then we’ll arrange a situation where I walk past him or get in his vicinity, what I’m talking about is a situation where he looks at me.”

  “All right.”

  “You’ll be there off to the side,” she said. “When he looks at me, you look at him and see if there’s a reaction. See if he recognizes me.”

  Wilde shrugged.

  “There will be a reaction,” he said. “I can already tell you that.”

  She blew smoke.

  “You’re too kind. What we do is see if he tries to follow me. We see if he tries to kill me. If he does, that means he’s the killer. At that point we can tell the police.”

  “So you’re looking to trap him?”

  “He’ll trap himself is a better way to put it.”

  Wilde took a sip of coffee.

  “Why me? Why not just do this with the police?”

  She shook her head.

  “This can’t get screwed up.” She pulled an envelope out of her purse and handed it to him. “That’s a retainer.”

  Wilde felt the weight.

  It was solid.

  2

  Day One

  July 21, 1952

  Monday Morning

  Waverly Paige woke up Monday morning slightly numbed from too much wine and too many wee hours last night. She popped two aspirin, got the coffee pot going and studied her face in the mirror while the shower warmed up.

  It was a train wreck.

  Her apartment was too.

  It was a hole in the wall in the low rent district on the north edge of the city where the buses hardly went. Her particular unit was a fourth-floor walkup with one window that looked directly into the wall of another apartment building thirty feet away. Outside her window was the only good thing about the place, namely a fire escape that was twenty degrees cooler than her couch.

  That’s where she drank the wine last night.

  That’s where she woke up this morning, on an air mattress next to the only living thing she ever owned, a potted geranium.

  She got herself into as good as shape as she could and headed for the bus stop.

  She was a reporter with The Metro Beat, which in turn was the third dog in a pack of three, slightly behind the Rocky Mountain News and a long way behind The Denver Post. It had an excuse for being last, namely that it was only two years old. Unfortunately there was only enough local food to keep two dogs alive. One of the three would have to die, probably within the next year.

  Waverly didn’t worry about it too much.

  She had a few good things going for her.

  She was young, only twenty-one.

  She was healthy and well proportioned, not too tall, not too short, not too heavy, not too thin. Her thighs and ass were tight and strong. She could run the hundred-yard dash in eleven seconds, faster than most boys.

  Her face would never be on the cover of a magazine but it was pretty enough for daily life in Denver.

  She got to the morning status conference ten minutes late, which was a big no-no. Fifteen faces looked at her then almost as one turned to see what Shelby Tilt-the owner-would do. The man scrunched his 50-year-old face into a wad and blew cigar smoke.

  “Okay guys, that’s it,” he said. Then to Waverly, “Step into my office for a minute.”

  She recognized the tone.

  This wouldn’t be
pretty.

  3

  Day One

  July 21, 1952

  Monday Morning

  Dayton River lived on a 22-acre railroad spur at the west edge of Denver that he bought from BNSF two years ago. The property had no buildings. It consisted solely of dilapidated excess track that had been unused and unneeded for some time given the movement of industry to the north. Three decommissioned boxcars sat on a track. Three others sat on a parallel track, thirty-feet distant. A canvas canopy, something in the nature of a circus tent, was strung across the middle boxcars.

  The interiors of the boxcars had been converted to living quarters, to the point of even torching out holes to install windows.

  One was a bedroom.

  One was a bathroom.

  One was a kitchen.

  One was a living room.

  One was storage.

  One had nothing inside and was kept locked.

  Down the track, active BNSF switching took place. Hundred-foot sections of track had been removed to prevent unintended travel into River’s property. Stoppers had also been placed at the end of the active tracks.

  The setup fit River’s six-three, Tarzan-like frame nicely.

  The clanging of switching operations woke him at dawn Monday morning. He took a long heaven-sent piss, splashed water on his face, drank two larges glasses of water then headed outside shirtless for a run.

  He normally went five miles.

  The distance didn’t change that often.

  What did change was the speed, depending on how he felt.

  Today he was strong.

  His hair swung back and forth. It was pitch-black, thick and hung halfway down his back.

  He headed down the track and got into a steady rhythm, letting his legs stretch and his lungs burn. The pace was good, five-minute-miles or better.

  Every so often he stopped for a warrior routine.

  Three sets of 100 pushups.

  Five sets of 20 pull-ups.

  One set of 300 sit-ups.

  When he got back he spotted an envelope on the ground under the boxcar. The edges had tape. It must have been taped on his door at one point and fallen off. He opened it. Inside was a piece of paper with typewriting. It came from the same machine as always, with the S slightly higher than it should be.

  Alexa Blank

  937 Clarkson, Denver, CO

  21, strawberry hair, medium height

  Waitress at the Down Towner

  Standard commission

  Take her by Monday night. Store her someplace safe and wait for further instructions. Do not kill her until and unless you are told. Timing is crucial.

  He didn’t know when it initially got delivered but did know one thing-the deadline was tonight. He burned the paper, showered, hopped on the Indian and headed for the Down Towner. It was time to have a look at his target, Alexa Blank.

  He’d take her tonight after dark.

  Before then, he needed to find a place to stash her.

  4

  Day One

  July 21, 1952

  Monday Morning

  Wilde’s office was in the 1500 block of Larimer Street, once the heart of Denver, now an unhealthy conspiracy of liquor stores, bars, gambling houses, brothels and flophouses. He was 31 and wore his hair combed straight back. It was blond, thick, longer than most and played well against his green eyes and Colorado tan. He wore his usual attire, namely a gray suit, a white long-sleeve shirt rolled up at the cuffs, a loose blue tie and spit-shined wingtips.

  His hat, ashen-gray, was over on the rack.

  When he went out it would go on, dipped over his left eye.

  With a strong body topping out at six-two, he had no problem making women stare.

  He pulled a book of matches out of the desk drawer, lit one and set the pack on fire. He held the fire in front of his face and watched Secret through the flames as she headed up the street and disappeared around the corner.

  Lightning was in his veins.

  It was a feeling he hadn’t had in a while.

  He now realized how much he missed it.

  The door opened and Alabama Winger walked in wearing a pre-caffeine face. She was twenty-three or twenty-four. Wilde hired her as a Girl Friday last month after she didn’t kill him-a separate story in and of itself. She was the only Girl Friday in Denver who couldn’t type. To be fair, she disclosed it right after Wilde hired her.

  She was slightly on the smaller side and scrubbed up pretty good when she got the urge. Temporarily, she was staying with Wilde at his place.

  She headed for the coffee pot, poured a cup and studied Wilde’s face as she took a slurp.

  “You’re already up to no good,” she said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I don’t know, I just can.”

  He blew smoke.

  “A woman got dropped off a roof this weekend,” he said. “She was wearing a short red dress. Have you heard about her?”

  No.

  She hadn’t.

  “So what?”

  “So, we’re going to find out who did it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s our new case.”

  “Someone actually hired you?”

  “Funny,” he said. “What I want you to do this morning is go out and buy a sexy short dress. Get one of those French garter belts too, and a pair of nylons with a seam up the back.”

  “A sexy short dress?”

  Wilde inhaled, held the smoke then blew a ring.

  “It’s not for you. Take that look off your face.”

  “What do you mean, not for me? It’s too late for take-backs, Wilde. I already pictured myself wearing it. You can’t just yank it off me.”

  Wilde pictured it and smiled.

  “It’s for our new client,” he said. “Her name’s Secret St. Rain.”

  Alabama tilted her head.

  “It sounds like it’s more for you than her.”

  “There’s probably some truth in there,” he said. “Make the dress black. Be sure it shows lots of cleavage and lots of leg. Get a bra too, something lacy. Deliver everything to Room 318 at the Clemont, that’s where she’s staying. If she answers, tell her I’ll be picking her up at 7:30. If she doesn’t answer, leave a note to that effect.”

  “Does she have a size, this woman?”

  She did.

  Wilde described her.

  “Oh, get some black high-heels too,” he said. “I almost forgot.”

  “What do you want me to get for myself?”

  “Nothing.”

  Alabama shook her head.

  “It can’t be done, then,” she said. “I can’t be that close to new clothes without getting something. It’s physically impossible.”

  Wilde frowned.

  He could argue but he’d lose.

  “All right, get one thing for yourself. Only one thing though.”

  “A dress.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Not the same one though.”

  “You’ll have yanking rights on it,” she said.

  “You’re bad.”

  “Yes I am.”

  She was almost out the door when she turned and said, “The woman who got dropped off the roof, you said she was wearing a short red dress, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you setting our new client up as bait?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” he said.

  “Maybe subconsciously?”

  “No, neither,” he said. “The more I think about it, don’t make your dress red. I don’t want to find out later that that’s what triggers this guy.”

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t mind,” she said. “I’ll be bait if you want.”

  He put a look on his face.

  “Don’t even talk like that.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She studied his face and then smiled. “You never said anything ab
out panties. Do you want me to get panties for her or not?”

  He did.

  “What color?”

  He pictured it.

  “Black.”

  “You’re so evil,” she said. “By the way, no one’s named Secret.”

  “She is.”

  “Trust me, no one is,” Alabama said. “Not me, not you, not her. It’s a fake name. My advice is to find out why before you get in too deep with her.”

  5

  Day One

  July 21, 1952

  Monday Morning

  The Beat was housed in a three-story, 62-year-old brick building on Curtis Street that was an affront to every building code known to man. It was still standing but not by much. Everything was there-the offices, the printing presses, the distribution hub, the vans, everything. Except for the areas where the ink permeated the air, the place smelled like a bad cigar. Most of that could be attributed to Shelby Tilt, the owner, who was everywhere all the time and never without his nasty little habit in his nasty little mouth.

  His office was on the second floor, cantilevered over the presses. The wall on the press side wasn’t actually a wall, it was a opening where a wall once stood, together with a guardrail to keep dumb asses from falling off.

  The noise of the presses, when they ran, was deafening.

  Tilt liked it that way.

  They were the sound of money.

  Right now they weren’t running.

  The space wasn’t big. What it lacked in volume was made up for in clutter. Tilt’s desk probably had a surface but no one had ever seen it.

  Waverly sat in a worn chair in front of the desk.

  Tilt mashed the stub of a cigar in the ashtray and lit another. His forehead-the gateway to a bald top-wrinkled up.

  “I’m going to pose a situation to you that you can either accept or decline,” he said. “Whatever you decide, there are no repercussions. I want you to be clear on that, there are absolutely no repercussions whatsoever. That means you can say no, you’re not interested, and nothing is going to happen to you. Do you understand?”

  “Okay, then, no,” she said and headed for the door.