Kill Me Friday (A Bryson Wilde Thriller / Read in Any Order) Read online

  He let her feel his strength.

  Then he locked his arms under her legs, picked her up and pinned her against the wall.

  She wrapped her legs around him.

  Then she kissed him, hard, more like a bite than a kiss.

  Durivage tasted blood in his mouth and didn’t care.

  He reached between her legs and ripped her panties off.

  Suddenly a door slammed, someone had entered the house, followed by a voice—“What the fuck!”

  The voice was deep.

  A man’s.

  With Zongying still clinging to him, Durivage turned.

  A man with a cocked arm was charging.

  He was big.

  Strong.

  The fury in his eyes was unmistakable.

  Before Durivage could react, the fist smashed into his face and he dropped to the floor.

  Pain exploded.

  Colors flashed.

  He struggled to get up.

  It did no good.

  His brain didn’t focus.

  His body didn’t respond.

  Then a violent kick landed on the side of his head.

  9

  Day One

  July 15

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Since the mystery client intended to hire either Jina or Taylor, but they had no idea which, they flipped a coin to determine who should take custody of the scroll on an interim basis. Jina lost, meaning she had to take it.

  She carried it under her arm back to her office, locked the door and unrolled it.

  It turned out to be ten feet long, inscribed with markings from end to end. The markings were all straight lines and looked as if they’d been made using a hammer and chisel. Jina placed a sheet of paper at the top end and colored it in lightly with pencil to record the markings, which came out lighter than their surroundings. She repeated that all the way down, until she had a complete image of the scroll on eleven sheets of paper. She rolled the scroll up, put the cellophane around it and stuck it back in the box.

  There.

  Good as new.

  Now, where to keep it?

  She didn’t have a safe in her office or her apartment. At this point no one knew she had it except Taylor, but if it was real gold—which it seemed to be—she needed to be careful. It was worth a fortune even if it turned out to be something modern, without historical significance.

  She didn’t want to leave it in the office after having the feeling this morning that someone had broken in, so she took it to her fourth-floor apartment down the street, removed the scroll from the box, wrapped it in tin foil and stuck it in the freezer behind as much stuff as she could.

  The empty box went under her bed.

  Good enough.

  She latched all her windows from the inside, made sure her door was locked good and tight, then headed for the trolley with the eleven sheets of paper folded up inside her purse.

  She was on a mission.

  A mission to find out what the markings said.

  10

  Day One

  July 15

  Tuesday Afternoon

  When Wilde got back to the office from Night’s house, Alabama Winger was sitting on the sidewalk outside the building next to a beggar, waiting for him.

  “Surprise,” she said.

  “That’s an understatement,” Wilde said. “Come on up.”

  Inside he turned on the radio and twisted the dial. About the best he could find was an old Paul Williams song, “The Hucklebuck,” and left it there.

  He lit a cigarette and offered one to Alabama.

  “No thanks,” she said.

  “What, you don’t smoke?”

  “I do but only when I’m on fire.”

  Wilde grinned.

  Before he could ask the woman what was on her mind, the phone rang and the velvety voice of Leigh Monroe came through. Wilde pulled up an image of her doll face and sultry ways. “Well look who actually answers the phone every now and then,” she said.

  “You been calling?”

  “Hell yes I’ve been calling,” she said. “John’s sister died this morning back in Chicago. He’s heading there as we speak. That puts yours truly up the unsanitary tributary without any means of propulsion for a gig tonight.”

  Wilde didn’t need her to decode it.

  Leigh was Denver’s best blues singer, one of the few in the world who actually rivaled Billie Holliday, at least in Wilde’s opinion. John was the group’s drummer. Wilde was Denver’s go-to drummer whenever a group needed a fill-in. He was also the most sought-after studio drummer in town.

  “Where you playing tonight?” he asked.

  “The Bokaray.”

  The Bokaray

  That was a nice place, full of smoke, sinners and sex.

  “Okay, I’ll see you there,” Wilde said. “Regular time?”

  “Right, regular time,” Leigh said. “The drinks are on me. I owe you one.”

  “One? What kind of math are you using?”

  Leigh laughed.

  “Bye bye, lover.”

  The line went dead.

  Wilde turned to Alabama and said, “So what’s on your mind, Alabama Winger?”

  She diverted her eyes.

  “I want you to hire me,” she said. “I want to be your Girl Friday.”

  Wilde chewed on it.

  He didn’t need the help.

  He couldn't afford to feed a mouth.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true.

  He could but it would stretch him.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to be on the streets any more. I want to be normal. You’re the only nice person I’ve met in a month.”

  Wilde walked to the window and looked down.

  Larimer Street buzzed.

  It was stronger than Alabama.

  It would kill her in time.

  “I already did my first job for you,” Alabama said.

  Wilde turned.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, when you were meeting with that woman this morning, I was in the other room,” she said.

  “I know that.”

  “I heard everything that you both said,” Alabama said. “I know you didn’t want to be the substitute witness like she wanted. So I did it for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I called the police and pretended I was up on Capitol Hill on Saturday night,” she said. “I told them I saw a blond woman running out of a yard. I told them about the tattoo behind the woman’s ear and about the license plate number, FC211. I told them the story just like that woman wanted you to tell it.”

  Wilde mashed the butt in the ashtray.

  “Did you give them your name?”

  “I gave them a name, but not my name,” she said. “I told them my name was Sandra Winger.”

  “You used your correct last name?”

  “Right, but the wrong first name.” She paused for a moment and added, “Well, to be technically correct, that actually is my real first name. Alabama’s my nickname. So, do I get the job?”

  Suddenly the import of what she did solidified in Wilde’s brain.

  This was bad.

  Worse than bad.

  He grabbed her hand, dragged her towards the door and said, “Come on.”

  She fell into step.

  “Where we going?”

  Wilde didn’t answer.

  He bounded down the stairs two at a time with the woman in tow. At street level he turned and said, “I’m half tempted to hire you just so I can fire you.”

  In the MG she said, “You’re not a very nice boss so far.”

  He cranked up the engine, jammed the shifter into first and said, “Yeah, well, get used to it.”

  “Does that mean I’m hired?”

  “Yeah, you’re hired,” he said, pulling into traffic.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now you’re fired.”

  She looked confused.

  “Sorr
y, I just had to do that,” he said. “Now you’re rehired.”

  “So am I working for you or not?”

  “It looks that way.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder and squeezed his arm. Then she straightened up and said, “I can’t type, just so we’re clear on that.”

  “Girl Friday’s are supposed to type.”

  “Well yours doesn’t.”

  11

  Day One

  July 15

  Tuesday Afternoon

  It took Durivage seven minutes to kill the man, seven full minutes that were without a doubt the longest, most painful and frantic minutes of his life. He collapsed when it was over and didn’t move, too brutally exhausted to even try to figure out how badly he was broken. Zongying wrapped her arms over him for a few minutes, then got a wet towel and wiped blood off his face. Durivage got enough strength to sit up and lean against the wall.

  He looked at the body.

  “Your boyfriend, I assume.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “He’s an asshole who managed to get his hooks in me,” she said. “I’m glad he’s dead. We’ll wait until after dark and dump his body. I know a place.”

  Durivage grunted.

  “Remind me to not get on your bad side,” he said.

  She kissed him.

  Slowly.

  Softly.

  “Likewise,” she said.

  Her phone rang. She got quiet while someone on the other end did the talking, then she said, “Thanks, you done good,” and hung up.

  “That was one of our five-dollar guys from this morning, the one at the Bright Star. A Frenchwoman just checked in under the name Nicole Wickliff,” she said. “Does she ring a bell?”

  “Not by name,” Durivage said. “I’ll need to get a look at her but I can already tell you the chance of her not being the person who’s going to kill Emmanuelle is zero.”

  “Two French people in Denver at the same time,” Zongying said. “I’ll bet that’s never happened before.”

  Durivage agreed.

  “She wouldn’t be checking in if she’d already killed her,” he said. “At least we have that going for us.” He refocused on the body. “What’s his name?”

  “Michael Spencer.”

  “Michael Spencer,” he said to the body. “Nice to meet you.”

  12

  Day One

  July 15

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Edward Berkley was about sixty with bifocals, Einstein hair and no wedding ring. His office, a clutter of twenty years in the making, was in the bowels of the museum. His smile was skinny and his voice was weak. His eyes never met Jina’s for more than a heartbeat before darting away.

  “So let’s see what you have,” he said.

  Jina pulled the eleven sheets of paper out of her purse and passed them across the desk.

  “This is it,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Egyptian.”

  “Well, let’s have a look.”

  “Thanks again. I really appreciate this.”

  “No problem.”

  Berkley studied every page, then pulled a magnifying glass out of a drawer and focused with even greater intent. Occasionally he peeked over the top of his glasses at Jina but didn’t say anything.

  She waited.

  Silently.

  Finally Berkley looked up and said, “This isn’t Egyptian.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No, none of it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Greek,” he said.

  “Can you interpret it?”

  He shook his head.

  “No, it’s old—maybe even dating B.C.—but it’s still Greek. That’s a language I don’t know much about, other than to recognize it when I see it. Sorry.”

  13

  Day One

  July 15

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Wilde screeched to a halt was in front of Night’s house and turned to Alabama. “Can you drive a car?”

  “Yes.”

  He left the engine running and hopped out.

  “See that house right there?” he said, pointing. “There’s an alley that runs behind it. Take the car back around there and wait for me.”

  “You got it.”

  Wilde ran to the front door.

  Grinding gears made him turn and look back to find Alabama trying to get the vehicle into first. The engine conked out, the woman fired it up again and got the car moving with a sudden jerk.

  Wilde winced and knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  He turned the knob and entered.

  “Night!”

  She appeared at the top of the stairs, visibly startled, as Wilde ran up two at a time, grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

  “Listen to me and listen fast,” he said. “There’s a rumor on the street that you might be involved in the murder of Grace Somerfield.”

  Her face wrinkled.

  “Who in the hell …”

  “No questions,” he said. “Just listen. There’s a possibility that the cops are going to be showing up here to search the place. If you have anything in the house that ties you to the crime, get it out of here right now this second.”

  Her eyes darted.

  She ran into the bedroom, grabbed the jewels on the nightstand and threw them into the bag in the corner, the one that looked like a doctor’s bag. Then she reached under the bed, pulled out a shoebox and dumped the contents into the bag.

  Sirens came up the street.

  Night jammed the bag into Wilde’s hands and said, “Take it.”

  He hesitated.

  “Please!”

  He gripped it hard, ran out the back door, jumped into the passenger seat of the MG and told Alabama, “Go.”

  She ground into first and squealed the wheels.

  14

  Day One

  July 15

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Durivage stuffed Spencer’s lifeless form in the basement until tonight, then hopped in the shower to wash the fight off. He had more bruises on his arms and torso than the law allowed, plus a massive swelling under his hair, but he’d kept his face fairly well protected. A couple of minor cuts showed, that was it.

  They headed over to the Bright Starr where the French woman had checked in and parked a block down the street near Wynkoop.

  Zongying left the keys in the ignition and said, “Wait here.”

  “I should be doing this, not you.”

  “Just relax and let me earn my keep,” Zongying said, getting out. Before she shut the door she added, “After we dump Spencer’s body tonight, we should go to this club I know and get drunk.”

  “What kind of club?”

  “It’s called the Bokaray,” she said. “Leigh Monroe’s singing there tonight.”

  “Is she good?”

  “She’s sexy.”

  She closed the door, blew him a kiss and disappeared down the street.

  Drunken sex.

  That’s what he’d have tonight.

  Drunken sex.

  There was nothing better.

  They needed to be careful dumping Spencer’s body, though. The last thing they needed was let Spencer bite them in the ass. The little finger on Durivage’s left hand was stiff and swollen, either sprained or broken.

  No big deal.

  Zongying was gone for a full half hour but came back excited. “Our friend was out of the room and the five-dollar guy let me in, for ten more dollars,” she said. “The big thing I found was a picture of Emmanuelle in her suitcase. There’s no question that Emmanuelle’s the reason the woman’s in town.”

  “Good job.”

  “There’s more,” she said. “The five-dollar guy said he had some more news for me, but it would cost another ten dollars.”

  “Did you pay it?”

  She nodded.

  “It was worth it,” she said. “The st
ory is, this Nicole woman asked where she could buy a gun in town, on the side. The five-dollar guy told her to contact a man named Lloyd.”

  “Who’s Lloyd?”

  “I don’t know,” Zongying said. “I never heard of him. All I know is what the five-dollar guy told our friend Nicole that Lloyd stays in a flophouse on Larimer Street. His room is on the fourth floor, above a bar called Mile-High Whiskey.”

  Durivage chewed on it.

  “Wait here,” he said, stepping out.

  “Where you going?”

  “Our five-dollar guy’s turning into a greedy man,” he said. “He’s already leveraged this thing up to twenty-five. His next move is to approach Nicole and let her know he has some great information to tell her—meaning me and you—for ten or twenty or thirty dollars. I’m going to go have a talk with him and let him know the consequences of getting too greedy.”

  Zongying grabbed his arm.

  “Let me do it,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to convey the message but I’m also going to pay him the other thirty right now,” she said.

  “It won’t do any good,” Durivage said.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “If it doesn’t, then I don’t care if you kill him. He had his chance.”

  15

  Day One

  July 15

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Although Edward Berkley couldn’t interpret the scroll, he called Blanche Twister, Ph.D., over at the University of Denver to see if she might be up to the task.

  “I’d be happy to look at it,” Twister said. “No guarantees though.”

  Jina headed over.

  The campus was buzzing, still packed with war vets taking advantage of the G.I Bill.

  Twister turned out to be a conservatively dressed woman in her early fifties. She had an easy smile, kind eyes and a clean office except for the walls, which were covered with ancient maps. Jina handed her the eleven pages then leaned back in the chair and watched.

  Twister flipped through the pages rapidly, looked up and said, “This is written in the form of Greek that was spoken by the Hellenic aristocracy from about 300 B.C. forward. Basically, it’s five separate descriptions of locations where something is buried. It’s strange though in that none of the starting points are described or identified. Here’s the interesting thing,” she said, pointing to the bottom of the last page. “Do you know what that says?”