Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Evening
Tuesday evening Wilde headed outside under a darkening sky for a jog. The air was moist, just short of rain. To the west, charcoal clouds churned over the mountains and worked their wicked way towards Denver. A storm was coming, a mean storm. Blondie’s top was up but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure the window curtains were tight.
Alabama had left the office shortly after four and hadn’t come home yet.
As usual, Wilde ran too fast starting out and used up all his wind, which forced him into a more sustainable beat. His best distance was the quarter-mile. He’d never been fast enough out of the blocks to be competitive in the hundred or two-twenty. Nor could he keep up a full sprint for a half-mile.
The quarter-mile, however, was his.
He was fast enough out of the blocks and had the stamina to sprint the whole thing. His best time so far was 55.3, which wasn’t world-class by any means but respectable enough.
The streetlights kicked on.
Right now, the dark beauty London Marshall was holed up in Wilde’s office with the lights out and the door locked. After the jog, Wilde would go over to her house to check and make sure no little surprise visitors were waiting for her in the closet. Then he’d call and tell her the coast was clear.
She’d come home.
Wilde would spend the night on the couch.
With any luck, whoever was after the woman would make his move.
London.
London.
London.
She was a striking woman, every bit as striking as Secret.
Secret was the one for Wilde though.
She got there first.
Wilde needed to focus on her and not get distracted.
That was his problem, he always allowed himself to get distracted. “That’s why you’re still single,” Alabama told him at one point. “Women come too easy to you.”
“That’s not true.”
Those were the words that came out of his mouth, That’s not true.
Down deep, though, it was true.
Even now, focused on Secret, there was an uncontrollable corner of his brain that wondered what it would be like to unwrap London.
When he got home, Alabama still wasn’t there. Wilde took a long hot shower, dried his hair just enough to get the drip gone, and stepped out with the towel wrapped around his waist.
Alabama was upside down on the couch, with her back on the cushions and her legs up. Her hair hung over the edge and hung down towards the floor. She looked at Wilde with upside down eyes and said, “I found out some stuff.”
Wilde headed over.
“Like what?”
With a lightning reach, Alabama grabbed the towel, yanked it off and tossed it over the edge of the couch.
She laughed.
“Seven.”
“You need to stop doing that.”
“And counting.”
Wilde fetched the towel, rewrapped it and sat down next to her.
“So what did you find out?”
Alabama spread her knees ever so slightly. Wilde detected the movement in his peripheral vision but didn’t react.
“First,” Alabama said, “I went to Gina Sophia’s law firm and had a little talk with a bun-haired receptionist. I told her I was trying to track down a friend of mine who looked like Robert Mitchum. I told her he uses a lot of lawyers and asked her if he was using anyone there at Jackson amp; Reacher. She told me that no one like that had ever been there-she would have remembered, Robert Mitchum was her favorite actor. She would have seen him, too, because she was the only receptionist.”
Wilde grunted.
“All that shows is that Mitchum and the lawyer didn’t meet at work,” he said. “It doesn’t prove they didn’t know each other.”
Alabama smiled.
“I’m going for eight later, so be warned.”
Wilde guarded the towel with his hand.
“Not now,” Alabama said. “Later. Anyway, the other thing I did was talk to the desk clerk at Mitchum’s hotel. At first he didn’t want to say much so I had to show him my boobs. Then he opened up.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
She shrugged.
“No can do,” she said. “Anyway, according to him-his name’s Dick by the way, ironic, huh? — Mitchum did in fact return to the hotel with a woman. The person he described sounds like Gina Sophia. They were in the room together all night.”
“How does he know that?”
“Because they were drunk and loud and playing music and dancing,” Alabama said. “People in the adjoining rooms were complaining. Dick went up personally and knocked on the door four or five times to get them to knock it off.”
“Did he actually see Mitchum?”
Alabama nodded.
“Every time he went up, Mitchum opened the door. Every time, Mitchum apologized and said he’d knock it off, but he always started back up again. Finally, about four in the morning, Dick called the cops. A half-hour later, a cop showed up. Dick took him up to the room and the cop knocked on the door. Mitchum opened it, the cop told him to knock it off or else. That got his attention and things settled down.”
Wilde chewed on it.
“So he was there continuously until at least four,” he said.
“Four-thirty. That’s when the cop showed up, four-thirty. Oh, Dick had one more thing relevant to the issue, but he wanted to squeeze my boobs. I let him and here’s what he told me-”
“You let him?”
“God, Wilde, they’re just boobs. Calm down and listen. The cleaning crew started at five and a housekeeper named Maria went into Mitchum’s room by mistake. He was passed out in bed with a woman. They were both naked. Maria eased back out. Mitchum never knew she opened the door.”
“How did Dick know?”
“One of the other housekeepers ratted on Maria,” Alabama said. “Apparently they don’t get along.”
“Apparently not.”
Alabama exhaled.
“I have a theory,” she said. “Maybe there’s another guy who looks like Robert Mitchum. Maybe he’s the one who frequented that New York club.”
“So you’re saying there are two Robert Mitchums?”
“Three, actually, if you count the original.”