Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
London had a five-minute head start, not to mention that Wilde had no idea where she was going. His plan was nothing more than hoping to spot her randomly in the distance. The plan didn’t work-she was nowhere, she was gone. She could have turned up a street, hopped on a bus or stopped for coffee.
Wilde didn’t know.
He lit a cigarette and walked up 16th Street.
Maybe he should go to her house. If she wasn’t there he could wait for her and at least be sure it was secure when she showed up.
The Daniels amp; Fisher Tower loomed up ahead.
As Wilde came to it, he did something he didn’t expect.
He pushed through the heavy revolving door and took the elevator up to Crockett Bluetone’s firm. According to the receptionist, a redhead sitting at a desk cluttered with a Royal typewriter and piles of papers, the lawyer was in a meeting.
“For how long?”
“It could be two minutes or two hours. No one ever tells me anything.”
Wilde weighed the words and said, “I’ll wait.”
“There’s coffee over there,” she said. “Help yourself.”
He headed over.
This was okay.
If Bluetone was here, he wasn’t out somewhere killing London.
The carpet was green and thick. Mahogany molding gave the room a heavy feeling, too heavy for Wilde’s taste, in fact so heavy that it seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. The chairs were leather and oversized. The walls were filled with oil paintings, mostly western landscapes. One in particular caught Wilde’s eye and made him walk over. It was a sliver of flat desert floor at twilight dominated by a massive orange thunderhead that consumed the upper three-fourths of the painting. On closer inspection there was a Navajo woman and flock of sheep out there in the wild. Seeing them suddenly made the sky seem a hundred times bigger.
“That’s called Evening Thunderstorm,” the redhead said. “It’s by Gerard Delano.”
“Never heard of him,” Wilde said. “It’s good though.”
She smiled.
“That’s cute.”
“What’s cute?”
“Saying he’s good.” A beat then, “I’ve seen you around. You play the drums sometimes down at the Bokaray.”
He nodded.
“Only as a fill-in if someone’s sick or something.”
“You should do it full time.”
Wilde considered it.
“There isn’t much money in it.”
“You can say that about almost anything.”
He shrugged.
“Next time you see me there, flag me down and I’ll buy you a drink.”
She uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them the other direction.
“Okay.”
Five minutes later Wilde found himself in Bluetone’s office with the door closed. He tossed the map on the lawyer’s desk.
“What London gave you before was a fake,” he said. “She didn’t know if she could trust you. That’s the real one. She doesn’t want it anymore. It’s all yours. All she wants is to be left alone.”
Bluetone unfolded the paper and studied it.
“How do I know this isn’t another fake?”
“You don’t,” Wilde said. “Here’s the deal. London won’t be back to the law firm again ever. She’s staying in Denver though. You’re going to leave her alone. You’re both going your separate ways.”
The lawyer shrugged.
“Sure.”
Wilde hardened his face.
“Let me be as clear as I can on this,” he said. “Don’t hire anyone to hurt her. Don’t tell them to make it look like an accident. Don’t even look at her if you pass her on the street.”
A smile slowly worked its way onto Bluetone’s face.
“I feel sorry for you,” he said. “It’s no fun to be in a woman’s spell.”
Wilde got up and headed for the door, turning long enough to say, “This is your only warning. Be smart and take it.”
Then he was out, walking quickly down the hallway that suddenly seemed too dark and narrow. As he rounded the corner into the reception area, the redhead looked up from a magazine, startled that someone was there.
Wilde looked down at what she was reading.
What he saw he couldn’t believe.
The woman flicked it shut and shoved it in a drawer. “Our secret, okay?”
“Can I see that for a second?”
Yes.
He could.
It was a fashion magazine, one of those expensive ones with glossy paper that showed styles from New York and Paris and London. Wilde flipped through until he found the page that had been open before. On that page was Secret St. Rain, dressed to the nines with a devious smile as she sprayed perfume on her neck from an ice-blue bottle.
It was her.
There was no question about it.
Not even a little one.
His heart raced.
“Can I take this page?”
Sure.
No problem.
He ripped it out and shoved it in his pocket.
“Thanks.”
Then he was gone.