City of Dragons (46 page)

Gonzales’s eyes narrowed at Allen. Miranda was nodding over the Pickwick package, the smell of bourbon wrapping her like a baby blanket.

Bialik expostulated. “For God’s sake, man, look what she’s been through! Either charge her—and if you do, I’ll have her out on a habeas corpus so fast that your ink won’t have dried—or let us out of this godforsaken hellhole you mockingly call a Hall of Justice.”

Rick pushed his fedora back with a grin and clapped his hands in a slow rhythm.

“Amen, preacher.”

Allen leaned over to Miranda, gently nudging her on the shoulder. “Kid—Miranda—wake up, sweetheart. Remember the Pickwick?”

She came to with a start, frightened, breathing hard. Then she focused on the package. Squinted, and saw Gonzales. Stood up, tottering a little—Gonzales and Allen reached out to steady her—and she held the package out to Gonzales with both hands.

She licked her lips, forming her words carefully.

“Winters was buying information from Wong. Information to shut down Martini. He wanted out, wanted his daughter back, needed something to deal with the DA. Betty showed up t’ deliver it and collect the money from Winters. Wong was still lookin’ for a profit. Still a criminal. But he wanted out of the Chinese slave trade. Betty found him dead. Winters. Figured she was in a frame. Wrote me, tried to call me a couple days later. Meantime, she stashed the evidence ’gainst Martini and NYK at the Pickwick. And gave Winters’s money—found it in the room—to Eddie Takahashi. Money disappeared with Eddie’s sister. And then Wong and Betty were killed.”

Gonzales took the package from her wordlessly. She raised a finger, pointed it at him.

“She’s no murderer, goddamn you. Clear her name. Or as God is my witness, I’ll spend the rest of my life chasing down every two-bit cop on the take, every third degree behind closed doors, every quickie from a call girl.” She turned around, staring at each of the other men. “Y’re all my witnesses.”

Gonzales said: “Yes, Miss Corbie.”

Miranda sank into her chair, suddenly white. Allen jumped up, but by the time he got to her, she’d passed out.

Part Five

Lantern

Festival

Thirty

S
omething was hurting her eyes.

She tried to move, to block it out. And now someone was shaking her.

Miranda woke to a blurry light, a bright room.

Her room. Her bedroom.

The blurred vision gradually sharpened. Rick was sitting next to her, his hand on her shoulder. She felt her face, her chest. No hat. In a nightgown. Another man was standing at the foot of the bed, mid-fifties, beard, gray hair, narrow face. White coat.

Her tongue was furry, thick, the hand she lifted to her cheek like someone else’s.

“Dr. Nielsen? Who called Dr. Nielsen?”

The bearded man smiled beneficently. “Your friend here, Miss Corbie. Seems he found my number in your files, deduced that we’ve seen each other before, and asked me to come by to look at you. That was last night. I undressed you, cleaned you a bit, and gave you something to help you sleep.”

“What time is it?”

Rick answered. “About four o’clock, Miranda.”

She tried to sit up, winced at the effort. “Why the hell—why do I hurt so much?”

Nielsen moved around to the other side, placed a dry hand on her forehead. Frowned. “Because you’re exhausted. You’ve also been through a shock.”

She tried to shake her head, stopped when it hurt.

“Let me up. I’m fine.”

“Miranda, you were almost run over the other night. You’ve been getting by on no sleep, coffee, bourbon, and cigarettes.”

This time, she managed to raise herself up, and glared at them both. Turned to Rick. “And you don’t? Just give me some aspirin, for God’s sake. I’ll be OK.”

Nielsen shook his head. His voice that grave tone you heard on radio soap operas. “Miss Corbie—I don’t see you as much as I should, undoubtedly. But I believe you trust my opinion. It’s been of service to you before.”

She looked up at him, her mouth tight.

“Yeah, Doctor. Spit it out.”

“You need to rest as much as possible. For at least a week. Give your body—and your mind—time to process what you’ve been through. If you give me your word that you will rest, perhaps walking a bit every day as you feel stronger—and that you will not drink alcohol, and only one or two cups of coffee—I’ll let you recover at home. Otherwise, you give me no choice but to commit you to a hospital.”

She could feel the chains snake around from under the bed, manacles closing on her arms and legs. Reminded herself to find another doctor. Rick nodded, looking like Charlie McCarthy with Nielsen taking the Bergen part. Goddamn it, they always thought they knew best …

Miranda mustered a trustworthy expression and a small smile. “If that’s what you think I need, Doctor.”

He nodded, picked up his bag from the foot of the bed.

“At least a week. You should make a full recovery, feel like yourself again.”

Miranda thought: “Like the smug bastard would know the difference.” She said: “Thank you, Doctor.”

He looked at Rick, man-to-man, guardian-to-guardian of that fragile thing called woman.

“Sanders—I rely on you to let me know how Miss Corbie progresses. I’ll be by in three days to check on her.”

“Certainly, sir.”

They walked out of the bedroom together, making lists between them of what she should do and not do. Fuck that. Miranda hadn’t lived thirty-three years and survived the last week so that old Dr. Kildare and his assistant could tell her what to do with her life.

She waited until she heard the door shut, and then tried to get her legs to the side of the bed. Groaned, couldn’t help it. If only she didn’t hurt so goddamn much …

“Miranda, what the hell do you think—”

Brown, baleful eyes focused on Rick. “Lay off, Sanders. I appreciate the help, and I heard what that old quack said. I’ve got his card because he’s a friend of my father’s—alcohol treatments.”

“Then why don’t you listen to him, goddamn it?”

She’d manage to drape her legs off the bed, and was trying to prop herself up into a sitting position. Rick watched for a moment, then came over to help her, cursing under his breath.

“You never fucking listen, do you? Gonna kill yourself one of these days, and I won’t be around to stop you.”

He was sitting beside her. Miranda leaned on him, fighting the nausea. She raised her left hand and touched his cheek, stroked it with the back of her fingers. Her voice was soft.

“Thanks, Sanders. I’ll rest. I promise. Right now I need you to help me get down to the Hall of Justice. Gotta make that statement. You call Meyer for me?”

His eyes searched hers. She dropped her hand. He picked it up, held it, rubbing the lines in her palm with his thumb. Stared at it while he spoke.

“I’ll call him. And I’ll get you there. But for God’s sake, Miranda—take care of yourself.”

Gonzales had just come on duty. The bags under his eyes made him look older, more like a cop than a matinee idol. His temper was frayed around the edges, and the conversation was kept to a minimum. Still no sign of Phil, though Miranda caught sight of Johnson on the phone pulling overtime, Regan going off duty, Grogan coming on. No one said anything to her except a uniform who came to give Gonzales papers.

“Some prices on those toe tags, lady. You want the reward money?” Meyer looked at her, Gonzales looked at her. Puff on the cigarette, stamp it out, light another one. “Give it all to Bennie’s wife, Mary.” She’d made her a widow, after all.

Rick prowled around outside, trying to pick up crumbs for the
News
. Meyer sat next to her, making sure Gonzales’s questions were phrased in the right way.

No, she hadn’t walked in, broken in, tried to get in. She’d been kidnapped; check Gladys Hillerman’s statement.

No, she hadn’t shot Malone or Bennie. She knew Bennie was ready to pop; she popped him, he popped the rest. End of story.

Well, not quite. .25 bullet lodged in the wall outside, matching shot in Coppa’s skull. Yes, that was her gun. Yes, he was dead. Client was in a state of shock, Inspector, didn’t realize she was committing a crime. And technically, as he wasn’t interred—quiet, Miranda—yes, she understands. Continue.

Shot Capella. Tried to shoot her, thought her gun was a joke. Type of pistol not sold in America. License to carry conceal? Check. License for that gun? Nix.

But Inspector, that gun saved her life. A woman in her position must protect herself.

What about Noldano?

Yes, she’d shot Noldano in the arm. Client was threatened with bodily harm, Inspector, feared for her life. Thought he had a loaded gun. And still, she didn’t fire to kill. Isn’t that right, Miranda? Isn’t that right?

Whatever you say, Meyer.

Why didn’t she go for help? Tried to, ran out of time. Heard them coming in. We’ve been through this before.

How many times will you ask the same questions, Inspector? Has my client been charged—

Yes, she hid in the bathroom. Martini came in. Pulled a .45. Called the other two down from upstairs.

Threaten her?

You might say that. They were planning to rape her. That’s r-a-p-e, Inspector, same thing Coppa did to Betty Chow, same thing Martini did to Phyllis Winters.

Silence. Pen scratching. She shoot him then?

No, she shot him after you arrived, Inspector. Tried to use her as a shield. You heard the gunshot, found her covered in Martini’s brains, you make a statement.

Make a statement. Make a statement. Make a statement.

Meyer touched Miranda’s arm, while Gonzales kept writing.

It was over. Rick drove her back home.

She crossed the days off on the calendar. Felt stupid, felt indulgent, lounging around in silk pajamas and a bathrobe, working on the crossword puzzle, listening to
One Man’s Family
. Slept for hours, sleeping with the sun.

Rick came in every day or evening, every chance he got. She gave him an extra key, sometimes would find him sitting beside her, writing up notes in a tablet. He’d give her the news for the next morning, tell her what the Germans and Russians and Japanese were doing, whether Louis won his latest fight, whether Seabiscuit was going to race again.

Joe Merello sent a huge bouquet of tulips on a rhinestone horseshoe, the ribbon signed by the Moderne staff. Bente came by, sat with her a couple of hours, talked about Spain and the Wobblies and how everything was going to hell and made fun of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, but life was still good and she’d better damn well pay attention to it.

Edith mailed a get-well card, said she’d read about her in the paper, hoped she was feeling better. Gladys stopped by with two cartons of Chesterfields, personal delivery. Miranda hugged her. Didn’t quite have the words, not yet.

Allen stopped by twice during the week, brought her a pint of Old Taylor.

Even Leland Cutler, president of the World’s Fair board, sent a telegram, wishing her well. She heard from a few other staff, too, including her federal contacts. Seems the Martini case—and the woman who broke it and was almost broken herself—had been fodder for more newspapers than Rick’s.

No word on what would happen to the Chinese women smuggled in. The government had quotas. Mustn’t upset the numbers.

As soon as she was well …

Nielsen came by to check on her. He seemed gratified. She clenched her teeth in a smile, and reminded herself—again—to find another doctor.

She tried to read
All This and Heaven, Too
, and threw it across the room after thirty pages. Burns and Allen made her laugh occasionally. She walked a little more every day, the weather improving with her stamina, and caught
His Girl Friday
at the Orpheum with a Shadow serial. The salty popcorn tasted as good as anything she could remember. The movie was as good as anything she could remember, even if Rosalind Russell’s hats were a little extreme.

She managed to sneak into the office twice. Helen Winters had sent her a check, as predicted, along with a note thanking her profusely for saving Phyllis and stopping the “scourge” of crime that was so endangering the youth of our fair city.