City of Dragons (47 page)

Miranda heard the Supervisor dictating the letter, deposited the Supervisor’s money in the bank. Innocence could be traded like any stock—as long as you had the money to play the market. The evidence Betty left at the Pickwick would make Lester a hero, whatever he’d been doing with Filipino Charlie and Wong before Martini entered the picture. Helen’s country-club membership was secure.

She walked to Union Square on a day when the sun came out, smelling the pancakes from Sears, smiling at the doormen at the St. Francis and Sir Francis. She admired the saint and preferred to drink with the rogue. She admired the hamburgers at Original Joe’s on Taylor Street even more.

City of Paris was offering a hat like Hildy Johnson’s from
His Girl Friday
, not quite as extreme. Nice shade of green, went well with auburn hair. Shall I send it to Mademoiselle? No, Mademoiselle will wear it out, thank you. $17.95, in cash. Extravagant, but what the hell. She’d be working again soon.

Almost a week. Rick kidded her that he’d run her at Tanforan, even odds. She smelled salt water on the breeze through the window, and took a walk or three to Chinatown.

The red pagoda architecture curved upward in a smile, warmed by the sun, who’d been making regular appearances. Laundry hanging from the windows of the Chinese newspaper office, the smells from the Far Eastern Bakery, rice and fish and exotic lychee fruit, the small streets humming with people, the ache of the Chinese violin on a street corner. She missed Chinatown.

Quick hike up the hill at Sacramento, no wind, breathing fine. The herb shop shut up and boarded, sign in Chinese. The English below said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. She wondered what they’d nailed him on. She’d been out of it for too long. Time to call Gonzales.

The Chinese playground was full of black-haired children playing jump rope and hopscotch, boys yelling, girls screaming. Benny Goodman blaring from open doors, the seedy hotels still looking like they were leftovers from the ’06 cleanup, but somehow not as seedy as they’d been a couple of weeks before.

Everywhere Miranda went, people smiled at her. Men tipped their hats, women nodded. No-Legs handed her a flower one day, then shoved off on his dirty plywood board. Fong Fong for a quick dessert, on the house for you, Miss, compliments of the management.

The Twin Dragon found her a private booth when she wanted one, served up ten-cent martinis to her and Rick when she convinced him to take her out that night. Sun or moonlight, Chinatown recognized her. And thanked her.

She was nearly well. Memories faded to patterns, chintz or calico. Sometimes red on white, sometimes in her dreams, when she woke up in a sweat, and told herself it was over, over again, except the record was stuck and she couldn’t move it forward.
Clack
.
Clack clack
.

Miranda Corbie, Private Investigator, had offers of employment waiting for her at her office, had money in the bank, her cheek firm and sculpted again, her health restored. It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There was still Emily Takahashi.

22nd of February. Nielsen was as happy as he could be. Miranda was off the leash as of tomorrow. Decided to stretch her legs a little early.

She took the Sutter Street White Front down to Little Osaka, and walked into Matsumara’s shoe store to pick up the sunburst pumps.

A young man was at the counter. Mr. Matsumara would be right with her. He disappeared into the back.

She looked around and waited. A few new pairs of pumps, some men’s patched work boots. Matsumura, wiping his hands on a leather apron, his broad face beaming at her.

“Miss Corbie—so good to see you! Back for your pumps, are you?”

“Best deal in San Francisco.”

His grin grew broader, and he bent down to the shelves inside the counter, pulling out a box with her shoes. “I’ll throw in Matsumara’s free detection kit. The Japanese Sherlock Holmes.”

She laughed. “You been busy?”

“Not so busy as you. I’ve read about you, young lady. Aren’t you supposed to be recuperating up in Calistoga?”

“Is that what they’re saying?”

He opened a paper bag with a snap, and laid the box inside. “They say you foiled a human smuggling racket. Not much on the details, though.”

She lowered her voice. “You know more than most. What’s happened with the Takahashis?”

He shook his head sadly. “They searched the store, closed it down, and now, I think, Hiro is selling it. Or rather, his wife or his sister is selling it. He’s in a home. They can’t care for him anymore.” He looked down at the counter, pretending to examine a pair of shoes, and kept his voice to a whisper. “Or maybe won’t care for him. They need money. The milkman tells me they’re at each other’s throats.”

Miranda thought it over, turned it around, trying to get a fresh angle. “Still no word about Emily?”

Small pause while he fiddled with the leather. “Not a thing. Rose has been beside herself, especially when she read the papers, saw a little of what you were involved in. But not even a murmur, Miss Corbie. It’s like the girl has vanished.”

She frowned. “Eddie gave his sister a lot of money, Mr. Matsumara. Money that no one’s found yet. Don’t you think if the Takahashis knew where she was, they’d take that money and use it? Especially now?”

He thought it over, his fingers absentmindedly polishing the uppers of the green pumps in front of him.

“It would seem so, Miss Corbie. Japanese people have a great deal of pride. We keep things in the family, and we protect the family. So it would depend … if using that money put Emily in jeopardy, then Mrs. Takahashi would never do it. Whatever she knew of Eddie’s involvement, whatever other guilt she may have … she wouldn’t put her daughter in danger.”

“But surely—she’ll know Emily is safe now?”

He shrugged again, and turned the green shoes over to look at the heels.

“She might not think so. Are all the criminals involved caught? Are they all in prison? Of course not. How safe do you think Emily will be?”

“At this point I think she’s safer coming forward. There’s risk in hiding, too. Easier to erase someone who won’t be missed.”

“Maybe. You know they have relatives in Burlingame.”

“Rose mentioned that to me. Think that’s a good place to start?”

He stared at Miranda for a moment. “You’re determined to find her, are you?”

She stared back. “Yes, Mr. Matsumara. I am.”

He turned his attention back to the pumps. “Then I think Burlingame would be an excellent place to start.”

She nodded. “Thanks. And thanks for the shoes.”

He looked up, grinning at her. “Saver of souls and heels, that’s what I am, Miss Corbie.” He winked, and she smiled. Another woman was walking in the shop holding a pair of rain boots.

Miranda took the bag, threw him a wave, and walked out the door. Past the closed and boarded Takahashi Tailors. Closed and boarded. Just like Ming Chen’s.

She stood in front of it, lighting a Chesterfield, inhaled it slowly, savoring the taste.

And wondered how Matsumara knew where Emily Takahashi was, and why he was lying about it.

Thirty-One

T
he elevator was out at 640 Mason Street.

She was walking up the stairs, the climb feeling good on her calves, when she met a man in a light gabardine coat walking down. She looked up.

Gonzales.

Their eyes met, and she paused, her hand on the banister.

“Inspector.”

“Miss Corbie.”

He was still wearing a bandage on his nose. Looked ridiculous under the expensive brown fedora.

“Were you trying to see me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Would you like to come up?”

“If you’re not busy …”

“Not at all.”

Formalities exchanged, they walked wordlessly up the next two flights together, Miranda breathing only a little harder than normal. He lingered behind her while she walked to number 405, inserted the key, and opened the door. Turned around to Gonzales, said: “Come in, please.”

They were both standing in the small entranceway. Awkward, uncomfortable. He was staring at her, intensity in the line of his body.

“Can I take your coat?”

“Thank you.”

He stepped out of it. Dressed like an advertisement for the successful young executive in a dark brown suit, white shirt, and rust-colored tie. She hung his coat and hat in the closet with hers. Gestured to the living room, the sofa next to the occasional table with the small Bakelite radio and cigarettes on top. Said: “Have a seat, Inspector.”

He took the large wingback chair across from the couch. Sat with his arms on the chair arms, his fingers in a loose, relaxed fist.

“May I get you something? A drink? Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

She sank into the soft pillows of the sofa, leaned back against the green embroidered fabric. Took a Chesterfield out of the table pack. Gonzales jumped up with a match, struck it. She took his hand and held it to her cigarette, puffed, looked up at him briefly, let go. He retreated back to the chair. She crossed her legs, inhaled deeply. Looked at him.

“Thanks.”

He cleared his throat. “I would have come to see you sooner, but I didn’t want to interfere. With your rest.”

“That was considerate of you.”

He leaned forward. “Miranda, I—”

“I was going to phone you today.”

“About what?”

“Catching up. Had a few questions. D’you mind?”

He stared at her for a moment, then took out his cigarette case, one of his gold-tipped French sticks. Lit it with another match. Exhaled toward the window.

“Ask away.”

“I’m curious about the dramatis personae. Gillio, Filipino Charlie, Ming … what’s the shakedown?”

He looked at his cigarette, inhaled again. “Ming’s in jail, waiting trial. Charged with drug smuggling. Not everything in those herbal jars was Chinese medicine, at least of the legal type. He was an outlet for the drugs.”

“What happened to his old man?

Gonzales shrugged slightly. “I don’t know, Miss Corbie. He hasn’t been charged, if that’s what you mean.”

“What about Filipino Charlie?”

The inspector shook his head. “The statements, shipping documents, and receipts Wong delivered through Betty left Charlie out of it. Probably part of the Winters deal. And they only dealt with the human trafficking, not the drugs. I think he and Charlie were hoping to resume the opium and cocaine trade—on a smaller scale than when Martini was involved—as soon as Winters got Martini out of the picture.”

“So Charlie’s free? Even though I’ve got Betty’s own words to implicate him?”

Gonzales stared at the window. “You know how it is, Miranda.”

“Yeah. I know how it is.”

He took a long drag, looked at her. “I can’t help what the system is. The DA thinks it’s better not to go after Charlie. He’s scared now, knows we’re watching him.”

“Does the DA plan to charge Gillio, or is he getting free overnights at the Olympic Hotel?”

Gonzales smoked in silence. She watched the blue-gray smoke curl and twist, then vanish through the window. Cars outside, a woman laughing. Rumble of the White Front up the street. No music. Not today.

There was a glass ashtray on the table next to him. He rubbed out the gold tip until it crumbled.

“There’s not enough evidence on Gillio.”

“How much fucking evidence do you need? I heard Romano talk about him with Martini—Martini thought Gillio had set up a hit. Romano was there, goddamn it!”

“We can’t find him, Miranda. He skipped.”

More silence. She rose from the sofa, walked to the window looking out over Mason Street.

“Maybe he was warned. You think about that, Gonzales?”

“Yes. I’ve thought about it.”

She flung around, flushed, her eyes sharp. “Then what the hell are you doing about it?”

The sigh rose from his depths, poured itself on the floor. The hand wiping his forehead was trembling.

“Look. I came here to check on you. I was worried. Leave the rest alone.”

Miranda watched him, her arms folded. Waited a few seconds. Picked up the deck of Chesterfields, lit another cigarette. This time he didn’t stand up.

“What about Noldano and Capella? And the others. They talk?”

“Capella’s still in the hospital. The rest aren’t talking. At least not yet.”

She nodded, walked back to the sofa, sat. “L.A. is cooperating, I expect.”

“Better than the federals. They’re very nervous about Japan.”

“About not offending them, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“Is Betty in the clear?”

“Yes. Officially and publicly.”

“I suppose Winters is, too.”

His smile was wry. “Publicly, yes. Officially, yes. Unofficially, he was a smuggler, and we’re paying some attention to Mrs. Winters’s attorney.”

She stared at him. He looked at his shoes. She said: “Any ideas about the old man? The one they ran over?”

“Probably Coppa. The car was registered in his name. Martini must have phoned Noldano and Capella, they drove up overnight, and when he found out Eddie Takahashi had died in front of a private detective, he set them on you. Couldn’t take a chance—Eddie may’ve told you something about the money.”