City of Dark Corners

I nodded.

“I mean really in love,” he said. “I had what I thought was a tumble with this young girl. But she caught me like a fish on a hook. ’Course my wife didn’t know. Anyway, she made me feel like I was seventeen again, made me forget all the dirty stuff that comes with the job. God, I miss her.”

I waited and calculated, then decided to risk it. “What was her name?”

“Carrie.” Tears started down his bruised cheeks. Electricity ran up my spine.

“What happened to her?”

“She died. A tragedy.”

“What happened?”

Now he was visibly sobbing. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Wish I did. Feel like it’s left me at the end of a long, dark cave with no way out…”

I waited for more, but he stopped himself. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to confess to killing Carrie or if he was genuinely innocent.

“What do you do for fun, Frenchy? To relax? You need to take a few days off after what happened. Get your story straight for McGrath and stick to it. Hoodlum ambushed you, you fought, he ran, and you lost him. He’ll give you a few days.”

“What if he kicks me off the Hat Squad, Geno? We’re supposed to be tough.”

“Nobody doubts your courage, Frenchy. You’re safe.”

He furrowed his brow, thinking it through. “I guess I could take time off and cook. Family likes my steaks, my gumbo.”

Maybe the steaks explained his purchases at the restaurant supply store. Nothing could explain him slitting the throat of an innocent man. Despite this, I made myself get out and help him from the car to the driveway.

“You gotta get my car…”

“It can wait. You’re in no condition to drive. You can barely walk.”

“No! Please. Please get it, Geno. It’s a ’32 Chevy, black four-door, parked near the train station.”

He handed me the keys.

“What were you doing down there?”

“Got a tip from a snitch,” he said. “But it turned into an ambush.”

That might have been true. Or he had followed me and run into unexpected trouble.

* * *

At the foot of a darkened Fourth Avenue, the lights still glowed from the Union Station waiting room. One or two no-name passenger trains and the westbound Fast Mail would still be arriving tonight.

I had dropped off my car at the apartment, fetched a flashlight, and hopped the Kenilworth line streetcar down to Washington Street, walking the rest of the way.

Now, Frenchy’s four-door Chevy sat unmolested a block north of the depot. It was the same car I had followed from the junkyard to Marley’s house. If I were still a real police officer, I would be burdened by the need of such pesky things as search warrants. Instead, I was your friendly local private eye, with the keys to my “friend’s” car. It could easily have been the one watching my place or the one that followed Victoria home. Spare tire on the outside.

I slipped on my leather gloves. Without the attached trunk to search, I opened up the driver’s door, flipped on the flashlight, and had a look inside. The glove box was disappointingly neat, with an extra set of handcuffs and road maps. I felt under the seats—nothing. The floor and upholstery looked new, with no bloodstains. I pulled up the back seat and, aside from dust, it was lacking anything, much less evidence that he had used this vehicle to kidnap Carrie and murder her.

Nothing was left for me but to drive the car back to Frenchy’s house and leave the keys under the visor for him to find in the morning. That was when a key on his ring attracted my attention. The car key and house key were obvious. But a third one was different: thin, sturdy, brass. It opened a safe-deposit box.

I drove up to the Monihon Building and let myself in. I locked the door behind me and took the darkened stairs up to my office. There I pulled out my cigar box of lock-picking gear and made a clay mold of the safe-deposit key. When I was satisfied it was exact, I slipped the key back on Frenchy’s ring. Fifteen minutes later, I dropped off the car in his driveway and walked home through the silent streets, missing Victoria terribly.

Twenty-Two

The next day I rolled into the office early. A wire was waiting from Victoria: She had arrived safely at Los Angeles Central Station. I scribbled a response and left it for Gladys to summon a Western Union boy. I retrieved the clay mold and walked down Washington Street to my favorite locksmith. Favorite because he still thought I was a cop and because he could work magic in duplicating any key. Thirty minutes later, I had the key to Frenchy’s safe-deposit box.