Read Online City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) by Kelli Stanley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kelli Stanley
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goateed art dealer. Her Hamilton watch was running a little slow, and she wound it until the automatic elevator dinged and the doors parted.
A well-preserved woman in her mid-forties stood in front of her, draped in iron gray and looking like rain over the Pacific. The heavy odor of Narcisse Noir steamed through the doors.
Mrs. Hart.
Miranda hesitated for a brief moment before stepping inside. Her stomach tightened, and she nodded to the woman in gray.
“Good evening.”
The socialite tilted her head back, opened her purse, and withdrew a silver cigarette case with a monogram. She plucked out a Marlborough and lit it with a matching silver lighter she materialized from the gauze of her cape.
The door clanged and opened on four and Mrs. Hart inhaled, stick elegantly cradled between two long gloved fingers. She stepped out, waving what was left of the Marlborough in a graceful arc, large steel eyes stuck to Miranda like frostbite.
“You’re late.”
“Not by my watch.”
They walked side by side down the fourth floor of the Monadnock, shoe taps echoing down the deserted hallway. Miranda paused in front of her office and extracted the key.
Mrs. Hart’s voice was low and drawling, gray like her cape, gray like the fog creeping through the Golden Gate.
“I’d advise you to invest in a decent Swiss timepiece. If you plan to stay in business, of course.”
She drew out “business” in three syllables of sin, blue veins under her translucent, barely wrinkled skin drawn and defined like a road map, her white face immobile … except for the eyes.
Miranda flung open the door, flicked on the light, and tossed her evening bag on the desk. She turned sharply, back pressed against the edge of the desk, cream-colored outer wrap hanging open. The green of her dress glowed against her skin in the blinking pink light from the Top Hat Club across Market.
“Maybe you should save your worries for your son.”
Eyes like dirty snow moved over Miranda’s body. “My son. He’s cost me enough as it is. Where’s the jade?”
“In the safe. Where’s my fee?”
The woman in gray shot a glance at the ancient Wells Fargo safe against the wall, one penciled eyebrow arched.
“The whisper of my name is good enough for every shop of significance in this city.”
Miranda shook her head.
“I said cash, Mrs. Hart, and I meant it. Two hundred for me, and the rest for the payoff in Chinatown. Unless you want the morning papers to be full of the story.”
The socialite glided soundlessly toward Miranda’s desk. She crushed the remains of her cigarette in the Tower of the Sun ashtray, twisting the stub until the paper splintered and the tobacco made a small brown pile. A smile stretched her carefully lined lips. She opened her evening bag, withdrawing a smaller black wallet.
“Seven million dollars can buy things other than jewelry, Miss Corbie. Yes, I brought you your cash, but only because it amuses me and because you were, after all, successful. But please don’t make the mistake of thinking I can be bled.”
Miranda nodded at the desk. “Lay it out there. I’m not a blackmailer, Mrs. Hart. I merely want to finish the job I started and collect my fee. Your whispered name won’t pay my rent, no matter how many necklaces it buys you … or Picassos.”
The woman’s hand froze in mid-air for a moment while she counted out eight C-notes, two twenties, a ten, a five and finally, a single dollar bill.
“Eight hundred fifty-six, you said. I want my necklace.”
Miranda stared at her for a long second. “Eight hundred fifty-six dollars and seventy-five cents. I’m sure you didn’t lose that much at roulette.”
Car horn outside. A girl’s high-pitched laughter. Miranda walked toward the safe and rotated the creaky dial, door swinging opening with a moan. She turned around, holding the heavy green jade in her hand.
There were three quarters on the desk next to the bills.
Miranda held the necklace, bracelet, and
A well-preserved woman in her mid-forties stood in front of her, draped in iron gray and looking like rain over the Pacific. The heavy odor of Narcisse Noir steamed through the doors.
Mrs. Hart.
Miranda hesitated for a brief moment before stepping inside. Her stomach tightened, and she nodded to the woman in gray.
“Good evening.”
The socialite tilted her head back, opened her purse, and withdrew a silver cigarette case with a monogram. She plucked out a Marlborough and lit it with a matching silver lighter she materialized from the gauze of her cape.
The door clanged and opened on four and Mrs. Hart inhaled, stick elegantly cradled between two long gloved fingers. She stepped out, waving what was left of the Marlborough in a graceful arc, large steel eyes stuck to Miranda like frostbite.
“You’re late.”
“Not by my watch.”
They walked side by side down the fourth floor of the Monadnock, shoe taps echoing down the deserted hallway. Miranda paused in front of her office and extracted the key.
Mrs. Hart’s voice was low and drawling, gray like her cape, gray like the fog creeping through the Golden Gate.
“I’d advise you to invest in a decent Swiss timepiece. If you plan to stay in business, of course.”
She drew out “business” in three syllables of sin, blue veins under her translucent, barely wrinkled skin drawn and defined like a road map, her white face immobile … except for the eyes.
Miranda flung open the door, flicked on the light, and tossed her evening bag on the desk. She turned sharply, back pressed against the edge of the desk, cream-colored outer wrap hanging open. The green of her dress glowed against her skin in the blinking pink light from the Top Hat Club across Market.
“Maybe you should save your worries for your son.”
Eyes like dirty snow moved over Miranda’s body. “My son. He’s cost me enough as it is. Where’s the jade?”
“In the safe. Where’s my fee?”
The woman in gray shot a glance at the ancient Wells Fargo safe against the wall, one penciled eyebrow arched.
“The whisper of my name is good enough for every shop of significance in this city.”
Miranda shook her head.
“I said cash, Mrs. Hart, and I meant it. Two hundred for me, and the rest for the payoff in Chinatown. Unless you want the morning papers to be full of the story.”
The socialite glided soundlessly toward Miranda’s desk. She crushed the remains of her cigarette in the Tower of the Sun ashtray, twisting the stub until the paper splintered and the tobacco made a small brown pile. A smile stretched her carefully lined lips. She opened her evening bag, withdrawing a smaller black wallet.
“Seven million dollars can buy things other than jewelry, Miss Corbie. Yes, I brought you your cash, but only because it amuses me and because you were, after all, successful. But please don’t make the mistake of thinking I can be bled.”
Miranda nodded at the desk. “Lay it out there. I’m not a blackmailer, Mrs. Hart. I merely want to finish the job I started and collect my fee. Your whispered name won’t pay my rent, no matter how many necklaces it buys you … or Picassos.”
The woman’s hand froze in mid-air for a moment while she counted out eight C-notes, two twenties, a ten, a five and finally, a single dollar bill.
“Eight hundred fifty-six, you said. I want my necklace.”
Miranda stared at her for a long second. “Eight hundred fifty-six dollars and seventy-five cents. I’m sure you didn’t lose that much at roulette.”
Car horn outside. A girl’s high-pitched laughter. Miranda walked toward the safe and rotated the creaky dial, door swinging opening with a moan. She turned around, holding the heavy green jade in her hand.
There were three quarters on the desk next to the bills.
Miranda held the necklace, bracelet, and
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