Read Online Haunted Hearts by John Lawrence Reynolds - Free Book Online Page A

outrageous prices.
    The peephole cover in Libby’s door swung aside when McGuire knocked, and one world-weary eye looked back at him for a moment before its owner gave a long bronchial sigh, the peephole closed, and he heard three deadlocks being slid aside.
    Libby was already walking down the hall back to her parlour when McGuire entered. He followed her through an aroma of stale cigarette smoke, garlic, and grease to a small dark room, where she was lighting a fresh Marlboro and coaxing an overweight gray Persian out of her Barcalounger.
    â€œDidn’t think you’d remember me,” McGuire said. He stood looking for a place to sit among the stacks of telephone books, magazines, newspapers, and three-ring binders.
    â€œHell, McGuire.” Libby’s voice had the coarseness of a dry transmission trying to shift into reverse while moving forward: “Just ’cause you don’t come see me for years doesn’t mean you’re forgotten.”
    Legend had it that Libby had been Boston’s last brothel madam, operating an elegant house down near Cherry Street during the fifties. It was while keeping tabs on the patrons of her business, politicians and outlaws alike, that she foresaw a career, a new line of work she would need when the cycle turned and the city’s moralists cast a cold eye on bawdy houses. Which is precisely what happened. A week after City Hall vowed to wipe out Boston’s brothels, so the story went, Libby called the commissioner’s office and told him she was willing to turn over her diary to him, a book that contained the names of over a thousand clients, including his own, if he would help her launch a new business venture.
    The commissioner invited her downtown for a chat.
    In his office, she told him her new business would be as a skip tracer, tracking missing people down paths that no law-enforcement official could follow.
    â€œIt’s a legit business,” Libby pointed out.
    â€œIt certainly is,” the commissioner agreed. Libby’s diary sat on the desk between them.
    â€œOf course, I’ll have a better chance of making good if I get some unofficial co-operation from you guys when I need it,” Libby said.
    â€œYou certainly will,” the commissioner said.
    The story was true.
    â€œHow long’s he been gone?” Libby asked McGuire. She was settled in the chair recently vacated by the cat. A tattered apricot-coloured chenille robe was wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair, the shade of a brass spittoon, had been freshly combed and styled. Folds of skin framed her eyes, and the lobes of her ears were oversized and waxy, like the drippings of well-used candles.
    â€œAbout two years.” McGuire handed her a slip of paper with all the information he had on Ross Randolph Myers. He looked around. “You use computers?”
    Libby made a sound like a warm beer being opened and shook her head. “Says he likes to gamble. Horses maybe?”
    â€œCould be. He plays the horses, or used to. Owned one, I understand. You plan to start with bookies?”
    â€œDon’t know. Maybe.” She was staring at the paper as though committing it to memory. “This could take a couple days. Two hundred a day, which is my basic rate. Doesn’t help he’s a border-jumper. Then again, I might get lucky.” Her face said she was already planning ways to obtain the information.
    â€œGive me four hundred worth.” A grin flashed across McGuire’s face. “Didn’t you and Silky Pete have a thing going, ten years ago, maybe?”
    â€œSilky Pete’s dead.”
    â€œI know. I investigated his murder.”
    â€œIt was an accident.”
    â€œYeah, a Buick accidentally hit him while he was hanging around the docks at three in the morning. Silky took bets, did some loan sharking, right?”
    â€œSilky was just like me, doin’ whatever it takes to keep the wolf from the door.” She looked