City of Dark Corners by Jon Talton (easy novels to read .TXT) 📕

Chase McArthur and influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright. It opened at the height of optimism, a few months before the stock market crashed. Now, I came up the curving concrete driveway flanked by plantings and surrounded by winter grass, then slipped the valet a quarter and let him take the car.

Inside, I went to the front desk and discreetly showed my badge to the clerk, asking for the manager. I wondered how many times I could flash that button before it backfired. McGrath had authorized me to poke into this case. But he had deniability. Nobody had my back.

Half a dozen guests were gathered in the swank lobby wearing expensive new Stetsons. They were grousing about the weather. Soon an officious little man in a gray double-breasted suit appeared and led me to his office. He was using a pearl cigarette holder. I took off my fedora and followed him.

“I hope there’s no trouble, Detective…”

“Hammons.”

“We scrupulously follow the liquor laws, Detective Hammond, even though Prohibition is on the way out.”

I thought about correcting him. Hammons was an unusual name. But I let it be. I said, “Scrupulously, except for the Men’s Smoking Room on the second floor.”

He smiled. “Oh, you know about that.”

“And I know about the red beacon on the roof you turn on when there’s a raid, and the secret passages that let speakeasy guests exit to their rooms. As I recall, a nearby suite was favored by Clark Gable and Carole Lombard.” Some of the best booze I kept at home was appropriated from periodic raids at the Biltmore.

“Look, Detective Hammond, we don’t want any trouble. The Depression is trouble enough…”

I cut him off. “I’m not here about hooch. It’s about her.”

I slid across a photo of Carrie. It was a straight-on shot taken from Ezra’s house in Prescott and showed her to best advantage, straight blond hair with bangs, expressive eyes, a white button-down blouse, and knees showing below a tan skirt.

“That’s Cynthia,” he said. “Lovely girl. She worked here last summer as a waitress. The slow season but we have air-conditioning. She was a good employee. Never missed a day. She’s in college in Tempe.”

Cynthia.

I slid the photo closer. “This girl was Cynthia? You’re sure?”

He flicked ash off his cigarette. “Yes, of course.”

Not only was she staying in Phoenix instead of going home, she was using a false name.

I asked him for her address, but he told me she was allowed to use a room at the hotel itself, deducting the rent from her earnings. It was off-season, so the Biltmore had extra space.

“Did she have gentlemen callers?”

“Absolutely not.” He drew himself up to his full height, which was a good head shorter than me. “We have rules, and she always abided by them.”

“Like the rules about liquor.” I smiled. “Did she serve in the speakeasy?”

He nodded.

Then I asked to speak with anyone who worked with her and might have been a friend.

“I hope Cynthia is okay…”

“I’m afraid not. This is a homicide investigation.”

He went pale. “Oh, my.”

In a few minutes, he produced a willowy brunette named Margaret. She sat in the chair beside me.

“This is Detective Hammond,” he said. “Of the Phoenix Police. I’m afraid something has happened to Cynthia.”

“Oh, dear,” she whispered, her plain face contorted in a frown.

I nodded at the manager. “Would you mind giving us a few minutes?” He hesitated. I added, “Alone.” He reluctantly shuffled out, closing the door.

“Margaret, I want you to be straight with me.” I leaned in. “Nobody needs to know anything you tell me.”

She nodded.

“Tell me about Cynthia.”

“Well, she was good at her job. She very nice to me. I wasn’t used to such a pretty girl treating me well. She gave me money when I was broke. She always seemed to have cash.”

“Where did she get this money?”

“Her father was in mining. I don’t know why she had to work. But she was a hard worker, never made out like she was a rich girl.”

I took a chance. “Her last name was…?”

“Thayer.”

Like father, like daughter? Had Ezra Dell come up with this scheme, or had Carrie taught him to use it?

Margaret caught my mind wandering. “What’s going on, Detective?”

“As I said, this is a homicide investigation. Someone attacked…Cynthia…last month and then dismembered her body. She was also pregnant at the time.”

The shock radiated down Margaret’s body. I asked her if Cynthia had any enemies, anyone who might wish her harm, any grudges. No, no, and no. Perfectly loved Carrie/Cynthia.

“I don’t buy it.”

She looked away, but I cupped her chin with my hand and made her look at me.

“Come on, Maggie.”

“That’s what my friends call me.”

“Then think of me as a friend.”

Tears began. “Men like her,” she said. “Liked her, I mean. Cynthia went out a lot at night, when the manager had gone home.”

“Where did she go?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. But a man always came to get her. He’d bring her back late.”

“What man?”

Now she was crying full out. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“You’re not going to get in trouble. What man? What did he look like? Did you know his name?”

After a long silence, she gave a massive shrug. “All I knew was what she told me. He was a policeman. He wore a hat like yours.”

* * *

I was almost back to town on Seventh Street when a police car came behind me, turned on his siren, and pulled me over. My first thought was that I had used the damned buzzer once too often, and I would be carted off to jail in handcuffs.

“Detective Hammons,” the uniform said, bending into my rolled-down window. We shook hands.

“Hey, Watkins. What’s up?”

“Detective Muldoon has us looking for you. The squeal just came over the radio. You know where the Triple-A junkyard is?”

“Yep. Seventh Avenue and the tracks, right?”

“That’s the place.”

I gunned it south before Watkins even got back to his car. I stayed on Seventh Street past Van Buren, where the Phoenix Union High School students were lined up at the Nifty