I didn’t want to risk another foray to the
Recorder’
s archives, so a return to the public library was the next best bet. The librarian smiled when I tipped my hat to greet her.
Inside, I made for stacks that held the old newspapers, pulled out a pile of
Recorder
copies, and gave myself ninety minutes to glom as much dope as I could on the political dogfight that was happening in Hot Springs.
It was slow going trying to form a picture by sifting through weeks of election stories, but an hour in, I felt I had enough that I could pitch the story to Acheson without tripping myself up. As I read, it was notable that any mention of corruption alleged against Coughlin was handled with a light touch – ‘
Unsubstantiated rumours of electoral malfeasance
’,
‘
Fiercely refuted suggestions of fiscal impropriety.
’
Nothing to even hint at the kind of wrongdoing I suspected him to be involved in. It was discordant with Dinsmore’s speculation about the mayor’s involvement, and I wondered if Coughlin’s activity was an open secret the papers left alone, just like the gambling dens and brothels that flourished in the town.
I pressed on a little longer, trying to take in as much as I could about the broader issues at stake, and that’s when I stumbled across a name that gave me the perfect hook. I creased the page to mark it, then walked to the telephone kiosk.
I called Acheson at home. Even at seventy, he alternated six- and seven-day weeks at the
Journal
, taking only every second Monday off; by my reckoning, today was one of those off-days. He’d been in newspapers his entire life and worked at outfits all over California. If he’d slipped some since his heyday at the
LA Times
, he made up for it with the weight of his knowledge, and he could run a rag like the
Journal
in his sleep. Above all else, he still knew a good story when it found him – if you knew how to pitch it.
‘Buck, it’s Charlie.’
‘Charlie? To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I don’t mean to disturb you at home, but I’m going a little crazy with this idea I had for a story, and I wanted to talk it over with you.’
‘What story? You’re on leave, I thought?’
‘I was, but I stumbled across something and I think it’s a runner. You ever hear of Hot Springs in Arkansas?’
‘Is that a town or a resort?’
‘Both. You wouldn’t believe this place, Chief. Every joint on Main Street is touting gambling or girls upstairs, and it’s all out in the open. The law just looks the other way.’
‘Sounds like trouble for a god-fearing man like you. But I don’t think you’d Shanghai my day of rest for a morsel like that . . .’ The playful tone to his voice meant I had his interest.
‘Try this: the mayor’s a career pol named Coughlin, been in office twenty years. Far as I can see, it’s on the strength of the fact he’s kept the state and the Feds turning a blind eye to what goes on here. He trots his horses right up the main drag every night, for god’s sake.’
‘Does this local colour lead somewhere meaningful?’
‘Hear me out. The city elections are in a week and a half and there’s an ex-Marine Corps officer, name of Samuel Masters, making a big noise about how he’s had enough of “
business as usual
”
.
He’s a war hero and he’s put together an opposition group, decorated GIs all, and they’re standing on an anti-corruption ticket. Masters got himself elected in June as prosecuting attorney for the local judicial district here, and if you believe the polls, his crew are a solid bet to take over the rest of the city government. If that happens, means you can kiss goodbye to Coughlin, the casinos, all of it. They’re writing leader pieces here making out like it’s the fall of Rome all over again.’
He sucked his breath through his teeth. ‘So far, so quaint, but what’s the angle for the
Journal
?’
I played my ace card. ‘Benny Siegel.’
The Hollywood mobster, undisputed boss of the Los Angeles underworld. Bugsy’s reputation was fearsome enough that Jack Dragna had been forced to relinquish control of the rackets to him as soon as he arrived in LA. I let Siegel’s name hang there a moment, the hook baited now. ‘He’s been coming here since the thirties and he’s visited a half-dozen times in the last two years alone. He was in town just last month, and the local hacks covered it like he’s royalty or something. Now tell me you can’t see the angle here. We run it as a reportage piece, “
War Heroes Fight Vice In Bugsy’s Secret Vacation Haunt
.” Break it up over a few days, make it a “
Charlie Yates reporting from the front line
” kinda deal.’ I stopped for a breath, almost getting carried away by my own sell job. ‘But here’s the trick: I write it so the whole thing is a haymaker aimed at Santa Monica City Hall. Corrupt pols getting their comeuppance, “
A New Day Is Dawning For American Democracy
” – lay it on real thick. How’s that sound?’
He muttered something derisory about the City Council, then said, ‘It’s a slick pitch, I’ll say that much.’ He took a deep breath. ‘If I said no, would you listen to me?’
‘No, sir. But I’d sleep better knowing you were on board.’
He scoffed. ‘I somehow doubt it. All right. File two fifteen-hundred-word pieces as a starter and we’ll see how it looks.’
‘I’ll need a per diem.’
‘I thought I felt your hand in my damn pocket. I’ll authorise it with Accounting.’
‘Great, thanks, Buck. I could really use some walking around money, can you get them to wire it?’
He grunted, and I took it as an affirmative. ‘Make sure this is worth my while.’
‘You got it.’ I cleared my throat, pushing my luck now, but confident I was on a roll. ‘One other thing. I’ve enlisted Lizzie to do some research for me – pertains to the story. I said I’d clear it with you so she can work with the wires and so on. She’ll see to it that it doesn’t interfere with her normal duties.’
‘You’ve put your wife on the story already, before you—’ He cut himself off. ‘You’re some piece of work, Charlie. Any other liberties I should know about?’
‘Lizzie’s overqualified to be a secretary, you know it as well as I do. She could make for a real asset to the
Journal
. Hell, I should be billing you for training her up.’
He gave two stunted laughs, incredulous. ‘Sure thing. Send me an invoice and see what happens.’
*
Knowing money was on its way was a load off my mind. I still had time before meeting with Ella Borland, so I swung by the Mountain Motor Court to extend my accommodation there. The manager insisted on taking for two nights up front, not one, the ‘house rules’ apparently changed just for me. I let it slide so I could go about my business and asked the man for directions to Jaycee Park. He showed me on a tattered map he took from under the counter.
‘Jaycee ain’t finished, so it ain’t marked on here yet, but it’s right around here.’ He pointed to a spot on the southern fringes of town, a half-dozen blocks west of Central Avenue.
I thanked him and turned around and opened the door.
He called after me. ‘Ain’t nothing to see, what you wanna go there for?’
I looked back from the doorway. ‘I’ll tell you when I figure it out myself.’
There was little traffic on the roads, and I arrived ahead of time. A dirt track skirted around the edge of the park on three sides. I followed it in order to make a survey of the area and find the meeting point. I’d assumed it was a public park that was being laid out, but turned out it was a baseball field. A chain link fence surrounded the central construction site, and a banner tied to it read:
Opening May
1947: Jaycee Park, New Home Of The Hot Springs Bathers
. Beyond it, I could see where the diamond was marked out, the turf still a potato field, and a pair of half-built concrete bleachers that rose along what would be the first and third base lines. A steam shovel sat idle on one side of the site, with other digging and construction equipment scattered around. The stillness was eerie in the low light, and the place felt abandoned.
The road stopped at a narrow creek that ran all along the eastern edge of the park. The water was dark and frigid-looking, even on a mild fall evening. I left the car and followed the muddy bank along to the south-eastern corner of the field, where a raised railroad bed crossed the water on a tumbledown trestle, the criss-cross supports underneath it rotting away. I spotted the bench Borland had said to meet by, and waited there, scanning in all directions for her, the sound of gurgling water behind me.
At five minutes after five, a blue sedan pulled up next to mine and a woman climbed out of the passenger side. The driver remained behind the wheel, and for some reason my mind reached back to the pickup truck I’d chased away from my motel. He lit a smoke, but even in the flare of the match, I couldn’t make out anything of the man’s face.
The woman came walking down the same way I had. The first thing I noticed was her hair – jet-black, worn in short, curled bangs that dressed her face and made for a passing resemblance to Hedy Lamarr. She wore a maroon pillbox hat with a short birdcage veil, and a dark plaid coat that stopped past her knees. She walked towards me slowly, glancing around as she came near. I got to my feet to greet her. ‘Charlie Yates. How do you do, Miss Borland?’
She offered her hand, the glove she wore not quite the same shade of maroon as that of her hat.
‘Mr Yates.’ Up close, the Hedy Lamarr comparison didn’t hold up, but she was beautiful nonetheless. The way she spoke suggested an education level uncommon to her line of work. I’d noticed it when we spoke on the telephone, but it was even more pronounced in person.
I waited for her to sit, then took my place next to her. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.’
‘It seemed the least I could do for Jimmy. It’s such an awful thing that happened.’
I nodded at the sentiment, and something made me look away briefly, like I was needling at her grief. ‘You said something this morning – said that Jimmy talked about justice a lot. Can you tell me how he came to be interested in your friend’s murder?’
She folded her hands in her lap, and lowered her eyes to them. ‘Forgive me, Mr Yates, but I came here to listen as much as talk. I told you what I wanted, and I’d be obliged if we could begin the conversation there.’
I shifted in my seat so I was angled towards her, surprised at how forthright she was. ‘All right, fair enough. But you have to understand, most of what I have is suspicion, nothing more.’
She met my eyes now. ‘I’d like to hear it all the same.’
I nodded and leaned forward so my elbows were resting on my knees, and started talking. I told her about Robinson’s telephone call, his line about making a mistake, and him implying that whatever was happening wasn’t over. I told her how he spoke about three victims; she showed no reaction to that. I dropped Clay Tucker’s name and said how he’d lied to me, and that I felt he knew something more than he was saying. I described the barman at the Keystone recounting how Jimmy had hinted he was going to kill himself. I mentioned Cole Barrett, and that I wanted to know what evidence had led him to Glover, but not that I’d gone to see him. I said nothing about our past in Texarkana. I edited my story on the fly, deciding what to tell and what to hold back, my brain racing to stay a step ahead of my mouth; I had no reason to trust or distrust this woman, but no way was I giving everything up on the first dance.
When I was finished, I said, ‘From the time you spent with Jimmy, does any of this add up?’
She kneaded her hands, looking straight ahead. ‘A little. Clay Tucker is a contemptible man, I’m not surprised at all that he lied to you. I suppose it was him gave you my name?’
‘No, ma’am. That was the bartender at the Keystone.’
‘Leke?’ Her eyes moved as she thought about this. ‘I didn’t know he’d seen me in Jimmy’s company.’
‘Were you trying to keep your association under wraps?’
She shook her head, eyes still set on the distance. ‘No. I just forget how claustrophobic this town is sometimes.’ She turned to me. ‘Did you say Jimmy talked about taking his own life?’
I nodded.
‘When was this?’
‘The day he died.’
She brought her hand to her face and touched the corner of her mouth gingerly. ‘Do you think he went through with it? That the fire . . .’
I looked across the field towards her car, could make out her driver looking in our direction. A light breeze blew across me, carrying the smell of mud and heavy duty oil. ‘It’s possible.’
‘You sound unconvinced.’
‘I think it’s unlikely.’
‘Because you think he was murdered.’
‘How about you tell me. Did he have reason to take his own life?’
‘I couldn’t say. We weren’t that close.’ She trailed off at the end so her voice was almost a whisper. There was a sadness to the way she said it that gave her away.
‘You said Jimmy first approached you sometime in August?’
‘Yes.’
‘What made him come to you?’
‘We had a common acquaintance, in Texarkana. I used to live there, and she suggested he speak to me.’
A judder ran through my chest. ‘You’re from Texarkana?’
‘Not originally, but I lived there a long time.’
‘When did you leave?’
‘Three or four years ago. Why do you ask?’
I sat upright. ‘I told you I met Jimmy on a story – that was in Texarkana. You hear about the Phantom killings there a few months back?’
‘Of course – it was all over the news. People here were running to the police because they were terrified the killer was hiding in their backyard.’
‘When Jimmy called me, he spoke as though there could be a link between those murders and what’s happening here. You have any idea what that could be?’
‘I don’t understand. They found the killer, I thought? He shot himself before the police could take him in.’
That was how the Texarkana cops had told the story, and was the only version I’d seen reported in the aftermath of the killings. I knew the real truth of course; the memory of standing over Richard Davis when he shot himself was always with me, clear as day – the Phantom Killer no more, just a corpse in a rotting clearing in the woods. ‘He’s dead, yes. I was thinking there might be some other kind of link, something more subtle – maybe something to do with Cole Barrett. Who was your friend that put Jimmy onto you?’
‘Catherine Stanton. Do you know her?’
I shook my head, a momentary surge of hope snuffed out. I lodged it in my memory anyway. ‘My first question still stands: why was Jimmy interested in Jeannie Runnels’ death?’
She moistened her lips. ‘He never volunteered a reason, and I never asked. He told me he was writing a story about her and the other woman that was killed and he wanted to know everything I could tell him about what happened. You know how he talked – “lies” and “evil” and “righteousness”, but he spoke in riddles a lot of the time. Especially after he’d taken a drink.’
I wondered if he’d spoken those words of Barrett. If whatever Robinson had learned, he was seeing it through the prism of what had gone down in Texarkana; if, in his mind, he was still trying to right those wrongs. ‘Can you tell me what you told him about the murder? I know it’s hard.’
She twisted her fingers together. ‘I only know the little the police told me, and I don’t see what good it would do. Jimmy asked about it endlessly, Mr Yates, and I would prefer not to trawl through it all again.’
I covered my face with my hands and took a deep breath, weighing how far to push her. ‘I don’t want to cause you undue distress, ma’am. Let me be specific – just a few questions.’
She looked at me, brown eyes searching my face. Whatever reassurance she was looking for, she must have found it; she nodded once and looked out over the construction works in front of us.
‘Can you tell me how Walter Glover came into contact with Miss Runnels?’
‘In what sense?’
‘I mean was it a crime of opportunity? Of passion? Was she known to him?’
‘If you’re trying to spare my blushes, you can save yourself the trouble. You’re asking me if he was a customer of hers?’
‘Lady, I don’t care how he knew her, I’m just asking if he did.’
Her cheeks flushed a little. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve no reason to be curt with you. I’m not in that line of work any more, but I refuse to be ashamed of it.’
‘It’s none of my business. I’m just trying to figure out what angle Jimmy was working.’
‘I’d never heard Glover’s name before. That’s not to say they couldn’t have met – Jeannie was her own woman – but the police said they made some enquiries among the others, and no one recalled seeing him before.’
‘Where did she work?’
‘Why, at Duke’s. I thought you knew?’
I closed my eyes and laughed once under my breath. Smart Jimmy, not a coincidence that he’d chosen to stay there. ‘But that wasn’t where she was murdered?’
‘No. She kept a room in a boarding house on Quapaw Avenue. It was supposed to be her escape. That’s where they found her body.’
I tried not to imagine the scene – her terror as the killer tightened her own nylons around her throat. Clawing at his wrists. Her screams. ‘Were there any witnesses? Someone must have heard something.’
‘A neighbour reported shouts and that’s what led the police to investigate. No one else, though. None of the other boarders were home at the time.’
‘Did you or Miss Runnels know Bess Prescott?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know her. I can’t say for sure about Jeannie, but she’d never once mentioned her to me.’
‘She didn’t work with you at Duke’s, then?’
‘I never told you I worked there, Mr Yates. I see Clay Tucker’s discretion only went so far.’
‘Like I said, that’s not my concern here.’
‘No. I’d never heard of her.’
I rubbed the back of my neck. ‘Did Jimmy ever mention a third victim to you? Did he say anything at all about it?’
‘No, he never did. I don’t know what he could have meant by that.’
I took the photograph from my pocket, expecting the same response as everyone else had given me. It was still a small disappointment when she looked at it and shook her head. ‘Who is she?’ she said.
‘At a guess, she’s Jimmy’s third victim. Seems like she’s a ghost.’ I leaned back against the bench, feeling like the story was impenetrable. What did Jimmy see in the deaths of these women that drew him here? Where did Barrett and Glover fit into the picture? Did he even get himself killed, or was I seeing malice where there was none?
‘Mr Yates, I can sense your frustration, but may I ask you a question?’
I looked at her, waiting.
‘You said you thought Sheriff Barrett may have been something to do with why Jimmy called you. What makes you say that?’
I wondered if she’d sensed I was holding back something about Barrett – or if she just thought the comment was curious. ‘The lawmen in Texarkana ran to their own rules, and they didn’t care too much who got hurt along the way. I’m starting to think maybe Barrett’s cut from the same cloth, and that’s what brought Jimmy here.’
‘Do you think he might have had something to do with Jimmy’s death?’
‘I don’t know. You never answered my question on the telephone – did Jimmy ever talk about him to you?’
She took a white handkerchief from her clutch and dabbed her nose. ‘No. I don’t believe he did.’
The headlamps on her car flashed twice and she looked up, startled.
‘Who’s the wheelman?’ I said.
‘A friend. You’ll forgive me, Mr Yates, but it would seem he’s getting impatient.’ She stood up in a rush and offered her hand. ‘It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m sorry for your loss; Jimmy was a troubled man, but I think that’s because he had such a big heart.’
She took a step back and then turned and made her way up the path. The wind had picked up and was going on cold now. I folded my arms and waited as she climbed into the car. From what I could see, neither she nor the driver spoke. The sedan wheeled around in a circle and headed off down the road, and I watched until it passed behind the bleachers, disappearing from sight. Robinson had been living in town three weeks before he died, and visiting her for a month or so before that; what little Ella Borland had told me wasn’t enough to explain why that was.
Clay Tucker told me they were together at Duke’s the Saturday before last; I tried to picture them – an intimate conversation in the same place she and Jeannie Runnels had worked together. Jimmy asking about the case for the thousandth time, Borland telling him she’d already given it all up. I didn’t buy it, she knew more than she was saying – about Runnels’ death or Jimmy’s, and maybe both.