City of Secrets by Kelli Stanley

poured a shot of bourbon. Drank it down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Poured another, set it on the desk.
    The safe was always hard to open, thanks to a sticky combination and years spent protecting Wells Fargo gold. It finally swung wide with a squeal, and Miranda picked up the .22 from the lower shelf. Just in case.
    She set the pistol on her desk, took the cigarette case and extra deck of Chesterfields out of her purse to make room. The Black Cat Café matchbook came up in her hand, and she stuck it in the cigarette pack, locking everything up again.
    Checked the springs on the magazine, reloaded the gun. Took a deep breath.
    Sank into the leather chair and faced the phone, dialing quickly. Girl’s voice, bouncy. Must be the new shift.
    No, Miss Corbie. No messages. Yes, Miss Corbie. Better get a paying case soon, Miss Corbie.
    She threw back the second bourbon, grabbed her spare coat from the wardrobe. It was black wool and didn’t match the green, but no one on the Gayway worked for Vogue .
    She was halfway to the door when the phone rang.
    â€œMiranda Corbie speaking.”
    â€œGlad I caught you.” Rick, sounding far away, siren drowning him out. “I’m at the Hall. Listen, it wasn’t in the papers, but this girl—the Emporium perfume clerk—”
    â€œYeah, yeah, tell—”
    He cleared his throat, then paused for a moment, voice low.
    â€œâ€˜Kike’ was written on her stomach.”
    *   *   *
    She squeezed through the squeaking doors of the Last Chance Saloon. A well-dressed drunk catapulted out, hand on his crotch. Defense attorney blustered in after her, only a few rumples in the navy blue suit.
    Silver hair, silver tongue, and I wouldn’t turn down yours, lady, if you use it in the right place. Hips thrust against her side, eyes confident, up and down, hand in his own pocket for a change.
    Miranda stared at him and he blanched, backing into one of the saloon’s dark corners. Rick took her arm.
    â€œKeep your head low and your mouth shut. Couple of boys from homicide on the other end of the bar.”
    She nodded, letting him steer her to the opposite corner. They crowded next to each other on the dark ruby leather wall bench while “In the Mood” played on the yellow-and-orange Wurlitzer and couples danced in between the small wooden tables. A Scotch and water balanced precariously on the cover of his notebook, half-empty.
    â€œThey figure ice pick again. Just like your girl. Not just twice, though—a couple of times. In the chest and neck.”
    Miranda plucked at a stained cocktail napkin barely protecting the table. Gray splotches and gauges marked the wood, marked the whole goddamn place. Just half a block down from the Hall of Justice, home of lost chances and last chances colliding in courtrooms, victims caught in between.
    She folded the napkin like a fan, straightening the edges. Two uniforms at the bar were trading barbs and baseball scores with the plainclothes dicks beside them.
    â€œWritten with her blood?”
    Rick nodded. Paused and downed the rest of the Scotch and water.
    She opened her purse, took out a thick pencil and the Chadwick’s Street Guide .
    â€œGot an address for me? Relatives, boyfriends, any leads?”
    He scratched his chin, fingers digging at the black stubble.
    â€œLong list, according to the cops. They figure same M.O., same killer, but still keeping Pandora under wraps. I’ve only got tonight to break the whole story, by tomorrow every paper in the city will be on it. I only got as far as I did because Hoolihan owes me fifty bucks.”
    â€œI won’t keep you. Just give me the address—I’ll call if I come up with something.”
    â€œDrexel Apartments—119 Haight, number eleven. No family in the city, but there’s a sister and mother up in Walla Walla.”
    â€œWas she Jewish? Go to a synagogue?”
    â€œNot often