The interiors of the boxcars had been converted to living quarters, to the point of even torching out holes to install windows.
One was a bedroom.
One was a bathroom.
One was a kitchen.
One was a living room.
One was storage.
One had nothing inside and was kept locked.
Down the track, active BNSF switching took place. Hundred-foot sections of track had been removed to prevent unintended travel into River’s property. Stoppers had also been placed at the end of the active tracks.
The setup fit River’s six-three, Tarzan-like frame nicely.
The clanging of switching operations woke him at dawn Monday morning. He took a long heaven-sent piss, splashed water on his face, drank two larges glasses of water then headed outside shirtless for a run.
He normally went five miles.
The distance didn’t change that often.
What did change was the speed, depending on how he felt.
Today he was strong.
His hair swung back and forth. It was pitch-black, thick and hung halfway down his back.
He headed down the track and got into a steady rhythm, letting his legs stretch and his lungs burn. The pace was good, five-minute-miles or better.
Every so often he stopped for a warrior routine.
Three sets of 100 pushups.
Five sets of 20 pull-ups.
One set of 300 sit-ups.
When he got back he spotted an envelope on the ground under the boxcar. The edges had tape. It must have been taped on his door at one point and fallen off. He opened it. Inside was a piece of paper with typewriting. It came from the same machine as always, with the S slightly higher than it should be.
Alexa Blank
937 Clarkson, Denver, CO
21, strawberry hair, medium height
Waitress at the Down Towner
Standard commission
Take her by Monday night. Store her someplace safe and wait for further instructions. Do not kill her until and unless you are told. Timing is crucial.
He didn’t know when it initially got delivered but did know one thing-the deadline was tonight. He burned the paper, showered, hopped on the Indian and headed for the Down Towner. It was time to have a look at his target, Alexa Blank.
He’d take her tonight after dark.
Before then, he needed to find a place to stash her.
4
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Morning
Wilde’s office was in the 1500 block of Larimer Street, once the heart of Denver, now an unhealthy conspiracy of liquor stores, bars, gambling houses, brothels and flophouses. He was 31 and wore his hair combed straight back. It was blond, thick, longer than most and played well against his green eyes and Colorado tan. He wore his usual attire, namely a gray suit, a white long-sleeve shirt rolled up at the cuffs, a loose blue tie and spit-shined wingtips.
His hat, ashen-gray, was over on the rack.
When he went out it would go on, dipped over his left eye.
With a strong body topping out at six-two, he had no problem making women stare.
He pulled a book of matches out of the desk drawer, lit one and set the pack on fire. He held the fire in front of his face and watched Secret through the flames as she headed up the street and disappeared around the corner.
Lightning was in his veins.
It was a feeling he hadn’t had in a while.
He now realized how much he missed it.
The door opened and Alabama Winger walked in wearing a pre-caffeine face. She was twenty-three or twenty-four. Wilde hired her as a Girl Friday last month after she didn’t kill him-a separate story in and of itself. She was the only Girl Friday in Denver who couldn’t type. To be fair, she disclosed it right after Wilde hired her.
She was slightly on the smaller side and scrubbed up pretty good when she got the urge. Temporarily, she was staying with Wilde at his place.
She headed for the coffee pot, poured a cup and studied Wilde’s face as she took a slurp.
“You’re already up to no good,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
“I don’t know, I just can.”
He blew smoke.
“A woman got dropped off a roof this weekend,” he said. “She was wearing a short red dress. Have you heard about her?”
No.
She hadn’t.
“So what?”
“So, we’re going to find out who did it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s our new case.”
“Someone actually hired you?”
“Funny,” he said. “What I want you to do this morning is go out and buy a sexy short dress. Get one of those French garter belts too, and a pair of nylons with a seam up the back.”
“A sexy short dress?”
Wilde inhaled, held the smoke then blew a ring.
“It’s not for you. Take that look off your face.”
“What do you mean, not for me? It’s too late for take-backs, Wilde. I already pictured myself wearing it. You can’t just yank it off me.”
Wilde pictured it and smiled.
“It’s for our new client,” he said. “Her name’s Secret St. Rain.”
Alabama tilted her head.
“It sounds like it’s more for you than her.”
“There’s probably some truth in there,” he said. “Make the dress black. Be sure it shows lots of cleavage and lots of leg. Get a bra too, something lacy. Deliver everything to Room 318 at the Clemont, that’s where she’s staying. If she answers, tell her I’ll be picking her up at 7:30. If she doesn’t answer, leave a note to that effect.”
“Does she have a size, this woman?”
She did.
Wilde described her.
“Oh, get some black high-heels too,” he said. “I almost forgot.”
“What do you want me to get for myself?”
“Nothing.”
Alabama shook her head.
“It can’t be done, then,” she said. “I can’t be that close to new clothes without getting something. It’s physically impossible.”
Wilde frowned.
He could argue but he’d lose.
“All right, get one thing for yourself. Only one thing though.”
“A dress.”
“Fine,” he said. “Not the same one though.”
“You’ll have yanking rights on it,” she said.
“You’re bad.”
“Yes I am.”
She was almost out the door when she turned and said, “The woman who got dropped off the roof, you said she was wearing a short red dress, right?”
He nodded.
“Are you setting our new client up as bait?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he said.
“Maybe subconsciously?”
“No, neither,” he said. “The more I think about it, don’t make your dress red. I don’t want to find out later that that’s what triggers this guy.”
She shrugged.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I’ll be bait if you want.”
He put a look on his face.
“Don’t even talk like that.”
“Fine.”
“I’m serious.”
She studied his face and then smiled. “You never said anything about panties. Do you want me to get panties for her or not?”
He did.
“What color?”
He pictured it.
“Black.”
“You’re so evil,” she said. “By the way, no one’s named Secret.”
“She is.”
“Trust me, no one is,” Alabama said. “Not me, not you, not her. It’s a fake name. My advice is to find out why before you get in too deep with her.”
5
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Morning
The Beat was housed in a three-story, 62-year-old brick building on Curtis Street that was an affront to every building code known to man. It was still standing but not by much. Everything was there-the offices, the printing presses, the distribution hub, the vans, everything. Except for the areas where the ink permeated the air, the place smelled like a bad cigar. Most of that could be attributed to Shelby Tilt, the owner, who was everywhere all the time and never without his nasty little habit in his nasty little mouth.