Free City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) by Kelli Stanley Page A

Noblesse oblige.”
    The socialite gathered her purse and raised the hood of the cape over her head, gray reaper in fabric by Irene. She glided quickly to Miranda’s office door, staring at the black and gold letters:
    MIRANDA CORBIE. PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. c ONFIDENTIAL -D ISCREET.
    Mrs. Hart swung her neck to the side, spoke to the air. “Thank you.”
    The pneumatic door swung slowly shut, as the taps on her gray French leather pumps rang like iron spikes against the marble floor. Miranda stood and smoked, watching the door click into place. Her hands were still shaking.

 
    Seven

    The red and pink neon from the Top Hat stained the dark, closed office like a bloodstain.
    Miranda sat at her desk and smoked, listening to the juke from downstairs, music floating up from Tascone’s, “Love for Sale” and “Time on My Hands,” and “Only Forever,” fucking forever …
    Reached for the Old Taylor, thought better of it. Flipped through the Chief tablet until she found a blank page, then grabbed the Esterbrook, fingers clutching it savagely, pen nib pressing down too hard.
    She swore, slammed the tablet shut.
    Mrs. Hart. James. Gonzales …
    Her eyes closed, music transporting her, different time, different place, somewhere else.
    Do I want to be with you as the years come and go …
    Someone else.
    *   *   *
    Early 1936.
    “Mmmm … I like that. You smell like spring. Maybe you’ll melt the snow outside … On second thought, I like it better here…”
    Laughter, free and easy like the fluffy white flakes falling on Manhattan. “Don’t you have a job, Mr. Hayes? Someone to question, some politician to grill?” She pushed him away, not hard, hands still on his chest.
    He cupped her face in his hands, brushed her lips with his, let them drift to her neck, voice muffled by her skin.
    “What is this stuff? Don’t take it off. Everything else, sure, but leave the perfume.”
    This time she pushed him hard and he fell back over on the small bed, white shirt askew and not really white, top two buttons of his trousers undone, necktie flung on the well-worn fedora at the foot. He was grinning. He always seemed to be grinning.
    Miranda caught her breath at the heat in his eyes, the white of his teeth, the strength of his lean body. The energy that wrapped around him, wrapped around them both, crackling like electricity. Her stomach was knotted and there was sweat in her palms. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
    “Je Reviens.” She nodded toward the minuscule vanity dresser in the corner. “The blue bottle that looks like a skyscraper. You were with me when I bought it, don’t you remember? Macy’s, day before yesterday.”
    John Hayes looked at her meditatively for a moment, then pulled himself up from the bed, stretched and yawned.
    “Honey, I only remember what they smell like. They could be spritzed from a spittoon for all I know. ‘’Cause I only have eyes for you, dear…’”
    He reached out a hand to pull her in again, giving the song his best Dick Powell impression. Miranda shuddered as his hand ran down her side, fingers brushing her breast. He bent over her, eyes dancing again, grin still in place, face only a few inches away from hers. She kept her eyes open while he kissed her, tongues probing each other, hands and fingers in hollows and curves, wanting to remember the scent of his skin and the way the warm yellow light hit his hair.
    He pulled up and looked down at her, eyebrows knotted. “What’s wrong, Randy?”
    Randy. He’d announced it as her new name when they met, just four weeks ago. It was her name now, and she couldn’t imagine any other. Couldn’t imagine any other man.
    Miranda reached a finger up to trace his face, from the mole on his temple to the small scar on his cheek to the blond-brown whiskers on his chin. She let her fingernail rest in the cleft.
    Her voice came out as a whisper. “I love you, John Robert Hayes.”
    His face crinkled at the corners, grew