"I am coming with you," he hissed. "You are too big," she said. "You walk like a rancher. I walk like a ghost. Watch the door.
If anyone comes, whistle. " She slipped inside. The kitchen was dark, smelling of stale grease. She moved through the shadows, her feet silent on the floorboards. She knew the layout of these places. The best rooms were always upstairs, facing the street.
She climbed the back stairs. The hallway was dimly lit by a gas sconce. She counted the doors. Suite A. She pressed her ear to the wood.
Silence. Pike would be asleep or out gambling. She tried the handle locked. She picked it. She slipped inside.
The room was opulent. A heavy four poster bed, a desk, a large iron safe in the corner. Pike was not in the bed. Clara moved to the safe. It was locked, of course.
She bit her lip. She could not pick a safe. She scanned the room. Men like Pike were arrogant. They did not think anyone would dare touch their things.
She checked the desk drawers. Nothing. She checked the hollow of the false book on the shelf. Nothing. Then she saw it.
A jacket hanging on the chair. Pike's dinner jacket. She patted the pockets. Her fingers brushed cold metal. A key on a chain.
She grabbed it. She went to the safe. The key fit. The heavy door swung open. Inside, stacked among bundles of cash, was a black leather book.
She grabbed it. She opened it to a random page. Judge Halloway, $500. Sheriff Miller, $200. Got you, she whispered.
The door to the hallway opened. Clara froze. Harlan Pike stood in the doorway. He was a large man with silver hair and a face that looked like it had been stamped from a coin. He was holding a candle.