“At first I thought of selling this bar under his nose. But that seemed unfair. So I’ve tended it, and saved up a nice nest egg for myself. I’ll be long gone by the time he sets foot in San Francisco. Maybe I’ll go to Washington, or Canada—merde, maybe I’ll visit my mother’s family in France.”
“I’m sure you’ll make a life for yourself wherever you go.” He leaned over, took her hand from beneath the covers, and kissed it. “Good night, Mrs. Parks.”
As he stood to dress, a drowsy voice came at his back. “You’re welcome to stay.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the bed. The offer was tempting, but trust didn’t come easy to a man like him. Sleep left a man vulnerable. And a shared bed was the most intimate kind of trust. Riot had never been able to breach that barrier. Not with a single woman.
“I don’t sleep easy,” he said. It was the truth. She didn’t press him with questions, but drifted off to sleep.
As he dressed, a mirror caught his eye. His fingers stilled over his waistcoat buttons. It was a curio that Abigail had likely bought in Chinatown: a bagua. An octagon with eight edges and a mirror in its center. Chinese characters and patterns circled the edges. Although Riot had heard all manner of things about these mirrors, he didn’t know much about them, only that they had to do with Taoism. He had heard that a bagua repelled evil spirits, that it brought balance to a room, or good luck. One thing he knew was that the Chinese were very particular about where they hung the mirrors. He suspected Abigail just liked the look of it.
And that’s what had caught his eye. The look of it. In those eight sides, he saw the cuts to the girls’ thighs and their hollowed out abdomens in the mirror. Riot shook the images from his head, grabbed his hat, and quickly left.
9
Bread Crumbs
Monday, March 4, 1900
And now Riot stood in that same saloon. He didn’t know what had become of Abigail Parks. That might be the source of his unease—the unknown. And as there was no threat waiting in Park’s Place, and no reason to reach for a gun, his earlier hesitation seemed a foolish overreaction.
A few patrons had settled in for a drink and an early lunch. Not the kind of fare that came with a five cent drink, but a solid meal. Abigail had worked hard to transform her husband’s dive into a proper saloon. Her efforts appeared to have stuck.
Riot went straight to the bar. It was odd to see a thin older man at the counter instead of Abigail, but he was relieved it wasn’t Jim Parks. He had no idea if the man still owned the saloon, or if he had ever been released from San Quentin. There hadn’t been time to check.
“Fifteen cents for a drink and hot meal. Clam chowder and fresh bread,” the bartender said.
“As good as it smells, I’ll pass,” Riot said, sliding a dollar across the bar. “I’m looking for a regular of yours—a Mr. Lee Walker. He seems to have gone missing, and his family is concerned. I’ve been hired to find him.” He left out his own name, for obvious reasons.
The bartender pushed back the dollar. “Keep it. Walker owes money on his tab. Far as I can tell, he backed the wrong horse.”
“I take it Walker’s sure-fire horseman steered him wrong?”
“That’s about right,” the bartender confirmed. “Freddy was full of piss and wind, and told him he had a banker. Walker believed him.”
“When was this?”
“Three days back.”
“When is Freddy usually here?”
“When there’s a race.”
Riot was about to ask for a description when the back door opened, and a solid man stomped in carrying a keg on his shoulder. He lowered it to the floor, and straightened. And now Riot was not looking at a photograph by a bedside table. He was looking at the man in the flesh. The very same whom he and Ravenwood had put behind bars. Jim Parks now had a missing ear, a nasty scar down his left cheek, and a crooked nose. Other than those injuries and a bit of gray, the man hadn’t changed.
Riot’s mind rippled, as if it were readjusting itself, like a mirage that was only now becoming clear. He felt suddenly light-headed, and his hand tightened on the knob of his stick.
“This fellow here says Walker’s gone missing,” the bartender said.
“Is that so.” Jim Parks looked right at him. There was no sign of recognition—not even the flicker of a lash. “I’m not surprised. The man was always chasing dreams instead of rolling up his sleeves. But you know what, Jacob, if there’s a man who will find Walker, it’s this one here.” A small sort of smile crept over Parks’ lips. A satisfied one.
Riot kept an iron-grip on his stick. He stared back at Jim Parks, not backing down. It was the kind of staring match that generally ended in death.
“I swore I’d kill you,” Parks stated plainly.
“Is that so?”
“For a good year, that’s all I could think of.”
“And now?” asked Riot.
A broad smile spread over the man’s face, and he extended his hand. “I’ve made peace. Have you?”
Riot cocked his head. There was something in the man’s voice—a knowing look, a smug tilt to his shoulders. On the outside Riot was all calm and collected, but the hand that held his stick trembled.
“I was only doing my job,” Riot said. “Water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned.” He shook the offered hand. Jim squeezed so hard that Riot thought bones might break. He pulled Riot’s hand closer, threatening to yank him against the bar. Riot stood firm.
“That’s very kind of you to forgive me. I’m a changed man now.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Riot took his hand back.
Parks pointed to Riot’s temple, to a streak of white hair. “I like what you’ve done with your hair. The beard, too. You’re turning into that partner of yours. How is old Ravenwood?”
“He’s dead.”
Parks clucked his tongue, and gave a shake of his head. “Happens to the best of us. You take care now, Mr. Riot.”
“I plan on it.”
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Tim frowned, as Riot stood next to the hack, torn between climbing inside and getting on the first steamer headed out of port. Anywhere would do. He fully understood Isobel’s tendency to run.
Tim hopped down, and stood in front of him. He gripped Riot’s arm. “A.J.?”
“I’m fine, Tim.” Wise blue eyes appeared to doubt his words. To shake off Tim’s concern, Riot reached into his pocket. “Can you track down a horseman named Freddy? He frequents Park’s Place, but don’t let on to anyone what you’re about. He told Walker about a banker, and the backed horse lost. He may have had something to do with Walker disappearing.”
“What’s he look like?”
Riot opened his mouth to reply, but stopped short. He hadn’t gotten a description. “I don’t know.”
“Now I know something’s wrong.”
“My head hurts. I need to walk.” It was nearly a snap. Even now, he was resisting the urge to rub that side of his skull where the bullet had left a deep rut. His heart felt as if it were trying to claw its way out of his throat. Without another word, he turned and strode away.
Walking helped. It always had. He had walked himself to exhaustion more than once in the months after Ravenwood’s death.
His feet took him to a wharf, where a sea of masts bobbed in a world of gray. Noises were dulled, even the shift of rigging and the knock of hulls. Far off whistles and mournful horns came out of the fog. The simple sounds and smell of salt soothed his head.
As he walked down the wharf, the grizzled dockmaster raised his first bottle of whiskey of the day in greeting. He tipped his hat in return, and wondered when the man had last been sober.
He was relieved to see that the Pagan Lady was still in her berth. He had not seen Isobel since their outing across the bay. The Pacific Street Case and her own work had kept them apart.
“Ahoy there,” Riot called, before stepping on deck.
A head popped up from the cabin hatch, and
a blond person waved a cap at him. “Welcome aboard.”
It took Riot a moment to place the person. At first he thought it was Isobel in disguise, but the golden hair tied back gave her twin away. Lotario.
A tabby cat darted from the hatch and whined at Riot, threading its beefy body around his legs. “I’m surprised to see you here,” he said, as he bent over to scratch the feline behind the ears.
“I’m probably not the twin you were hoping for,” Lotario said, as he joined Riot on deck.
“Not the one I was expecting, especially dressed like that.” Lotario was dressed in rough clothes fit for the sea. With the cap covering his head, he looked exactly (and eerily) like Isobel dressed in her Mr. Morgan guise, with blond hair instead of black.
“I always dress the part.” They shook hands, and Riot discovered that Lotario didn’t just dress the part—he became it. Dressed as he was, his handshake changed from languid to firm. “I was hoping Bel would be with you.”
“She’s not here?” Riot asked.
Lotario shook his head. “We were supposed to meet for lunch, and sail the bay this afternoon.”
Riot climbed down the companionway ladder, and walked into her cabin. Watson came bounding on his heels, yowling for attention. Everything appeared to be in its place. Even the bedding on the berth. He went to the Shipmate stove, and opened the door. The ashes had been scraped, and the inside was cold.
“Did you clean the stove, Lotario?”
“Yes, right after I scrubbed the deck and scraped the hull.” A voice drawled at his back. And then Lotario’s breath caught in realization. “The stove wasn’t lit last night, was it?” It had been a cold night.
“No.” Riot stood, and turned to the berth. He opened the trunk underneath, and rummaged through her belongings. Her revolver was gone. And so was her male clothing.
“I was about to try her boarding house, but that Mrs. Beeton is about as useful as Watson for keeping track of her.”
“Precisely why Bel rented the room.”
“She does this a lot, you know,” Lotario said. “It’s common for her to disappear for days, even weeks.”
“But she usually keeps her appointments.”
“Except for the time she told mother and father she’d be home for Boxing Day, and faked her own death.”
Both men frowned.
“Maybe she sent a telegram to your agency?” Lotario suggested. “I’m as hard to find as she is at times, what with my obligations as Paris and Madame de’Winter.” Like his twin, Lotario had many names. Paris was a dancer at an upper-class brothel, and Madame de’Winter was a talented opera singer. The twins swapped gender and personality as often as they changed clothes.
“I’ll check at the agency.” Riot started to climb the companionway, but stopped midway. He had a shadow. He looked over his shoulder to find Lotario trailing after him.
Lotario looked up, and batted his eyes. “I was promised lunch.”
“It will be difficult to inquire after ‘Mr. Morgan’ when you look exactly like him.”
“Oh, yes.” Lotario tapped his smooth chin. The twins were identical in every way save their gender. It did not appear that Lotario had need of a razor. “Wait a moment.”
As Lotario disappeared into the forward cabin, Riot stood on deck and waited, scrutinizing the surrounding boats. In less than ten minutes, Lotario reappeared—sporting a cocky bowler, a short blond beard, and a flashy green waistcoat. “Sean Murphy at your service. A bit o’ the flash and Irish charm distracts the keenest eye.”
Riot blinked at the man. He had completely transformed himself from sailor to swell. “Where does she keep all that?”
“In the secret compartment.”
Riot started towards the hatch, but Lotario shut it. And Watson squeezed his bulk through an open porthole, yowling at both men for food. “You’ll have to hunt, you lazy beast,” Lotario muttered.
After Lotario locked the hatch, he glanced at Riot, a look of devilish amusement ruining his guise. “You don’t know where the compartment is, do you?”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me?”
Lotario laughed softly. “Only if you let me hold your stick.”
“No.”
“I meant your walking stick.”
Riot planted his coveted stick on deck. “I’ll find the compartment myself; otherwise Bel will accuse me of cheating.”
Lotario sighed. “Have your way. But no Irish swell is complete without a stick.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Riot said. “Let’s hope no one decides to test your Irish fighting spirit.”
Lotario flashed a grin. “That’s why I have you.”
The door to Ravenwood Agency offices was unlocked. Riot walked in, expecting to see Matthew Smith manning the telephone, but the main office was empty. As quick as a blink, Riot drew his revolver, and Lotario jerked in surprise. With revolver cocked and ready, Riot glanced in the open conference room. Finding it empty, he moved to his office, and nudged the door open.
A man was leaning back in Riot’s chair with his boots propped on the desk. His Stetson was pulled forward, hiding his eyes.
“Enjoying yourself?” Riot asked.
Montgomery Johnson pushed back his hat, and eyed Riot. Then his gaze drifted beyond Riot’s shoulder. “I didn’t realize you had company.” The detective sat up, leaving dirt on the desk.
“You’re supposed to be in Santa Cruz keeping an eye on Mrs. Artells.”
“I’m not a damn mammy,” Monty said, and stood, smoothing his waistcoat.
“Did Smith stay behind?”
“He did. That boy looks up to you like a puppy.”
Riot ignored the jab. “I wanted you to stay for a reason. There’s no telling how Artells might react.”
Monty took a few threatening steps forward, until he stood within a foot of the smaller detective. “You don’t tell me what to do, A.J. You left us high and dry, and we’ve done just fine without you these past three years.”
“This isn’t about me; it’s about Mrs. Artells.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you told the husband how she made a fool of him.” Monty leaned close. “But it’s nice to see you’re finally doubting your cocksure attitude.”
“If you have something to say to me, then say it.”
“I would have said it three years ago, but you ran,” Monty growled. “That personal little vendetta of yours got Zeph killed—so goes the story. But I’ve started to wonder who benefited the most from his death?” The man stared long and hard, and Riot stared back, threat crackling between the two.
“That’s an excellent question,” he said calmly. “Why don’t you look into it?”
“You sure made out well when you inherited his estate.”
“Are you accusing me of murdering my mentor and partner for his money?” Riot asked.
“As far as I’m concerned, you did. And all for a bunch of filthy chinks.” Monty bumped past Riot, knocking him aside. “There is a stack of telegrams on your desk.”
Riot turned on his heel, and raised his voice. “If you don’t care for me, then quit.”
Monty stopped. “I’m here for Zeph—not you. This was his agency, and he would never have abandoned it for three years.”
“You don’t get paid to sleep.”
“You got a job for me that doesn’t involve your mistakes?”
Riot sighed. “I’ll give it to Smith.” Shoulders bowed, he walked towards his desk, and shuffled through the telegrams.
“Fine. I’ll pass the job on when he gets back.” It was a grumble, but some of the anger had blown out of the man.
“I need to locate a woman by the name of Abigail Parks, formally Laurent. She used to run Park’s Place for her husband while he was in San Quentin. Now he runs it.”
“I know the place.”
“Discretion is key,” Riot explained. “We put him behind bars, and he knows me. Stay clear if you can—he’s a dangerous one.”<
br />
“I remember the case, and that fellow. Is this one of your past mistakes?”
“It is.” Suddenly tired, Riot sat down and ran a hand over his beard. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret my choices, Monty,” he said softly.
Monty glared at him. “Well, too bad Zeph’s not around to say I told you so.”
“He is.” Riot smiled. And Monty froze. A few uneasy seconds passed before a glimpse of madness sent the larger man hurrying out of the office.
I did say it was a dangerous game. Ravenwood’s voice rattled around his skull.
“And I said that life is full of risks,” Riot answered the voice. “Only I didn’t think you’d be the one at risk.”
“What was that?” a voice asked.
Riot blinked, fearing another incorporeal had joined the tumult in his mind. But flesh and blood stood in the office, not a memory. Lotario was rooted in place. His gray eyes were narrowed, so like his sister, possessed of the same analyzing glint.
“Nothing.” Riot shook himself. “Something I said to a friend long ago.”
“Ah.” The prim expression conflicted with Lotario’s swaggering appearance. He gently closed the office door, and sat in an empty chair. “I feel as though I shouldn’t have witnessed whatever that was.”
“Likely not.” Riot cleared the grit from his throat, and tried to focus on the yellow telegram slips.
“Well, as long as I did—who is Zeph?”
“My mentor and my friend. He was murdered three years ago.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Lotario said soberly. “Was it your fault?”
The telegram blurred. Riot removed his spectacles, and rubbed at his eyes. “It was,” he said.
Lotario’s eyebrows shot up. “You killed him?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, that’s very arrogant of you to take responsibility.”
Riot jammed his spectacles back on his nose, and looked sharply at the man. “Monty has every right to hate me.”
Lotario sat back, crossed his legs, and idly brushed a speck of dust off his trousers. “Just because someone has a right, doesn’t make it righteous.”
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