Record of Blood

by Sabrina Flynn

  Silence descended, of an uncomfortable sort. Lotario shifted like a school boy in his chair, but he didn’t back down. His comment had surprised Riot. For all Lotario’s flippant disregard, there were hidden depths to the man, each layer revealing something more. Just like his twin sister. The twins were like chameleons, ever-shifting, ever-surprising—never stagnant.

  Riot had no answer to Lotario’s observation. He focused on the Western Union slips, hoping this distraction would ease the ache in his head. There were replies from inquiries regarding current cases, messages from attorneys, and—Riot paused.

  HAS YOUR AGENT FOUND THE BODY? —SINCLAIR

  It was sent from the county hospital. Riot passed the telegram over to Lotario.

  “I take it your agency is not involved in a murder investigation involving a fellow named Sinclair?” Lotario asked.

  “I’d wager every penny to my name that Mr. Morgan has made us involved.”

  Lotario narrowed his eyes. His lashes were long, his cheekbones high, and his nose straight. He resembled a sleek feline with twitching ears. “Bel is always chasing cold bodies,” he sighed. “I, however, prefer them warm.”

  10

  Intersecting Trails

  Lotario resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose as he walked into the county hospital—Sean Murphy would not be so sensitive to the chaos and odors. Instead, he hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat, and followed after Riot.

  It wasn’t that the hospital was dirty, only… used. Like an old theatre that was low on funds, but whose cast went to great lengths to keep the old girl polished up. That’s what Lotario told himself, at any rate. He tried hard to ignore the underlying smell of death.

  Patients, standing and lying on beds, lined hallways: immigrants and miners; the confused and fearful; the poor and desperate. It was chaos.

  Riot navigated the mass with ease, and located a nurse. Her eyes flickered to the card in his hand, then to his face, and something about the soft-spoken man made her smile. And blush.

  Lotario would have liked to hear what Riot said, because of the smile that lit up her face—even as harried and exhausted as she was. She pointed down a hallway indistinguishable from the rest, and hurried away to her next patient.

  “Sinclair is in recovery,” Riot explained.

  Lotario fell into step beside the detective, as he led the way to the ward. Atticus Riot had an easy, unhurried gait, as if he were out for a morning stroll, and Lotario wished he could feel as relaxed. No matter how much he told himself not to worry, he was worried about his twin. She was his other half. And he hoped, he prayed, that he would at least know if she died. He glanced at Riot, who appeared unconcerned, and wondered if the distress he had glimpsed in Riot’s office was imagined. This was not a man who kept his emotions on his sleeve. It wasn’t an act; it was who he was. Atticus Riot reminded Lotario of the sea. Calm on the surface, with a current that would sweep the unwary away. Deep waters, as they say. Small wonder Isobel was so drawn to the man, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself.

  They found Edward Sinclair in a row of beds separated by thin partitions. His leg was cocooned in plaster and bandage, and he was of the same age as Lotario. He had an honest, open face with eyes that were dazed and dreamy. But whether this was from morphine, or the woman at his bedside clutching his hand, Lotario didn’t know. She was a cheerful looking woman, with kind eyes and a healthy glow. And Lotario felt a pang for the pair—they looked as innocent as doves in love.

  “Mr. Sinclair?”

  The intrusion slowly dragged Edward out of his dreamy stupor. “Yes?”

  “I’m Atticus Riot. You contacted my agency inquiring after a corpse.”

  Edward’s eyes flared, and all the blood rushed from his face, turning him as pale as a corpse. He abandoned his lady love’s hand in favor of Riot’s. “Have you found him? The man I killed?”

  Lotario blinked, and glanced uneasily around. Who the hell would admit to murder? But Riot didn’t miss a step. Never taking his eyes off the man, he calmly asked, “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” It was a simple, every day question, and Edward responded automatically to propriety.

  “Oh, yes, of course. This is Miss Annie Wade—my fiancée.” The introduction seemed to soothe the man.

  “A pleasure.” Riot lightly shook her hand. “Now, Mr. Sinclair, I can tell you are an honest fellow, but I’d advise you to keep your guilt to yourself for the time being.”

  “But—”

  “If you love Miss Wade, you’ll be careful with your tongue.”

  “But I killed a man,” Edward hissed.

  Lotario looked at the ceiling.

  “That remains to be seen. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Wade?”

  She nodded, emphatically. “I think the man was already hurt. Wilson would have seen him long before, if the man had been standing upright.”

  “Wilson?” Lotario asked.

  “My horse,” Edward said.

  Riot held up a hand, and perched on the side of the bed. “Start from the beginning, and tell me what happened.”

  Edward told all. And when he was done, Riot sat in silence—waiting.

  “Was Mr. Morgan looking well?” Lotario could not help himself. Riot’s eyes flicked over to him, but aside from a brief flash of irritation, he betrayed nothing.

  “What?” Edward asked, trying to work through his fuzzy mind.

  “Mr. Morgan,” Lotario repeated. “Did he seem… well?”

  “I suppose,” said Edward. “He was certainly keen to help me.”

  Lotario nearly snorted. Isobel’s motives were far from altruistic. She simply wanted to poke at a dead body.

  “What did the man on the road look like?” Riot asked.

  Edward frowned, and reached for Annie’s hand for support. “It was so dark—and the rain. I don’t know.”

  “You’d be surprised what you can recall when you think on it,” said Riot. “Was he wearing a hat?”

  “No, I saw the wound on his head, remember?”

  “Was the blood pouring down the front of his face, or the side?”

  “Why would that matter?”

  “Every detail, no matter how small, is relevant.”

  “The front, I think. It was raining, you see, and I’m not sure it was blood.”

  “But that was your first impression?”

  “Yes—definitely. He was in the throes of death.”

  “Have you ever seen a man die, Mr. Sinclair?”

  The man’s shoulders sagged. “My father. Death isn’t a pretty thing, is it?”

  “No, it rarely is.”

  Lotario quickly looked away. Sean Murphy would not be seen tearing up. He shoved thoughts of his own father out of his mind. Lotario would never be welcome at his father’s deathbed.

  “You said you crawled back to him because your leg was broken. Did you clutch his collar when you looked into his face?”

  “I did actually.”

  “Did he have a beard?”

  Edward shook his head. “Smooth chin. Square jaw. And a…” Edward felt his own fingertips. “His waistcoat was silk, and he wore a fine sort of coat. Far nicer than mine. Not coarse wool—not a peacoat.”

  Riot was silent, and this time, Lotario did not make the mistake of speaking. He waited, curious to see how all this would play out.

  “He was a strong man, too. Not big, but not thin. I remember the girth of his chest when I checked on him. Strong, like…” Edward trailed off, and closed his eyes. After a time, he opened them again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Riot. That’s all I can remember.”

  “That’s more than you thought you remembered, now isn’t it, Ed?” Annie asked.

  “I don’t see how it’s much help.”

  Riot didn’t reply, but reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a photograph. “Was this the man?”

  Sinclair studied it long and hard, and Lotario leaned forward, wondering where on earth Riot had found a photograph of what had become a missing
corpse—or better yet, why he supposed a circus performer was the man, or maybe it was the bearded lady.

  Edward shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe? He looks familiar.”

  Annie was frowning mightily at the photograph. “He does look familiar.”

  All three men looked to the woman in surprise.

  “Were you with Mr. Sinclair?” Riot asked.

  Annie shook her head, then her eyes brightened. “I know why he’s familiar. He’s right over there.” She rose, stepped between the row of beds, and pointed down the line. All eyes followed her finger.

  A man was propped against the pillows. A murder of reporters stood around his bed, taking notes. His arm was in a sling, bandaged heavily against his body, and there was another on his head. He was a thin, wiry fellow. Just as in the photograph.

  “I’ll let you know what I find, Mr. Sinclair. In the meantime…” Riot leveled a hard gaze on the man. “I don’t want to hear the words ‘murdered’ or ‘killed’ leave your lips. There are any number of explanations for what happened.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t doubt what you think you saw. But that doesn’t mean it was what you think.” Riot looked to Annie. “Try to keep your fiancé from incriminating himself. The police are always on the lookout for a willing confessor. They’d be happy to pin something on him.”

  Before Edward could object, Riot walked down the row of cots, and stopped in front of the circus fellow. Lotario followed, wondering how this man could possibly be tied to whatever it was that Isobel had gotten herself into.

  “Mr. Lee Walker?” Riot asked.

  All conversation stopped. Riot was prim rather than large, slim rather than powerful, but all the same he possessed an unmistakable aura of command.

  The reporters parted for him.

  “That’s what they call me,” Walker rasped. There was a slow drawl to his words, and an amiable smile on his lips.

  “May I speak with you in private?” Riot asked.

  An older man stepped forward from the mass. “You may not. Whatever it is you’d like to say, you’ll have to say to me as well.”

  “Mr. Fields, I presume.”

  The reporters scribbled.

  “You presume correctly. I am Mr. Walker’s attorney.”

  Riot smiled, while Lotario bit back a comment about the obvious. If Riot knew the man’s name, then it stood to reason that he’d know the rest. But there was no need to draw attention to himself while the pack of reporters was present.

  “And you are?” Fields asked.

  Instead of answering straightaway, Riot produced his card, and handed it over.

  The attorney seized on the opportunity. Having an audience made him even more robust. “Atticus Riot. A detective from Ravenwood Agency,” the attorney read aloud. There was a murmur from the gathered reporters. More furious scribbling in notebooks, and a good number of whispers. “I suppose Mr. Claiborne hired you to intimidate my client?”

  “He did not.” Riot turned to Walker. “A Miss Byrne hired me to find you.”

  Surprise, dread, and remorse transformed Walker’s features all at once. “Good God, I’d forgotten all about her!” He started to reach for Riot’s wrist, but winced with pain, and collapsed back on his pillows.

  “Who?” asked a reporter.

  “My niece. She was orphaned, and was traveling from Tennessee to come live with me. I was on my way to meet her when I fell into that basement hatch.”

  Lotario imagined he could see dollar signs in the attorney’s eyes. The man latched onto that. “Amnesia, too. That blow to the head you sustained could have lasting damage. And the child could have been abducted by slavers while she was waiting for you at the ferry building.”

  Riot tilted his head slightly, and regarded the attorney.

  “How did you—” Lotario started to ask, but Riot whacked the side of his leg with his walking stick.

  “Well, Mr. Walker. It seems you have some recovering to do. In the meantime, your niece is in my care. You may contact my office when you’ve recovered.”

  “Surely you can bring Sarah to see me?” Walker said.

  Riot looked at the expectant reporters. “I think the young lady has been through quite enough. She needs rest. Good luck with your endeavors, Mr. Walker.” Without waiting for more, Riot turned and walked briskly out of the ward. Lotario had to trot to keep up with him.

  “What was all that about?” Lotario asked.

  Riot’s eyes slid to the side. “Why don’t you ask our reporter.”

  Lotario blinked, and glanced over his shoulder. There was a slim young man on their heels. A shock of blond hair and a patch of sunburnt skin showed beneath his cap.

  Since he’d been discovered, he introduced himself. “Cameron Fry.”

  “Tell me, Fry. Who is Mr. Claiborne?” Riot asked.

  “I’ll tell you if you grant me an interview with Walker’s niece.”

  “No,” said Riot, tapping his stick on the floor. “And there went your only chance to be of use for the day. I’ll have one of my agents find out in due time.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to be helpful, sir, but I need a story.”

  Riot stopped so suddenly that the young reporter ran into him. He turned. There was a stillness to the detective that put Lotario on edge.

  “You can refuse to help a twelve-year-old girl who was made to travel halfway across the country, only to be left standing in front of the ferry building for two hours in the rain. Alone. Or you can be a gentleman, and tell me who Mr. Claiborne is.”

  Fry swallowed. His fingers nearly itched to write that morsel of information down. In the end, he relented. “Vincent Claiborne. The silver baron and developer.”

  “And I take it Lee Walker fell into the basement of one of Claiborne’s properties?”

  “Yes, he did. Twenty feet down. Dislocated his shoulder and blacked out.”

  “Sounds like Mr. Walker fell into a pit of money.”

  “He sure did,” Fry said with a grin. “Luckiest man alive. His attorney has already started filing the lawsuit.”

  “That’s fast work.”

  “He’s up against some tough men. Alex Kingston is Claiborne’s attorney.”

  “Is he, now?”

  Fry bobbed his head. “It’ll make the headlines.”

  “You’d best get back in there, then,” Riot said, as they exited the hospital. “Good luck to you, Mr. Fry.” Riot slipped on his hat and hurried down the steps. Lotario walked after him, leaving a disappointed reporter.

  “You don’t think Kingston has something to do with Bel’s absence, do you?”

  “I don’t know, Murphy.” Worry tinged his voice. Lotario appreciated that Riot remembered to use his assumed name. Such slip-ups could be disastrous. He had certainly done it often enough with Isobel, although some of their best stories involved him forgetting his sister’s nom de plume.

  “Let’s hope it’s a coincidence.” Lotario was ever optimistic.

  “I’m not one for coincidences.”

  “They do occur,” Lotario said. “It’s a small world. Even so, if there’s a man I’d like to murder, it’d be Kingston.”

  “You and me both,” Riot said under his breath.

  “To Ocean Beach?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I was only going to ask how the attorney knew that the girl was waiting at the ferry building.” Lotario rubbed his thigh, even though Riot had tapped his calf.

  “I know.”

  “But didn’t you want to know, too?”

  “I know how he knew.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  Riot glanced over at him. “Walker didn’t forget about her.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Riot showed him the photograph of the circus performers. Lotario smiled at the sight. He had loved the circus, and a pang of regret stabbed his heart. But he would never join again without his twin. That, and
the circus had only accepted them for their identical faces rather than any sort of talent.

  “What do you think Lee Walker did in the circus?” Riot asked.

  “I don’t know. He certainly wasn’t partnered with the bearded lady, or the strongman.”

  “Take a guess.”

  Lotario frowned in thought. And then the pieces clicked. “Oh. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Riot sighed, and hailed a hack.

  11

  A Cold Trail

  “I dropped Mr. Morgan off right here.” The streetcar rolled to a stop in the middle of wind-swept sand dunes. Lotario could hear the distant surf, and smell the salt in the air. A lamp post stood to the side of the muddy road, and a few wagons sloshed past, making their way to Ocean Boulevard. “There wasn’t a body in the road. I’d have known. I told Mr. Morgan the same. Only fellow I saw was Sinclair.”

  “I appreciate the information, Mr. Humphrey,” Riot said, as he and Lotario stepped off the runner. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

  “No trouble at all.” Humphrey sucked on his teeth. “Hope Mr. Morgan didn’t get himself into trouble. The young are always finding plenty of that. You let me know as soon as you find your agent, now.”

  “I will.” Riot tipped his hat, and the streetcar rolled away on its track.

  Lotario frowned at the dunes. “I’d say that I can’t believe Bel would venture out here in a nighttime storm alone, but I know my twin far too well. She’s done it plenty of times before.” If Riot hadn’t been there, he’d have felt unsafe in these vast dunes—exposed and lonely—even in the daylight. Lotario did not like to be alone.

  But he was now. Riot had disappeared. Lotario spun, then saw where sand had been disturbed. He hurried up the dune, slipping back with every step. The crests were in the sun, but fog still clung to the dips between them. Riot stood in one such depression, hazy in the silver light and slightly bent, his gaze fixed on the ground. Lotario quickly slipped down the dune.

  “Stay behind me,” Riot ordered.