Record of Blood

by Sabrina Flynn

Lotario did as he was told, frowning at the indentations in the sand. They all looked the same to him. “Are you following tracks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Consider me impressed.”

  “It’s a simple exercise in observation and deduction.”

  “Ah.” Lotario searched the sand. It looked uneven and messy, and he couldn’t decide if the sand held the print of every foot that had ever walked over it, or if a herd of children had recently rampaged across the dunes.

  “You know, I had hoped she’d be spending her nights with you,” Lotario said after a time. He was bored. Following a bespectacled man, no matter how well-tailored his suit, up and over sand hills was tedious. And Lotario was cold.

  “I’m not even going to acknowledge that comment.”

  “Haven’t you just?”

  “No comment, Lotario.”

  Half an hour in, Riot stopped at an unremarkable spot. Abruptly, he dropped to the sand and lay on his belly to examine yet another indentation. Lotario watched, mesmerized, as Riot brushed his fingers in the pockmarked dip.

  “What is it?”

  “I think it’s Bel’s boot print.” Riot sprang up, and quickened his pace, disappearing over another dune. Lotario stopped to examine the spot. He frowned, wondering if Riot were toying with him. He hardly knew the man, but Riot didn’t strike Lotario as a jokester, especially where Isobel was concerned.

  They walked for a time, and finally Riot stopped again. Even Lotario could see that the ground was churned. There was a large mess of agitated sand that had been flooded by rain, then swept by wind, and hit with more rain.

  He watched as Riot circled the area, and then slowly worked his way outwards, examining every shrub, every inch of sand. Finally the man straightened. “There was a struggle here.”

  “Bel?”

  “I can’t say for certain,” he said. “You see pockmarks, there? That’s from the rain. So we know this struggle happened while it was raining. These aren’t fresh. Unfortunately, when rain fills up tracks, it makes them nearly indistinguishable.”

  “Do you think she may have run into the same thing while she was looking for her corpse?”

  “Possibly.” Riot said, absently dusting off his trousers.

  Lotario looked to the distant waterfront, at the ramshackle dwellings and the sturdier buildings to the north, towards the Cliff House. The sight of the tottering chateau made him shiver with memory. Duncan August had been transformed from a handsome, charming gentleman to a cold-hearted lunatic in a flash. He feared he would never again trust a handsome face as long as he lived.

  “There are prints heading towards the shore.”

  “Bel’s?”

  Riot shook his head. “The stride is too long.”

  “Her trail led here, but not back?” He couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice.

  “This might be her print. The storm didn’t leave much for me. This,” he gestured at the mess of wet sand, “is too large to completely erase.”

  “So she might have doubled back?”

  “Possibly, or gone on.” Riot frowned at the marks.

  “Or?”

  “This print here is deep.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Either the man was large, or he was carrying a load.”

  Lotario’s heart began to flutter.

  “He may have been carrying Sinclair’s missing body,” Riot said thoughtfully.

  “I know,” Lotario said. The wind nearly snatched his words from the air. “I only worry that Bel found the body along with the murderer.”

  “Her revolver was gone. She was armed.”

  “And yet she’s missing.” Lotario could not keep the tremble out of his voice.

  “We’ll find her, Lotario,” Riot said calmly.

  “Of course we will.”

  “You’d think I’d be past this.” Lotario wiped his eyes. “She’s a difficult woman to love, you know. Do you have any idea how often I’ve spent worrying the night away?”

  Riot waited for Lotario to answer his own question.

  “Too many. She disappears for days—weeks—without a word, never thinking of the people she leaves behind.”

  Riot started walking towards the shoreline, keeping his gaze moving back and forth, searching for another sign. Wind snatched at their hats and coats, and flung sand in their eyes. Lotario barely noticed his next words. “I don’t think it’s intentional, Lotario,” Riot said at last.

  “Intentional or not, it’s damn annoying,” he said with feeling. “Don’t ever expect to tame her.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Good,” Lotario said. “No man who tried would ever be worthy of her.”

  “She’s lucky to have a brother like you.”

  “I’m her twin; not her brother. And I can’t bear to think of her trapped. In any sense.” He bit his lip, looking to the buildings scattered along the shoreline, worrying over the heavy prints. “You seem very calm about all of this.”

  “I am not,” Riot said.

  “You look it.”

  “Part of the trade.”

  “As a detective?” Lotario asked.

  “I was a gambler first.”

  This was not reassuring in the least. “Can you identify the make of these bootprints?”

  The edge of Riot’s lip quirked. “This isn’t a detective novel, Lotario. The storm erased most of the evidence, including the tread. Only a portion of the impression is left.”

  “If the storm hadn’t erased it, could you have identified a person based on their boot’s tread?”

  “With ready-made stores and shoe factories? Unless the suspect has money for a cobbler, treads are nearly identical now. But it is possible to garner a few telling details. Plaster impressions of prints are mostly useful for placing a suspect at the scene of a crime. You can match the size, the wear, and tread.”

  “Let’s hope there was no crime involving my twin.” They both knew this was unlikely. “What do we do next?”

  “I’m hoping the storm simply washed out her prints, and she headed for the saloons to question the patrons about a missing corpse. With luck she’s staying at one of the hotels, or might have already returned to the Pagan Lady.”

  “And without luck?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that question?”

  Lotario didn’t respond.

  “We’ll ask a few discreet questions along Ocean Boulevard,” Riot said. “You helped Bel question the theaters on the last case—can you manage saloons and hotels?”

  “Anything involving people, I can do.”

  “We’ll split up, then.”

  The horizon was ablaze with the setting sun, but Riot did not stop to appreciate it; instead, he watched a well-dressed gentleman dismount from his horse, hand the reins over to a stable hand, and walk inside a large, brick, chalet-style building. It sported lamp posts, a gymnasium, cultivated grounds, and a carriage house.

  It wasn’t as opulent and out of place as Seal Rock House or Cliff House, but it was solid and well-maintained. The thing that stood out most was the lack of advertisement. There was no sign, no name, only a simple numbered address and a wrought-iron fence around a spacious yard. While there were no physical words, ‘exclusivity’ was written all over its austere brick walls.

  The building had not been there when Riot left three years before. As he walked through the gate, he decided he’d place a fair wager on it being a clubhouse for yet another one of San Francisco’s social clubs: the Odd Fellows, the Olympic Club, the Free Masons, the Falcons… the list went on. If there was an interest, there was a social club for it.

  Instead of going straight to the front doors, Riot walked around back, to the carriage house. The stable hand had already removed the horse’s saddle, and was running a brush over its shiny coat.

  “Excuse me,” Riot tipped his hat, but the stable hand didn’t look up. He continued on with his business. He was a mousy man with a balding head and a pointed nos
e. His ears flapped out attentively, and he looked at the horse with kindly eyes.

  “Sir?” Riot stepped into his line of sight, and the man started, spooking the horse. The horse danced nervously, but the man reached out with a sure hand, and soothed it with soft noises. He had a small, tight mouth with a jaw that seemed to pain him.

  The man nodded, keeping a hand on the horse.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. I wondered if you might have seen a stray horse roaming around this area? A friend of mine lost it last night. He might have come by looking for it—a youngish fellow with black hair?”

  The stable hand’s gaze was fixed on Riot’s lips. He shook his head in answer. Riot described the horse, and again the man shook his head.

  “I see. Thank you for your time. What kind of club is this? A horseman’s club?”

  The stable hand lifted his sloped shoulders.

  “Send a telegram here if you find him, would you?” Riot produced his card, hoping the man could read and write. The stable hand looked at the card, and tucked it inside a pocket.

  As Riot left the man to his work, he eyed the phaetons, and the other horses in their corrals. There was money here. He glanced over his shoulder, and when he saw that the stable hand had turned his attention back to his work, he lifted up a saddle flap, searching for a name tag. Brody.

  Riot strolled from the carriage house, and walked to the front of the main building. He applied his stick to the door. It opened to a silk-clad Chinese man. Riot started to step inside, but the man did not step aside.

  “I’m a guest of Mr. Brody,” Riot said in his plummiest tones.

  “There are no guests allowed, sir.” His English was as impeccable as his attire.

  “That’s not what he told me. If I could just speak with him?”

  “That is not possible,” the doorman replied.

  “There must be some mistake. This is his club, isn’t it?”

  The man shook his head, and started to close the door in his face. But Riot thrust his stick in the way, stopping it halfway. He smiled like a wolf. “Is there someone I can speak to about joining your club? Money is no concern.”

  The man looked to the right, and stepped aside. A white man with a cocky tilt to his shoulders and a cigar in hand came to the door.

  “This is a private club, Mister…?”

  “Atticus Riot. And you are?”

  There was a slight change in the man’s stance. A shift to his shoulders, a tensing as if he were a pugilist preparing for a fight. As fast as it came, the man relaxed again.

  “Parker Gray, at your service.” He had a careless handshake. As if the man had better things to be doing.

  “Are you the owner of this building?”

  “Only passing through.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I speak with Mr. Brody.”

  Gray smirked. “No guests allowed. House rules, which makes me think you don’t know Brody at all.”

  “You caught me red-handed,” Riot said. “A friend of mine was looking for a man’s missing horse. I thought since you kept a stable here, the horse might have wandered in and been picked up.”

  “What’s your friend look like?”

  “A thin young man. Black hair, sharp nose, a few inches shorter than me.”

  Gray looked to the doorman in question. He shook his head. “It seems he didn’t come here.”

  “What kind of club is this?”

  Gray thrust the cigar between his lips. “We all share a passion for riding.” The man lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

  “I see,” Riot said. “And how does one go about receiving an invitation to join? As I told the man here, money is no object.”

  “It’s by invitation only. Long-time members keep an eye out for prospective members. You never know, someone may already have an eye on you.”

  “Of that, I’m sure.”

  Gray nudged Riot’s stick out of the way with his boot. “I hope you find your friend.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t turn up, you’ll be seeing me again. I’m a persistent fellow, and Land’s End won’t like me poking my nose into its business.”

  Gray’s teeth tightened around his cigar for a moment. He nodded, and shut the door.

  Riot found Lotario walking down Ocean Boulevard. His persona, Sean Murphy, had the gait of a Irishman with a chip on his shoulder. Short, and ready for a fight. But all the swagger left when he came to a stop. There was concern in his eyes. Isobel had those same eyes. A gray so light it reminded Riot of a mirror, their eyes picking up the closest color nearby. In this case, Lotario’s eyes possessed a greenish tint from his waistcoat.

  “No one I questioned knew anything about a missing horse, nor had they met a young man or woman who fit Bel’s description. By the look in your eye, I’m guessing your own inquiries were less than fruitful.”

  “Nothing,” Riot admitted. “However, I didn’t like the hospitality of that brick building. It’s some sort of club. Invitation only. Do you know it?”

  Lotario didn’t even glance down the road. “It’s a sporting house for the elite. As you said, by invitation only, and very secretive.” Lotario dropped any vestige of his swaggering Irishman. He seemed to shrink, and he clenched his jaw against a shudder that swept over his body. “I worked there for a night as Paris. Hera contracted me out for a special request. I won’t go back.”

  Riot took a step closer. “What happened?”

  Lotario glanced around to make sure that none of the strolling tourists were within earshot. Still, Riot gestured with his stick, and they started walking away from the club towards the side of the road.

  “I don’t want to offend you,” Lotario said quietly.

  “Are you worried about my delicate sensibilities?” Riot asked with a wry twist of his lips.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a detective; we tread into the darkest alleyways for breakfast, and then head into the sewers for lunch.”

  Lotario met his gaze, and looked away. There was anger, but mostly fear, and a vulnerability that awakened every protective instinct that Riot possessed.

  “I don’t know much about the club,” Lotario said. “As far as I know they don’t keep regular prostitutes, but they act as a sort of middleman so their members don’t dirty their hands.”

  “That would explain the secrecy.”

  “And if any sordid little rumors should find their way out to the public, the club acts as a buffer for its members. Hera told me very little. I’m not sure she knows anything more than I do. They pay extravagantly, however. And the madams are all too happy to act as suppliers.”

  “Was Paris specifically requested?”

  He shook his head. “A client wanted a virgin boy.” Lotario’s lips curled with distaste. “Hera has standards, and wasn’t about to fill that order. But requests for virgins are commonplace. Every brothel has their ‘virgin’ prostitute. When I wish to I can shed years, and I don’t mind a bit of playacting. So I went.” He snorted. “They picked me up in a carriage. All very secretive, and under the cover of night. The windows were draped, but I have a wonderful sense of direction, and I know my city’s roads.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Bel is the same way. I’m sure you knew that.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh. Well, you need to spend more time with her. I think it comes with sailing,” he mused. “At any rate, the client became rough. Luckily Hera had negotiated for my bodyguard to accompany me. But when Bruno tried to intercede, he found the door locked. The key didn’t work. And I couldn’t open it from the inside.”

  Lotario stopped walking, and looked back at the distant building. He waited for a strolling couple to pass before continuing. “But while I was waiting for my client, I noticed a switch along with what I suspected were peepholes. I’m sure you know that brothels and gambling halls are riddled with secret passages and dummy locks.” Riot nodded. “I was able to get to the switch and unlock the door.”

  “What ha
ppened when Bruno barged in?”

  “The client calmed right down. They always do. He said he was only playing.”

  “Did you leave?”

  Lotario pressed his lips together. “A slick sort of man cornered me. The owner maybe—I don’t know. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, and thick lips. He threatened to shut down the Narcissus if I didn’t go back inside the room.”

  “So you went back.”

  Lotario gave a slight nod. “Aside from Bel, the Narcissus is my family now. I couldn’t risk it. Not with the kind of money and power floating around that hell-hole.” He shifted in the silence, and his next words were faint. “Most days it’s all right. Enjoyable even, but sometimes—in quiet moments—I wonder why I do it.” In the blink of an eye, his mood changed, and a mischievous lip curled upwards. “So I make sure my life is never quiet.”

  Riot would not be diverted. “You’re not a slave, Lotario. You can leave any time you want.”

  “Can I?”

  “If you want to.”

  “What do you know of my life?” The words were sharp and guarded.

  “I know you’re not chained to a bed like some of the Chinese slave girls I’ve come across. The only chain, as far as I can tell, is in your mind.”

  Lotario made a disgusted sound. “God save me from a man of the world. It’s not near as entertaining when I can’t shock you. How does Bel put up with it?”

  “I’m serious, Lotario.”

  “I know. That’s the issue.” Lotario started to wave a languid hand, but thought better of it; instead, a barely perceptible change in his stance transformed him back to Sean Murphy. He spit on the ground, and readjusted his hat. “Do you think Bel is caught up with this club, somehow?”

  “It certainly raised my hackles, but given the nature of the establishment, that isn’t surprising.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “I’m going to check at the room she lets from Sapphire House again. I’d like you to wait at her boat. We could have simply crossed paths.”

  “And if she’s not there?”

  Riot looked towards the brick building. “Then I’ll tear Ocean Beach apart until I find her trail.”

  “That’s the problem with my twin; she’s never where you think she is. Bel could be halfway to Oregon by now.”