Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  "You can put that on your list of suitable gifts for me."

  "Noted." He lay back down, and her fingers drifted over his neck and back, tracing the bullet and knife scars from a lifetime of threat.

  "You never answered."

  And he didn't, not immediately. He relaxed under her touch, and she thought he might have fallen asleep until his words warmed her breasts. "I never much cared for the taste of tobacco. Preference aside, the act of smoking is a 'tell'. It can reveal a great deal—the way the smoke seeps from a man's lips betrays his mood."

  "I didn't think you played cards much anymore."

  "I don't."

  Silence wrapped around him. There was more. But Isobel let it be. Whatever that silence was, it wasn't comfortable.

  Riot shifted onto his back, and folded an arm behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling. "There was a john," he began after a time, his voice soft, barely a whisper. "A regular of my mother's who used to strut in with a cheap cigar between his lips. He'd order me to hold it, then he'd disappear behind the curtain with my mother. And when he was done, he'd come strutting back out, pluck it straight from my fingers, and blow a cloud of smoke in my face."

  A lump formed in Isobel's throat. There was nothing to say to that, so she pressed her lips over a round scar on his chest. "What happened to your mother?"

  "She hanged herself." He took a breath.

  "I'm sorry, Riot."

  "It's long behind me, but thank you all the same. Death can be a merciful fellow. My mother didn't have much of a life." And neither did you, she thought.

  "All the same, I'm glad she lived for a time, or I wouldn't have you. It sounds as if I nearly lost you today." She looked down into his eyes.

  He smiled. "Not even close."

  "I should tell you," she said in a grave tone. "My editor sent me to interrogate you."

  "I enjoy your interrogations."

  "You might change your mind when I'm finished with you."

  "I thought you had finished with me."

  "Not even close." She trailed her fingers through the hair on his chest, over his ribs, and followed a line of dark hair ever downwards. "Talk, or else."

  The edge of his lip raised. "I'll risk the 'or else'." Cocksure, and eager for another round, he caressed her hip with his free hand.

  At the last moment, she changed her course, and seized that hand. In one quick movement, she pinned it over his head, and straddled his hips. "Are you sure about that?"

  His legs came up, and he caught her with his knees, pulling her backwards and to the side with a neat twist. Before he could gain a superior position, she rolled. And fell right off the bed.

  The thud was loud, and Riot's laugh was sharp and sudden. He appeared over the side of the bed, grinning down at her. Both his chipped teeth were visible in the dim light.

  "Oh, shut it." She tried to kick him, gently. But he grabbed her foot and held it fast. Before she could bring her other leg up, his beard tickled a tender spot on the side of her ankle. His lips came next, moving ever higher along her leg.

  Riot was halfway off the bed when she decided her interrogation could wait until morning.

  6

  Secrets

  "I require your assistance."

  The Gambler inclined his head politely. "I'm busy."

  "At losing."

  "Just so," he said. "I like to finish what I start."

  "Time is of the essence."

  "Then don't interrupt." —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  Monday, March 19, 1900

  WILLIAM PUNT STOPPED ON a porch to pull on his gloves. He surveyed the night like a king inspecting his domain. The street was dark save for a pool of lamplight in the night. Quiet. He breathed in the sharp air. Not the toxic pea soup of his childhood. No, the Pacific Ocean swept San Francisco clean every night. A wraithlike servant who left only cleanliness behind. It was refreshing. A new horizon. A new world born every night for his taking.

  A hacking cough interrupted his peace. The sound drew William's eyes to a dark threshold across the street. A mound of rags and filth shifted. He sighed. Yet another vagrant.

  William consulted his pocket watch, clicked it shut, and flicked his collar against the chill. Adjusting the umbrella on his arm, he walked across the street. The mound of rags huddled under a tattered coat. Its stench was horrid.

  William nudged the vagrant with the tip of his umbrella. "You, there."

  The mound grumbled, and raised a gin bottle as if to ward him off. His gloves were cut away at some of the knuckles, and were as filthy as his fingertips. The vagrant raised the bottle to his face, shifted a tattered scarf aside, and drank.

  "I say, you can't sleep here."

  The vagrant shook an empty bottle at him. "Gin'll move my arse," the vagrant snarled. The words were barely intelligible. One long slurred sentence that stretched for eternity.

  "Or the police will," William shot back. But even as he said the words he was reaching into his pocket. He held up a silver dollar. A dark eye rolled in the vagrant's head. William moved the coin to the right, and then the left, watching the eye follow his offering like a moth to flame.

  "Buy all the bottles you like with this, on one condition: find somewhere else to drink yourself to death."

  The vagrant grunted, and reached for the coin. William snatched it away at the last second.

  "Swear," he warned.

  "I swear it on me mum's grave."

  William gave a pleased smile, and dropped the coin on the ground. The vagrant scrambled for it. It amused William to see those questing fingers. William stood over the filthy thing, and watched while he gathered his sparse belongings. When the mound of rags was more or less on his feet, William walked away in disgust, and the vagrant shambled in his wake—towards a warren of buildings and one very dark secret.

  7

  Morning After

  Hand after hand played. The Gambler's pile of gold accumulated with despairing ease. My patience had run out. So I accused him of cheating. —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  "ALEX IS YOUR ATTORNEY?" Isobel stared at Riot in the mirror's glass.

  "He insisted."

  "Don't you find that odd?"

  Riot considered her question while he threaded a cuff link through its button hole. His hair was damp and ruffled, and his shirt unbuttoned. A moment ago, she had wanted to drop what she was doing and run her fingers over his body all over again. But his revelation made a muscle in her jaw twitch. Any mention of Alex Kingston set her on edge, and the prospect of seeing her husband again nearly pushed her over it.

  "I've been working myself into his good graces. I think his offer of assistance is proof that my efforts haven't been in vain."

  Isobel made a frustrated sound as she worked at the hooks of her sports bodice. "Or he's planning on throwing you to the dogs."

  "It's an inquest, not a murder trial."

  "But it could easily lead to one." Her voice was far higher than was warranted, and she bit her words off abruptly. This wasn't about Alex. "Even if the jury agrees you killed Jim Parks in self-defense, the police can, and will, arrest you."

  "Would it help any to know that this isn't my first inquest?"

  "No."

  He gave her a small smile, and turned to the buttons of his shirt. With two of the fingers on his right hand bandaged, it was clumsy work.

  "Will you divulge Parks' final words during the inquest?" Again, silent consideration. Atticus Riot was not a man to be rushed. That trait could be both infuriating and deliciously pleasing.

  "I don't think so. Not yet."

  "So you believe Parks? That those words killed Ravenwood—that some secretive tong society did it?"

  "I don't know, Bel."

  "You told me Parks liked to play games with people—do you think he tossed that story out to play one final game with your mind?"

  Riot flinched at the word. His mind was a damaged, unsteady thing at times. Partially due to the bullet that had carved a path along
his skull, but mostly due to finding his partner's head on a table.

  His fingers stilled. "Maybe so. Either way, Jim Parks had help. He didn't get himself out of prison early. I think we should keep things quiet until we discover more."

  She growled softly. "Now we're both stuck with 'quiet' cases. You can't mention the name of a secret tong organization and I can't utter Lincoln Howe's name."

  They locked eyes in the mirror.

  "Do you think Parker Gray is working for Sing Ping King Sur?" she asked. "Big Queue was in Parker Gray's cellar." Big Queue was the highbinder who had beaten Riot to a pulp. Isobel had chopped off his queue during the fight, and she had little doubt he'd come to collect one day.

  Riot forgot about his buttons for a moment. "All clues point in that direction. It's common for tongs to keep white attorneys, watchmen, and even police in their pockets. You don't have to be Chinese to join a tong, but I've never heard of this tong. On the other hand, Gray has connections with everyone who is in the business of supplying women. Besides, Big Queue works for Hip Yee," he reminded.

  "Do you know that for sure? You, erm…"

  "Assassinated their leaders and half their bodyguards?"

  "I prefer the word confronted."

  Riot sighed. "A few weeks ago you theorized that I was used as a pawn—manipulated into attacking the leaders of Hip Yee. Do you still feel that way?"

  "Absolutely," she said. "Jim Parks' confession, if he's telling the truth, confirms it. Maybe Sing Ping King Sur is a rival tong that wanted Hip Yee's leader assassinated."

  "That's a great deal of manipulating, Bel. And there's no honor in it. Wong Kau was right about that much—a hatchet man would have been crowing in the streets about killing Ravenwood."

  She frowned. "Did the judge who released Jim Parks early tell you who paid him?"

  "I may have bluffed on that point." Riot looked at her reflection. With his deep brown eyes and ruffled hair, he resembled a sheepish boy.

  "May have?" She arched a brow. "Why, Atticus, I'm shocked."

  "One of my many sins, I'm afraid."

  Her edges softened, and a smile played on her lips. "I like some sins more than others."

  "I noticed that last night."

  A blush heated her cheeks. She cleared her throat, and primly returned to dressing. "Was the judge murdered?" There was hope in her question—far too much for a normal woman.

  "He succumbed to pneumonia a year after Parks was released. While an old man dying of pneumonia would be a perfect way to mask a murder, I can't imagine how one would go about arranging that method of death."

  Isobel considered this problem. "It would require some knowledge of his habits and a fair amount of luck, but it could be done."

  "I'll try not to get suspicious when you leave the window open at night."

  "And be forced to find a new ship's cook?" She clucked her tongue. "Never."

  After tucking his watch into its pocket, Riot moved behind her. His hands slid down her arms, and he bent slightly to place a kiss on the nape of her neck. She shivered at his touch. "Could I persuade you to stay away from the inquest?" he murmured against her skin.

  Isobel narrowed her eyes, and reached for the buttons of her blouse. "I'll be in my 'dowdy working girl' guise in the middle of a murder of reporters. Alex won't see me."

  Riot gave a slight nod. "For future reference: How many risks do you generally take in one day?"

  "At least three."

  Riot grunted.

  She turned in his arms. "You're worried about me."

  "Of course I am, Bel. I'm only flesh and bone, and I have the weak heart of a man in love." He lifted his left hand, and snapped his fingers. A red token appeared as if by magic. The flawless sleight of hand distracted her from his comment. "That was a risky move, confronting Fredrick Ashworth."

  "But informative."

  "Still."

  Riot let that word hang in the space between them. It had been risky. She knew it. There was nothing to stop Fredrick from running straight to Parker Gray and spilling everything. But would they immediately connect a slap-happy prostitute to Ravenwood Agency? She thought not, and said as much. "There seems to be more going on than we know. That business with Jin and Mei was only an irritation to the men in that building."

  "I reported their con man to Kingston," he reminded. "I'm sure our agency is included in a list of possibilities."

  She plucked the token from his fingertips, and held it in her palm. A string of red connected the web. Four identical red tokens on four different men. Two of them dead. She had taken this one from a corpse in a basement—Andrew Ross. Riot had discovered a second token in Lee Walker's rooms. And now Jim Parks and Fredrick Ashworth. Three of the men were directly connected to the brick building, but how had Jim Parks fit into the web? It was too soon to connect the red tokens with his final words—Sing Ping King Sur.

  Isobel sat on her dressing stool. "Whatever this is, it's not Alex."

  "Disappointed?"

  She flicked a blond wig in frustration. "I keep wanting Alex to be behind everything."

  "Kingston is certainly on the other side of the coin. He's representing Vincent Claiborne, who was targeted by Parker Gray."

  "Yes, but Gray rigged a fraudulent claim and runs a high-class brothel. Being on opposite sides of a man like that hardly makes Alex the villainous attorney that I wish him to be." She turned the token over in her hand. "Why did Gray and Ross go to all this trouble to stage an accident? And why target Vincent Claiborne? The liability damage could lead to a nice settlement, but it hardly seems worth the trouble."

  "Maybe they're aiming for a quick pay out. A criminal organization's bank ledgers are often made up of small transactions. Large sums are hidden by purchasing property."

  She studied the token—The Palm. A high-class saloon in the financial district, where every banker, lawyer, and tycoon lunched. It hardly seemed connected to a Chinese tong. "I wonder if I could infiltrate The Palm," she mused.

  "You play the role of a young man well, but—"

  "I knew there'd be a 'but'."

  "A newcomer to that class of saloon would attract attention." He paused, studying her. "And I don't think we should go around flashing that token either."

  Isobel looked at him, startled. He had read her mind. "I see you've considered it already."

  "I did," he admitted. "That, and tying Parker Gray to a chair and beating him over the head with a fan."

  "I'd pay to see that."

  "We could charge admission for a new bawdy house act."

  "Are you sure we can't tuck this in our palm and see where it leads us?"

  "As a last resort." Riot held out his hand, and she reluctantly flipped it over to him.

  "Has Tim discovered anything about Parker Gray?"

  "The word at the racetracks is he was New York-born, and then moved from state to state making his way west before settling in California. He's an excellent pugilist, an expert shot, and a gambler."

  "And he's seen my breasts. You two have so much in common."

  Riot's face was impassive—that in itself was telling. "We do." A slight roughening of his voice. "Like me, he's made fortunes and lost them in a single day, only to make them again the next. Cash is fluid and easy for men like us."

  "And that's where your similarities end. Family or mistress?"

  "Not that Tim has discovered."

  After putting the final touches on her guise, Riot helped her into a practical coat. "I'll keep tailing the patrons of the brick building," she said.

  "Who's next?"

  "William Punt. Don't worry, I'll keep my distance."

  "Why would I worry?"

  She fluttered her lashes. "You shouldn't. Surveillance is tedious work. I spend most my time trying not to fall asleep at the Falcon's Club. Ravenwood's journals have been a godsend."

  "Any progress?"

  "Some." She flipped through the latest journal, and handed him a slip of paper.

 
"He was definitely working on a case before he was murdered."

  "Hmm," Riot said, as he read the deciphered notes. "You've made more progress than I have."

  "He's fond of—was fond of patterns," she corrected. "He trades out different ciphers from sentence to sentence. That's why I've only managed a few lines here and there. I've been going through the entries looking for ciphers I've already unraveled. Some are simple substitution ciphers, but others are more complicated. Did he have a favorite book?"

  "None that stands out. I'll look through his things and see if something strikes me. Have you eaten?"

  She jerked her head towards a drawer. "There's day old biscuits in there. But don't worry, I'll claim that I interviewed you over a candlelit dinner at a French restaurant. My female readers will swoon."

  "I suppose I'll get more practice catching fainting females." Riot picked up his hat. "As much as I'd like a candlelit dinner with you, I'm afraid a cafe will have to do this morning."

  "Honestly, I don't think I could eat a bite."

  "Tea for you then, and a full breakfast for me. It might be my last good meal for a while."

  It was a poor joke. All at once she stepped into his arms. "I'd break you out of jail," she whispered fiercely.

  "I know you would." He held her just as urgently.

  Isobel took a steadying breath. "If we remain in this room any longer, I'll get distracted and you'll be arrested for ignoring a summons."

  The edge of his lip quirked. "Tempting."

  "My nights would be much colder." She brushed her fingers over his beard, and he gripped her hand, turning his face to kiss her palm.

  "We can't have that," he murmured. Giving her hand a final squeeze, he opened the door for her.

  Isobel stepped outside, looking right, then left. The hallway was clear. She motioned Riot out, but the moment she turned to put her key in the lock, the door next to hers flew open.

  Mr. Crouch stuck his bony neck out. He opened his mouth to deliver a scathing rebuke, but the words died on his lips. The hallway nearly sparked between the two men. Crouch's eyes widened, and he bolted towards the stairs. Riot gave chase.