Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  He blew out a breath, ruffling his beard. "I'd say that ship already sailed. But it's not as if I flashed around the agency's card. As much as I cackled when I got the news, A.J. would have had my neck if I'd let you fester in there."

  "I'm touched," she said dryly. "It's fortunate you're an avid newspaper reader, seeing as I only made it on page four next to a hosiery and underwear advertisement."

  "I have my ears everywhere, and I keep them to the ground. The police arrested fifty drunkards in the Barbary Coast last night and charged them all with vagrancy. A woman in the mix caught my attention. When I heard she was caught in a seedy alley near Chinatown after bashing a bottle over a man's head, I figured it was you."

  "That's a fair guess." And if there was another woman running around San Francisco getting into trouble like that, she'd like to meet her. "Whatever fines you paid on my behalf, be sure to dock it from my pay."

  "I got you off without a penny. I reckon the police had their hands full charging fifty drunkards. But even if I had to sell my soul, it'd have been a perk of the agency. All legal fees are covered by the agency if you run afoul of the law while on a case."

  "You might want to rethink your policy where I'm concerned. I'm likely to bankrupt you."

  Tim chuckled. "Between you and A.J., I have little doubt. Good thing Zeph was a regular miser. That man was loath to part with a speck of gold dust."

  "You appear to keep your gold close, too."

  Tim flashed his gold teeth. "I'll part with it when I'm dead. I'll add you to my last will and testament. You can have my incisor."

  "I'm honored."

  "You look roughed up," he noted. "And sound worse."

  It was true. She was exhausted. There was little life to her voice. To distract him from concern, she told him what had happened.

  Tim whistled low.

  "Do you know that saloon?" The sign had been so decrepit that she hadn't been able to read it in the dark.

  "The Drifter," he answered straightaway. "It's not a place I'd waltz into. It's a known criminal den, and despite the name, no one that's not a recognized criminal is allowed to haunt it. The police don't even venture in there alone—they take four or five patrolmen to drag a man out."

  She closed her eyes. "That would be why I was attacked so quickly. But why would William Punt go inside?"

  "Are you sure he did? Every Irish hoodlum, cutthroat-for-hire, and thief holes up in there. I'd think he'd be picked apart in minutes."

  "Punt's not precisely a saint, Tim. But you're right. I don't know if he went inside the saloon or not. I was being so cautious that I let him get too far ahead of me."

  "Remind me to teach you a bit about tailing a suspect."

  If any other man had said that, save Riot, she'd have snapped at him, but one look at Tim told her to accept his offer with gratitude.

  "I'll put Monty on it. See what he can dig up."

  "Riot thought it best if we play things safe. After last night, I'm inclined to agree. I don't want to spook them."

  "It's not spookin' if a man rents a room from a boarding house and keeps an eye out a window."

  "Monty will hate you."

  Tim showed his teeth. "He already does."

  "Was that you who yelled 'clear as day he reached for his gun' at the inquest yesterday?"

  "It surely was." There was an impish glint in his blue eyes. "San Francisco is a mob, Miss Bel. Always remember that. One lone man can ignite a wildfire with a single word. It's always been that way, and I reckon it always will. It never hurts to stack the deck in your favor."

  "I didn't get a chance to speak with Riot after the inquest. Will I find him on my boat?"

  Tim shrugged. "Finding him is as time consuming as finding you, girl. I don't pretend to keep track unless I hear of a vagrant woman attacking coppers."

  "You're a useful man, Tim."

  "Some call me friend, too." He looked her over. "I know you get all prickly when someone tries to help you, but do you want me to light the stove for you, or fetch you some food?"

  "I can manage."

  "Well, good," he huffed. "I got better things to be doing."

  On another day, she might have smiled. "I figured as much." Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

  Tim turned brick red, and blustered his way through the rest of the trip.

  14

  Revelations

  I have observed that men take a certain satisfaction in physical exertion. Atticus, sporadically brilliant as he may be, is no exception. —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  A CARRIAGE ROLLED TO a stop at the end of a narrow lane. Atticus Riot alighted with an easy step. He set the tip of his walking stick on the cobblestones, and surveyed the row of stick houses. Cramped, gasping for air in the crush of buildings, Salmon Street was a quiet fringe on the edges of the Barbary Coast. It was also within easy walking distance of the city's worst alleyways.

  "Wait here," he instructed the hackman. Riot walked up the steps and applied his stick to number forty-three. As he waited on the doorstep, he traced the silver knob of his walking stick—a restless habit that betrayed too much. His partner's murderer had been caught, and killed. So why did the thing feel half done?

  He caught himself listening for his partner's goading voice. But there was no reply. Zephaniah Ravenwood had faded into memory. Jim Parks had murdered Ravenwood, but Riot had killed more than his fair share of men, too. A pang stabbed his heart. What kind of man was he? Hardly suitable association for a child.

  Having second thoughts, Riot turned to leave, but the door opened. A lanky man with his arm in a sling stood in the doorway. His cheekbones were prominent, and his Adam's apple even more so. Two weeks before, with reporters present, he'd greeted Riot with an amiable smile. He was not so friendly now.

  Lee Walker frowned in greeting.

  "Mr. Walker." Riot inclined his head. "I was in the area, and I thought I'd call on Sarah."

  "This isn't a good time."

  "And why is that?"

  "I don't think it's any of your business."

  "The definition of a detective."

  "Sarah is not your case anymore."

  "She never was my case; she was an abandoned girl in a strange city. Now she's a friend. I take the happiness of my friends seriously."

  "Sarah is doing just fine," Walker replied. "I still don't think you're proper company for my niece. I read about that shooting business in the newspapers. If you will excuse me. I'm a busy man."

  The words echoed Riot's own thoughts, only now every protective instinct took over. Walker started to close the door, but Riot casually placed his stick in the way. "I'd wager a fair amount that I'm the only person who will help you when the men who set you up come calling."

  Walker ground his teeth. "I'm on my way out."

  "Then you won't mind if Sarah spends the day with me," Riot said reasonably.

  Walker turned and called, "Sarah, you've a visitor. I'll be out for a bit."

  Before waiting for his niece's reply, Walker grabbed his hat and coat, brushed past Riot, and moved quickly down the steps. Riot watched his brisk pace and darting eyes.

  Something had changed.

  Footsteps hurried down the stairway. Before he could remove his hat, Sarah Byrne threw her arms around him. "Mr. Riot!" Her dark hair was in one long braid cinched with a bow, and her freckled face beamed with joy.

  "Hello, Miss Byrne." He gave her shoulder a fond squeeze, and looked her over. "How are you getting along?"

  "Well enough. Won't you come in? I can make tea."

  "I wondered if you'd like to lunch with me. Although, I suppose it's more of a late afternoon tea at this point. It's been a long day already, and I've not yet eaten."

  "What were you doing?"

  "I went to my gymnasium early this morning, and then I took a stroll through Chinatown."

  Sarah sighed. "I wish I'd been with you. I've been here at the house all day."

  "I'm afraid they d
on't allow ladies in my gymnasium."

  "Are you a boxer?"

  "That, and fencing."

  "You sword fight, too? Could you teach me?"

  "Not on an empty stomach."

  She grinned. "Where will we be going?"

  "Have you dined at the Cliff House?"

  Her eyes widened. "That big house that looks like it's about ready to fall off the cliff?"

  "You won't find a better view of the ocean."

  Sarah Byrne was a girl of twelve closing in on womanhood, but at that moment her excitement made her seem half her age. "Let me get my things."

  Riot waited on the doorstep while she raced through the house. When she reappeared, she wore a simple hat and a warm coat, and carried a basket. He took it from her hand as she locked the door.

  "Did you let Uncle Lee know I was going with you?"

  "He knows you're with me," Riot said, and gave the basket a gentle shake. It rattled. "Sketching supplies?"

  She turned, and raised her brows. "How'd you know?"

  "Your fingertips are smudged with colored charcoal, and the ocean has been known to inspire more than one artist."

  Color spread over her freckles. "I'm not an artist. I just like to draw."

  Riot offered his arm. "You're a step ahead of some I've met."

  "Do you know many?"

  As they climbed into the hack, he told her about a colorblind artist who loved to use color—all of them at once. And another who destroyed every piece she completed. Sarah laughed, and when they were settled in the rattling carriage, she brought out her sketchbook to show off her work.

  "Has your uncle looked into schools?" Riot asked as he flipped through the pages.

  "Mr. Amsel took me around to the schools. I'll start next week. He also escorted me to a teahouse in the Palace Hotel. It was grand!"

  "That was thoughtful of him." There was more than one sketching of Lotario Amsel in her book, and he cringed to find one of Isobel. His reaction wasn't from the quality, but the striking likeness of her. "Sarah?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm not being kind when I say that you're a talented artist. In fact, you're so talented, I must ask something of you."

  "What is it?"

  "Could I purchase this sketch from you?"

  "No, you can't buy it, but you can certainly have it." She took the pad from him, and tore the page out of her book. "It's a gift—for all you've done for me."

  Riot was loath to fold the sketch, but he did, careful not to crease Isobel's face. "Thank you." He tucked the sketch in his coat pocket. "It's probably best that you don't draw Miss Bonnie again."

  "But her eyes are so interesting."

  Captivating, he thought. Fierce. "It's for her safety."

  "Did you help her like you helped me?"

  The edge of his lip quirked. "Miss Bonnie helped me more than I helped her. But in a word, yes. Drawing her might be dangerous."

  "I won't draw her again. Not until you tell me it's safe. Does it have to do with those men in that building on the beach?"

  "Partly. There's plenty of other danger in this city, too."

  "It seems that way. Mr. Amsel told me everywhere I was not to go."

  "You'd be wise to listen to him," Riot said. "How are you finding your uncle's company?"

  She avoided the question. "I didn't tell him a word of what happened with Jin and Tobias."

  "That's entirely up to you." He kept his relief to himself. "And your uncle, is he treating you well?" he asked again.

  "I can't complain."

  "Most of us can't, but if you could, what would you say?"

  She looked out the window. "I haven't seen much of him. He keeps to himself." And with those few words, Riot understood her forced cheerfulness. Sarah had desperately wanted a home. She had one—but it was proving to be a lonely existence.

  "You'll be attending school soon. And I've wrapped up my current case. I'll have some extra time."

  "Until the next one." He barely caught the words. Sarah looked over at him. "I read about your gun duel in the newspaper. That was horrible."

  "It's a terrible thing," he agreed.

  "Does it help?"

  He cocked his head in question.

  "Shooting the man who killed your partner?"

  "It doesn't bring him back."

  "I suppose not."

  "Did you have many friends in Tennessee?" he asked.

  Sarah pressed her lips together, and looked back to the city. "Don't matter if I did." She swiped a hand across her eyes.

  "You have a few here—including me," he offered.

  "And I'm glad for it, Mr. Riot. I don't keep secrets from my friends, but Uncle Lee made me swear I wouldn't say a word to you."

  Instincts roused, Riot waited. In his experience, when an adult told a child to keep a secret it was never a good thing. "About what?"

  "Uncle Lee took me to the Palace, too. He had business with some men there, but I wasn't allowed in the Gentleman's Grille Room, so I wandered around the place. I just acted like I belonged, and no one paid me any mind." Her soft southern drawl was smooth on the ears.

  "That's the way it works most times," he said. "Who did your uncle meet?"

  "A Mr. Kingston and a Mr. Claiborne. I didn't much care for either of them, but Uncle Lee was happy when he left. He told me the men paid him not to go to court. I don't much understand that."

  Riot traced the engraving on his stick. "It is curious, isn't it?" he mused aloud.

  "No, it's not curious!" Her sudden anger took him by surprise. Tears welled in her eyes. "Uncle Lee says that as soon as he settles his affairs we're moving to the country—to somewhere quiet."

  Riot's throat tightened. He quickly reached in his pocket for a handkerchief. Sarah buried her face in the silk. He waited for her tears to dry. "You'll make a life for yourself wherever you settle, Sarah." But the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

  "Not much settlin' with all my movin' around."

  "Things will settle eventually."

  She looked at him, puffy eyes and nose. "Have they ever for you?"

  "The thought never much appealed to me." It was a response born of habit, from a bachelor's life, but the words didn't quite ring true anymore.

  ✥

  The Cliff House improved Sarah's mood, and she seemed to forget about her distress while they strolled along the parapets. Fed, watered, and walked, they headed back to the city. As the hack rattled along streets, dodging streetcars and wagons, Sarah talked of her life in Tennessee, her Gramma, and what she remembered of her mother, which wasn't much at all. More like a dream.

  Loath to return the girl to an empty home, Riot decided to check in with his office at Ravenwood Agency.

  "Do you own this building?" Sarah asked, as they climbed the stairs.

  "My agency lets an office here."

  "Don't suppose you need an office girl?"

  Riot smiled. "Are you offering?"

  "'Course I am. I got to make my way somehow."

  "School first, Sarah. Then University."

  She looked at him like he'd sprouted wings. "Gramma seemed to have a different idea for my future. She always told me I was to find a respectable man, and marry."

  "Do you want to marry?"

  "Mr. Amsel is unattached, but I reckon I should finish school first."

  "One step at a time," he agreed. "School is a fine idea. You can concern yourself with the rest when you get there." He opened the office door for her.

  Tim, Matthew Smith, and Monty Johnson were deep in conversation when they entered. Tim took one look at Sarah, uncrossed his arms, and put on his 'crazy old man' act. "Did someone pin you with a daughter, A.J.?"

  "I'd be a lucky man if that were so." He made introductions. Monty grunted his disapproval, while Matthew handed Riot a stack of telegrams.

  "Would you give Sarah a tour?" he asked the young man. There wasn't much to the agency, but the ex-patrolman took the hint, and dutifully stepped up to the
challenge.

  Tim and Monty followed Riot into his office. He shut the door while Monty plopped in a chair behind the desk.

  "I've discovered who Lincoln Howe is," Riot said.

  Tim whistled. "How'd you manage that?"

  "By accident."

  "'Bout how you do everything, isn't it?" Monty asked. It was an old joke, however, and Riot let it slide. He shared what he had learned.

  "Doesn't sound as if Howe's disappearance garnered much attention," Tim said.

  "It's not like we've been cooling our heels," Monty grumbled. "What with that society girl who went missing, that murdering sodomist, and all our side cases. We need more agents."

  "It's not easy finding men with half a brain," Tim shot back. "I'm going to start hiring women."

  "If you hire a woman Zeph will roll over in his grave. And I'll leave."

  "You don't know what the hell Zeph would have done," Tim snapped.

  "Gentlemen," Riot inserted. "I'd like to focus on our current issues instead of arguing over Ravenwood's misogyny."

  "Monty's right," Tim grumbled. "If Howe went missing, we were too occupied to keep up with papers. I'll ask my man with the newspapers. See if he remembers running an article."

  "And I'll question the quarantine station." It would also give Riot a chance to look into the plague matter for Consul Ho Yow. "Did you turn anything up about 'Freddy' Ashworth?"

  Monty leaned back in his chair. "He's a nervous one. He's been keeping away from the tracks, frequents The Palm now, and has taken to prizefights. Getting above himself, and all that. He went off with some tart the other day after raking in a heap of cash."

  "Freddy isn't entirely new to prizefights," Tim added. "He has his fingers in everything involving money."

  "Well, something spooked him," Monty said.

  Riot already knew what that something was. "What do you mean?"

  "He disappeared into his rooms with that tart. She left, then he darted out of there with packed bags."

  "Did you follow him?"

  Monty scowled. "'Course I did." He crossed his big arms. "Am I going to get a bonus for it?"

  "Depends on where he ended up."

  "I trailed him to a quiet little town just north of Sacramento. He went into a house there. Turned out it's his sister's place."