"It makes sense," Isobel said.
Riot glanced at her in surprise.
"I'd do the same thing if I were in his place. To protect you. I tried that a few weeks ago." It hadn't gone well. "I doubt he went there to offer himself up as a sacrifice. He probably wanted to make it clear you had no knowledge of those names." I sign my death warrant. She wondered what the contract had looked like.
"There is honor among thieves. Both Chinese and white," Sin agreed.
"Honor?" Riot bit out. "They hired a brute to slaughter him and kill an old woman."
"I did not say those thieves had honor."
"What was his plan?" Isobel asked.
Sin shook his head. "I do not know. I was his informant—his eyes in Chinatown, not his confidant."
"No one was." Riot gestured towards the walking stick. "Whatever his plan, they killed him, and then used me as a weapon."
Sin ran his fingers over the intricate silver knob. "A cunning stroke that rid Sing Ping King Sur of Hip Yee, who was in the process of unifying the tongs. You interrupted that meeting when you tossed dynamite onto their table. And then you shattered any hope of unity when you attacked the Hip Yee leaders."
"It wasn't an attack. It was vengeance." Riot stood apart from both Sin and Isobel. Alone. That haunted look was back in his eyes. It tore at her heart.
"I wondered if I could trust you," Sin admitted. "But I realized afterwards that you were not a man on a rampage. Not one out for blood. You sought justice that night."
"I walked in shooting."
"You did not shoot a poor old beggar in an alleyway."
"How did you…" He trailed off, and touched his temple. Pale as death, and just as rigid, she knew that look in his eyes—a memory, a ghost, someone from his haunted past. "That was you."
"The night you attacked Hip Yee, the night Ravenwood was killed, I was doing what I do best—listening and watching."
The pieces clicked. "Disguised as a beggar," Isobel said. Sin was the beggar who'd saved Riot's life and carried him to an undertaker.
"A killer would have shot that beggar to hide his deeds, but you stayed your hand. You were not a man seeking vengeance, but justice."
Riot swallowed. He had no words.
Isobel narrowed her eyes. "And recently, you were investigating Parker Gray and William Punt. That was you, too. The vagrant in the alleyway outside The Drifter."
"Yes."
"You left me to the dogs," Isobel growled.
"You ruined my surveillance. And spooked Punt," snapped Sin.
"You knew about it and did nothing?"
"I was gathering information."
"Were you going to watch for another three years?"
"The green reed which bends in the wind is stronger than the mighty oak which breaks in a storm," Sin quoted Confucius.
Isobel tightened her fists. "Tell that to the men Andrew Ross injected with bubonic plague!"
Sin pressed his lips together. He took a breath, nostrils flaring, one inhale, and a long exhale. When he looked at her again, the serene mask was back in place. But she had needled under his skin—it was still a victory. "You spooked them, Miss Bel. Not I. I did not know what they were doing. My…skills are limited outside of Chinatown." He gestured towards his eyes. They were widely spaced, and narrow with a pronounced epicanthic fold. "No amount of makeup can hide these."
"You've known about Sing Ping King Sur for three years. So you sat and watched this organization dig itself in after you dumped Riot at an undertaker's to die. All of the names on this list are men who have gained influential positions in the past three years."
"I did what I could." Sin screwed the knob back onto the walking stick.
Isobel shot to her feet. "What precisely did you do? You hid in shadows just like the rest of the cowards."
"Bel," Riot warned.
Sin stood, meeting her eye. He towered over her, but she paid it no mind. "Even if I had found the ear of an honest inspector—do you think a jury would believe a word I said? Or even the Consul General's testimony? There is a better chance of a jury taking the word of a white prostitute. Judges are bought, police profit, and politicians gain influence from Sing Ping King Sur's activities."
Isobel opened her mouth, but words were lost. Sin was right. For decades, Chinese immigrants could not testify against white citizens. A white man could shoot a Chinese man in cold blood, and as long as there were no white witnesses, a hundred Chinese couldn't testify against the murderer. The law had been recently overturned, but law didn't change hearts.
"You could have tried," she said stubbornly.
"I did not have proof."
Isobel glared. "You dumped the proof in an undertaker's to die."
"And my most recent proof was dumped down the sewers because a hot-headed, bumbling woman meddled with my investigation!"
Isobel bristled.
"Mr. Sin. Miss Bel." Riot put an arm between them, more to keep Isobel back than to shield her. He glanced towards Sarah, who had turned at the raised voices. "Please," he implored.
Isobel uncurled her fists. Angry, trapped, and helpless, she hobbled over to the chessboard and glared at the armies.
Sin held the walking stick out to Riot. Slowly, he accepted it, his fingers tracing the silver filigree. "The proof fled," Riot whispered. "I took the walking stick with me."
"It doesn't matter. They are only words on paper."
Isobel cocked her head. The pen is mightier than the sword. Moves, strategy, and outcomes raced ahead to a conclusion. There was no saving the Queen, but the game might still be won.
"Dare I ask?" a voice interrupted. Rare of him. Indicative of his worry.
"It's nothing."
He touched her arm. "Bel?"
"I'm tired and frustrated." And afraid. She turned away from him. With those knowing eyes—he'd unravel her thoughts if she gave him a chance. "I'd like to offer an apology, Mr. Sin. You are right. I did blunder things. A great many things."
Sin looked down his nose at her. "Perhaps I would do things differently as well, but the past cannot be changed. I propose a new future. One of cooperation. I suggest we pool our knowledge."
Isobel glanced at Riot. He was as wary as she. They had no reason to trust this man. But what choice did they have?
"It seems we know more than you," Isobel pointed out.
Sin arched a brow. "I believe I know why Parker Gray targeted Vincent Claiborne."
36
Sacrifice
"I DISLIKE LEAVING HER there," Riot said. He stood on a cable car runner, while Isobel sat on a bench. She was eye level with his waistcoat, and he had leaned in to speak in her ear.
"I know." Her words were nearly lost in the rattle of wheels. "We don't have a choice."
His knuckles whitened on the pole. They had been backed into a corner; Isobel saw only one way out, but Riot wouldn't like it. She didn't like it.
They did not speak the rest of the clanking trip. At the top of Nob Hill, they disembarked, Riot helping her navigate the runner.
Skies were blue, the air crisp, and the sun bright. She inhaled fresh air, and savored the hint of sea that was always carried on an easterly breeze. Isobel turned to look down at Chinatown. Wind had dispersed some of the haze that hung over the Quarter, but not all of it. She had stumbled into a conspiracy, and in an effort to destroy evidence, William Punt had released cages of infected rats. How many more lives would be lost?
Turning her back on the Quarter, she focused on the moment. It was a pleasant walk, a slow amble on Riot's arm that was uncomplicated by speech. Isobel closed her eyes. She wanted to remember everything about this moment—the feel of his arm under her hand, the cry of gulls overhead, and the easy pace he assumed for her hobbling gait.
Isobel had never wanted a quiet life, but now she ached for it with all her heart. One more walk; one more morning together; one more storm to holler at. But it couldn't be.
The sun was setting over the Golden Gate when they
returned to Ravenwood Manor. Mr. Meekins lounged on a rocking chair on the porch, a book in his dark hands and a shotgun across his knees. When he caught sight of them, he made to rise, but Riot shooed him back down.
"All quiet?"
The big man patted his gut. "Quiet as a stuffed mouse. It don't even feel like work, Mr. Riot, not with the meals being served."
"The gas and water?" Isobel asked.
Mr. Meekins shook his head. "Sorry, no. Mr. Tim paid the bill again, but then the company turned it back off."
There was a well, an old outhouse, and chamber pots from decades past, but with so many borders, it would be far from convenient.
Riot opened the front door for Isobel, and they were greeted by two expectant faces. Jin and Tobias were sitting on the stairs, waiting. Jin took one look at them and shot to her feet. "What happened?" she demanded.
Riot gestured for her to keep her voice down. The children leaned in close. "Sarah is safe, but not a word. She's still in danger."
Isobel answered Tobias' question before he could blurt it out. "She witnessed a crime. Make sure you both keep looking forlorn and worried. Understood?"
Two heads bobbed as one.
Isobel hobbled over to the hallway telephone, and picked it up.
"The telephone's been turned off, too," Tobias said.
"I don't need to make a call."
An operator's voice came on the line. "I need to speak with Mrs. Wright. Tell her it's Miss Bonnie."
✥
"Absolutely not, Bel."
"I'm not asking you."
"Then why tell me?"
"Because we're partners, Riot."
"And yet I have no say in your plan."
The two stood apart, and their words lingered in the room. Riot was as rattled as she had ever seen him. She was rattled, too. Isobel hadn't wanted to tell him of her plan, but if she waited another day, she'd turn coward and run.
The fire popped and wood shifted, sending sparks spiraling up the flue.
Isobel took a breath. "I won't put this on your shoulders. This is my choice to make. You beat yourself up every day because you feel like you dragged Ravenwood to his death. But he made his own choice."
"You cannot do this to yourself."
"I'm done for already. You know that."
"You're looking at two years, minimum." It was close to a growl. "You barely tolerated a single night in jail."
Isobel swallowed. "I'll manage."
"Don't do this. You could be sentenced to the jute mill instead of the women's ward in San Quentin. You could get six or more—" Riot couldn't finish.
She tilted her chin. "I'm young and strong."
"Think this through."
"I have—that's the problem." The mist in his eyes clutched her throat. She limped to the window and threw it open to breathe in the crisp night.
Riot stepped closer. She could feel the intensity of the man standing at her shoulder. "I can't let you do this."
Isobel narrowed her eyes in thought. Truly curious, she turned. "How are you going to stop me?"
Riot opened his mouth, then clicked it shut. He rubbed his beard, and looked around the room as if the answer were there. "Bel…"
"I'm already ruined, but the game isn't lost."
"It's not a game!" After his sharp outburst, Riot turned. His shoulders shook, and his hand strayed to his temple. Isobel let her forehead fall against his back. She felt him relax and lean into her, one equally supporting the other. She slid her arms around his waist, and he covered her hands with his own.
"I apologize."
"Don't apologize for caring about me," she said softly.
"We'll find another way."
"How?"
Riot didn't answer, but she knew what he was thinking.
"By delivering a quieting dose of lead to my husband?" she pressed.
Her question was met with silence.
Isobel took a step away, and Riot turned to meet her eye. "If anyone is going to shoot Alex, it'll be me—not you. Take your heart out of this, Riot."
His fists curled. "How can you ask that of me?"
"Just for one moment," she pleaded. "Is it a good plan?"
"It's a gamble."
"Would you wager on it?" she asked.
"The stakes are too high." His gaze settled on her. Tender, warm, and afraid.
It was hard to find her voice. She swallowed down a lump in her throat. "Alex issued his threat two days ago. And yet there isn't a single mention of me in any of the newspapers. He's not planning on making this public," she reasoned. "Instead, he'll pull strings to manipulate us from his office. It's already begun. God knows what he's done to my parents in these past days. I've asked Lotario to check in with my brother Emmett, but even if he hasn't started in on them, Alex will hound me and anyone near me until we are crushed. And he'll try to have you killed. That doesn't even address our issues with Sing Ping King Sur. As a witness to Parker Gray's conversation, Sarah is in danger. As long as we remain silent, we remain powerless."
Riot took her hands, and pressed them to his heart. "We'll leave San Francisco. Together. We'll make a home in Europe. London, if you wish."
She shook her head. "There are others like us, Riot. Others who have been blackmailed, manipulated, and ruined. Can we really step aside and allow innocent people to be crushed underfoot?"
Riot held onto her hands as if they were a lifeline, and she held his just as tightly. "We cannot," he whispered.
Isobel's eyes flashed with steel. "Sing Ping King Sur thrive in shadow. This will shine a light so bright on their organization that it will send them back into their holes."
"It might."
Isobel looked to the chess board. "As slim as our chances may be, I'll take it. If I'm to be ruined, it will be on my terms. This city loves a good fight, Riot, and I intend to start one."
37
The Gates of Hell
Tuesday, March 27, 1900
ISOBEL KINGSTON STOOD AT the gates of hell—a wrought-iron fence spaced with pillars and topped with stone lions. Why Lions? Cats were horrid guards.
Two months.
Her throat was dry. How had she managed to live in this house?
You deceived yourself.
Her facade of cool logic had dictated that the mind was stronger than the body. But Isobel had learned something from her ordeal: she was only human.
Squaring her shoulders, she pushed the gate open, and limped up the driveway. She swept the windows with her eyes, pausing on Alex's bedroom window. The suitcase she carried was heavy, and her hand hurt. Swallowing, she forced her fingers to relax.
The engraved walking stick in her right hand had a reassuring weight to it. She thought of the man who had once carried it. The secrets he had uncovered, and the final sacrifice he made.
How had it come to this?
A pair of men waited on the front steps. Watchdogs. Isobel recognized one as a man who had shadowed her while she was living at the residence. Hired detectives. Alex had watched her every move. But her brother Curtis had known her. He'd known three months ago that she'd shake those watchdogs.
Alex and Curtis had both played the game with their eyes wide open, but Isobel and Riot had only just realized a game was being played at all—a game in which they were pieces rather than players. That was about to change.
The second watchdog was new. She guessed he was the clean-shaven fool who had tried to follow Riot. Detectives shadowing detectives. She should have had Smith tail one of them just for the irony of it.
"Mrs. Kingston." Bailey gave her a smug look—one she wanted to bash in with a crowbar. He swept off his bowler, showing the bald patch he tried hard to conceal. "Welcome home."
She ignored Bailey and watchdog number two. Without pausing, she walked up the steps. The door opened.
"Mrs. Kingston," March said. Stone-faced and bald, the butler spoke without inflection. It was somehow worse than a sneer. "You are expected."
Mabel appe
ared to take her coat. The girl gave a tight smile and a quick bob. But when she reached for the suitcase, Isobel kept a firm hold on it.
"Is Alex home?"
"Mr. Kingston is in his study."
Isobel tightened her grip on the walking stick, and marched past the butler.
"If you'll wait, I'll announce your arrival." March was at her side. She tucked her stick under an arm, and swept off her hat, slapping it against his chest. Her butchered black hair made his feet trip.
With a tilt of her lips, she shoved the office door open.
Alex Kingston sat behind his desk. He glanced up at her, and leaned back, a satisfied look on his bullish features.
"I tire of your petty manipulations, Alex."
"You are four days late. If you think that won't cost you…it will. You'll have groveling to do, wife. And it'll be on your knees."
Isobel slapped a red token on his desk. "You'll be the one groveling. However, I find the prospect of you dropping to your knees repulsive."
His face reddened, and he surged to his feet, planting both hands on his desk.
Before he could rage, she cut off his tirade. "Your client is about to be framed."
"Shut your mouth."
"Vincent Claiborne."
"For what?"
"A conspiracy to bring bubonic plague to San Francisco for his own profit."
"You're a lunatic."
"You married me."
"For the sport. Now you're just irritating."
"My brother Curtis said the same thing just before he attempted to murder me. But as you see, I'm still alive."
"You think I still believe that story Atticus Riot fed the newspapers?"
"I don't care what you believe. But you've stepped into a heap of trouble, and you don't even realize it yet."
Alex huffed like a bull dismissing a yapping dog.
"You don't believe me?" she asked. "Then I'm sure you won't mind if I call the health board to inspect Vincent Claiborne's properties. Because that's precisely what would have happened if Lee Walker's trial had proceeded as planned."
Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4) Page 25