"I don't give a damn." He moved around the desk, and she backed up.
"If you lay a hand on me, a marksman will peg you in the head with a bullet."
Alex froze. He glanced at his open window.
"Don't even think about it. Close that curtain and you will have a group of dangerous men at your doorstep."
"You can't threaten me."
"Do you know what that token represents?"
He glanced at it, anger clouding his eyes.
She sighed. "I know you blackmail, manipulate, and bully anyone who gets in the way of the Southern Pacific Railway. You're their trained dog, Alex. That token represents the Pacific-Union Club's enemies. Do you think the men who pay you will react well when they hear you passed up a chance to deliver a blow to Sing Ping King Sur?"
His eye twitched.
"So you've heard of them?"
"How do you know…" He looked at her with a new light in his eyes.
"You think me some mindless society woman who happened to notice a connection between you and my father's misfortune? I am much more. I'm a snake, Alex. And you invited me into your bed."
"That will make breaking you all the more satisfying."
Isobel clucked her tongue. He was so predictable. "I once knew a little boy like you. His parents spoiled him. They handed him everything he wanted, and more. He destroyed every single gift. And yet he would look longingly at the fishing pole I'd fashioned from a stick and a string. You're nothing but a boy; you'll never be satisfied."
"For an instant, I will be. Then I'll toss you in the gutter after I'm through with you."
She glanced at her nails. "That is until your client is framed for murder."
Alex scowled down at her. He didn't like being the one in the dark. "Have you come to bargain?"
"In exchange for a divorce and your word that you will never meddle, manipulate, or interfere in my affairs again. That protection extends to my family and associates—including Ravenwood Manor."
Alex crossed his arms. "I have my own detectives."
"Like the fellow out there who tailed Atticus Riot, then tried to hide from him in a barber's chair?"
His jaw worked.
"I'm sure you've heard that Lee Walker is dead."
"It was a fire."
"You think that was an accident?"
"He settled out of court with my client."
"No one knows that but you, Vincent Claiborne, and Lee Walker."
She brandished the token in front of his face. "The 'accident' was staged, Alex. Your client is being set up. Would you like to know why?"
He grunted.
"Your word."
"You have it." Isobel met his eyes. Did she trust him? No. Did she have a choice. Always. But there was nothing for it now.
"Parker Gray and Andrew Ross set Lee Walker up to lose at the racetracks. He couldn't pay, so they forced him to stage that accident."
"For a settlement?"
"No." Sin Chi-Man had filled in the missing pieces. Details that would have taken them weeks to uncover. "Vincent Claiborne has a number of properties adjacent to Chinatown. It's no secret that property developers like him have their eyes on the Quarter. It's prime real estate. Last year, as you well know, Claiborne expressed interest in buying the properties next to his own. But the sellers wouldn't budge. So he turned to you. You began your bullying tactics—cutting off gas service, water, sabotaging sewer lines."
"You have no proof."
She ignored him. "Petty but effective. You made a grave error, however. You targeted a cigar factory and a lumber yard. Their contracts mysteriously began to dry up, the same way they did for my father. Supplies weren't delivered, and that created issues. What you didn't realize was that you were poking at a bigger dog: Sing Ping King Sur.
"I'll wager someone approached you, but you didn't listen. You gloated the same as you are now."
His silence confirmed everything she'd guessed.
"Under your pressure, a few property owners were forced to sell, but the lumber yard and factory were stubborn. Uncommonly so. You intensified the pressure. You went so far as to bribe city officials to declare the building a hazard and hand out a number of citations. Production came to a standstill. A win. But in the process you made a very vindictive and calculating enemy."
He glared. "An enemy who is doing what?"
"Slowly closing you in a meticulous and careful trap. At trial, Claiborne's account books will be thrown open for the public. His finances will be scrutinized. And I'm sure they will find a number of suspicious transactions—or perhaps that he has little money left. Investors won't give him a second look. But most of all, his properties will be inspected by city health officials, and they will discover the remnants of a laboratory in a basement of a building with his name on it. Since he's made no secret of coveting Chinatown for himself, he'll be charged with conspiracy to spread the plague."
"There won't be a trial. I took care of that."
"Yes, you took care of it. That's precisely what people will think when they discover Lee Walker was murdered in a fire."
"This is insane."
"No, this is genius. Utterly untraceable. You wouldn't have known until your client was behind bars. This is strategy. This is skill. Not your blundering, Alex."
He lifted his shoulders. "I'm a brute. I've never imagined myself any different, nor do I want to be. It has served me well these years." He looked around his well-appointed office.
"Do you really think a mind like this will abandon a plan? The plague still lingers. The Pacific-Union Club will have you to blame."
"Who will they believe? You?"
"They know what you are. Your reputation will be proof enough, and Sing Ping King Sur will conjure whatever they wish. You interfered with their gold mine of illegal imports. They are not happy, and they will not forget."
"This 'manufactured plague' will close the ports you claim they use."
"Do you think these people only operate in San Francisco? There's always Los Angeles. Your clients, however, will feel it right in their pocketbooks."
Alex leaned forward. "There is nothing here I haven't handled before—not rival businessman, not tongs, and not willful young women." She took a step back. "You cannot threaten me."
"I'm not threatening you. I'm here to help."
"I don't want your help." He grabbed her arm. "I want my wife."
Isobel tried to twist away, but his grip was solid. "I warn you, Alex. I will show you no mercy."
He yanked her hard against his body. She could smell his breath, feel his body, the contours of the man.
"I suggest you let me go," she said through her teeth.
"There is no waiting gunmen," he growled. "There is no rifle aimed at my back. I hope your lover comes for you. When he trespasses on my property, my men will gun him down like a dog."
She struggled against his hold.
"Let. Me. Go."
Alex bent his head to hers, and forced his tongue past her lips. Isobel clicked the catch on her suitcase, and dumped it towards his trousers. The stench was revolting; the slush that fell onto his clothes and carpet was sickening.
"Shit!"
She backed up with a wild grin. "You shut off Ravenwood Manor's water. Here is proof of your efforts—the tenants' chamber pots. I can play just as dirty as you, dear husband." Isobel tossed down her suitcase, and left the ruined office.
✥
Isobel smiled at the man waiting outside the gates. He offered his arm, and she slipped her hand through, taking in a deep breath of air. She felt free.
"No suitcase," Riot noted.
"No suitcase," she confirmed.
Alex hadn't accepted her truce. Their course was set.
He pressed her arm to his side.
"Sapphire House?" he asked.
Isobel thought about his question. "I think I should like a very large meal."
Riot didn't respond. He couldn't. He found a cafe in a park, under the sun, and
they sat and ate and talked.
When the first newsboy appeared with the evening edition, Riot folded his napkin, and rose to buy a newspaper. Isobel recalled her conversation with Cara Sharpe the day before.
The woman had looked up from the stack of papers Isobel had handed her. "Are you sure about this, Charlie? Or should I say, Mrs. Kingston."
"I'm closer to Charlie than the other. And yes, I'm positive. Will you help me?"
Cara tossed the typed papers onto a table. "Why?"
"By helping me, you'll be helping yourself. This is an exclusive story."
Cara reached for her cigarette case. "Why rat yourself out, Charlie? This is a man's world. You'll end up in prison."
"I have my reasons," Isobel said. "I need this published."
Cara took a long draught of her cigarette, and blew out a slow breath. "After you were fired, I cornered Jo. She recognized you from society functions. After some investigating, she discovered the truth, and wrote an article exposing you—only the editor refused to publish it."
"Are you surprised?"
"It's not a well kept secret that most newspapers are on the payroll of the Southern Pacific for 'friendliness'. But I was surprised this article was blocked." There was a question in her voice.
"Alex wants to control me. He's humiliated, and he doesn't want this made public. Not on my terms, at any rate."
Cara tapped her cigarette over an ashtray. "The Examiner might publish this. Hearst recently broke ranks with the other newspapers. Although his motives are selfish—it's another opportunity to boost his paper—he's lending credibility to the Health Department's claims."
"Do you know him?"
Cara smiled like a cat. "I know everyone in this business."
"Will you help me?"
"I like your brass, Charlie. And it'll make one hell of a story."
Just then Riot slid a newspaper under her nose. Front page of the Examiner: Isobel Kingston Lives!
Cara had kept her word. Not a letter was changed from the article Isobel had written. She looked across the table at Riot, but the small victory was bittersweet. This would very likely be their last meal together for a good long while.
38
The Storm
Tuesday, April 17, 1900
THE COURT ROOM ROARED with laughter. "Order! Order!" Judge Adams banged his gavel, but the laughter was drowning out his demands. Alex Kingston fumed, and Isobel looked over at him and smiled. His fists curled.
Mr. Hill shouted an objection, but his voice was lost in the tumult. A bark cut through the laughter. Smoke twined around the revolver in Judge Adams' hand, and a fresh bullet hole had been added to the wooden beam over the bench.
The crowd quieted instantly. Judge Adams set his revolver down, keeping it within easy reach. He scowled at the court room for a long minute.
"Your honor," Mr. Hill said.
"Yes?" Adams barked.
"Mr. Riot was not present during this alleged conversation with my client."
Judge Adams glared at the attorney. "You objected already."
"A mere reminder, your honor."
Judge Adams looked to Riot. "Are you saying Mrs. Kingston wrote the newspaper article that led to her arrest?"
"Yes."
Adams glanced at the defendant. "Why?"
"We needed an audience. The entirety of San Francisco to be exact."
"Is my court room a theatre?"
"Far from it," Riot said. "Your court, I trust, is an administration of justice. But the city is not, your honor. My partner was murdered in his attempt to expose the men behind this organization. If Mrs. Kingston and I had taken this information to the police—the investigation would have been blocked at every turn. And I have no doubt we would have shared the fate of Zephaniah Ravenwood.
"However, reporters are relentless detectives." Riot paused to look at the murder of reporters in the back of the room. The scratch of pens stopped, and each looked up in turn. Riot saw determination in their eyes. "Mrs. Kingston and myself have just set a multitude of detectives loose on the city. Every judge, policeman, attorney, and newspaper that attempts to obstruct the investigation will draw attention to itself. It will be plain as day that they were actively working to close San Francisco's ports. I have no doubt that the pen will prove mightier than any gun."
His gaze settled on Isobel. She graced him with a small smile—one he had glimpsed in breathless firelight, tangled limbs, and the softest of whispers.
"Do you have proof?" Judge Adams asked.
"We do." Riot dipped his fingers into his breast pocket, and the doors flew open. Parker Gray entered with a cigar between his lips and a Colt Lightning in each hand.
Gunshots filled the court room.
When the smoke cleared, Atticus Riot stood in the witness stand with the judge's revolver in hand, a bullet hole in the wall behind him, and a tear in his coat. Screams and shouts echoed in the packed court room. Riot looked to Isobel. She was pale as death, a tear through a puffed sleeve. Blood covered her dress, but it wasn't her own. It was the man in her arms. Lotario Amsel was slumped over the barrier.
39
A Visitor
Wednesday, April 18, 1900
ISOBEL PACED LIKE A tigress in a cage. Back and forth, pressing her hands against her stomach. This was torture, this was pain—the unknown fate of her twin.
The door at the end of the hallway opened with its usual scream. She rushed to the bars, pressing her face against the metal. A large policeman filled the hallway.
"Have you any news?" she asked.
The policeman stepped aside, revealing another visitor—a much smaller man. Isobel sucked in a breath.
"You have ten minutes." The guard turned, and exited.
Isobel reached through the bars, and Riot took her hand. "Tell me."
"He's out of surgery, but not danger."
Isobel shuddered. Her knees gave out, and she slumped against the bars, sliding down to the floor. Riot went right down with her, and leaned in close. His hands were warm, his eyes as deep as any ocean. She pressed her forehead to the metal, and he brushed his lips against her skin.
"Your family is with him, Bel."
"I should be there." Tears streamed down her cheeks. She didn't notice. "Why did he do that?"
"You know the answer."
"He should have gotten down, not stood in front of a damn bullet meant for me."
"It's not in his nature."
"He's a fool."
Riot worked his arm through the bars, and buried his fingers in her hair. It was the best embrace he could manage. "Knowing his sister as I do, I've come to expect foolishness. Some might even call it sacrifice."
"I feel like I'm stuck in a bad dream," she whispered. "But when I fall asleep in this dream, Lotario is safe. And I'm with you." She moved her head, brushing her forehead against his soft beard.
Riot took a shaky breath. "I half expected the judge to throw the case."
"But he hasn't?"
"No."
"I heard about Judge Adams when I was in law school."
"All two months of it?"
At another time, she might have laughed, but not today. "He has the highest conviction rate in San Francisco. And that's saying something."
"I doubt it's a coincidence that he was handed your case."
"If only Parker Gray had shot my husband." She scrubbed at her cheeks.
"Don't give up yet," he whispered against her skin.
Isobel gathered the tatters of her control. "Is Gray dead?"
"Yes."
"I hope you weren't charged with murder."
"I was not."
"That's a relief."
"I handed over the list of names from the lumber yard, and Consul General Ho Yow provided the old records we confiscated during the tong raids. Every newspaper in California and beyond ran an extra, names and all. Your plan worked." And yet Isobel was still in a cell. But then she had never believed things would work out differently.
"You were masterful on the witness stand."
"I was lucky."
"Don't gamblers make their own luck?"
"I'll be sure to this evening."
Isobel paled. "Be careful."
"With a surname like mine?" Riot gave her a lopsided smile, flashing a chipped incisor. He reached into his coat pocket, and handed her a small bundle.
"It's too round for lock picks," she said, testing its weight. Without ceremony, she unwrapped the gift, revealing two muffins.
"Miss Lily sends you her love. She's concerned you're not eating."
"But not you?"
"Of course not."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Only with you."
She took a bite. Cranberries, lemon, and sweetness burst on her tongue. For a moment, she felt alive again.
"Considering your usual meals, I wouldn't have thought the poor quality of prison food would have had any affect on your appetite."
"I don't notice much of anything here."
Riot reached in his pocket again. This time he brought out a tattered bracelet strung with beads. "This is from Jin. On loan. She said you have to give it back to her when you're released or she will never forgive you."
The little bracelet blurred. Isobel gently took the bracelet. It was old and dirty, and she feared it might fall apart in her fingers. Through her tears, she worked loose a little knot, and widened it enough to slip it over her wrist. She turned the filthy thing around her wrist once. The thought of the scarred little girl gave her strength. What were a few years in prison compared to the life that Jin had endured?
Isobel shook herself, shedding despair, and savored a muffin, tucking one away for later. When she had licked her fingers clean, a smile played at the corner of her lips. "I wanted to ask you. During the trial you said love came later. How much later?"
"When you held that knife to my ribs."
"That's what I thought."
40
Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4) Page 26