Cara threw her seniority around in the reporting world and got the address Hadley gave when he was hired. A house off Mission Street.
The woman who answered the door was in her thirties. A harsh woman with golden hair piled high and rings decorating every finger. Miss Jessica King. “He up and left a week ago Friday. Went into the bathroom with a newspaper, then came out, tossed all his things in a bag, and took off without a word.”
“Do you know where he went?” Isobel asked.
“If I did, I’d have followed him and shot him.”
“Can I search his belongings?”
The woman snorted. “I burned the lot of it. I’m done with him.”
Isobel wanted to choke the woman.
“Did he have friends?” Matthew asked. “Correspondence? Family?”
“He wouldn’t introduce me to anyone. Wouldn’t even marry me. We’ve been together for close to six years, but he came and went as he pleased.” She dabbed at her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said. “I truly am.”
Isobel looked back from a series of photographs of a familiar coastline on the wall. “Are you a photographer?”
The woman shook her head. “Charles took them. He’s a reporter—so he claimed.”
“Did he ever speak of Monterey?”
“He always promised to take me there. Said his uncle had a place. But said it was too run-down for me to stay. He promised we’d spend a weekend at the Del Monte one day.” She snorted. “Fat chance of that, the bastard.”
40
The Del Monte
Saturday, October 19, 1900
“You are not coming Riot.” Isobel insisted.
He had managed to drag his suitcase from the wardrobe. “I’m not letting you track down a murderer alone.”
“I’m taking Tim.”
Stubbornly, he placed a shirt inside. Before he could make any more progress, she dumped the contents on the bed, and stuffed his case on the highest shelf.
“Bel!” he growled.
“Don’t make me call Dr. Wise. You can barely stand.”
“I’ll be sitting on a train.”
“I’m not taking a train. I’m sailing.”
“In winter?”
He had caught her. It would take two days to sail to Monterey, and likely triple that to sail back without a steam engine. The train was more practical, though not as exciting.
Isobel took a breath. “Riot,” she said softly. “Please. You’re in no shape to walk down the stairs by yourself, let alone travel. It’s barely been five days. Be patient with yourself.”
He sat on the bed. Tired.
Isobel ran a gentle hand over his bruised face, and he looked up into her eyes. “I’m twenty years older than you, Bel. At some point, this… caretaking will be permanent.”
Isobel nudged his legs open and moved closer, taking his face in her hands. “I’m positive you will get yourself killed before it comes to that.”
He raised a sutured brow, then winced. “Is that your plan?”
“Or maybe I’ll just hire a nurse—an unattractive one, with a horrid enough disposition to make me seem warm and caring.”
A corner of his swollen lip quirked. “Go find your murderer.”
She kissed the top of his head, and he hugged her tightly, his face buried between her breasts. “Heal,” she urged. “Rest, for my sake.”
“I will,” came his muffled promise.
“Besides,” she leaned back to tug on his beard, “two weeks of no strenuous activity… It’s best if I’m gone.”
He grunted.
When she opened the door, Sarah and Jin were waiting outside. “I am coming too,” Jin stated.
“Me, too,” Sarah said.
“I am not taking the two of you to hunt down a child murderer.” She glanced back into the room. “Besides, someone has to watch Riot.”
The girls looked inside.
Riot slowly sank back to the pillows. “I feel faint,” he moaned.
Isobel laughed, but the girls were not amused.
She bent down and lowered her voice. “I’m serious,” she said. “He suffered a severe concussion. If he overdoes it…” She swallowed. “It could be bad. Aside from Dr. Wise’s bullying, you are the only two who can persuade him to rest.”
Sarah straightened her shoulders, and nodded.
Jin looked on the verge of tears. “I want to go with you,” she whispered. There was something in those dark eyes, a strong emotion, a pleading that tore at Isobel’s heart. She dropped her bag and knelt. “What’s going on, Jin?”
Jin shook her head.
Isobel pulled her into a tight embrace. The girl resisted for a moment, then relented, melting into her. “I can’t help you unless you tell me,” she whispered in her ear.
Again, a head shake.
Isobel held her at arm’s length. She directed the full force of the Saavedra gaze on her, but Jin was resolute. And confusing. The girl seemed torn, too.
“I need someone to protect, Riot. Understand?”
Jin nodded.
“I don’t know why you’re going into Chinatown, but I want you to stop stabbing people. Is that clear?”
Jin’s eyes widened, she glanced at Sarah, who had gone suddenly pale. “Oh, stop looking at her. I have my own informants,” Isobel lied through her teeth. “Were those men after you?”
“No. One of them pushed me down.”
“And attacked you?”
Jin hesitated. “One kicked me, so I stabbed him.”
“Fine, don’t stab people unless absolutely necessary.”
Jin sighed.
Isobel pulled her into another hug, then did the same to Sarah, and left a very disgruntled family.
The Del Monte was rhythmic. A steady clink of railway wheels, the sounds of steam and whistles, and gentle rocking. All this fell to the background as Isobel stared out the window. Tim was strangely quiet at her side.
“What are we going to do about Monty?” she finally asked.
“What about him?”
“He thrashed Riot near to death.”
“If Monty wanted A.J. dead, he would’ve finished him.”
“Monty dragged him outside and left him to thieves.”
“That’s what generally happens when you sucker punch someone in a boxing club, girl.”
She bristled.
A woman opposite eyed the old man warily. Isobel lowered her voice as much as she could with the clanking engine. “He likely hired those men to kill us, Tim.”
“Maybe so, but we don’t have proof enough for the police.”
“The only reason Monty didn’t kill Riot then and there was because there were witnesses.”
“Here’s the thing.” Tim leaned in close. “If someone hired Monty like you think, then those same people are mighty displeased that he fouled up the job.”
Isobel studied his craggy features. Despite the severity of his words, he had an impish glint in his eyes that reminded her of a devious leprechaun. Tim flashed her a smile, showing off his gold teeth, as if to convince her he was one.
“You’re counting on someone snipping off a loose end.”
Tim inclined his head.
“That doesn’t help Mack any,” she muttered. “And we don’t know who hired him.”
“You want to take it to the police?” he countered. “Maybe we’ll have A.J. go in and explain what happened to the men who attacked us, or better yet, he can tell the noble lawmen what transpired in the Morgue.”
Isobel opened her mouth, then clicked it shut.
“One day, I hope to God the police can be relied on, but out here—in the West—civilization’s toehold is in a heaping pile of shit.”
The Wild West. Tim had lived through it, helped shape it. Survived. And now, though the era was waning, the west was still wild. Tim was born in a time when men took the law into their own hands. No patrolmen, no whistles, no call boxes. A time when shopkeepers and family men took up arms to hun
t down criminals.
Tim referred to his informants as Vigilance Boys. In the fifties, San Francisco had rallied to fight a gang called the Sydney Ducks. Ordinary men founded a Committee of Vigilance, a vigilante group that was surprisingly orderly. When the threat had been dealt with the committee laid down their weapons and went on with their lives, and when calls came again they took up arms as needed.
“I’m content to wait,” Tim announced.
The whole situation put her on edge—an unknown threat. She was fairly sure Alex Kingston was behind it, but… there were other forces at work. Rich and powerful men and criminal organizations. It was a constant worry in the back of her mind that she’d return home to find Riot dead.
“So what’s the plan? Tim asked.
Isobel reined in her thoughts. Focusing on one murderer at a time seemed simpler. “From what we learned about Hawkins, or Hadley, he favors resorts. Everyone I interviewed seemed to think he was a country man who spent time outdoors, but I never got the impression he was a laborer, so I suspect hunting, fishing, or sailing. He may have spent the last few years as a reporter covering sports in Monterey. I’ll check on that, but… my gut tells me that he’s more con man than reporter.
“The Hotel Del Monte is a perfect place to prey on tourists. I think he wears a clerical collar to gain trust. What better way to get money or handouts from tourists than to masquerade as a vacationing parishman. I doubt he’ll have a mustache. I think it’s a fake. He left San Francisco after Ella was found. That was smart. He was waiting to see what the police would make of her death. And he would have been in the clear if we hadn’t interfered. So we know he’s a cool hand.
“If it were me, I’d bide my time in Monterey to see how the investigation goes. It’s a port city. Shipments of abalone and sardines leave for Japan and China every week. It’s an ideal place to make a quick escape. You take the harbors, I’ll take the Hotel Del Monte. Look for a preacher with a sailing or fishing boat, and try to find that cabin his lady friend mentioned.”
Tim grunted.
“What? You don’t agree?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, it’s only… you sound like Zeph.”
Isobel started. “What?”
“Zeph used to do that sort of thing all the time. He’d pinpoint a criminal from his armchair and me and A.J. would go pick him up.”
“You can congratulate me when I’m right.”
“There’s a cafe, Sally’s, on Ocean View Avenue. I’ll meet you there tomorrow for breakfast, or leave a note.”
Tim took his hat and rucksack and walked down the aisle. He’d likely make friends with the stokers and end up driving the train before the journey was finished.
Charles Crocker had a vision. The railroad baron built a resort in the sleepy seaside town of Monterey, and the world took note. Newspapers called it Crocker’s Folly. But the newspapers were wrong. In the first six weeks, the hotel had been forced to turn down three thousand reservation requests.
The world fell in love with the deep blue bay. It was difficult not to—bracing air and bottomless waters that teemed with life: kelp forests, sea otters, whales, clouds of sardines. Monterey was where sea monsters played and a lone cypress defied a wild ocean.
Isobel stood in front of the Hotel Del Monte with its gothic spires and trellised archways. A steady stream of carriages, buggies, horses, and even a motorcar flowed past, on their way to begin the 17-Mile Drive. On the hotel grounds guests strolled through carefully cultivated gardens to take in the salt air.
Isobel turned her back on it and made for the ocean. How could she resist?
That blue. So deep. It quickened her pulse to find a bobbing bay of masts and Monterey clippers. To watch otters playing in kelp beds and swimming between boats. She followed her heart to a sandy shore strewn with dried kelp and sat on the rocks, listening to the wash of surf. Children played in the tide pools, screaming with delight, while others walked barefoot in the sand, women unconcerned with trailing hems.
Out beyond the breakers, men in white linen dove into the icy waters. Japanese abalone divers. Americans didn’t know what to do with the strange shellfish, but the Japanese treated them like gold, hauling in boatloads and shipping them directly to Japan and China.
Sails billowed in the distance. Isobel ached to be on the water. A romantic novelist would have had her sailing down the coastline and docking in Monterey to search for a murderer. But by sea it would have taken at least two days. By train it had taken three and a half hours.
Modern conveniences spoiled the romance of adventure.
Isobel turned back to Hotel Del Monte. She had a murderer to catch, and it was time to play the socialite.
One did not walk into the Hotel Del Monte and request a room. It was world-renowned and reservations were a must. And rooms came at a hefty price that would punch a hole through her family’s dwindling funds. Instead she found a little inn by the sea, set down her things, freshened up, and struck out on a mission.
Isobel set her sights on 17-Mile Drive. Special touring wagons traveled the road with five rows of benches in the bed to accommodate tourists. She chose a spot just out of town, and started limping along the road. It didn’t take long for a touring wagon to come along. She waved it down.
“Hello there!”
The driver reined in the horses. “Might I get a lift back to the hotel? My group went off and left me. Can you imagine? Why yes, I just walked over to the water’s edge and turned my ankle in a tide pool. Thank you.”
She was helped up onto a seat by an older gentleman with a distinct German accent. Perfect.
“You poor dear,” his wife said.
“It’s fortunate you came along,” she said breathlessly. “I dreaded that walk back with this ankle.”
“We’ll get you some help at the hotel. Are you staying long?”
“A few days,” Isobel said switching to German.
The couple’s eyes lit up, and the thirst for one’s mother tongue provided needed kindling for a fast friendship. By the time the wagon pulled up to the Hotel Del Monte, Isobel knew their entire family history, the names of their sons and daughters, and those of their grandchildren. She also had an invite for dinner. In the company of her new friends (they might as well be family) no one would question her presence in the hotel now.
41
Cat Burglar
Tuesday, October 23, 1900
“What are you doing down here?” Tobias asked sleepily.
Jin glared at the boy. “It is not your business.”
Tobias yawned. “These are our rooms.”
“I was looking for Watson.”
Tobias wrinkled his nose. “This early? In a hallway?”
There wasn’t much in the hallway. A carpet runner, a potted plant, and a mirror. As well as a bright painting of the sea to liven up the corridor. And doors. Tobias had just stepped out of the bathroom, and caught her in the hallway. He looked to the locked door behind her. It was the storage room—the one that Riot had had them load all the attic supplies into a few months back.
Jin sighed. “Fine. I am practicing.” She slipped out a lock pick.
That seemed closer to the truth. “Don’t suppose we could play with the sword…”
“No. Go back to sleep.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I have work.”
With that, Jin walked off. Curious, Tobias followed her to the entryway, then stopped to watch her stomp back up to her attic room.
Frowning, he shrugged, and went to the kitchen to sneak some pie before his mother woke up.
But Jin didn’t remain in her room. She climbed out onto the roof, and then down her ladder. She stopped on the ledge and shimmied around the corner. Her feet were so sure that she didn’t feel she needed the rope, but kept hold of it just in case.
She paused at the turret room window, and peeked inside. The window was open. Atticus liked fresh air, and it was early yet. He was sleeping in his
bed and she knew he had taken a sedative. She had given him a double dose for pain late last night.
Still, Jin hesitated. She hadn’t wanted to resort to this, but she had no choice. The storeroom hadn’t had what she needed.
Hooking her rope ladder on a nail, she slipped inside. Two empty chairs sat by a smoldering hearth. Bookshelves lined one wall, two wardrobes, hooks with hats, and a settee. It was a large room that accommodated two people just fine.
Jin moved across the room on light feet. She wore simple clothing: wide-sleeved jacket, loose blouse, and trousers with slippers. The bland gray material was perfect for blending in with fog.
Glancing over her shoulder, she eased Atticus’s wardrobe open. Having helped care for him the past few days, she knew the room like her own. Crouching, she moved a pair of his shoes aside, and shimmied a large box closer to the edge of the wardrobe. It wasn’t locked. She opened it and stared at its contents.
This was wrong.
Jin froze at the feeling. She knew it was true, with every fiber of her body. Atticus and Isobel trusted her. And now she would betray their trust.
But she needed to do this.
Jin reached inside, and selected one of Atticus’s revolvers. He had a number of them, and she doubted one would be missed, especially while he was recovering from his injuries.
The one she chose was worn, but polished and cared for, as was the case with all his weapons. But this gun was different from the one he carried in his holster. That one was sitting on his bedside table. This looked older, and bore numerous notches on its battered grip. The marks looked deliberate, like the scars on Jin’s arm. It seemed fitting.
Determined, she stuffed a box of cartridges in her pocket along with the revolver, and put the rest back the way she found it.
Jin hastened back to the window, and paused. Atticus had shifted, pushing away his covers with a pained sound. Setting her jaw, she tiptoed to his bedside and stared down at his battered features. The bruises had turned black, and his face was etched with pain. Even sleeping hurt.
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