“Is that your husband?” asked Sims.
“I thought he was at first,” Isobel said.
Riot crouched beside her, studying the corpse’s face. Death was never pleasant, and this man was no exception.
“I know this man,” Riot whispered in her ear. Her brows shot up in question, but he shook his head. Not here, that gesture said. He turned to Sims and asked, “Where was this one found?”
“In an alleyway off of David Street down by the docks,” Sims supplied. “A bad place to walk at night. Seedy as they come. Do you know him, by chance?”
“Hard to tell with the discoloration.” If he told Sims what he knew, he would be asked to sign an official document, or worse give testimony at a coroner’s inquest. Attention was the last thing they needed.
“Oh, yes, course it is, but you learn to read the signs.” Sims huffed over, and bent slightly, putting his hands on his knees, to study the corpse. “I’d wager he’s been dead for two to three days. Hard to tell with the cold. And what with the body being moved. You can tell that by the discoloration on his stomach. He lay there for a good while. There was sand on his clothes, and in the wound, too. A hatchet or axe, if you ask me. And from the angle of that blow, I’d say he was on his knees when he was struck. But he had a gun in his hand. There was gunpowder stain on his fingers. No gun was found with him, though. Odd, if you ask me. Since there’s no sand in the docks, I doubt he died there. From his knuckles and such, it’s clear he’s a pugilist, or knows his way around a fight. I’d of said he died in a boxing ring, but those are usually hard-packed dirt, or a mat. I think he was killed near the ocean, along the Golden Gate or the dunes would make most sense.”
Both Isobel and Riot stared at the heavy-set man with mouths slightly agape.
Sims stopped, and closed his mouth, clearing his throat. “I’m saying too much, aren’t I?” he asked. “I’ve a bucket, ma’am, if I’ve made you sick. No one invites me to a meal anymore ‘cause I have this blabbering tongue of mine.”
“No, no, I’m quite fine. You have a remarkable gift.” Isobel said with feeling.
The man blushed crimson. “I just talk to them. They’re peaceful company. I hate to bury them unnamed, so I give them one myself if they’re not claimed.”
“Did you find anything in his clothes?” Isobel asked.
Sims shook his head. “Picked clean, and left to rot. That’s the way of the alleys. Even his boots and coat was taken.”
Riot stood, and helped Isobel to her feet. “If you ever decide to run for coroner, I’ll vote for you, sir.” He offered a hand, and Sims shook it with a wheezing laugh.
“That’s hilarious, sir. People like myself are always the last to be picked for anything except the jobs no one will take. Before this I was a gravedigger, but I slipped one day, and ended up in the grave I was digging.” He chuckled at the irony. “Hurt my back and knee, and couldn’t manage no more.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Riot said. Although he thought the man’s talents had been wasted in a graveyard.
“Oh, it’s not so bad. I just get to talk to them above ground now,” Sims said with a short giggle. He patted the dead man’s arm, and straightened, and Isobel and Riot excused themselves, leaving Sims with his dead friends.
Riot handed Isobel into the hack. “Hold for a bit, Grimm,” Riot said to the young man, before climbing inside.
A pair of impatient gray eyes were staring at him with the intensity of a dagger blade. “His name is Andrew Ross,” he explained.
“Andrew Ross?” she repeated.
“That’s the name he went by when I knew him. He was a hired gun.”
“Good riddance, then?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, I doubt I have half a brain,” Isobel said, ripping off her gloves. “It never occurred to me that the calling cards might not be his own.”
“Or a nom de plume,” Riot offered.
“True, but he didn’t really strike me as the type for subterfuge.”
“The dead aren’t very clever,” he admitted.
She snorted, and let her head fall back on the padding. “I suppose he could have changed his name, or been posing as someone else. I do it every day… Or he might have pinched a billfold, or robbed the real Lincoln Howe. But we have no way of knowing. And if we start asking after Lincoln Howe, we could attract the wrong kind of attention.”
“I agree—we’ll have to be careful. And patient.”
A low growl came from her throat. “I want to go back to that brick building.”
“And do what?”
“Get inside of it. Find that cigar man, and drag him out.”
“Then testify that he abducted you?”
She opened her mouth, and closed it. “My death has its complications, doesn’t it?”
“A great many.” Too many, he added silently. Even if she were willing to expose herself by testifying against those men, her reputation would be called into question every step of the way. “Something will turn up, Bel.” Some of his cases had taken years to solve. That kind of case, no doubt, would drive Isobel insane.
“What do you know about Andrew Ross?” she asked.
“Ross used to be part of the Chinatown Police Squad under a Sgt. Jesse Cook—the most hated squad captain in the history of the Quarter. He had a temper, and was known to grab the closest Chinese—innocent, young, or old—and beat him to a bloody pulp when he was angry. His squad tended to follow his lead. After a new squad sergeant took over, I heard Ross was signing up for strike-breaking and boxing matches. It’s an official way to get violent without legal consequences.”
“Lovely,” she muttered. “Kau likely did society a favor.”
“He’s no shining moral compass himself.”
“I doubt anyone is.”
“Miss Cameron comes fairly close.”
“I hope to meet her.”
“I’m sure you will one day.”
“In the meantime, I have an idea.”
He looked at her in question.
“I believe I know a way to investigate Andrew Ross, or Lincoln Howe, without raising suspicion. On us, at any rate.”
“So reassuring, Bel.”
She showed her teeth. “An admirer of mine at the Call.”
“Should I be jealous?”
“Yes, he’s a big, charming Scotsman,” she said, with a wistful, dreamy sigh. “He’s offered me dinner at the Palace, and whatever might follow.”
“Does this charmer of yours have a name?”
“You’re a detective, I’ll let you discover that.”
“I’m hesitant to let you out of my sight.”
Isobel reached into his waistcoat pocket, and slipped out the card she had placed there earlier. “I’ll make sure and return it,” she whispered, lips brushing his ear. And like a soft breeze, she was gone.
40
A Nose for News
“Andrew Ross?” Mccormick rubbed the side of his nose, leaving behind a smudge of ink. “Sure I know him. I’ve seen him down at the Pavilion, and at just about every boxing match besides. Why do you ask?”
“His name came up for a piece I’m working on—The Effects of Boxing on the Male Physique.”
Mack cracked his knuckles. “I’ve done my fair share of boxing. I’d be happy to let you conduct an in depth interview.” He leaned a massive elbow on the edge of his desk, and smiled. Or at least, she thought he was trying to smile. He looked more like a panting wolf.
Isobel had stopped earlier at her apartment in Sapphire House to change into something more presentable. So a flowery hat sat on her auburn wig, and a pair of delicate pince-nez were perched on her nose. She wore a fitted coat, blouse, long gloves with tiny buttons, and a matching skirt that hugged her in all the right places, before flaring at the knees. The effect was not lost on Mack McCormick.
“Should I require a volunteer, you’ll be the first to know.” An impish sort of impulse overtook her (which was all too common). “During my last
story I discovered that pugilists are most in need of Doctor Sanden’s Electric Belt and Suspensory for Weak Men.”
“You like goading me,” he growled.
“Isn’t that what you’re doing with me?”
“It’s called seduction.” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” she said, taking out her hand mirror. She flipped it open and consulted the glass, running a finger along the line of her lip. She had watched Lotario do that very thing numerous times.
“Who is the ruffian, Charlie?” Mack leaned in closer. She silently cursed her attempts at flirtation. Hidden bruises put a damper on the act. “I’ll use him as a sand bag.”
“I fell off a bicycle, Mack.”
“Right.” He leaned back in his chair, and crossed massive arms. “So what did you pretty yourself up for? What’s your angle today? I was about to go stand around the quarantine fence and watch bruisers beat heathens back into their pen.”
“They put a fence around the gymnasium?” she asked.
He chuckled. “They probably should. And throw us some of those electric belts while they’re at it.”
She smiled at his self-depreciation. Mack delivered verbal blows, but he accepted their return with good humor.
“Andrew Ross,” she said, nudging him back on track. “Do you know what he does for work? Where he lives? Does he have a favorite saloon or gymnasium?”
“How important is it to you?”
“You mean is it worth dinner with you?”
“I had more in mind.”
“It’s not worth that, Mack.”
He turned pink. “No, I didn’t mean—” He blew a breath past his mustache. “I mean not that I’d turn you down.”
“You’re digging a pit over there.”
He took a deep breath, glanced around the corral at the other reporters typing away, and leaned closer. “It’s clear you have a nose for news, Charlie. I was only wondering if you’d throw me a bone every so often.”
“Is money tight?”
“Isn’t it always for the working man?”
“And woman.”
“You all add to the competition,” he mumbled.
“I like to think we make things interesting,” she said with a smirk. “Besides, it’s not as if you’d touch a ‘Sob Sister’ story.”
“True.”
“But I’ll do better than a bone. I’ll let you into the kitchen.”
His bushy brows shot up, and he bristled like a mastiff on the hunt.
“Andrew Ross is lying in the city morgue with an ‘unidentified’ tag on his toe,” she confided. “Clear murder.”
“How do you know it was murder?”
“He has an axe impression in his skull.”
“How do you know it’s him?”
“A girl has her secrets, but I can’t investigate him. Don’t ask why,” she hastened when he opened his mouth. “You’re a regular at the matches, and you’re known as a reporter. And I can hardly infiltrate the gentleman clubs and gymnasiums. You’re the best man for the job.”
Mack huffed. “So you expect me to do all the legwork, and you take all the credit?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want my name anywhere near this story. All I want is for you to share what you learn. And in exchange, you get an exclusive on a murder before the others catch wind of it. I suggest you speak with a fellow by the name of Mr. Sims in the morgue. He has a better idea of where he died than where he was found.”
“Sounds fishy.”
“Would it be worthy of a story if it wasn’t?” she asked.
He frowned.
“You can make whatever you want of it,” she said. “But I’m fairly sure there are some shady men involved in this.”
“Murder isn’t exactly a society soiree.”
“Fair warning, is all.”
“You’re a queer one, Charlie.”
“You have no idea.”
The night was young, and Riot’s revealing story had been forefront in her mind. Small wonder he had left San Francisco behind. She wondered if his departure had prevented his own assassination. Or worse, was Riot still a target in whatever web he had fallen into? That worried her.
She disappeared into the newspaper archives as Miss Bonnie, and emerged as Mr. Morgan. The fading light and rush of commuters was ideal for her male disguise, and she drifted into seedy streets stirring with the nightlife of the Barbary Coast.
Bright electric lights flickered to life with the falling sun. Saloons, bagnios, and dance halls opened their doors, and music filled the sidewalks. In an hour the halls would be bursting. This was the hour between—when twelve blocks rose from ashes to fiery life like a mythical phoenix.
Park’s Place was located near the docks, and Isobel thought she might have visited it once or twice. But nights masquerading as a fresh-faced man tended to run together, especially when Lotario and drinks were involved.
There was already a crowd. Men and women gathered in the saloon, mingling and talking. A few women were clearly on the lookout for their next john, while others gathered at a table, enjoying a meal before a long night of work. The place was exactly as Riot had described it—a former dive turned nearly respectable.
The aroma made her stomach growl. She walked to the bar, and tossed down fifteen cents. It bought her a plate of roast chicken, green beans, and cornbread, and a beer that wasn’t watered down. Simple but good.
Isobel hunkered down at the bar and dug into her dinner, listening and observing as more people crowded in. She didn’t know why she had come here. Intuition, curiosity, or a need to bring some reality to Riot’s history—to imagine him as he’d been three years before, exhausted after long nights of combing slave dens for a child-killer. And feeling helpless. Craving human contact, looking for a morsel of comfort in the arms of a woman who did not love him.
As she ate, she watched the mirror behind the bar. Old friends greeted each other with warmth, and a few old men seemed rooted to the table where they sat. She watched sailors fresh off the boat waltz in with a lady on each arm, and an emaciated man using his fingers to clean every crumb off his plate. She assessed them all in a flash, until a slash of red over the door caught her eye. It was nearly lost in shadow.
Isobel swiveled, and looked across the room. Knickknacks filled the saloon, lining shelves and hanging from walls—tokens left by sailors and visitors from all around the globe. But that octagon hanging above the entrance drew her like a moth to flame. A bagua. Only it was turned around, so the mirror faced the wall.
“What’s caught your eye?”
The smooth voice made her throat go dry. She nearly jerked, but swallowed her response, glancing casually over a shoulder. “You have a fine collection of… just about everything.”
A man stood behind the bar. The first thing she noticed were his eyes. They were not kind eyes, but passionate and fiery and possessive. This saloon was his. And he was proud of that fact. It wasn’t enough for him to have his name on the deed; he had marked it with blazing words on the front. The second thing she noticed was his missing right ear. Abigail must have been left-handed, or desperate. His size registered next. Not in a towering way like her bull of a husband Kingston, but the girth of his shoulders. He was built like a keg.
“Patrons sometimes bring me a trinket or two from their travels,” Parks was saying. “They don’t forget this place.”
“Best saloon food I’ve ever had,” she said, and meant it.
“We only hire the best. The locals call this the Palace of the Docks.”
“Ever think of changing the name?”
His eyes turned hard. “No.”
Isobel took a sip of her beer, and thought it best to steer in another direction. “What is that round thing over the door?”
“You’ve a good eye,” he said, as he dried a glass with a clean rag. There was a hard edge to the man, the kind that came with honing, like a sharpened blade. “It was a gift from my de
ar departed wife.”
“Sorry to hear.” There was true grief in his eyes, and it was an odd sensation seeing that emotion there. Isobel knew his history—that he had stabbed and maimed the very woman he claimed to love.
“Such is life,” he said with a sigh. “But you’re young yet. It’s all still fresh and new for you.”
“With food like this, it’s hard not to be enthused.”
He chuckled, a cold sort of rattle, and then tossed down his rag, and thrust out his hand. “Jim Parks.”
“Henry Morgan,” she introduced. “Give my compliments to the chef.”
Only Parks didn’t let go of her hand. He stayed right there, staring her straight in the eye, squeezing her bones tight. Isobel’s instinct was to squeeze harder, and stare right back, but she played the uneasy young man, looking back to the bagua, so he was left holding her hand at an awkward angle. He let go, and she resisted the urge to rub the blood back into it.
“I’ve seen that in Chinatown before,” she said. “But I can’t make heads or tails of that Celestial garble.”
“It’s a bagua.”
“Why’s the mirror turned towards the wall?”
“That’s the way they’re supposed to be,” he explained. “It keeps out evil, deflects spirits from coming in and such. A wall won’t stop a spirit.”
“Is this place haunted? Maybe the ghosts are cooking supper?” Isobel glanced over the bar, looking for hiding spirits, but Parks didn’t share her amusement. A flash of anger ripped across his eyes, and he squeezed the glass in his hand until she thought it might break.
“Don’t mock what you don’t know. The dead don’t leave us.”
“No, sir,” she hastened. “Sorry, I don’t mean to offend. It was thoughtful of your wife to give you such a fine gift.”
“That’s what I told her. She gave me this, too.” Parks traced the scar running down the right side of his face and flicked a finger at his missing ear. “Is that fine, too, Miss?”
Isobel tensed for a second, and then raised her mug to him, gulping down the beer. It was thick and foamy, and she barely tasted a drop of it.
Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3) Page 31