Nick refused to say anything that would get them in trouble. “I’m not convinced Tom Davies is guilty. I want to be sure.”
“The chief is unhappy, Greaves,” said the captain. “Sure, he doesn’t like the violence against the Chinese, but he hates even more the complaints he gets from the good citizens of San Francisco. They pay taxes so we’ll keep them and their property safe. They don’t expect us to bother with crime among the Celestials, especially the murder of a girl from a bagnio.”
“The ‘Celestials’ pay taxes, too.” Hefty ones.
“You need to wrap this case up. I want you done by Tuesday, when the grand jury’ll meet. No more police time wasted on a dead Chinese girl after that. Hear me?”
By Tuesday? Who was he kidding? “I want a week at least to concentrate on this case.”
“Tuesday,” Eagan repeated.
“Nobody could be done by Tuesday, Captain. A week.”
Eagan regarded him. Overhead, the gas flames flickered and snapped.
“I only put up with you, Greaves, because your uncle used to be one of the best men on this force,” he said. “But I’ll only give you until Wednesday. And if I think you’re slacking on cases that deserve more attention, you can be damned sure I’ll yank you so fast off this one, you won’t know which way’s up.”
Nick strode out of the room. Downstairs in the detectives’ office, Taylor was waiting with Tessie Lange.
“Miss Lange,” Nick said, sweeping past her. “Thanks for taking the time to talk with me again.”
“What do you want, Detective?” she asked.
“I have some more questions for you.” Nick settled into his desk chair and gestured for her to sit. “First off, who is this Connor fellow?”
“You were listening.”
“Answer the question.”
“He’s a friend. A good friend of Tom’s. They used to work together when Tom first came to San Francisco.” She looked at Taylor, who was engaged in his usual note taking. “They took a liking to each other. I met him through Tom.”
“A last name?” asked Taylor. “And don’t bother to make one up.”
She swallowed. “Ahearn. Connor Ahearn.”
Irish. What a coincidence, thought Nick. “Why did you go to see him about Li Sha?”
Tessie shrugged. “I was being stupid about that. I thought he might know something.”
Hmm. “But he didn’t?”
“Not that he’d admit.”
“And he hated Li Sha for some reason. Why was that?” Nick asked.
“He sympathizes with the Anti-Coolie Association.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you asking me about him because you think he killed her?”
“Do you think it’s possible?” asked Nick, kneading the old wound on his left arm.
“It wouldn’t be safe for me to say, Detective Greaves.”
But if he was the man she’d met in the Barbary, she wasn’t all that afraid of him.
“Why did Tom Davies claim you hated Li Sha, too, Miss Lange?” Nick asked. “Were you jealous of her, his new woman?”
She blanched, the recognition that she’d become a suspect dawning. “I wouldn’t hurt her.”
“You knew she was pregnant. Yet when I came to talk to you at the store, you didn’t mention it.”
She dropped her gaze. Taylor was writing as fast as he could.
“Where’d you go after you left Davies’ room Monday night?” Nick asked.
“Home. Ask my father.”
“About what time did you get there?”
“Around eight thirty or nine, I think. I’m not exactly sure. I don’t own a pocket watch.”
“Rather late for a young lady to be out on the streets by herself,” observed Nick, steepling his fingertips and staring over the top of them. “Especially coming from Tar Flat.”
“Tom accompanied me part of the way.” Tessie raised her head and looked at him. “I was hoping to get Tom back by being with him that night, but it didn’t work out. We were together for a short time and then I went home.”
“And you didn’t meet with Li Sha, pretending you would give her money so she could leave town, but killing her instead?” asked Nick.
“Money? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Nick looked at her long and hard. He believed her about the money; the rest . . . he wasn’t so sure.
“We’re done here, Miss Lange. For now.”
In her haste to stand, she knocked over the chair. She ran out of the room like the hounds of hell were after her.
“Maybe?” asked Taylor, lifting an eyebrow.
“Maybe.”
• • •
“What did Owen have to say when he came by this afternoon?” asked Barbara, standing in the doorway of Celia’s examination room. Her hair, in braids, hung down over her mauve cotton wrapper.
At her desk, Celia cleaned the nib of her pen, replaced the lid to the glass inkwell, and closed her notebook. She welcomed the interruption. The lines of her entries, painstakingly recorded symptoms observed and medications dispensed, as well as follow-up questions she needed to ask, had been swimming before her eyes.
“Apparently there is grumbling among those who are sympathetic with the Anti-Coolie Association,” said Celia. “They are planning more violence, it seems, and they might also target the employers of Chinese labor.” Which was what Mrs. Douglass had also mentioned to Celia. “Owen is not positive they’re serious, however.”
“Do you think they’ll come here and hurt us?”
“No, sweetheart. Not at all. We are safe in our home,” Celia said. “Have you finished your schoolwork for the day?”
“I left it on the dining room table for you to check.”
“Thank you. Go ahead up to bed. And try not to worry.”
Barbara nodded and left, passing Addie, who was on her way into the examination room.
“Your supper’s gone cold, ma’am,” she said.
“I forgot all about eating.” Just then, Celia’s stomach rumbled. “I wish I could be certain I am right to tell Barbara not to worry about what’s happening.”
“Dinna fash, ma’am. As my father would say, care will kill a cat and she has nine lives. Worry only causes ill.”
“But didn’t he also say you should not put your hand out farther than your sleeve will reach? We must be cautious. All of us.”
“Aye,” Addie agreed. “Oh, by the by, there was a note left at the door.”
Addie reached into the pocket of her rust calico print skirt, withdrew a folded and sealed piece of paper, and set it on Celia’s desk. “If we’re all to be cautious, we ought to ask Madame Philippe if Owen’s in danger for telling us about that Connor fellow.”
“We are going to keep Madame Philippe quite busy with all of our questions, it seems,” said Celia.
“Aye, ma’am. She willna mind, I suspect.” Addie nodded. “I’ll go warm your supper.”
Addie departed and Celia picked up the note she’d left behind. The stationery was of poor quality and looked as though it had been torn from a larger piece. She broke the seal and flipped it open.
Her hand began to shake. “Oh!”
Addie rushed back into the room. “Ma’am? What is it?”
“This note. Where did you get it?”
“It was stuck in the back door. Found it earlier, when I went out to the yard to toss the dishwater. Why, ma’am? What does it say?”
Celia looked up at her. “Someone has scribbled ‘careful or you’ll be next’ onto this scrap of paper.”
“What?” Addie snatched the paper from Celia’s fingers to confirm for herself. “We’re going to be next?”
Celia rose. “Show me exactly where you found the note.”
“Out here.” Addie hastened from the room, Celia behind her
. They hurried through the kitchen and opened the rear door. Addie grabbed the kitchen lantern and stepped onto the small porch outside, pointing to the ground. “It was here. I saw it flutter down when I opened the door.”
Seizing the lantern, Celia descended the steps and scanned the flagstone path and the bare earth, muddy from an afternoon rain shower, between them and the ground floor of the Cascarinos’ house. She swung the lantern to light their minuscule rear yard. She didn’t spot any sign of who had left the note, but Celia doubted she would recognize clues even if she saw them.
“He must have come by in the last hour and snuck into the yard while I was busy with your supper,” said Addie. “I’d gone out before then and nae seen the note. Besides, the paper is dry and it was raining earlier.”
Which meant the person had crept around behind the house while she and Addie and Barbara were inside, unaware. “I wonder if the Cascarinos noticed anyone.” She looked up at their windows, but the curtains were drawn shut, the rooms dark.
“Looks verra quiet,” Addie said. “For once.”
“Do not breathe a word of this to Barbara. She is already worried enough,” said Celia. “The note is likely merely a prank. Someone read about Li Sha in the newspapers and decided to have fun at our expense.”
“A prank, ma’am,” said Addie, looking dubious. “After that stranger you saw watching the house yesterday, you call this a prank? And those hooligans that Owen knows promising to burn out the Chinese? Maybe they mean to burn down our verra home!”
“Those men would not alert us ahead of time,” said Celia.
“Then maybe someone’s upset by what you’ve learned through your investigating, ma’am.”
“I am not investigating, Addie. Mr. Greaves is.”
Addie rolled her eyes. “Weel, he wasna the one who chased Tessie Lange all the way to the Barbary, trying to see what she was about. And he wasna the one in Chinatown asking scarlet women about Li Sha. And he wasna the one asking that Dora Schneider all sorts of questions like someone from the Inquisition, and you ken she likes to gab, ma’am!”
Celia regretted having shared all that with Addie; she would have to be more circumspect in future. “I will inform Detective Greaves, of course.”
“Of course.”
Celia gathered her skirts and headed to the stairs. “And get the sturdiest padlock you can find and lock the gate. We do not need any more unwanted visitors.”
Addie was staring toward the tall gate. “I hope a padlock can keep him out.”
“So do I, Addie.”
So do I.
CHAPTER 9
“Connor Ahearn?” The widow who owned the boardinghouse where Ahearn lived—a Mrs. Barnes—stared at Nick. “He lives here all right. With his mother and frail sister. In a set of rooms on the third floor.”
“Is he there now, Mrs. Barnes?” Nick asked. “I need to speak with him.”
“It’s Sunday, Detective. He’s at that restaurant he likes down the street. Not that he ever treats his family to a nice steak. Just goes by himself. To meet those friends of his,” she said, her scornful tone suggesting what she thought of Connor Ahearn’s friends.
Mrs. Barnes gave him the name of the restaurant and where Nick could find it. “Do you have time for some questions?” he asked.
“About Mr. Ahearn?”
Nick nodded.
“Come into the parlor. It doesn’t pay to be overheard talking too much about him.”
She led Nick into the parlor off to their right and slid the pocket doors shut. A hodgepodge of frayed upholstered chairs in clashing colors was scattered about. In one corner a black-and-white cat, its tail flicking, examined them from behind a dying potted palm. The place stank of turpentine cleaning solution, stale cigarette smoke, and something that had burned in the kitchen. It was pretty typical for a boardinghouse in this part of town.
“So, what do you want to know, Detective Greaves?” she asked. “And make it quick. I’ve got lunch to oversee.”
“Do you recall if Mr. Ahearn was in his rooms Monday night?”
“He was here, all right. Came in late, which he does a lot. But this time his mother gave him quite the tongue-lashing.” Mrs. Barnes shook her head. “She’s got to be the only person who’s not afraid of him. He’s a big man who scares the colored girl who helps cook and clean for me. He even frightens his poor sister. Thank the Lord he’s not here much.”
“Could you make out what his mother was shouting at him about?”
“She wanted to know what he’d been up to, coming in so late and soaked to the bone from the rain. He told her to mind her own business. Only he used a few choice words I won’t repeat in polite company,” she added. “And I didn’t have to press my ear to the wall or nothing, Detective. They were shouting so loud, I’d guess everybody heard them.”
Interesting. Connor Ahearn, who happened to live a mere four short blocks from the wharf where Li Sha’s body was discovered, had been out late Monday evening. And his mother hadn’t been pleased about it.
“What about the Chinese?” asked Nick. “How does he feel about them, with what’s been going on lately?”
“Oof, he hates those Chinese people! I’ve heard him going on about how they’re taking his friends’ jobs and need to be packed up and sent back to China, the lot of them. I think he’s been trying to organize one of those Anti-Coolie Association ward chapters,” she said. “But you know what, Detective Greaves? I’ve heard tittle-tattle that he goes to visit those girls in Chinatown.”
Those visits might make Connor Ahearn one of Li Sha’s former clients. He might’ve known the girl very well, and not just because she had worked with Tessie Lange and slept with his good friend Tom Davies.
“Any chance I could speak to his mother and sister?” Nick asked.
“They went to church services this morning and aren’t back yet. Sometimes they visit with the pastor.”
“I see.” Nick returned his hat to his head. “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been a great help.”
He exited the boardinghouse, descending the steps to the deserted street. Except for the random drugstore or restaurant, most establishments were kept closed on Sundays by law. Nick could list any number of proprietors, however, who’d figured out how to conceal a gambling den in the basement of an innocent-appearing coffeehouse. He wondered if Connor Ahearn’s favorite restaurant had secrets to hide.
“You watch your back, Detective,” called the widow from her front doorway.
“I always watch my back, ma’am.”
She lifted her brows and considered him. “As my dear departed husband might say, with some men, though, you can’t have enough eyes.”
• • •
The morning had been cloudy and gloomy, which suited Celia’s mood. She’d passed a restless night, lying awake and listening to the sounds filtering through her partly open window. A late-night reveler galloping down Vallejo, whooping to wake the neighbors. A swain serenading the young Chilean woman who lived across the street. The Cascarinos’ youngest girl crying from a bad dream. Celia had lain awake and contemplated what last night’s note meant, and who could have sent it. If the note was a warning to Barbara, Celia couldn’t imagine from whom it had come. Their neighbors, many of them immigrants themselves, had always been kind to her cousin. But then, the women from the society had always been kind as well, yet they’d had a change of heart on Monday evening.
Celia turned up the flame on the examination room’s lamp. She unlocked the desk’s top drawer and pulled out the note. Spreading the paper flat, she drew the lamp nearer. Careful or you’ll be next. Five simple, exasperatingly uninformative words. Were they meant for Barbara or for herself? Because of your investigating, Addie had said, convinced the note was related to Li Sha’s death. Celia had to take the possibility seriously.
If the note was connected to Li Sha’s
death, the person must believe Celia possessed information that would unmask the killer’s identity. It was a disturbing thought.
Did this note have anything to do with the stranger she’d seen watching the house on Friday? It seemed reasonable to presume it did. And also, though she’d been convinced the watcher was a man, given the trousers, broad-brimmed hat, and long coat the person was wearing, Celia had to consider that she might be wrong. Obscured by shadows and seen at such a distance, the person could have been a woman in disguise. If Celia had to take into account every woman and man who knew both her and Li Sha, the list would be a lengthy one.
“Then whittle it down,” she murmured.
She retrieved every piece of correspondence stored inside the desk drawers and within her files. She’d had an idea that those five words might reveal who had penned them. Celia stacked invoices from the Langes’ shop—how fortunate that one had been compiled by Tessie—atop a list of charges from the greengrocer, written in his heavy hand. For good measure, she included invoices from her butcher and the coal deliveryman. She found notes from several ladies at the society, along with one from Mrs. Douglass and another from her husband. They were thank-you letters for a charity event Celia had hosted at the house last spring, the praise for her efforts effusive. How readily a change in the winds could snuff out Mrs. Douglass’ enthusiasm. And as absurd as it was to consider the society’s ladies possible suspects, Celia also placed their notes alongside the others.
Next, she tackled the files occupying the bookcase. She found a letter from her minister, welcoming her to the parish and informing her of all the volunteer opportunities available. She tossed it onto the growing pile atop her desk. Everyone, she reminded herself. Everyone she or Li Sha or both of them had ever known that Celia had correspondence from, no matter how preposterous it might be to consider them responsible for the message. Next came messages from the investigator, Mr. Smith, notes about his progress in locating, or not locating, Patrick. There would be nothing from Owen Cassidy—as far as she knew, he couldn’t write—or from any of the neighborhood boys. And nothing from the women in Chinatown, who spoke limited English and surely couldn’t have penned the note. Several of the Chinese merchants spoke and wrote passable English, but she had no correspondence from them to compare. She would simply have to omit them from her analysis.
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