The Nymphia? Riot swallowed down surprise. He didn’t have to ask who the woman was.
“Fine,” Geary said. “Toss him in the yard till we compare those bullets.”
7
Consulting Detective
Surprise rippled through the policemen as Sgt. Price led Isobel to a third-story room. She ignored their puzzled stares, and when they looked to Price in question, he grumbled at them to mind their own damn business.
Although Isobel had entered through the back of the hotel where the corridors were dingy, the owners had attempted to spruce up the public hallways. Still, the Nymphia was showing signs of wear. Carpets needed beating, wallpaper was peeling, and the brass fixtures were smudged. And an unmistakable odor permeated the hallways—male sweat and lust battling with cheap perfume.
Doors stood open revealing disarray: a man’s hat, a bare mattress, a discarded shoe. All signs the occupants had left in a hurry. Or tried to.
She eyed the narrow apertures at eye level in the doors, all with a coin-sized slot beside them.
A group of policemen conversed in front of one room. Sgt. Price slowed and put out a halting hand. “Wait here a moment, Mrs. Riot. I could get demoted for this.” He steeled his shoulders and marched towards the group.
An officer on guard eyed her. But she was too fascinated by the setup of the doors to pay him any notice. The slits were peepholes, and a small locked box was affixed to the interior of each door. She tried to slide the peephole open, but it didn’t budge. After further inspection, she fished around her satchel and slipped a dime into the slot. With a whir of gears, the faceplate slid aside.
Isobel arched a brow. Interesting. She was examining the locking mechanism when a throat cleared. “Mrs. Riot.”
Isobel turned to the source of disapproval. Inspector Coleman was a studious-looking man with silver hair and a face lined by responsibility. Sgt. Price towered behind him, looking thoroughly chastised.
“Are all the doors fitted similarly?” she asked.
“Mrs. Riot, my sergeant was in error for bringing you into such a disreputable place. He’ll escort you out now.”
“It’s a shame,” she said, looking back to the door. “I could be of some help. Two wings, each with three floors, the first being reserved for dining and drinking, and the other two set up with these cubicles. Seventy-five rooms for each wing and floor. That’s what… three hundred occupants? All streaming out during a police raid. Then you happen upon a corpse—a gentleman of some prominence. Otherwise, you’d have carted him away in a dead wagon some time ago. I imagine you have quite the number of interviews to conduct. Or did you just arrest the person who found the body?”
Isobel looked up at the last, and seeing that the blood had drained from the men’s faces, she gave a tight smile.
“Told you, sir,” Sgt. Price muttered under his breath.
Inspector Coleman ground his teeth together, but practicality overrode his gentlemanly sensibilities. “I’d be more comfortable if Mr. Riot were here…”
“He’s not,” she snapped. “I hope Sgt. Price informed you why I’ve come?”
“He did. But I’m afraid this matter is more pressing.”
“Then let me have a look, and I’ll speed up your investigation so you can help my husband.”
“I’m not sure I can help him, Mrs. Riot.”
“And I’m not sure I’ll find anything here that you haven’t already, but I’m willing to try.” Isobel glanced at her fingernails. “And if I don’t have something to occupy my mind with, I’ll end up at the police station making a nuisance of myself.”
Coleman considered her for a moment. “The crime scene is quite disturbing.”
“I’m no fainting flower, Inspector.”
“I’ve noticed.” She could see the moment he came to a decision from the shift of his shoulders. “Do you swear to keep the details to yourself? This case requires discretion; we need to keep this out of the newspapers for as long as possible.”
“With the exception of my partner, I do.”
Inspector Coleman stepped aside and motioned for his men to clear the way. Price gave her a small smile. He looked eager to see what she would make of the scene.
Prepared for the worst, Isobel stepped into the cell-like room, and came face to face with something straight out of a gothic horror novel—a body lay contorted on the bed. Male, naked, and stiff with rigor mortis. The man’s arms were raised, defying gravity, as if to block a blow. His legs, too, were frozen in the air, bent at an angle like he’d been sitting on a chair and fallen right off into death.
Isobel crossed the small room to peer at the man’s face. Her throat constricted, but she quickly swallowed down rising bile. His face was most disturbing.
Focus on the details, she told herself.
Isobel wrapped a cool exterior around her beating heart, shoving emotion aside. But what she had done for years was becoming more difficult. Damn happiness.
The man’s blue eyes were wide with horror. His face was twisted, his mouth gaped in a frozen scream, and his throat bulged oddly. Scratches marred his neck and wrists, and bruises blossomed on his chest.
Isobel bent to examine his nails. Bloody and torn. It looked like he had engaged in a cat fight and lost.
She ventured a sniff. A faint odor of expensive cologne muted the scent of stale blood. His skin was cold to the touch, and he had an erection. She checked his neck. No marks of strangulation. But as she had learned during their last case, that form of murder didn’t always leave an outward mark on the skin.
The man was in his twenties. Excellent musculature, but not that of a worker. Rather an athlete. Swimmer or rower, she decided from the development of his shoulders and the long leanness of him. He’d been handsome in life. Blond, blue-eyed, a square jaw without whiskers, and excellent teeth.
Isobel peered into his gaping mouth. “Do you have a battery light, Inspector?”
Riot always kept one on his person. As much as she detested its tendency to flicker, she had to admit the flashlights were useful. Price handed her one, and she thumbed it on, shining the light deep into the corpse’s throat.
Isobel winced. Then flicked off the light and turned to the two men. “Have you decided on a cause of death?”
Coleman looked disappointed. “We’re waiting on Coroner Weston’s arrival to confirm cause of death.”
“Yes, but surely you have your own theories.” Isobel pressed.
Price glanced at the corpse. “With the way he’s clawing like that… we think it’s poison.”
“May I?” She gestured at the corpse.
Coleman nodded, and both of them crowded around her as she carefully reached into the man’s mouth. She doubted the two men, with their larger hands, could manage it. There was something white at the very back of the throat. She pinched it and pulled free a long length of cloth.
Isobel considered the twisted handkerchief. “I’d like to see Coroner Weston declare this one a suicide.”
8
Good Intentions
Three children sat across the street from a police station, watching patrol wagons cart in prisoners. They struck an odd sight: a scarred little Chinese girl dressed as a boy, a small brown-skinned boy wearing a cocked fedora, and a white girl from Tennessee somewhere between hay and grass.
“Now what?” Sarah asked.
“We need to discover where bahba is being held,” Jin said.
“Why is that important?” Sarah asked.
Jin eyed the brick building. “To break him out. I have dynamite.”
“Whoa now!” Tobias waved frantic hands. “Stop being crazy, Jin.”
The girl narrowed her eyes. “Why else would we come here?”
Sarah sighed. “We should’ve done as we were told.”
“Say…” Tobias eyed the older girl. “They won’t arrest a white girl.”
Sarah gawked at him. “They will too.”
“Not a lost one,” Jin said.
“Or a hysterical one.”
Sarah glared at the younger children. “Why do I listen to you two?”
Tobias rolled his eyes towards Jin. “Because otherwise she’s liable to blow up a wall.”
“Why are you carrying dynamite?” Sarah asked.
Jin raised a brow. “Does not everyone?”
“No.”
Jin worked loose a toggle on her quilted coat and reached underneath to flash the top of a fat round tube with a wick protruding from its top.
Tobias gawked. Sarah made a grab for it, but Jin was too quick. The girl skipped out of her reach. “You will give us away,” Jin hissed.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Why would I not have a stick of dynamite?” Jin asked, puzzled.
Sarah’s mouth worked, but no words came out.
“Where’d you get that?” Tobias asked.
“From those men in the woods. I found it in their things.”
“What were you planning on doing with it?” Sarah asked.
Jin shrugged. “Light it.”
“We could blow up a bucket or something with it,” Tobias suggested.
Jin looked at the police station. “Or a brick wall.”
Sarah closed her eyes and took a calming breath. She was tempted to tackle her adopted sister, but she’d likely lose that fight. In the end, she gave in. What harm was there in asking to see her father?
9
Room 136
“You’ve got darn good eyes, Mrs. Riot.”
“Miss Amsel will do, Sergeant.”
“We both thought it was some sort of poison. Strychnine, maybe. What do you make of his position?” Coleman asked.
“Poison could be involved,” she acknowledged. And then realized she was holding a handkerchief possibly coated with something deadly in her bare hands. Too late now. In for a penny… She sniffed at it and recoiled. It reeked of bile and blood.
Isobel studied the silk handkerchief. This was no cheap, store-bought accessory, but finely woven silk with tight stitching along the edges, and a silver monogram: D.N. There were dark dots on the silk. Not blood, but nearly black. She handed the handkerchief over to Coleman, then considered the dead man.
Despite his state, he looked almost alive. Still fighting off his assailant in some frantic, clawing motion. What had caused his body to seize so rapidly?
Isobel tilted her head. Without asking, she pushed the body, rolling it onto its side. The corpse fell over easily, settling on the bed. On his side on the mattress, with his hands up near his face and his legs bent, the corpse now looked more peaceful than horrific. “Someone moved him after death.” Isobel gestured at the corpse, “See this discoloration?”
“He died on his back,” the inspector noted.
“Where he lay long enough for his blood to pool, but not long enough for rigor mortis to set in,” she said.
Coleman was nodding in agreement. “And then someone rolled him onto his side to make it appear he was sleeping.”
“What sort of time frame is that?” Price asked.
Coleman frowned at the bed. “An hour, possibly two. The police surgeon will know.”
“He’ll want a rectal temperature if you haven’t already taken one, Sergeant,” Isobel said.
Price took a step back. “That’s not part of my job description. I think that’s for consultants.”
“I don’t carry a thermometer.”
“I’ll make sure the coroner does it,” Coleman cut in.
Price scratched at his chin. “So the murderer sat in the room for at least an hour before deciding to roll him over? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe his conscience got the better of him,” Coleman said.
“Or her,” Isobel murmured.
“Then what? The murderer rolled him back onto his back after he got stiff?” Price looked dubious.
“Perhaps one of your men rolled him over?” she asked.
The officers shook their heads.
Isobel considered that bit of information. “Where is his clothing?”
“Not here,” Price said. “I double-checked.”
Coleman bent to study the man’s back. “Look here. It seems he may have been laying on something long enough to leave an impression.” A pale patch of rectangular flesh stood out against the mottled purple skin.
Isobel searched the stained bedding, but found nothing that would make a mark like that. She dropped to hands and knees to search under the bed with the flashlight. Bugs skittered across the floor as she slithered under the bed. “Aha!” She wrapped her prize in her own handkerchief, then scooted back out.
Triumphant, she unfolded the cloth to show the men her find. “I wager this is the source of the marks on the handkerchief and the impression on his back.” It was a thick, flat pencil. Coming from a family of boatbuilders, Isobel recognized it as a carpenter’s pencil commonly used by the working class to mark wood or even brick.
Price darkened like a storm cloud about to burst. “Apparently my officers need a reminder on how to search a room.”
“I wouldn’t be too hard on them, Sergeant,” Isobel said demurely. “I was looking for it. It’s easy to miss, wedged as it was.”
Coleman’s brows drew together. “How did you know to look for it?”
“The handkerchief was too far down his throat for a hand. And the marks on the cloth…” She held the tip closer to the light, wishing Riot was here with his magnifying glass. A small groove ran through the center of the lead.
“Then how’d the pencil end up under him?” Price asked.
“There was obviously a struggle. Blood under his nails, bruising, scratches…” Isobel turned to the bed, picturing the scene in her mind’s eye. “But once the handkerchief was deep enough, our john here couldn’t dislodge it. He might have sat up, clawing at his throat. The murderer dropped the pencil to restrain his arms, or simply tossed it on the bed and stood back to watch him suffocate. Then our john fell back, landing atop the pencil.”
Her words conjured a grim scene. It was mirrored in the man’s contorted face. She glanced at the peephole in the door. No, not a scene. Almost a stage. Had someone paid a dime to watch the entire murder?
“If the pencil was there long enough to leave a mark on his back while the blood pooled, how did it end up on the floor?” Coleman asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But one thing is certain—someone hated this man a great deal.”
Isobel took a slow turn around the room. Most brothel doors had a hidden lock, or so her twin claimed. Earlier, while waiting for the inspector, she’d fiddled with a door in the hallway. This brothel had an interesting setup. The doors could be locked, but not from the obvious latch. It was a false lock, so a john couldn’t trap a prostitute inside.
The real latch was likely close to the bed, within reach… Isobel pulled on a hat hook, and the door clicked.
“There’s a secret door too,” Price said, nodding to another wall.
She’d hardly call it a secret. A crease in the wallpaper shouted out the passage.
The sergeant pushed it open, and Isobel stepped into a dimly lit corridor that connected to the backs of the rooms—a dark mirror to the public passages, with washrooms and a ready exit for anyone daring enough to risk the fire escapes. This back entrance was hastily numbered with red paint. Room 136.
Isobel stood in thought. The possibilities were endless. She needed to narrow things down. “So, are you going to tell me who this fellow is?” she asked, stepping back into the room.
Price glanced at his superior for permission. Coleman gave it. “One of my officers recognized him from his rowing club. We think this is Dominic Noble.”
That certainly explained all the fuss. The Nobles were one of the most influential and wealthiest families in San Francisco. Dominic Noble was their only son, and heir to a fortune.
Isobel frowned down at his twisted remains. Anyone who’d even brushed the fringes of society knew t
hat name. Isobel had met him at one of the endless society soirées she’d endured while investigating Alex Kingston. Tall and striking, Dominic Noble had had a trail of women falling over themselves to win his attentions. And he’d been courteous to them all.
But the dashing bachelor she remembered was barely recognizable in this twisted horror, curled on a filthy mattress.
What on earth would a man like Dominic Noble be doing in a run-down brothel like the Nymphia? There was the obvious, of course. But something felt wrong about this scene. It was too personal.
“Now, gentleman, what aren’t you telling me?”
Price and Coleman exchanged glances.
“We have a suspect,” Coleman said.
“Who?”
“We found a young man in the room during the raid. He claims he was locked in.”
10
The Suspect
The youth couldn’t be over fifteen. He was trying to grow a mustache, but it looked more like a weed. As did the boy himself. A guard loomed over him, and he shifted uncomfortably, his wrists locked in iron behind his back.
Isobel followed Inspector Coleman and Sergeant Price into the room, then stepped to the side to observe. The boy’s eyes darted from the towering men to her, puzzled by a woman’s presence.
She was careful not to lean against the wall, or touch any surfaces. A brothel like this didn’t have high standards of cleanliness, and she knew far too many details about her twin’s occupation.
Price took out his notepad and Coleman folded his hands, looking down at the boy like judge, jury, and executioner. It didn’t take five seconds for the boy to blurt out his life story.
“This is my first time here, I swear. I’ve never been in a cow-yard before. I didn’t hurt that man,” he said, his words slurred.
Coleman looked at Price, who cleared his throat. “State your name for the record.”
Beyond the Pale Page 4