“I didn’t kill that fellow!” The last came out a squeak as his voice cracked. “I don’t even know him.”
Price remained poised with pencil and pad. “Name? And it best not be John Smith.”
The boy looked confused for a moment. “No. I’m Jacob Dixon.”
Price wrote it down. “Occupation?”
“I’m a sailor on the Columbia. My mates were showing me around town.”
“First time in the city?” Price asked.
“Yes, sir.” His gaze flickered to Isobel. “Why is she here?”
Coleman turned slightly, that same question flashing across his own eyes.
“You keep your eyes on the inspector and me,” Price warned.
“Is she the whore that accused me of killing that fellow?”
Price cuffed Jacob on the side of the head, and Isobel flinched with the youth. Was Riot undergoing the same treatment, or worse? Instead of an open-handed slap, was he being pummeled with O’Hare’s fists? The thought made her queasy.
“We found you in a room with a dead man. I’d say that’s plenty incriminating,” Price said.
“I was locked in there!”
“After you killed him or before?” Price asked.
“I swear I didn’t kill him! I just… saw him all stiff like that and walked in to get a closer look.”
“Was the door open or closed?” Isobel inquired.
“Why does she get to ask me questions?”
“Because I’m your best chance of escaping a noose.”
“Mrs. Riot is a detective,” Coleman explained.
Jacob started in surprise. His face changed expressions so rapidly that Isobel doubted the boy was capable of deception. His entire world had just been upended over the thought of a female detective. Never mind the Pinkertons had been employing women agents for decades.
“You’re from Oregon, aren’t you?” Isobel asked.
“How d’you know?”
Isobel gave a dismissive gesture. “You should pay attention to the men who can hang you.”
“But I just walked into the room and there he was.”
“Was the door open?” she asked again.
“No. I mean, yes. I think.”
“You think?” Coleman pressed.
“I… it’s a little blurry.”
“How much did you have to drink with your friends?” Price asked.
Jacob turned an odd shade of green. “Not much. We went around to a few saloons before coming here. I needed some courage.”
Isobel could smell the alcohol coming off him in waves.
“Did your friends get you to try anything else?” Price asked.
Jacob shook his head. Too quickly. His dilated pupils said otherwise. Jacob’s obvious lies were not helping his case.
“I put my dime in the slot and looked through the peephole. When I saw that fellow and no one else, I tried the door and it just sort of… opened.”
“Did you move him?” Coleman asked.
“No.”
“You didn’t roll him over?”
“He was on his back, naked, just lying there…” Jacob looked on the verge of being sick, so Isobel took a calculated step to the side.
“Why did you enter?” Coleman asked.
Jacob searched for an answer. “I thought it might be some act, like a circus freak show.”
“You’re lying, Jacob,” Isobel said. “You touched him.”
He turned red. “Fine, all right. He was covered with a blanket. I thought…” He looked helplessly at the two men. “I thought it might be a woman under there. I don’t know.”
Price cleared his throat behind a hand.
“That must’ve been quite a shock,” Isobel said.
Jacob nodded.
“What happened after that?” she pressed.
“I stepped back, tripped, and hit my head.”
Isobel studied her fingernails. The inspector and sergeant glowered, and Jacob shifted under their stares. “I want an attorney.”
“Do you have the money for an attorney?”
Jacob hesitated.
“No, you don’t,” Isobel answered for him. “Besides, an attorney wouldn’t be much use because you don’t remember, do you?”
“I do. It’s just… hazy.”
“Hazy as in… you blacked out?”
“Look, I said I stumbled back and fell. When I came to the door was locked and then the whistles started blowing. I couldn’t get out of the room.”
Price scratched it all down in his notepad.
Jacob licked his lips, eyes darting from the pencil to the inspector. “It was poison or something? Wasn’t it?”
“You tell me,” Coleman said.
“I don’t know. How else could he be like that? All stiff in that position.”
“How long were you ‘trapped’ in the room?” Coleman asked.
Jacob shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t have a pocket watch. But I was banging on the door for a good half an hour.”
“What made you pause at that door?” Isobel asked.
Jacob turned a violent shade of red. “I was using up my coins, peeping and all. And… I don’t know.”
“So you were walking down the hallway, putting a dime into each slot? That’s expensive.”
“Well, no.” Jacob’s brows drew together with comical effect. She could see the boy thinking. “I thought someone came out of that room. He bumped me in the hallway. Seemed like he was in a hurry, so I thought maybe I could see what the whore was doing… you know, afterwards.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes when he said the last.
“Are you sure it was a man?” she asked.
“Of course it was a man. He was wearing a cap and coat.”
“Large? Small? Hair color?”
“I don’t know. I was out of it.”
“Take off your shirt,” Isobel ordered.
Jacob just stared at her.
“Do it,” Price growled.
“I’m not taking off my shirt in front of her.”
Isobel crossed her arms. “But you were going to pay a woman for sex?”
Jacob’s blush spread down his throat as he stammered and made excuses. But when Sgt. Price stepped forward to loom, Jacob fell silent.
The boy removed his shirt, and Isobel moved closer to inspect his arms. Rough, calloused fingers, and wiry muscle. He was a sailor all right. But there were scratches on his palms and arms.
“From moving sacks,” he said when she asked.
Inspector Coleman held up the carpenter’s pencil. “Is this yours?”
Jacob looked confused. “No. I don’t carry one.”
Coleman pressed him further, but there was nothing more to glean from the youth, and he refused to give up the names of his friends. Finally, Coleman gestured Isobel out into the hallway while Price got the boy’s particulars.
“What do you think?” Coleman asked.
“I think you have a scandal on your hands, Inspector.”
Coleman frowned. “I meant regarding young Dixon.”
“He’s horrible at lying, and he’s too inexperienced to know about dummy locks.”
“That doesn’t make him innocent,” Coleman said.
“Or guilty,” she pointed out.
“Found drunk in a locked room with a dead man? It certainly looks bad for him.”
An officer strode quickly up the hallway and saluted Coleman. “Inspector.” He hesitated at the sight of Isobel. “Ma’am.” Coleman didn’t offer introductions. “We’ve finished taking names and statements of the residents and johns.”
The thick notebook was full of names.
With every flip of a page, Coleman’s mood darkened. Isobel leaned closer to read over his shoulder. “Amazing how many parents name their children John Smith and Alice Smith.”
Coleman grunted.
“What will you do with the boy?” Isobel asked.
“I’ll keep him until the police surgeon can confirm time of death and we can track h
is whereabouts. If our estimate of time of death is correct, and what Jacob says is true, he should have several alibis.”
“And the family of the deceased?” she asked.
“I’ll inform them. I’m sure the Nobles, along with the Chief of Police, will cry for a quick arrest.”
“I wish you the best of luck, Inspector. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check on my husband.”
“I’d like you to continue as a consultant for this case, Miss Amsel. If you can help narrow this list down…” He brandished the notepad. “I’d be much obliged.”
Isobel was torn. Worry twisted her heart, but this murder offered an intriguing challenge.
“You can’t help him, Miss Amsel,” Coleman said. “And I’m not sure I can either. But one thing I’m certain of is you need to stay away from this or you risk tainting any investigation surrounding your husband.”
“I can at least try.”
“You’ll get yourself arrested. I know Geary and his type.”
Isobel suppressed a shudder. She’d barely tolerated her incarceration, and the thought of being caged again terrified her. But a risk she’d gladly take for Riot.
In the end, reason won over her heart. What could she do from a jail cell?
“Will I have free rein in this case, Inspector?”
He looked at her, hard. “You’re a consultant; not a police inspector. You’ll report to me. Understood?”
There were ways around that. “Understood.”
Coleman offered his hand, but instead of shaking it, Isobel plucked the notepad from his other one. “Now…” She flipped through the pages, then thrust a finger at a name. “I want to talk with Anne Glory.”
“Why?” Coleman asked, puzzled.
“Because she knows her trade.”
11
The Bullpen
“How’s your mother, Doyle?” Riot asked, as he was being led from a frying pan into a fire.
“Same as you—too stubborn to die.”
“It’s the smart ass in me.”
Doyle chuckled and gave him a little shove for the benefit of the watching guards. “You caught yourself a lively one with that woman of yours.”
“Bel is certainly unique.”
“A looker, too. And what with you looking like a washed up piece of driftwood.” Doyle gave a low whistle. “I may just rub your head for a bit o’ luck.”
“Best take the opportunity now.”
A heavy iron door opened into a cage-like corral, where two armed guards stood on duty, watching the bullpen. Riot was pulled to a stop while Doyle unlocked his handcuffs. “I’ll work on getting you into a private holding cell. Try not to get yourself killed in there, A.J.”
“I’ll need all my luck for that.”
Doyle gave him a gentle prod with a billy club. “Luck might be better helped if you kept that mouth of yours shut.”
“I’ve mellowed in my old age.”
Doyle barked a laugh, then shoved him into the holding yard.
The prisoners watched Riot as he stumbled into the barren courtyard. High brick walls topped with barbed wire surrounded the yard. Without his spectacles, everything beyond a five-foot bubble looked like runny watercolors. But he’d brought prisoners to this station before, so he knew there was a watchtower overhead with riflemen and a view into the bullpen and street outside.
The yard was a blur of shapes. Some dark, some light. By the voices, he could tell the groups apart. Cantonese spoken over to one side, Spanish on another, and English in the middle. Random blurry shapes were sprawled in the dirt. Those were likely drunks and addicts, who generally staggered around until they fell.
The bullpen wasn’t the safest place for a detective. Something Geary was counting on. It sent two messages: You’re not special, and I hope you die.
Fortunately, Riot didn’t look much like a detective at the moment. Something Inspector Geary was too dense to notice.
Riot ran a hand over his overgrown beard, considering his options. A few bored whites were yelling insults at the Chinese, trying to provoke a reaction. But he couldn’t tell if it was working or not. Faces were indistinct.
Riot started towards the whites, then veered, taking a leisurely stroll around the yard between the two groups, until the arguing quieted and he felt more eyes watching to see where he’d land.
Only he didn’t land anywhere. Instead, he ignored the various groups and limped around the perimeter of the yard. His head throbbed, sharp pains shot down his shoulders, and his knees ached from hours spent kneeling on a stone floor. So to distract himself, he mulled over his predicament.
Monty was dead. Murdered. No surprise there. In fact, he and Tim had expected retribution. Monty had failed in his attempt to kill Riot, and that made Monty a liability to whoever had hired him.
But why had Monty come short of killing Riot when he’d had the chance? A broken man lying dead in a gutter in Mission Bay would’ve been difficult to trace, but there’d been plenty of witnesses in the boxing club. So Monty had left it up to chance. A few more hours and Riot would’ve been dead.
Snippets of memory had returned to Riot during his convalescence at Willow Camp. You ever stop to think I might have been trying to save your arrogant ass? Monty had asked.
By nearly killing me, he thought grimly. Was there truth to Monty’s claim? Riot didn’t think so. Monty had hired thugs to dynamite the agency, because he didn’t have the nerve to do it himself.
Now a bullet between the eyes—that was the mark of a professional. The thought made Riot stop in his tracks. Then he gave a grunt of realization and kept walking.
12
Behind the Curtain
Anne Glory was looking slightly nervous as she sat in a room, smoking a cigarette. They’d brought her clothing, but the properness of the collar only seemed to heighten her beauty.
When Isobel walked in, some tension left, until Anne spotted the large sergeant on Isobel’s heels.
Anne crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. “Charlotte Bonnie, wasn’t it?” she asked.
Isobel presented her card. “Actually it’s Isobel Amsel, with Ravenwood Agency.”
Anne accepted the card with a sultry smile. “I’ll be damned. We all followed your case. What you did took some guts.”
“I was backed into a corner. I didn’t have a choice.” Isobel started to pull over a stool, but thought better of it when she saw the filmy layer on top.
“It’s what we do when we’re in that corner that matters. Am I in trouble?” Anne asked.
“I need someone to show me around this hotel.”
“What’s in it for me?” Anne asked.
Isobel nodded to Sergeant Price.
“If you help Miss Amsel, we’ll waive your fine.”
Anne’s lips curved. “What’s your angle? Looking to go undercover?”
Isobel smothered a flutter of unease. But she didn’t quite stifle the small, shaky breath that escaped. Anne’s question hit a little too close to home. Isobel had gone undercover after a fashion to marry a man blackmailing her. Alex Kingston. Her first husband. Not by choice. She’d thought she could handle the ruse. After all, women did that sort of thing all the time. They married for money or sold sex to men far more revolting than Alex. Her own twin had been doing it for years. But Isobel hadn’t liked the person she’d become in that guise.
Lotario seemed to take pride in his trade, but it wasn’t for everyone. She hadn’t been able to endure it.
“I’m not cut out for your line of work,” Isobel admitted. Something in her tone, maybe the sincerity in her voice, made Anne soften. But her eyes went hard the moment she glanced at Sergeant Price.
“If it’s not the johns, it’s the ‘peace’ officers. Men get you any way they can.”
“Do we have a deal?” Isobel asked. She wasn’t about to get on the topic of patriarchal society.
“Do I have your word that my fine will be cleared?” Anne asked, addressing Price.
“Fo
r harlotry. Yes. That’s it, though.”
Anne’s eyes narrowed. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
“It’s not for you to know,” Price grumbled.
Anne sat back. “It’s murder, isn’t it?”
“You know the police, Anne. They’ll arrest whoever they find at the scene of the crime. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen. But I need to know how this place operates. Do the residents pick their own rooms or are they assigned?”
“The manager assigns us. We come in the back way, pay five dollars for rent, then stow our clothing and personals in a cubby that the manager locks. He doesn’t want us girls walking around with clothes on, even in the back hallways, which really means he doesn’t want us leaving without permission.”
“Are you trapped here?”
“As long as we pay our rent and clear our tab, we’re free to leave. I suppose there’s some safety to it. Any woman wearing clothes stands out. This way we have to check in and out, so the manager knows who’s working at any given time.”
It was also a form of control.
“I thought you said you pay your rent beforehand?”
“We’re supposed to. Some new girls don’t have the cash for it up front, so he lets them work it off. If they’re lucky, they can settle up in half a day, but not all of them know how to hustle.”
“What room were you assigned to?”
“I’m a second-floor girl right off the stairway. Room ten.”
“Is that a good room?”
“The first ten rooms are prime spots, because men usually still have money in their pockets. They haven’t wasted it on peep shows or the saloon yet.” She gave a laugh. “Even so, I’ve had johns pass out drunk while I was unbuttoning their trousers. I let them sleep it off and tell them they enjoyed my company.”
“What about third-floor rooms?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No one wants those. They’re not as nice and get the least amount of business. Most men don’t make it that far. There are too many doors before that, so the girls have to leave their rooms to drum up business in the saloon, which means putting up with a heap of groping. All for free. The manager rents those out to negroes, orientals, and Mexicans. Men looking for some variety and spice go up to the third floor.”
Beyond the Pale Page 5