Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  Isobel took a risk and dove in headfirst. “I’d like to see where Monty was killed, Mr. Taft.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Monty hired some men to kill my husband. We think he was acting as a middleman. I suspect whoever hired Monty killed him to muddy the trail. If we find out who wants Riot dead, we’ll find your operative’s assassin.”

  A crinkling of Liam’s sun worn skin made his eyes nearly disappear. It wasn’t a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  16

  A Nose for News

  Cameron Fry disembarked at the Sausalito Ferry terminal with Mrs. Riot’s words echoing between his ears.

  “I’m sure the reporters of this fine city will verify his whereabouts quicker than your detectives, Inspector.”

  He felt like a knight-errant serving a king. Or maybe a queen. Trying to win the hand of the princess. Maybe he’d read too many stories. But wasn’t that what Mr. Darcy did to win over Miss Bennett? Gads, that book Mr. Riot had made him read… He’d read it again since.

  And just like Miss Bennett had glared daggers at Mr. Darcy, so did Miss Sarah. Surely that was a good sign? Either way, getting an exclusive from that family was good as gold. And he owed it to Mr. Riot.

  Miss Sarah had noticed him. That soft, drawling voice of hers made his stomach twist into knots. He felt like he was floating. And her despair cut right to his heart. Miss Sarah’s adopted father was in danger. Cameron had to do something.

  And if he could prove Mr. Riot’s innocence, then maybe he’d win Sarah’s adoration.

  Not to mention the exclusive would make him a tidy sum. His editor had steered him right. A man is only as good as his word and Never sacrifice integrity for a story. The advice wasn’t something one heard often in the reporting business, but Cameron Fry had taken it to heart.

  Cameron stopped to check his watch. The ride had taken fifty minutes, but the Riot family hadn’t taken a ferry. They’d sailed across the bay. He’d have to check the tide charts and weather, to find the likeliest time of departure.

  Cameron surveyed the area. So where would they have docked with a private sailboat?

  It didn’t take long to figure that out. Richardson’s Bay was full of pleasure yachts, fishing boats, and houseboats. It took Cameron all of two hours to locate a dockmaster who verified the Pagan Lady had moored in the bay.

  “I remember it. A fine cutter, it is. It was me they paid to keep an eye on it. ’Course I did, it being docked right over there next to my boat.”

  His boat was a square barge that looked like someone had stuck a house on top.

  “Did the cutter remain docked the entire time?”

  “Yes. For over a week. It didn’t move.”

  Cameron took down the man’s name.

  “What’s all this about?”

  “It’s for a story.”

  “’Bout who?”

  “The Riots. Atticus Riot was accused of a crime. I’m trying to prove his innocence.” Cameron knew the Riot family was popular with residents of the city. Most of them, anyway. San Francisco loved a good rebel.

  The dockmaster snorted. “You mean the Amsels.”

  “Ah, no. The Riots.”

  The man shook his head. “That girl is an Amsel. Don’t matter who she married. Always will be from our bay.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s trouble, too.” He gave a fond chuckle.

  “Do you know where the family headed after they moored?”

  The man glared with his remaining eye. “Are you sure you’re looking to prove her husband innocent?”

  “Yes.”

  “’Cause if you’re lying to me…”

  “I’m not, sir. I love their daughter,” he blurted out that last without thinking, and then stammered, feeling his cheeks heat.

  The old man chuckled, then slowly shuffled back to his houseboat, muttering under his breath. Cameron thought that would be the end of it, but the old man yelled out of his cabin. “Stay put, young fellow.”

  Cameron waited, listening to the lap of water, and wondering if he could still make it to Willow Camp that day.

  The man soon emerged with a newspaper, which he slapped against Cameron’s chest. The Sausalito News. “That’s where they were. Don’t know how they’d be getting back to the city when they done all this.”

  Cameron took the paper, read the headlines, and gaped.

  The five men in the cell were as sour as could be. They were a rough sort, but then robbers usually were, weren’t they?

  “So you watched the family for some days before deciding to rob them?” Cameron asked through the bars.

  “No, we didn’t try and rob them. That’s what they claim.”

  “Right, well. Before the children caught you…”

  “It wasn’t no children who seen us. It was that gunslinger fellow.” All five members of the gang nodded as one.

  “And the woman?” Cameron tossed in for good measure.

  “No woman caught us, either.”

  “Right.” Cameron scribbled in his notepad. “Look here. I’m writing a story on the unscrupulous nature of that family. They’re a menace to proper society. If I’m able to tell the truth on just how improper they are…” Cameron lifted his shoulders. “It may look bad for the lot of them and make you lot look like saints.”

  Making this lot look like saints would take the devil himself, Cameron thought.

  The gang pondered this. Cameron could see the light getting brighter in their eyes. Most criminals wanted their time in the spotlight, and Cameron wagered these men were no different. They didn’t strike Cameron as the calculating kind, either. Those kinds were all holed up on Nob Hill.

  “Come on, you lot,” the sheriff said. “You were caught red-handed with stolen and illegal goods. A ‘not guilty’ plea won’t help your case.”

  “Is that family famous or something?” one thug asked.

  “Very,” Cameron assured.

  The men grumbled, scratched their chins, and exchanged darting glances until a fellow with a missing ear shrugged.

  “We first saw them walking through the big trees.”

  “What day was that?” Cameron asked.

  The men glanced at each other in thought. “I guess that would be about Sunday we first saw them.”

  “The fourth,” the sheriff supplied.

  “Can you describe the family?”

  “A Chinese boy, a young lady, and a negro boy. Then some woman in trousers dressed for rough living. And a black-haired fellow that had a little pack. He looked like he was having a hard time of it. So we thought they was easy pickins.”

  “The man. Can you describe him?”

  One-ear shrugged again. “Mostly black beard. A bit gray. Looked… winded. Bruises on his face. Not our doing.”

  “He had spectacles, and a white streak in his hair.” A hulking fellow traced a line along his temple. “We was all laughing ’cause his woman had the bigger pack.”

  The memory produced another round of laughter, but then they all sobered when they remembered what happened next.

  “So you jumped them right then and there?” Cameron asked.

  “Nah,” One-ear said. “They was camping in the woods. Then walking a bit towards Willow Camp, taking their time on account of the black-haired fellow. So we decided to waylay them at a spot on the trail.”

  “What day was that?”

  “Tuesday, maybe,” One-ear offered.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Unless the days changed on us,” Hulk said.

  “And the black-haired man… he was with them?”

  “Don’t say no more,” a hairy fellow warned.

  One-ear ignored him, rubbing a shoulder. “Well, that fellow shot me.”

  In fact the entire gang looked worse for wear.

  “Look,” Cameron said. “There’s no shame in it. That fellow is a famous gunfighter. How were you to know?”

  Hairy perked up. “Really?”

 
; “Someone might feature you in a dime novel.”

  But no one budged. The gang pressed their lips together, unwilling to say anything regarding their capture.

  It was the sheriff who answered. “After the Riots fought this lot off, Mrs. Riot and her daughter came and got me. Then me and Mr. Riot tracked them back to their hideout.” The sheriff smiled. “Turns out these fellows were causing trouble at Willow Camp.”

  “What day was that?”

  The sheriff consulted a notepad. “The sixth of November.”

  Cameron scribbled the last. “Would you be willing to testify to the fact you saw Mr. Riot in the woods on that day?” he asked the sheriff.

  “Why wouldn’t I? He’s a cool hand, I’ll say that. Saved me a heap of trouble.”

  Cameron couldn’t stop the grin spreading over his face. This would make a laughing stock out of the police department.

  Inspector Geary hadn’t even tried to verify Mr. Riot’s whereabouts. He just arrested him. But his grin soon faded—Cameron knew enough about San Francisco to sense when strings were being pulled.

  17

  Reflections

  One positive thing about jail time was it afforded rest. And contemplation. Riot would’ve preferred a book. But truth be told, his head was thankful for the lack of stimulation. So he lay on his bunk, toying with his overgrown beard and staring at the ceiling.

  He would’ve liked a proper trim and bath before being tossed in a cell. But such was life.

  At least Geary had released Jin and Sarah. Mr. Farnon had assured him of that, and so far Riot remained in a private cell. He likely had Inspector Coleman to thank for that, along with a steady rotation of loyal guards.

  All things considered, his situation wasn’t that bad. Now he just needed to figure out who wanted him dead.

  The squeal of a cell door startled him awake. He must’ve dozed off again. Riot sat up to find Liam Taft standing inside the cell. Doyle was no longer in the hallway.

  “Your bodyguard is still outside,” Liam said. “I’ve just asked him to give us some privacy to talk.”

  “I’d offer a chair…” Riot gestured at the sparse cell: a hard bunk, brick walls, a small barred window, and a steel toilet that probably started life as a bucket.

  Liam didn’t close the cell door. Maybe he was hoping Riot would make a run for it. Liam reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of spectacles. “They’re a little bent,” he said, tossing them over.

  “Thank you,” Riot said with feeling. He quickly threaded the wire over his ears, and the world sharpened once again. It was currently a dingy world. “I see you got the role of the nice detective.”

  Liam chuckled, and reached under his coat for a tobacco pouch, then went about rolling a cigarette. “I don’t play nice.”

  The man was unhurried in his movements, with no inclination to fill the silence. He offered the cigarette to Riot, who shook his head. Liam scratched a match across the brick, and cupped his hand to light the end. “I hoped we might talk,” he murmured.

  Riot spread his hands. “I find myself with little else to do.”

  “You don’t seem worried.”

  “I have the utmost faith in the justice system.”

  “Do you?”

  “Don’t you?” Riot asked.

  “I suppose I should. I’d be in the wrong business otherwise.”

  “Or the right business,” Riot said.

  Liam narrowed his eyes, the cigarette hanging from his cracked lips. “Who do you think killed Montgomery Johnson?”

  “Whoever wants me dead.”

  “Could this person be targeting your agents, too?”

  “Maybe,” Riot acknowledged.

  “Could your wife be in danger?”

  “She likely is.”

  “And that doesn’t concern you?”

  Riot held the man’s eyes with his own. “It concerns me.”

  “You mentioned Monty tried to kill you.”

  “He paid a group of men to attack the agency. They tossed dynamite in through the windows.”

  “You have proof?”

  “He didn’t deny it when I confronted him at The Den.”

  “Was that right before you shot him?”

  “That was right before he beat me to a pulp.”

  “The fellow at the club said you took a cheap shot with a gentleman’s stick.”

  A pang of regret clutched his heart. Riot had lost control. He’d given in to impulse and nearly gotten himself killed. Only that wasn’t quite true. He’d lost control, but regained it before pummeling Monty into unconsciousness. And that act of restraint had cost him the fight. “We weren’t sparring,” Riot said simply.

  “And yet he didn’t kill you.”

  “No, he left me for dead in a gutter. The only reason I’m still here is because my wife found me in time.”

  “Remarkable woman. I’m married too. And I can tell you right now, I’d shoot any man who threatened my wife,” Liam admitted.

  It was true, Riot knew, from looking into his eyes. But it was an odd thing to admit. Unless, of course, one was playing nice to get a confession.

  “Monty was only a middleman,” Riot said. “I want the name of the man who hired him, and now that Monty is dead, I’ll have a harder time finding it.”

  Liam flicked ash out the bars. “Especially from a cell.”

  “Even harder if I hang.”

  “So let me get this straight. Your ex-agent was seen with a Pinkerton—”

  “He hadn’t quit yet,” Riot clarified. “Were you that man?”

  “I’m a Pinkerton,” Liam said. “And I can’t tell you all the men I’ve been seen with. Can you?”

  He had a point.

  “Did Monty tell you he joined up with the Pinkertons?”

  “He didn’t deny it,” Riot said.

  “You used to be a Pinkerton operative.”

  “On occasion.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “I’m sure you have an entire file on me and Ravenwood.”

  “Your partner.”

  Riot nodded. The words stung, but he resisted the urge to correct the man: former partner. That would open up a line of questioning he wasn’t keen on reliving. Was that what this was about? Riot’s wrongful vengeance for Ravenwood’s murder? Now, those men he had gunned down.

  “You don’t have a deck of cards by chance?” Riot asked.

  “Cards?”

  “I wasn’t allowed to pack a bag.”

  “That’s right, you’re a gambler.”

  “Was.”

  “Getting twitchy?” Liam asked.

  “Shuffling helps me think,” Riot said.

  Liam called back to his partner, who brought a tattered deck from a guard room. The cards were a ruin but they’d do. He started shuffling, acquainting himself with this new deck.

  “Ravenwood and I quit,” Riot said without prompt, “because we didn’t like the direction the Pinkertons were headed. When you cast your lot with rich and powerful men, it’s easy to lose sight of your own morals. I still can’t stomach strikebreaking.”

  “A lot of those miners, like the Molly Maguires, turned to violence,” Liam said.

  The cards flew in Riot’s hands, steady and rhythmic, a blur of motion that soothed his mind. “When you corner a man and his family, all he has left is violence. Treat a man fairly and he won’t bite back.”

  Smoke wafted from Liam’s forgotten cigarette, a trail of ash fluttering to the floor. “Is that how you see it?”

  “I saw it as men trying to feed their families,” Riot said. “The mine owners targeted the unions, cut workers’ wages, forced them to work longer hours, added another day, and made them pay for hovels with walls so thin ink froze in winter. Rich men squeezed those miners till they cracked—all to fill their overstuffed pockets.”

  Liam flicked ash away and took a long drag. “Not everyone sees it that way.”

  “Do you?”

  “What I th
ink doesn’t matter,” Liam said. “Is that the only reason you left?”

  Riot turned over a card—the ace of diamonds. “You know what happened, Mr. Taft.”

  “I prefer firsthand reports to secondhand.”

  Riot shuffled for a time, then squared his deck. “I reported operatives who were taking bribes and extorting businesses. Only the superintendent didn’t believe me.”

  “The report said you had no proof.”

  “I had my ears. Ravenwood had his instincts. I wrote a report. It wasn’t looked on favorably. Those men remained; we left.”

  “But they were eventually fired after a proper investigation.”

  Riot ran a finger over the edges of the deck, then smiled at its secret.

  “What is it?” Liam asked.

  “There’s a cheat in the guardroom. It’s a marked deck.” To demonstrate, Riot pulled out the ace of spades from the stack.

  “I don’t think that’s what you were smiling about.”

  “Ravenwood once called the Pinkerton agency a ‘ponderous one-eyed giant prone to tripping over its own feet.’ Or something to that effect. The cogs of investigation moved too slowly for his liking.”

  “And yours.”

  Riot didn’t deny it.

  “I read Ravenwood’s file,” Liam admitted. “It said he was intolerably arrogant, prone to wild leaps of deduction, impatient, and impossible to handle.”

  “All of that was true.”

  “You’re not going to ask what your file said?”

  “I know what my file says.”

  “Humor me.”

  “A wild card. Unrestrained, brash, rebellious to authority. Does not follow orders, resistant to procedure, and… what am I missing?”

  Liam smiled around his cigarette. “Excellent in a gunfight. Expert tracker. Remarkable memory. Ambidextrous—I had to look that word up. And you had a reputation.”

  “Most men do.”

  “I quote: ‘If it’s dead or alive, Atticus Riot will bring a suspect back dead.’”

  “Most men put up a fight when cornered.”