Lotario laced his fingers in thought. “What an oddly beautiful mind,” he murmured.
Miss Lily wasn’t going to be pleased.
20
What The Dead Say
“Mrs. Riot!”
“Hello, Mr. Sims.”
Mr. Sims was a large man in girth and height. His apron was stained with blood today, and his cuffs rolled up to his elbows. He chuckled endlessly, talked to dead bodies, and tended to laugh at the oddest times.
“Or is it Miss Amsel? Or Miss Bonnie?” He shook his head, wisps of his remaining hair catching the light.
“Miss Amsel, will do.”
“And where is your better half?”
“In a jail cell.”
“Hmm, and what does that say about the half that’s not?” He laughed at his own joke as he stabbed a bloated body with a metal tube. A hiss of foul smelling air escaped.
Matthew turned his head. He’d already pressed a handkerchief to nose and mouth.
Sims beamed as he lit a match. “We have a fainter!” He balanced on one leg, and hooked his foot around a nearby stool, then gave it a push towards Matthew. “Best to sit. Never ends well falling face first into one of my friends. Sometimes they’re squishy.”
Sims gave the hissing cadaver a fond pat, then lit the air. A blue flame roared from the tube.
Isobel pushed Matthew down onto the stool. Though as tall as he was, it was more like hoisting a mainsail.
Sims’ mannerisms suggested a man better suited to an asylum, or one regularly inhaling laughing gas. Both might be true, for all she knew. But who was she to judge sanity? One fact was inescapable, though: Sims had an eye for detail.
“I’m not a fainter,” Matthew said, sweat beading on his brow.
“This is Matthew Smith. He’s one of our… veteran agents.”
“I thought maybe he was your brother.”
Isobel eyed the blond, blue-eyed, strapping man. “He could certainly pass for one of them. At least half the family.”
Sims squinted in thought. “What does the other half look like?”
“Brooding thunder storms.”
Sims made a pleased sound. “It is most curious, isn’t it?” His question was directed to a corpse on a slab. “We’re all blood and bone and meat ropes on the insides, but we’re decorated so differently. Just like little cakes with different frosting.”
Matthew turned green and hurried out the morgue to retch. So much for Matthew as her buffer.
“I suppose you’ve come to see my friends.”
“Yes, two actually.”
Sims rubbed his hands together. “Two? My, you’ve been busy, Miss Amsel.”
“Something like that,” Isobel said. “The first was killed with a handkerchief.”
“The Sleeper.” And then he started shaking his head. “I’m sorry, no. He makes a lovely corpse, but I can’t show you.”
“Why not?”
“They took him away already.”
“They?”
“Barston and Barston. Undertakers.”
“After the postmortem?” Isobel asked.
Sims shook his head. “The family didn’t want one.”
“Did the police surgeon at least check for poison or alcohol?”
Sims covered a corpse’s ears and glanced around to make sure no one else was eaves-dropping. Isobel wasn’t overly worried about the other corpses. “I may have… acquired a sample from Barston and Barston.”
“Friends of yours?”
“They buried you.”
Isobel blinked at the comment, and Sims chortled with mirth. It took a few seconds for her to get the joke. The undertakers had buried a woman who bore an unfortunate resemblance to her—a prostitute named Marabelle was murdered, then buried in a mausoleum marked for Isobel Kingston. So far Alex had left the grave untouched. Maybe he was hopeful Isobel would end up there after all. Or he was planning to put her there.
Sims’ eyes twinkled with amusement. “We were curious.”
“Whether poison was involved?” she asked.
“No, no. Well…” He tapped his lips in thought. “Yes. Mostly how a handkerchief could be stuffed down the throat of such a fit young man.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Alcohol and laudanum.”
“Enough to incapacitate him?”
Sims shook his head. “You saw the bruises and scratches, the torn nails?”
“He wasn’t drugged enough that he couldn’t fight.”
Sims beamed, pleased she had made the connection. “There were signs he was sodomized, too.” It was said so bluntly, with his beaming face, that it took a moment for Isobel’s mind to catch up.
“Did he die in the act?”
“Barston and Barston believe so.”
“But you don’t?”
“Our Sleeper is very secretive, but there was no blood. I think the tears may be old, or possibly happened after he died.”
Isobel grimaced at the thought. After he was dead. How long had the man lay there? Had someone stripped him after the fact? He’d obviously been moved, and more than once.
“He was moved,” Sims echoed her thoughts. Then waited for her to divulge more information. But Isobel disappointed him.
“Thank you, Mr. Sims. Was the police surgeon able to estimate time of death?”
“Tuesday night, early Wednesday. Somewhere just after midnight, I think.”
Meaning Dominic Noble lay in a lowbrow brothel for an entire night. Dead.
“When do you think he was moved into that sleeping position?”
“Two hours after death, maybe.” Sims seemed to hum under his breath. “We had a peek inside his throat. Bleeding, tearing, bruising. The Sleeper had a terrible death. I’m afraid he’ll never rest easy.”
“I’m working on that,” she confided.
“But the police…”
Isobel put a finger to her lips. “I’m not the police. Not a word, Mr. Sims.”
Startled, he glanced down at the bloated corpse spewing blue flame. “But I tell them everything.”
“Are they good at keeping secrets?”
“Very,” Sims said.
“Then I’m sure that will be all right.”
Matthew returned with a muttered apology. It was probably best he had missed the details of Dominic Noble’s death.
“Some find death disturbing,” Sims noted.
“It’s part of life,” Matthew said grimly.
Sims hummed to himself as he looked around the room at his charges. “If only we slept so soundly in life.”
Isobel didn’t have a reply for that. She didn’t think she wanted to stray down that line of thinking. “The corpse with a bullet in his head.”
“I have a few of those, but you’d be wanting to see your ex-agent. He’s had quite the number of visitors.”
“Who?”
“Most recently, a rude inspector and his lug of a shadow. No respect at all for my friends,” Sims muttered to himself as he led them towards a back room.
“Anyone else?”
“Two quiet men. One graying. Rough as leather. And a shorter man who didn’t enjoy being here. Why, I can’t fathom. They came with a patrolman first, then returned with the rude inspector.”
“Pinkerton operatives,” she said.
“Oh, were they? How strange. And Tim! Always nice to visit with Tim.”
Sims and Tim had met at her and Riot’s wedding. The pair made quite the contrast. One large and slow, the other short and wiry. One cackling and the other humming.
“It was strange being at your wedding, you know. Not many people invite me places,” Sims confided. “But Tim is as easy to talk with as my friends here.”
“Tim would likely say it’s because he has one foot in the grave,” Isobel quipped.
Sims laughed as he swept back a sheet to reveal a gray corpse. Monty. He looked… peaceful in death. All the lines of anger and cynicism smoothed by the hole in his forehead.
Sims tapped the bullet hole. “N
o secrets here. You can’t tell from looking, but if you feel around, you’ll find the skull is shattered. Turned his brains to mush, and barely made it out the back.”
Isobel glanced at Matthew to see his reaction. He’d worked with Monty for over a year, and she noted something close to regret in his eyes.
Isobel turned Monty’s head to the side. She found she had no remorse for the ex-agent. Not after the brutal beating he’d given Riot. Not after dragging her husband, bleeding and broken, to a gutter and leaving him to die. And not after Mack’s death. This was simply justice served.
“Miss Amsel? Is everything all right?” Sims asked.
“Of course.”
He gave a nervous chuckle. “You look set to kill him again.”
She ignored his observation. “No matter how obvious a death, you always tease more secrets from the dead. What else can you tell me about Monty?”
Sims blushed at her compliment. “I wouldn’t call it a secret. It’s obvious. He was shot in the head while he was smoking.”
“How do you know he was smoking?”
Sims picked up a stained hand. “Faint traces of ash in his mouth. He fell back, then was dragged shortly after into a dirty place. Postmortem bruising along with old bruises.” Sims tapped each bruise. “Handled roughly. Since he came in wearing long johns, I’d say he was robbed. Except…”
Isobel waited as Sims patted down his person, before turning to a work table. He plucked up a scalpel handle and put it to the hole, then angled it just so.
“Here is the angle of the shot.”
“He was on his knees?” Matthew asked.
Sims shook his head. “No, at close range a forty-four caliber would’ve made a mess of the front of his head.”
Isobel’s heart sank. Riot used a forty-four caliber cartridge. But that caliber was the most common type thanks to Mr. Winchester. Interchangeable ammunition for both rifle and revolver were popular.
“Just as well,” Sims said. “Monty here likes his skull. He’s glad that it didn’t ruin his mustache.”
Matthew’s eyes widened as he stared over the handkerchief still pressed to his nose.
“So he was shot from above, and likely at a distance,” Isobel mused aloud. “Do you still have the bullet?”
“The inspector took it.”
“Can I see his clothes?”
“There’s not much.”
Sims took her to a wall of cubbies to retrieve a sack of Monty’s possessions. The only thing in there was a union suit, stained with fluids from death. “As you can see, he was robbed.”
“Did the Pinkerton operatives say they found anything else at the scene of the crime when they came to identify him?”
Sims frowned in thought. “Monty didn’t know them.”
Isobel looked up sharply. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. The patrolman who found Monty brought the operatives in to identify him, but they didn’t recognize him. They only looked.”
“Are you sure?”
“They didn’t sign the papers. Mr. Tim did.”
21
Pinkertons
It was late. Isobel was tired and worried. And fuming. Her husband was in jail for a murder he didn’t commit, her home had been ransacked, and her hands were tied to investigate any of it.
She’d had enough.
“Are you sure about this?” Matthew asked.
“No.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea, Isobel.”
“Probably not,” Isobel said, as she shot up the last staircase of an office building. Matthew was close on her heels. “You don’t have to come inside.”
Matthew winced as she shoved open the door to Pinkertons Detective Agency. There were two women sitting behind desks, multiple telephones, file cabinets, and a clerk standing at a waist-high counter. A wall of frosted glass divided the offices.
“I need to speak with Liam Taft. Now,” she said to the clerk.
His eyes darted to the side. “Do you have an appointment?”
Isobel didn’t wait. Before anyone could stop her, she rounded the counter and pushed open a frosted glass door. Liam Taft sat at a desk in the back of the office. When he saw who’d charged in, he holstered a revolver back on his hip.
She planted her palms on his desk. “Monty wasn’t a Pinkerton, was he?” she hissed.
His eyes darted to the other agents in the room, then nodded towards a side door. She took his hint. As soon as they entered a small interview room, she rounded on him.
“Mrs. Riot,” he greeted.
“I’m not here for pleasantries, Taft. Answer my question.”
“You seem to already know the answer.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Why are you so certain of that, Mrs. Riot?”
“You didn’t identify Monty in the morgue.”
“I don’t know everyone in the office.”
Isobel gave a pointed look towards the door. “That’s an awfully small memory you have for a detective.”
“I remember what’s important.”
“And what is important, Mr. Taft?”
“Law.”
“Law or justice?” she asked.
“Justice is subjective.”
Isobel gave a small smile. “Good answer.”
“I didn’t know this was a test.”
“Everything is a test,” she said. “Why are you targeting my husband?”
“I’m not. The trail led to your husband. Inspector Geary had enough probable cause to issue an arrest warrant.”
“And you?”
“Time will tell, along with some proper detective work.”
“Ravenwood Agency isn’t in the business of arresting someone without proof.”
“Neither is my agency.”
Isobel considered the man. “You were already investigating Monty, weren’t you?”
“We take the integrity of our agency seriously.”
“So Monty was claiming to be an operative?”
Liam smoothed his drooping mustache. “According to Ravenwood Agency.”
“We didn’t start that rumor. The proprietor of the Morgue said Monty was seen with a Pinkerton operative. And Monty…” she stopped there. Based on clues, Riot had deduced Monty left Ravenwood Agency to take up with the Pinkertons. So Riot had tossed that theory out like bait, and Monty had answered. After a fashion.
Over the course of Riot’s recovery, his memory had slowly returned. What had Monty said? That ‘a man can move up there.’ And that he ‘needed the money without the hassle of writing reports.’
But Monty had worked with Riot for years. He knew Riot’s methods, and baiting a suspect to reveal the truth was a common enough tactic. One Liam Taft had just used on her.
“Monty what?” Liam asked.
“Does your agency still require agents to write reports?”
Liam’s eyes narrowed. He had such a pronounced squint that it was a wonder he could still see. “Yeah,” he said, that single word dripping with distaste. “Ask Sam. He’ll tell you how much I love reports.”
“What’s really going on here, Mr. Taft?”
“I’m investigating a murder.”
“A robbery, according to the newspapers. Hardly worthy of the Pinkertons.”
Liam spread his hands. “I get paid hourly, ma’am.”
“Who’s paying you?” Isobel asked.
“Do you ever back down, Mrs. Riot?”
She met his gaze in challenge. “No.”
Liam shifted, and to her surprise he slipped two fingers into a vest pocket and brought out a badge. She took the six-pointed star from his hand. “Are you trying to recruit me?”
“Are you for hire?” he asked.
“I’m flattered,” she said dryly. She glanced at the badge pinned to his vest. His was shield-shaped, while the one in her hand was star-shaped. Both had the same words emblazoned on the metal. “Is this a badge for a new branch?”
Liam shook his head. “The
patrolman found it in Monty’s locker at the boxing club, so he contacted us.”
Isobel frowned in thought. “It’s a fake.”
A crinkling of his eyes confirmed it. What had Montgomery Johnson been up to? Aside from trying to kill Riot.
She handed the badge back. “I think we’re on the same trail, Mr. Taft.”
“And what trail would that be?”
“The one that leads to a killer.”
22
The Art of Deduction
The last time Isobel was in Mission Bay it had been dark and she feared for Riot’s life. She’d found him face down in a gutter, covered in his own blood, and close to death. She shuddered at the memory.
Riot is alive, she told herself. He’s under guard, with an honest police officer. What better place for a restless man recovering from a head injury?
Riot was infinitely capable, confident and cunning, and had survived more gunfights than he likely remembered. But that night had shaken her. She’d nearly lost him.
The carriage stopped, and Tim paid their fare while she studied the run-down street.
“This is no place for a lady, sir,” the cab driver called down to Tim. “A dangerous place even for you.”
Tim cackled. “I’m as curly as they come, son. But thanks for the warning.”
The driver tipped his cap, then clucked his horse forward, eager to leave.
“I suppose we do look like prey,” Isobel noted.
“God made man, but Sam Colt made them equal,” Tim quoted.
“And women.”
She spotted Liam Taft and Sam Batten down the street, along with two others. Isobel ground her teeth together. Inspector Geary had come with the patrolman who’d found Monty. An Officer Finley. At least Geary had left his lug of a sergeant behind.
As she and Tim approached, the Pinkerton operatives touched the brims of their hats. But Geary offered no such greeting. He kept his hands firmly on his lapels, and had a smug expression plastered on his face. “You’re wasting my time, Mrs. Riot.”
“I didn’t ask you to come, Inspector,” she shot back.
“And let you tamper with evidence?”
“Did your men leave behind evidence?” she asked, fluttering her lashes.
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