“I have…”
“Good. I want you to join the Triton Rowing Club and the Dolphin Club. Dominic Noble was a member of both. See what you can find out about his friends and habits.”
Lotario frowned, but said nothing.
“I can’t swim well,” Matthew said.
“Then you’ll have to improve your technique,” Isobel said.
“In the middle of winter?”
She lifted a shoulder.
“Bel and I are meeting Taft and his partner tonight,” Riot said. “We aim to catch the thieves who picked me and Monty clean.”
“Want me to tag along?” Tim asked.
Riot shook his head. “Getting Grimm settled at the racetrack is more important. And after…” He glanced at Isobel. “I’ll be going undercover at the Nymphia as a watchman. At least that’s my hope. So I won’t be in regular contact with the agency.”
Tim eyed Riot. “You sure you want to do that, boy?”
“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” he quoted.
Tim frowned, but said nothing more. Of all the people in the room, Tim knew Riot’s past—the full horror of it. He’d found him as a ragged, starving boy who barely uttered a word.
“And I’ll be playing maid at the Noble’s house,” Isobel said.
Lotario raised his brows. “Are you sure that’s safe?”
“I don’t know, is it?” she countered.
“I meant for them,” he clarified.
33
To Catch A Thief
A drunk staggered down the street, wobbling, singing off-key, and bumping against warehouse walls. Fog blanketed the night, a silvery mist that covered the moon, and made the lone gas lamp shrink with fear. The drunk’s boots thudded on planks, his breath stirring the fog with every breathy whisper.
He wasn’t a vagrant. He had the look of a stevedore with a new hat—no doubt his pride and joy. The stevedore stumbled, slumped against a wall, and slid down to the filthy ground as he took one last swig from a bottle. It was empty. He spat out a curse and tossed it into the street with a shatter of glass.
The trap was set.
Isobel huddled under a discarded crate while grimy water dripped on her from some unknown source. She eyed the slumped-over drunk through a gap in the crate. A muscle in her leg was cramping, and her teeth chattered.
It was a frosty November night in the city, and somehow the wind was keen on whipping through this alleyway, and into the cracks in her crate.
Whose idiot idea had this been?
Hers. At least her chosen hiding place. But no one ever won a game of hide-and-seek by being comfortable. Meanwhile Riot, clearly the wiser, had picked a shadowed doorway down the street. Away from the rank alleyway where she huddled.
When her teeth weren’t knocking together, she was trying her best not to gag. Had a skunked opossum died and rotted there? It certainly smelled like it.
Isobel resisted the urge to check her pocket watch. As dark as it was, she wouldn’t be able to see its little hands. It may have been five hours; it could’ve been fifteen minutes. Patience was an old enemy of hers; she’d never waited well.
Liam Taft had taken up a position inside a nearby warehouse, and Sam Batten was playing the drunken stevedore. She’d wanted that role, but Riot convinced her otherwise.
“I’d be liable to shoot if they got rough with you,” he’d said in that calm way of his that never failed to send a chill down her spine.
So, a watcher it was. But there was no way of knowing what the thieves would do. Or how many were involved in the gang. Where would they drag their prey? So she waited and watched, shivering under a broken crate.
A shadow darted across the street. Then another moved at the other end of the alleyway where she waited. A third. Then a fourth. Hell, they hadn’t accounted for four robbers.
The thieves were thin, quick, and silent. They converged on the drunk, dragging him into the mouth of the alleyway. She watched with rising anger as the four shadows started in on their victim—tugging roughly at clothing, careless of the cold, or their victim’s life. They had done the same to Riot. Sam stirred, and a thief kicked him squarely in the ribs.
She bit back a curse. There were too many directions for the thieves to run. They’d hoped to corral the gang in the alleyway, but the thieves hadn’t dragged Sam in there.
“I’d stay where you are,” a calm voice said.
The shadows froze. The whites of their eyes rolled towards Riot, who stood on the boardwalk.
Without a sound, they scattered. Two away from Riot, down the boardwalk, and two into the alleyway. A gunshot barked, wood splintered. But it’d only been a warning shot.
Isobel focused on the shadows racing towards her concealment. She thrust out a leg, tripped one, even as the drunk came alive, and snatched at a second ankle. Sam got a kick to his face, and the thief she’d tripped recovered faster than expected.
The thief scrambled forward, and she tossed her crate aside to lunge for him. Isobel caught him around the knees. He hit the ground hard, grunting, then twisted, a glint of steel in hand.
Another bark of gunfire, and a spark pinged in the dark. The blade went flying. Riot was the only one quick enough to make that shot. The thief kicked out in panic. His foot connected with her shoulder, breaking her hold. He slipped onto his feet, then shot down the alleyway.
Sam’s opponent had wiggled free too, and Riot took aim. But Sam was right on their heels, blocking the shot.
Isobel raced after the men.
The runners were quick. She focused on one, while Sam broke off after another. Streets fell away, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. The thief wove in and out of alleyways, over fences, and tried to lose her up a drainpipe.
Isobel shot up after the spry man. She saw a face at the top, pale with surprise. He kicked once at the drainpipe, trying to shake her free, but she was used to climbing masts on a choppy sea. This was easy by comparison.
After a few more kicks, the thief gave up and fled. Or so she thought. Isobel pulled herself up the last bit and was greeted with a fist to the face. She slipped off the edge, and caught herself on the lip. Before he could rush forward, Isobel pulled herself up and rolled, dropping to the flat rooftop. She hit his legs. They went down in a tumble. Feet kicked, fists flew, and the thief bashed his forehead into hers.
Isobel reeled back, dazed. The thief bolted across the roof. Tasting blood, she staggered to her feet and gave chase, leaping across a gap between two warehouses, down to a balcony, and finally ducking through a window frame. She landed inside a pitch-black warehouse. As she tried to get her breathing under control, she strained her ears, listening for footfalls.
This was bad, she realized. She’d allowed herself to be drawn away from the others. Her quarry was no opportunist. This thief knew what he was about.
Isobel wiped blood from her lips. “I just want to talk,” she yelled. “I need information about a man you robbed.” Her voice echoed in the vast chamber, the wood floor creaking and rotted under her boots.
“Like hell, you do,” a rough voice answered. It bounced and amplified in the space.
“I know you didn’t shoot that big fellow a few weeks back. You just picked his corpse clean. I only want to know what was on him. You can keep the money.”
The thief snorted. “Really?”
“I’m a detective; not a lawman.”
“You’re not a man at all, are you?” the voice was leering. She might be dressed in male clothing, but they’d grappled—hard to conceal sex when you’re rolling on the ground with a person.
Isobel slipped her knife from a pocket. “I’m no lady either.”
A laugh bounced around the warehouse. With no light, her eyes weren’t adjusting. It was just dark and vast, and the thief’s voice echoed, making it impossible to pinpoint his location.
A floorboard creaked, then a match flared. Light glowed dimly from a candle, illuminating the narrow face of a youth with a wispy mustache. He
couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but he was wiry and strong, and his eyes were far older than his youthful face.
“What’s it worth to you?” he asked.
“I have two dollars on me.”
“You should try whoring. Pays better than chasing the likes of me.”
“Did you see who shot the man two weeks ago?” she asked.
“I seen lots of things worth more than two dollars.”
Isobel inched forward, and the thief stepped backwards, boards sagging and groaning beneath their feet. Something was wrong here.
“I know you’re bribing patrolmen to look the other way. All I want is information; I’ll leave your operation alone.”
Would Riot and the others be able to find her? Or were they occupied with the rest of the gang? If the other thieves were as nimble as this one, taking to the rooftops, she doubted Riot and the others would catch them. This might be their only chance. But Isobel was on unfamiliar ground, on the thief’s turf, in total darkness. And why had he lit a candle?
“Fine,” the thief said. “But let’s go somewhere cozier.” He took another step back, and made to turn.
His candle amplified the dark rather than illuminated, and she was drawn to its light. Isobel edged a foot forward. The boards held. She stepped cautiously towards the light, testing each board. But these weren’t rotted like the others.
One moment the boards were firmly underfoot, then the floor dropped. A hatch.
Isobel twisted in midair, abandoning her knife to claw for something solid. Nothing. She fell through darkness. Too far. Oh hell, she thought, this would hurt. But the impact of bones on ground never came—her legs caught on coarse rope. She reached blindly out, swaying in midair, to find rope everywhere. It was a cargo net.
Damn.
Isobel fought to free herself from the tangle, but the more she struggled, the more it turned, and the tighter the trap became.
Footsteps hurried down wooden steps. The candle neared, and the thief snickered up at her, a slow smile spreading over his lips. “I didn’t expect a beauty.” He set down the candle, then grabbed her ankle. She kicked against his hold, but he wasn’t deterred, as he worked at the laces.
She stretched for his head as the net turned, her fingers brushing his cap. The thief tugged free her boot, then slapped her hand away. “None of that now,” he warned.
After he tugged free her other boot, he stepped out of the candle’s glow. A lever click, and the net dropped. She landed, hard. The wind forced from her lungs.
Isobel tried to relax to get air back into her lungs, but the thief reached under her coat, pawing at her body. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t move. It seemed an eternity. But he wasn’t after flesh. Instead, he kicked her, then yanked free her billfold.
Air finally filled her lungs.
“You want to know what I seen?” he asked, rifling through her billfold. “Some white-haired fellow done the deed. Put lead right in that big fellow’s head.”
The shock of words hit her like a gut punch. She stopped struggling.
The thief cursed. “Two damn dollars? That’s it?” He shoved the cash in his pocket, then gathered her boots to leave. Only he hesitated, eyeing her. “I don’t buy it,” he muttered.
His hands returned, this time to her trousers. She fought against his intrusive frisking, growling and spitting curses, until he pulled free her chain watch with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Real pleasure,” he said, giving her backside a hard squeeze. His fingers brushed between her legs. Isobel kicked out, her foot slipping through a gap in the net to catch him in the knee. He buckled, then with a growl, surged forward, flipping open a knife of his own, and driving a knee between her legs. He pressed the blade to her throat, and she stilled.
“No one teach you any manners yet?” he snarled.
She felt a familiar shape on the silty ground. Her fallen knife. That’s right, she thought, meeting his eyes, come closer.
A gun cocked. “Drop it,” an icy voice ordered. Riot. He stood in the candle’s light, eyes glittering, revolver pressed against the back of the thief’s skull.
The thief froze. An eye flickered, and in a blink of another eye, Riot uncocked the hammer, spun his revolver in one smooth, blinding motion, and pistol-whipped the thief.
It wasn’t a hard blow—not enough to crack a skull, but enough to daze the youth. Riot kicked at his shoulder, then squeezed the trigger. The shot was deafening. A bullet zipped through the thief’s hand. He screamed and dropped his blade.
Riot kicked the youth onto his back and cocked his revolver. “Empty your pockets.”
This time the thief didn’t hesitate.
“Slowly,” Riot warned.
The youth did so, panting with pain, while blood leaked from an ear and the hole in his hand.
“Are you all right, Bel?”
“You told me you never twirl your gun, Riot,” she said by way of answer.
“Needs must.”
“I had him right where I wanted him.”
The thief snickered. “Bet you did, ya kinky bit—”
Riot let his aim fall, and squeezed the trigger. A bullet sliced through the thief’s trouser leg and stuck in the dirt between his legs. The youth scooted backwards, pawing at his crotch to make sure everything was still intact.
“You’re not part of this conversation,” Riot said.
“She got her information!” the thief squealed. “It was a fair trade. That’s all.”
Isobel fought her way up to a sitting position. “The stolen goods. Where are they?” she asked.
“We take ‘em to a fence. Fellow in Mission Bay by the name of Muddy Morris.”
“If you’re lying, I’ll hunt you down,” Isobel said. Though the threat felt hollow, considering she was still entangled in his trap.
“It’s the truth.”
“His partner said the same,” Riot said.
So the others had caught at least one.
“Did they say anything else?” she asked.
Something in her voice made Riot glance back at her. “No.”
Isobel spat out blood. “Let him go.”
Riot hesitated. “He’s a dangerous brute.”
“He’ll only be released,” she said.
“Life was easier when I could just shoot men like him.”
The thief went still.
“You did shoot him, Riot. Twice.”
“Not where I wanted to.”
“Well, with luck he’ll die of sepsis,” Isobel said, cheerfully.
Riot cocked his head. “We can hope. But before you go… strip.”
The thief hesitated until Riot shifted his aim. This time the bullet wouldn’t hit cloth. “I know what you had a mind to do, and I don’t need another reason to pull this trigger.”
The thief stripped at gunpoint, but Riot let him keep his hat and long johns. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.
“I suggest you find a different occupation. Now run.” Riot shot the ground to get the thief moving, and when he’d disappeared into the night, Riot cracked open his No. 3, dumped out the fired brass, and reloaded. It was a swift, practiced maneuver that took mere seconds. He clicked the cylinder back in place and holstered his gun to help Isobel finish untangling herself.
“I’m an idiot,” she muttered when free.
“I only care if you’re an injured one.”
“Only my pride,” she assured him.
He didn’t take her word for it. Riot fished out a flashlight from his pocket, and thumbed it on, running the dim light over her body.
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “You may have to wait a few days to play the maid,” he said, handing over a clean handkerchief.
Isobel wiped the blood from her nose and lips, then took his offered hand. When she was on her feet, he reluctantly let go, and turned to keep watch while she put her clothes back in order.
“I would’ve been here sooner, but you’re a difficult woman to track,” he said by way
of apology.
“And yet you always find me.”
“One day, I may not.” His voice was tight.
“Then it will mean I finally outfoxed you.”
“I’ll put it on your gravestone.”
“Ever the romantic.”
As Isobel tucked in her shirt, she steeled herself for what was to come. “Riot…” she hesitated. “That thief saw who killed Monty.”
Riot turned slightly to look her in the eye. He held her gaze a moment, then gave a slow nod. “I figured it was Tim.”
Isobel blinked. “How—” she cut off, grappling with the revelation. “And you said nothing? Dammit, Riot. I found his rifle for the police,” she hissed.
“I warned you he was sly.”
“Did Tim tell you?” If so, it meant Riot hadn’t told her.
To her relief, he gave a shake of his head. “I had some time to think on it.”
Her rising anger deflated. “Tim stood there bold as brass while I investigated. He even offered suggestions and joked how he was glad I wasn’t on his trail.”
Riot raised a brow in a kind of shrug. Then squeezed her arm, and nodded towards a door, indicating they should leave. She let herself be pulled away.
Cold air slapped the fury right out of her. Isobel took a deep breath of it and was rewarded with the same sickly decay that she’d smelled in the crate. It hadn’t been from her hiding place; the stink was coming on a breeze from Butchertown, where slaughterhouses let the tide deal with carcasses.
Riot searched the dark, which was fine with her, since she couldn’t see a thing. He led her down a lane, then turned a corner onto another street that showed signs of life. A group of saloons and brothels blazed with light and laughter down the way.
Seeing he intended to keep going, she pulled him to a stop. “Riot, we need to talk.”
“Taft and his partner are waiting for us.”
“All the more reason to talk now,” she whispered.
Keeping his eyes on the street, he pulled her into a recessed entrance of a shipping office. Riot put his back against the brick, and Isobel slumped in the corner between him and a door.
“Are you sure it was Tim?” she asked. “The thief said it was a white-haired old man, but that could be anyone.”
Beyond the Pale Page 21