Sarah was trembling, clutching her handbag, and making a whimpering sound that tore at Isobel’s heart. Freddie leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Your mommy is nosy.”
He knew Isobel’s identity. How the hell did he know? Isobel tried to think, to scheme, to come up with some brilliant plan, but her heart was in her throat and her mind consumed with an instinct to charge the man.
“Oh, yes. I figured it out. I’m not as careless as I appear. Helen told me Sarah was famous, then Ian told me he caught you snooping, and naturally dear Imogen told me you never worked for Violet.”
“Leave Sarah out of this,” she finally croaked.
“You brought her into it.”
“She’s friends with Helen. That’s all.”
“No, it isn’t ‘all’. Sarah claimed a sudden illness, refused my offer of a carriage, and tried to take off. I know who you are, Mrs. Riot.”
“My agency knows I’m here, Freddie,” Isobel said. She took mental stock of the room, but all she had in hand was a feather duster, and Freddie, she reminded herself, was a hunter.
For all his flippancy and charm, he was a crack shot and enjoyed the act of killing. He had the instincts of a hunter, and it showed—he was being cautious, keeping his distance from her, using Sarah as a proper shield and giving Isobel no opportunity to attack. Cunning man.
“Ravenwood Agency is aware of my suspicions of you. If you kill me, they’ll know who pulled the trigger.”
“It’s a pickle,” he admitted, tapping the barrel of his gun against Sarah’s head. Each tap made Isobel jerk. Her knees quaked. She was furious, quivering with restraint against an overwhelming urge to attack the man holding her daughter hostage.
“I could shoot you, then Sarah, and claim I caught you thieving. Tragically, Sarah got in the way,” Freddie mused. “Or better yet… you shot her.”
“No one will believe that,” Isobel said with a snort, her mind rebelling against the absurdity of his plan. “The angle of the shot won’t match the blood pattern—no matter how you arrange our corpses. You’re a hunter, Freddie. You know that as well as I do.”
“The police aren’t very observant.”
“My agency is.” Isobel shifted her stance, moving away from the mantel. “You forgot about my agency again, didn’t you? Or that a certain San Francisco Police Inspector assigned me to investigate Dominic’s murder. I’m not just nosy, I’m a consulting detective, Freddie.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“The inspector called me in as a consultant to Dominic’s murder. I saw the scene. The handkerchief you used to stuff down his throat. I was the one who found your carpenter’s pencil.”
His cheek twitched.
Isobel dropped her feather duster and removed her spectacles, tossing them onto the bed. She met his eyes, staring daggers at the man. Even ten feet away, that stare would unnerve anyone. Freddie was no exception.
“Don’t move!” he ordered, pointing the gun at her.
“Let me see if I have this right, Freddie,” she purred. “You assaulted the Japanese maid while she worked here. Probably multiple times over the course of months. She barely spoke English. What could a woman in her position say, after all? She needed the work, and she knew Mrs. Noble would blame her for your sexual urges. When she started showing, Mrs. Noble had a fit and kicked her out onto the street. Then you came along like a knight in shining armor promising to care for her. Instead, you dumped her at the Nymphia with your child in her belly.”
“I do enjoy exotic women, and I must say Sakura was an amusing little diversion.”
“Until Dominic discovered what happened,” Isobel continued. “From the rowing club, I should think. You likely couldn’t resist the urge to boast about your conquest.” A twitch in his eye confirmed her theory. “So Dominic, ever protective of his sisters, warned Imogen about you, even as he was searching for the maid… Sakura. But Imogen wouldn’t hear of it, so he went to his father, who saw nothing wrong with your actions.”
“Dominic wouldn’t drop it,” Freddie snarled. “The self-righteous bastard took his surname to heart. And when Ian told him to drop the matter, Dominic threatened him.”
“He threatened to expose the business at the racetrack,” Isobel said.
Her deduction was confirmed when Freddie faltered, his smug smile deflating. He tightened his grip on the revolver, taking careful aim at Isobel’s heart.
“You could just let us go!” Sarah whimpered.
No, no, no, Isobel thought. Don’t draw attention to yourself.
Freddie slid his arm around Sarah’s neck, pulling her firmly against his body. She gasped for air.
“Take me,” Isobel said, quickly. “Leave Sarah locked in the wardrobe. You can kill me somewhere else and still get away.”
“She’ll snitch on me.”
“No, she won’t. She’ll be too scared of you.”
Sarah choked down a cry, tears leaking from her eyes, dripping onto Freddie’s arm.
“I think I’ll take both of you.” He jerked his head towards the bedside table. “Do you see that vial on the table? Yes. There. Drink it.”
Isobel could see the label from where she stood. It was his laudanum tincture.
“All of it.”
She hesitated, and Freddie tightened his hold on Sarah, the girl’s nostrils flaring in panic.
“It won’t kill you,” Freddie purred.
“If I drink that, you’ll kill us both.”
“No. I won’t. I’ll drop Sarah off somewhere far away. Alive. I swear. And you, too. Better yet, I’ll put you both on a steamer to China. How’s that for a deal?”
Isobel didn’t believe a word of it.
“Or, I can kill you and take Sarah with me for company.”
The way he said Sarah’s name made Isobel’s skin crawl. Now that, she believed. But at least it would give Sarah a chance at surviving. A horrible option that would buy Sarah time. Time for Riot to hunt down the scoundrel.
Isobel edged over to the table. She picked up the vial, and read the label. He was right, she’d probably survive drinking the full dose. There was a risk, but Isobel didn’t expect to live long enough to discover whether the laudanum would kill her.
Isobel considered diving behind the bed, but Sarah was there. What could she do? She could throw the glass… No. Her knife. She could slip it free into her hand, charge, risk a bullet, and hope it hit nothing vital. But what good would that do? He’d simply drag Sarah from the room. Or worse, shoot Sarah.
“Now!” he barked.
Isobel put a hand over the cork. She needed to buy them time. Time for Riot to track this bastard down and shoot—
“Or I could just shoot you.”
Sarah.
Time slowed and sped all at once as Sarah pulled out a derringer from her handbag. Without pause, she pulled the trigger. A gunshot barked, the bullet catching Freddie under the chin, even as he squeezed his own trigger, pain jerking his aim to the side.
A wave seemed to crash into Isobel as she threw herself at Freddie Starling. It hit her full on, its shock rippling through her body, but she tore through it with the ferocity of a tiger.
Freddie reeled from shock, and Sarah threw herself at his arm, dragging down the hand that held his gun. Freddie fired off another shot as Isobel crashed into him. It felt like slamming into a brick wall. The man was all muscle and bone, an athlete in the prime of life. But he was also bleeding from his mouth.
The force of her charge knocked Sarah to the floor and slammed Freddie against the door. Freddie ignored the jagged hole in his cheek, and grabbed her hair, twisting and bringing up his knee. They went down in a painful tumble.
The flesh at the bottom of his chin was ragged and bleeding. There was another hole in his cheek, where the bullet had punched an exit wound, showing broken teeth. Blood slicked their hands and bodies as they grappled. Even wounded, he was strong—fit enough to overpower a grown man like Dominic.
Freddie pinned Isobel onto
her back, his hands at her throat. She felt weak, blackness creeping at the edges of her vision. She couldn’t fight against his strength. Something caught her eye on the floor. The vial. Isobel released the hands locked around her neck and jabbed fingers into the bullet wound under his chin.
Freddie screamed in agony. His grip loosened, and she was on him in a flash. But rather than attempt to pin him, she snatched up the vial, bit off the cork, and stuffed the mouth of the vial into his own.
Freddie spluttered, coughing, trying to push her away. Isobel drove her knee between his legs, and he gulped the liquid, eyes bulging. Then gradually his strength faded, until he finally went limp.
“Isobel…” Sarah slid onto the floor next to her.
“Are you hurt?” Isobel demanded, pawing at Sarah with bloody hands.
“No.”
Isobel shuddered with relief.
Sarah’s eyes were wide. “But you are.”
Isobel barely heard the last. She was slipping away into darkness. The room was spinning and tilting, and she was falling.
58
A Sly One
Riot rushed into Kane’s office, waving his hat. “Police raid! They got Claude,” he hollered.
Kane was talking with a man in a neat suit. They broke off the conversation to look at the frantic cowboy. “What?” Kane asked.
“Clear out now,” Riot urged.
“There’s no raid scheduled today,” Kane said.
Of course someone in the station would be in Kane’s pocket to warn of impending raids.
“Well, there is one now.” Riot said, and like clockwork the first popping bangs burst from the front of the Nymphia. Whistles blew, mimicking a police raid. It was Riot’s hired gang of bored laborers and hatchet men. They’d rushed the Nymphia armed with firecrackers, smoke bombs, and screaming whistlers. As long as Kane remained in his office, he’d never know it was a ruse.
Kane’s eyes flashed. Without prompting, the man in the suit fled out the back door. Kane pulled open his desk drawer, grabbed a logbook, and shot to the locker room. “Kitty!” he shouted. “You’re the manager today.”
Kitty stood in front of the lockers. She was half-dressed, her own locker door open. “What?”
“You’re taking the fall.”
Kane unlocked a cubby, thrust his arm inside, and twisted a catch in the back. The secret door swung inward. Before Kane could close it, Riot rushed past him. “I’ll guard you!”
Kane sneered, but didn’t object. He followed close on Riot’s heels. The man at his back made Riot’s fingers twitch, but the feared blade never came. Riot waited at the clinic door as Kane climbed the short staircase. He squashed himself against the wall, as the man gave a different series of knocks than last week.
Croaker wrenched open the door, but before Kane could charge through, Riot drove his fist into the manager’s larynx, then shoved him down the stairs.
Croaker stood stunned. Only for a blink. The guard recovered, throwing his weight and fist forward. Riot ducked under the clumsy blow, grabbed Croaker by the belt, and used the guard’s own momentum to propel him down the steps. Croaker landed on his boss.
A gunshot cracked, wood splintered, and Riot threw himself into the clinic. He kicked the door shut, then surged up to throw the heavy bar into place. With luck, Kane and his lackey would be too afraid to head out the secret entrance with a supposed police raid swarming the hotel. Riot just needed to get word to Inspector Coleman in time.
He moved up to the ground floor. The gunshot had drawn a second guard’s attention, but the man thought it’d come from upstairs, not the secret tunnel. Riot caught the guard peering up the stairwell.
“Drop it,” Riot said.
The guard froze, eyeing him sideways.
“Is your pay worth your life?”
The guard dropped his revolver, then raised his hands. Riot jerked his gun towards a coat closet. The man moved obediently into it, and Riot shut the door, then dragged over a chair and wedged it under the handle.
The guards in the clinic were there to control the women, not to confront a hardened detective with a hair-trigger finger. Riot rushed up the stairway. Then froze. He hadn’t counted on a third guard, but he’d miscalculated. Mrs. K was standing at the top with a shotgun leveled at him. “Not a step farther,” she warned.
Riot raised his hands, holding his revolver loosely. “I’m Atticus Riot, a detective. I was hired to rescue Sakura’s baby.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
In a split second, Riot considered his options. A shotgun blast would do him in. He might be able to get a shot off first, but she had her finger poised on that trigger, and there was intent in her eyes. To kill. She’d claim she mistook him for an intruder trying to harm the women.
Riot dropped to the stairs, hitting his chin, and thrust his gun up the stairway, just as a form moved behind Mrs. K. Glass smashed, and Mrs. K crumpled to the ground. The shotgun fell to the floor. It went off with a flash, propelling itself backwards as the shot blasted over his head, splintering the wall. The sound woke up the entire house, including the infants. They started screaming in chorus.
Shannon stood at the top of the stairway, a broken gin bottle in hand. “That was close,” she said.
He flashed a grin, then rushed up the stairs. “Are there any more guards?”
“No, but what about the tunnel?” she asked faintly.
“Barred, with Kane trapped inside.”
Shannon wobbled.
Riot bent to check Mrs. K’s pulse. She was alive, but blood was gushing from a head wound. Other women stuck their heads into the hallway to look at the commotion.
“Kane will kill us,” Shannon said.
“Probably just you.” He straightened to address the other occupants. “If you want out, now’s the time to leave.”
“They ain’t just gonna let us go,” one woman said.
“We got nowhere to go,” said another.
It was true, he couldn’t fix the world, but he could give them the option to take a chance. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll do my best to assure this boardinghouse treats you right. If you’re willing, tie Mrs. K up, and put some pressure on her wound. The police will be here shortly.”
Riot didn’t wait for their answers. Dread was growing by the second. He wanted to abandon everything, storm the Noble’s manor and drag Freddie Starling down Nob Hill and into a jail cell.
Instead, Riot walked into Shannon’s room, took a calming breath, and stepped over to the cradle. He smiled down at the squalling infants as he holstered his gun. “Sorry for the noise. But…” He plucked Akira out of her cradle and wrapped her in a blanket. “I think you’ll want to see your mother.”
“You found Sakura?” Shannon asked, trying to quiet her own baby.
“I did,” he said. “And I know a place where you and Fiona will be safe.”
59
Death and Delusion
There was blood. Blood everywhere.
“Isobel!” she shouted, shaking her. Sarah’s heart was trying to claw its way out of her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Isobel lay on her back. Blood seeping onto the carpet.
“Help!” Sarah screamed.
Isobel’s entire right side was wet with blood. Sarah darted to the bathroom, snatching clean towels and everything else in sight, then rushed back to press a towel against the gunshot wound. Keep pressure on it. Stay calm.
Isobel’s eyes snapped open. “You all right?” she wheezed, her breath ragged, eyes out of focus. Isobel was trying to rise, but her body wasn’t cooperating and Sarah could see the confusion in her eyes.
“Yes, I told you. I’m fine.”
“Stop… shouting.”
“I’m not shouting. You’ve been shot.”
“A scratch.”
Right, Sarah thought with rising panic. Then her gramma’s patient voice came to her: Stay calm, dear. Don’t let her see your fear.
Sarah
took a breath to steady herself. “I told Atticus that gun was a peashooter.”
Isobel coughed out a laugh. But pain sent her eyes rolling.
The door opened, and relief shook her body. Finally, an adult. Someone who’d call an ambulance.
“What on earth is…” Mrs. Noble stopped in the doorway. The pale woman took one look at Freddie lying on the ground with a bloody hole in his cheek, and started screaming.
“Mrs. Noble, call the police!” Sarah hollered. “Freddie shot her.”
But the woman just stood there screaming. Useless. Then her husband arrived. Mr. Noble walked into the room and glowered down at the scene.
“Isobel needs help, Mr. Noble. She’s a detective. Please call an ambulance. Freddie killed Dominic.”
Mrs. Noble choked on her screams, then her eyes blazed. “Lies!” she hissed. “You lie!”
“I’m not lying,” Sarah argued. “Freddie got your maid with child—”
Isobel tried to shake her head in warning. Tried to tell Sarah to stop. To be quiet. But her body was numb. And so very far away.
Mr. Noble placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I’ll have someone clean up this mess, darling.” He grabbed Freddie’s gun from the floor, then dragged Freddie out by the collar. The door slammed, and the lock turned.
Sarah stared, stunned. She was trapped in a room with her dying mother.
60
Time to Fold
Grimm White brushed a horse with calming strokes. It was skittish and quick, and no one else wanted to deal with the racehorse. High-strung, they said. But Grimm knew he was just eager to run. Gale loved running. It’s all the horse wanted to do. But when Grimm brushed him, he calmed right down.
Gale also enjoyed being pampered.
This wasn’t what Grimm had expected when he interviewed to be a detective. He was only doing what he loved, while he watched and listened to folk—he didn’t even have to talk.
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