The Devil's Teeth (Ravenwood Mysteries #5)

by Sabrina Flynn

  "Bel is in a precarious situation." As a convict and a woman with a ruined reputation—society was stacked against her. Any dealings with local law enforcement put her at risk.

  Tim shrugged. "I suspect she's used to that."

  Riot reined his thoughts to the matter at hand. "You've confirmed my suspicion—that Officer Jones was looking for something more. He was keen on Nicholas checking his valuables. That, and the state of the house. It was too deliberate."

  "But why?"

  "There's the rub." The possibilities were endless. "Whatever our fake officer's motivations, he may have a connection with Buckley Brick Yard, or he may be a bricklayer."

  Tim sucked on a gold tooth. "I have a friend with the Bricklayer and Stonemason's union. I'll show Sarah's drawing around." After interviewing Tobias and Riot on Sunday, Sarah had managed to capture the likeness of the man. Riot wasn't at all surprised.

  "I'll canvas the local pawn shops," Riot said. "It's time I reacquaint myself with San Francisco's criminal element."

  "Isn't that what you've been doing?" Tim asked.

  "Indirectly."

  "You always did manage to make their lives miserable."

  Atticus Riot stepped off the runner and walked across an empty street. The dingy pawn shop would be his eighth of the day. It was a small, cluttered place squashed between two brothels, its single window framed with broken hopes and shattered dreams.

  A bell chimed as Riot stepped inside. A man in a bright waistcoat smiled. His eyes took in Riot's fine clothes, and he instantly looked over Riot's shoulder.

  "I'm not a police officer," Riot said.

  "I know who you are." The pawnshop owner had a thick Greek accent, bushy brows, and shrewd eyes.

  Riot studied the man. "I don't know your name."

  "Kafatos. Alex Kafatos."

  "Your father was Demetri?"

  Alex slapped his hand on the counter. "Is. He retired. I take over the shop."

  "You've grown a bit." In the waist and jowls. Such was the plight of young men who grew up.

  Alex grinned. "You do remember me, then. I will never forget you."

  Riot inclined his head. "It's hard to forget a man who threatened your father."

  "Well, maybe he deserved it. He's not so good when he's in his cups." Alex gestured to the items in his shop. "Are you buying or selling today?"

  "Asking." Riot slid a dollar across the counter.

  "Why did my father ever hate you?" Alex snatched up the dollar.

  "Did a police badge with the number seventy-one find its way into your establishment?"

  Alex crossed his arms. "I would never sell police things."

  "It is illegal," Riot agreed, pushing another dollar across the counter. "But I'm running out of cash and patience."

  Alex scoffed. "You own a big house on the big hill. I am not a stupid man."

  "Foolish, maybe." Riot watched him with a steady gaze.

  "Eh, you would not shoot an old friend."

  "The son of a scoundrel," Riot corrected. "But you're right, I won't shoot you. It's too much hassle."

  "I am feeling generous." Alex leaned forward. "A woman sold it to me. She said it was her husband's."

  "Doubtful," Riot said. "But I'll accept your lie as long as the next is the truth. Who bought it?"

  "I don't ask names." A noise came from the backroom, and Riot casually unbuttoned his coat.

  "It's my boy," Alex explained quickly. "He helps me in the shop like I helped my father."

  Riot left his coat open.

  "I don't know the man's name. It was two weeks ago."

  "What did this man look like?"

  "Gruff, grizzled, rough hands. I think he was Italian."

  "Had you seen him before?" Riot asked.

  Alex smiled. "There are so many people in this city. The mind, eh, it's rattled."

  "That's probably why you sold an illegal item that could land you in jail."

  "You said you're not police."

  "I need to find that fellow, Alex."

  "I've seen him at The Strassburg, but don't tell my wife. I only go for the pool."

  "Of course you do." Riot tipped his hat, and paused over a glass case behind the counter. Alex turned to see what had caught his attention: a tray of rings.

  "Are you in the market for a wedding ring? I have many fine rings." Before Riot could say no, Alex set the case on the counter under his nose, and opened the glass top. Riot tilted his head at a large diamond set in gold. It could poke an eye out. Isobel might like that.

  "Where did you get this one?" he asked, tapping the diamond weapon.

  "A widow sold it to me. It's real." Alex waggled his brows. "You can bring an appraiser if you doubt me."

  Riot frowned at the rings. Sapphires, emeralds, diamonds—every ring had some sad history. "I don't suppose a happy divorcee sold any to you?"

  "Ahh, yes, of course. This one."

  Sarcasm was lost on the eager merchant. Alex plucked a sapphire and diamond encrusted ring from its nest. Naturally it was the most expensive.

  "I'm afraid it's not to my taste."

  "Of course it's not to your taste. It is for the lady."

  Riot cocked a brow at the ring. "Definitely not to hers either." He plucked his walking stick from the counter.

  "I get rings every day. And I take trades."

  Riot knocked a fist against his thigh. "Did this Italian fellow trade anything for the badge?"

  Alex turned, and took a scrimshaw box from a shelf. It was intricately carved with crashing waves and rising peaks.

  "How much?" Riot asked.

  The bell rang, and Riot nodded to the slick young man behind the counter. It wasn't Mr. Joy and it wasn't Nicholas.

  "What can I do for you, sir?"

  Riot searched the drugstore, worry niggling at his mind. "Is Mr. Nicholas in today?"

  "No, sir."

  "Is it his day off?"

  "No…" the man hesitated.

  "Has something happened?"

  The slick man nodded. "Mr. Joy said he needed a personal day." The assistant looked confused.

  "Has Nicholas ever taken one before?"

  "No, sir. Would you like me to get Mr. Joy?"

  Riot shook his head, turned and left. Had he misjudged the situation? Was Nicholas in danger? He hopped on the California cable car line and rode to Leavenworth. While it was still climbing, he stepped down and strode briskly towards Mr. Nicholas's home. The house seemed in order. He applied his stick to the door. No answer.

  Riot's hand flexed and tightened on the silver knob of his walking stick, thoughts racing to the difficult task of tracking down a missing man in a city of strangers. He could do it. He had done it before. But the end usually led to a corpse.

  Clenching his jaw, he hurried down the narrow path that led to the backyard. Relief washed over him. Nicholas was bent over his rose bushes, talking softly to the petals and stroking each one.

  "Nicholas."

  The sound of Riot's voice didn't faze the man. Riot neared. But it wasn't until his polished shoes invaded the young man's line of sight that Nicholas looked up. "Oh, Mr. Riot." Nicholas's gaze didn't reach past Riot's beard.

  "Are you well?"

  "Yes, fine," Nicholas said vaguely. "Everything is in order."

  "Is it?"

  "Mr. Joy gave me leave to clean my home. I suppose you've come for your payment," Nicholas said absently.

  "Nicholas," Riot said softly. "The case isn't over."

  Startled, the man looked up briefly. "It isn't?"

  "No."

  Nicholas ran a nervous hand through his hair. "But Mr. Joy said that the man only wanted to burgle my home. That's what the Watcher wanted, wasn't it? To rob me."

  "I don't think so. I think your stalker was searching your home. He thinks you have… something," Riot finished lamely.

  "Something?"

  "May we go inside?"

  Nicholas tucked away his clippers, and headed for the back door
. When Nicholas had said everything was in order, he hadn't been exaggerating. Riot stopped in the doorway. The kitchen sparkled. Every canister, every pot, every surface gleamed. But it wasn't just that—every item in the kitchen was uniform to the extreme.

  "By God," Riot murmured.

  Nicholas gave a little chuckle. "God didn't do this, Mr. Riot." He stood in the middle of his kitchen looking unsure and uncomfortable. "I'd offer tea, but I'm afraid with my…condition… it takes an unbearable amount of time for most people. Not that I've had many people for tea. I don't… have friends. Not for long, at any rate." Nicholas stumbled over the words. The longer Riot was present, the more anxious he appeared.

  "Did you look at the policeman who was here?"

  Nicholas shook his head. "I have… trouble. With faces… eyes mostly."

  "I thought as much." Riot fished inside his pocket, and placed Sarah's sketching under Nicholas's nose. "This is the policeman who was here."

  Nicholas took the sketching and laid it flat on his table. He sat down, straightened the edges, and placed his palms flat on either side of the paper. Riot watched Nicholas's eyes. Darting from line to line, tracing every curve and detail. A clock ticked from the hallway. Birds sang outside, and a fruit seller hauled his cart down the street, ringing a bell. And still Nicholas stared.

  "Do you recognize him?" Riot finally asked.

  "Who drew this?"

  "One of my daughters. Sarah." The foreign words had come so naturally that Riot felt like the world had tipped him over. He quickly pulled out a chair, and sat.

  "The detail is extraordinary. It's alive," Nicholas whispered.

  "I'll let her know," Riot said. "Do you know that man?"

  Nicholas twitched, brushing the air over the sketch. "He seems familiar."

  Given that the man had been in Nicholas's house and talked with him for considerable length, that came as no surprise. But then Nicholas had trouble looking at faces.

  Nicholas closed his eyes. He always sat with his spine perfectly straight and his shoulders square, but there was an unusual stiffness to the strange man. When Nicholas opened his eyes, he was positively energized. He shot out of the chair and rushed into the library.

  Riot found him running a finger over a long line of slim leather journals. They were all exactly the same size, and each was labeled in a tight script that looked painfully square. Nicholas selected a journal and flipped it open. He pointed to a grainy old photograph.

  "He's younger here, but that's the man in the drawing, isn't it?" Nicholas asked.

  Riot took the book from his hands, and studied the photograph. Two men in their twenties stood on a rocky shore. Each had a basket balanced on a shoulder and wore a shirt with a large pouch. Riot adjusted his spectacles, and leaned in closer. Eggs. Their shirts and baskets bulged with eggs.

  "This is my papou. Theodoros." Nicholas pointed to the second man in the photograph. "He died shortly after this photo was taken." Although younger, the first man was unmistakable: the wide set to his eyes, flat nose, and an expanse of forehead that had only been emphasized with age. The fake police officer, Mr. Jones.

  Riot flipped the photograph over. The sloppy cursive was faded with time, but still legible: Leonardo and Theodoros, 1862.

  "Eggers," Riot said.

  "That's right. Yiayia told me he collected eggs on the Farallones."

  Riot was familiar with the eggs. Having been born sometime in the late fifties or early sixties, he knew firsthand how scarce food was during the Gold Rush. Gold fever left little time for farming, and eggs were an expensive luxury. The Farallon islands had plenty of murres—a penguin-like bird. Blue-speckled eggs with deep red yolks and no whites—just clear and gelatinous. To a starving street orphan seeing those eggs was like seeing gold. When Riot first saw a chicken egg some years later, he hadn't known what it was.

  "Did they work for the Pacific Egg Company?" Riot asked.

  "I don't know. Wasn't that who collected the eggs?"

  "There were a number of independent entrepreneurs."

  "Yiayia didn't talk about my grandfather very often. He died so long ago."

  The edge of Riot's lip quirked. Time stretched on for the young, while it passed in a blink for the old.

  "Was your grandfather a scrimshander?"

  Nicholas stared at him.

  "A carver of scrimshaw?" Riot nodded towards Nicholas's cash box. It had been repaired with glue.

  "Oh, yes. How did you know?"

  "A popular pastime of sailors." Riot unwrapped a package in his hand. He placed the scrimshaw box on a table. "Does this look familiar?"

  Nicholas studied it, and then reached for his cash box. He compared the two for long minutes, and finally straightened. "The style is the same. Where did you find this?"

  "At a pawnshop. I think it's your grandfather's work. You're welcome to keep it."

  Nicholas sank into a chair. "I don't understand any of this."

  Riot tapped the sketch. "This man, your grandfather's partner in the photograph, isn't a policeman, Nicholas."

  "But he had a badge."

  "That badge belonged to an officer who died in a saloon brawl. I believe the man in uniform, Leonardo, who was waiting for you, was the same man who ransacked your home."

  Nicholas twitched, and instantly went about straightening his cuffs.

  "Nicholas." Riot touched his hand, drawing his gaze to his own. Nicholas stared at him with the same scrutiny he had examined Sarah's sketch. "The false policeman, Leonardo, ransacked your home because generally a person checks on what he values most. Leonardo wanted to see where you'd go."

  "Roses." Near to frantic, Nicholas jerked out of his chair.

  "No, Nicholas." But the man was single-minded, and he rushed to his backyard. Riot followed him and stood watching as he examined every petal, assuring himself that his roses were safe.

  "Will he come back for my roses?" There was a dangerous edge to the young man's voice.

  "I don't know what he'll do. Desperate men do desperate things. But I do know that he's looking for something." The question is, why now? And what?

  30

  The Devil’s Acre

  Atticus Riot walked bold as brass down the middle of Kearny. The fog had lifted around noon and hadn't returned, leaving the night warm and lively. Driven by heat, throngs of men poured into the Barbary Coast—sweaty, restless, and in the mood for pleasure.

  Young men ignored Riot, and oblivious gawkers paid him even less mind. But the regulars took note. It was the way he walked. He wasn't there to gawk, and he wasn't there for vice. To discerning residents that only meant one thing—he was a dangerous sort.

  Their wariness might have had something to do with the pint-sized man at his side. Wild white beard to match his blue eyes, gold teeth, and a strut born from the saddle. In the Barbary Coast, men got old by killing everyone else.

  Tim took a deep breath. "Ah, that air. Sweat, piss, and lust. Brings back memories."

  Riot glanced at the old man by his side. "Reminiscing about the good ol' days?"

  "They were, weren't they?"

  A tipsy young sailor staggered straight at the pair. A grin split the sailor's face, and Tim flashed his gold teeth. The sailor's eyes widened, and he tripped over his own feet. Tim picked the fellow from the ground, and sent him on his way with a pat on the back.

  "It's tamed down." Tim clucked his tongue at the fellow. "That boy would have been on his way to Shanghai by now."

  "The night is young."

  "Do you recall Big Louise?"

  Riot started in surprise. "I do. Did something happen to Miss Marshall?"

  "Last year it did. You know how she used to crush anyone who irritated her?"

  "I remember seeing you under three hundred pounds of her."

  Tim guffawed. "I should have given her a dollar for that."

  "You nearly suffocated, Tim."

  He tugged his beard. "I don't know about that. Cracked my back though. Needed it."
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  "Back to Miss Marshall."

  "Right. Well, last summer there was this dancing girl, Little Josie Dupree, lithe little thing, about the same size as Miss Bel. Big Louise and her had a falling out. So Big Louise grabbed her, as was her wont, hugged her to that bosom of hers, and fell on top."

  "A tried and true tactic of hers," he agreed.

  Tim nodded. "Only this time, the girl she tried to squash was a spry thing. She squirmed her way free, climbed up on Big Louise's back, and hit her over the head with a beer mug."

  Riot winced.

  "The physician had to shave off Big Louise's pride and joy—her blonde hair."

  "I do recall she was fond of that mane."

  "Fond is one word. She was so ashamed she never returned to the Eureka."

  "I sincerely hope Miss Marshall is living a quiet life in the country somewhere."

  Tim snorted. "I don't think Louise was ever quiet a day in her life."

  The edge of Riot's lip quirked. "San Francisco certainly knows how to make a woman."

  "Spirited and ornery as a virgin porcupine."

  A mass of men were gathered below a row of buildings known as Battle Row. They were gawking at the second story windows. One eager fellow gave a hoot and three others broke out of their trance to join the lines of men crowding into the bagnios, deadfalls, and cheap dance halls.

  Riot didn't look up. He knew what was there—windows without curtains, and a glimpse into the illuminated rooms of prostitutes. Mostly with their johns of the moment.

  He did, however, glance at the opening of a cavernous stairway. Men eyed him from beneath their low caps, and he stared boldly back. The Morgue—a den of macks, thieves, and drug addicts.

  A commotion, a shift in the crowd, and two women screamed profanity as they clawed at each other. The combatants tumbled into the street. As men gathered to watch the women fight, enterprising fingers dipped into careless pockets.

  Riot kept walking. And Tim cursed under his breath. "Idiots."

  Tim pulled Riot to a stop when he discerned their destination: The Strassburg. It was on the fringes of The Devil's Acre—the lowest of the low in the Barbary Coast. Red lanterns lit the recessed doorway, where a large bouncer stood with his arms crossed.