Record of Blood

by Sabrina Flynn

  “A touch of death,” she murmured in Cantonese. White was a mourning color in China.

  “Only a touch,” he said easily.

  “I was so worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye, Ling. I wasn’t quite recovered.”

  “But you are now?”

  “As much as any girl within these walls recovers.”

  She nodded with understanding. No more words needed saying.

  “Is Miss Cameron still here?”

  “Of course. She is the superintendent now.”

  “Not surprising at all.”

  Ling nodded. “Her blood is in these bricks.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same without her.”

  “No,” she agreed. “Did you hear about Miss Culberston?”

  “I’m afraid I did,” he said. “I was sorry to hear of her passing.” She had died in ninety-seven—nearly three years ago—from internal injuries. Years before, she had been kicked in the stomach by a rescued slave girl in a rage, and she never fully recovered. Riot couldn’t help but think about Isobel, and he swallowed down his worry, focusing on Ling’s next words.

  “It was a bad time for Miss Cameron—for all of us.”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked around the front hall. “I see life goes on?” Flowers filled the hall, along with red banners wishing fortune and happiness.

  Ling beamed. “It does.”

  “What’s the occasion?” he asked.

  A blush spread over her cheeks. “I’m getting married.”

  Riot blinked.

  “Next year. This was a celebration of the engagement. Will you…” she paused in thought. “What is the term? Give me away?”

  Riot’s throat caught.

  “That is the custom, I believe?”

  He could only nod.

  “It’s only that I wouldn’t be here without you, Mr. Riot. And…”

  “I’d be honored, Ling.”

  “It is fate. As it was before.”

  How many years had it been? She had been but a child when he’d helped her. Truth be told, she had rescued herself, and had run straight into a pair of policeman for help. Unfortunately, they had promptly seized her, and marched her straight back to the brothel and her keeper’s hands. It was mere luck that placed him in that alleyway, at that moment, and he had taken issue with the officers. Violent issue.

  “Is he a good man?”

  She smiled, showing off a pair of dimples. “He is. Miss Cameron is very careful when arranging marriages. He is a merchant from Sacramento. Very fine, and kind like you.”

  “I’m happy then.” There was an itch in the corner of his eyes, and he hastily removed his spectacles to wipe away the moisture as he followed Ling down a hallway.

  Miss Cameron had not changed in the three years since he’d seen her last. Although some of the steel in her spine now laced through her dark hair. It was strange to find her sitting behind the desk instead of Miss Culberston.

  “Atticus.” His name was a breath, and Miss Donaldina Cameron greeted him with open arms. He returned the embrace, and she stepped back, gripping his forearms to get a better look at him. “The beard suits you.”

  “Lends me some refinement?”

  She chuckled. “Definitely less wild looking.”

  “The last vestige of my youth,” he said with a sigh.

  “Somehow I doubt that… I heard you traversed the world.”

  “I did.”

  There was an appraising glint in her eye. “All things end at the beginning, it seems.”

  He expressed his condolences.

  “It was… difficult at first,” she admitted. “But we made it through with the Lord’s help. Margaret was ailing and in pain for a long while, but she’s at peace now.” Her eyes traveled upwards. “Looking down at us no doubt.”

  “I’m sure she’s pleased as ever with you.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she replied wryly. “You know I did some traveling of my own?” Donaldina glanced at her office. Little had changed since he was last there. The thick journal still sat on her desk. He suspected the names of hundreds more had been added in the years he had been gone. “But I couldn’t leave for good; I couldn’t abandon these girls—nor my calling.” Her hand strayed to the thick journal.

  “Admit it, Dolly, you were bored.”

  “It’s partially true,” she said with a laugh. “Never the same day twice.”

  “Would you like some tea?” Ling asked.

  “Please.”

  Ling hurried off, leaving the two alone.

  “Are you recovered from your injuries?” Donaldina’s gaze traveled to the white streak of hair slashing across his temple.

  “As much as I can be,” he admitted. “My memories have recently come back.”

  Her brows shot up. “Only recently?”

  He nodded. “I received a shock in the form of running into the hatchet man who shot me.”

  Donaldina sat down at her desk. Her hands flat on the top as if bracing herself for ill news. “Did he try to assassinate you again?”

  Riot shook his head, and gave her the facts.

  “Wong Kau,” she repeated, softly.

  “Have you heard of him?”

  “I have. He’s a notorious boo how doy. I wouldn’t be surprised if shooting you earned him a fair amount of prestige. Do you believe him?”

  “About Hip Yee not murdering Ravenwood?” Riot tapped his finger on the silver knob in thought. “I don’t know.”

  “Will he survive?”

  “He was alive this morning. He kept murmuring a woman’s name, Mei, over and over.”

  Donaldina turned in her chair, and rifled through a desk drawer. Her eyes were alight with surprise. When she found what she desired, she pushed a note across the desk. “I received this a few weeks ago.”

  Honored Jesus Woman,

  A concubine of Hip Yee leader is being held above store 929 Dupont Street. Mei. Please rescue.

  “Did you go?” Riot asked.

  “Of course I did.” Donaldina looked offended by any other idea. “But she wasn’t there.”

  “It could have been a trap.”

  “Every rescue could be my last,” she said. “The risk hasn’t stopped me before. But don’t worry—I took Sgt. Price.”

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t made lieutenant yet.” William Price was an outstanding officer on the Chinatown Police Squad when Riot had joined in on the raids three years before.

  “Oh, he was promoted to lieutenant in ninety-eight, then demoted back down to sergeant the following year, because he hadn’t ‘suppressed the Chinatown scandals yet.’”

  Riot sighed, and looked at the ceiling. “It appears the police commissioners haven’t changed, but I’m glad to hear he’s still in town.”

  “And he’s as determined as I am to stop the slave trade. I might be optimistic, but I think we might actually be making a dent.”

  “It’s that Scottish stubbornness in your blood.”

  “Defiant to the end,” she agreed.

  Riot glanced at the note. The hand was precise and careful, but unfortunately Mei was a common enough name. It might even be a milk name. Could this note have been about Sao Jin, and could the hatchet man have been sent to retrieve her? It was common for Chinese to have four or more names: an official name, a courtesy name, a nickname, a milk name, an American name, and a school name. One for every stage of life.

  “I do remember a girl by the name of Sao Jin—let me find it,” Donaldina murmured, as she flipped through her journal. “I suppose you saw the barbed-wire around the Quarter?”

  “I did.”

  Ling walked in with a tray, and poured three cups. Riot took the green tea with a murmured thanks, and she sat in the chair beside him.

  “Do you think it’s the plague?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Donaldina admitted. “The fellow they found was a bachelor living in the Globe Hotel on Dupont Street.”
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  Riot winced. It was a flophouse known as Five Stories that sheltered hundreds of workingmen in its cramped cells.

  “Rumor says it was the clap,” Donaldina said, without the flutter of a lash. Treating girls with venereal disease was an everyday occurrence at the mission.

  “There’s been many dead rats though,” Ling said.

  “There have,” Donaldina agreed. “An alarming number since January. The newest Consul, Ching Yen Fun, issued a complaint with the city, but as usual nothing was done.”

  “The coming of the devil of plague/Suddenly makes the lamp dim,/Thin it is blown out, Leaving man,/Ghost and corpse in the dark room,” Riot recited.

  Donaldina tilted her head in question.

  “The poet Shih Tao-nan. Rats are bad luck.”

  “Very bad,” Ling agreed.

  “Entire households will clear out at the sight of a dead rat in China, but in the Quarter, there’s nowhere to go,” Riot explained. Discrimination prevented Chinese from living anywhere but Chinatown.

  “Ironic that it’s the Year of the Rat. Although I try to enlighten the children, they are still superstitious.” She gave a pointed look at Ling.

  “This year has been horrible, Miss Cameron,” Ling defended. “Surely you cannot deny that?”

  “Coincidence does not equal bad luck,” Miss Cameron corrected. “But you’re right. I don’t know if you’ve kept up to date, Atticus, but the tong wars have been so brutal that the Police Department has canceled holiday celebrations. It’s been the quietest New Year since I’ve been here.”

  Riot frowned. The Lunar New Year was usually a festive celebration with fireworks and parades, heralding in a new year. It meant a lot to the Chinese—to the entire city, truth be told, with whites flocking to the streets to join in the festivities.

  An ill year indeed.

  “Let’s hope the city doesn’t panic and resort to burning down Chinatown, like what happened in Honolulu,” Riot said.

  Donaldina shook her head. “I can only pray. This current Consul General is a cunning man and a skilled diplomat. I can well imagine what’s been going on in the embassy. Meanwhile, half the city is without its workers—servants, cooks, launderers, childminders, delivery, grocers—all barred from going to work. I’m sure the Palace Hotel is in chaos.”

  San Francisco’s relationship with Chinatown was a long one, of both love and hate.

  “Here it is.” Donaldina turned the journal towards him, and stabbed a finger at an entry two years earlier. “Ah, yes. Sao Jin came here seeking refuge. She was a quiet thing, and save for her name we couldn’t get her to talk. I remember she had bruises on her cheek and eye—not nearly as bad as you’ve described. Her parents came with the police that very day, with a writ of habeas corpus and identity papers. I tried to hide her, of course, but the mother was particularly sharp-eyed, and they dragged her away.”

  “Were they her actual parents?” It was not uncommon for aunts, uncles, or neighbors to simply claim an orphaned child as their own.

  “I don’t know. I looked for the child, but never heard another word about her.” There was pain and regret in her eyes. Every failure bubbled over in her voice: every lost child, every death from the disease of a trade that had been forced upon the girls, and every long night spent beside a deathbed. “I’m glad you found her, although it sounds as if the years have not been kind.”

  “I remember her,” Ling said. “She stole apples from the pantry, and glared at everyone in the house. She punched one of the other girls, too.”

  “That hasn’t changed, at least,” Riot said.

  “Odd that she would turn up in Ocean Beach. Do you think that hatchet man abducted her, and she’s simply too frightened to leave him?”

  “We’re trying to find out. I hope she’ll be persuaded to talk.”

  “You will help her. I know,” Ling said, with a smile. “I can ask the new arrivals if they know of her, or this Mei.”

  Riot nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “And I’ll pass the word along to my informants. Maybe something will turn up. But be careful, Atticus. It sounds as if you’re climbing into a lion’s den again.”

  “I’ve been down there for some time.”

  “Then I’ll ask the Lord to shut their mouths,” Donaldina said.

  “I prefer my No. 3.”

  She smiled. “I’ll pray all the same.

  The door to Ravenwood Agency was unlocked. Riot entered, expecting to find Montgomery Johnson in a chair, sleeping; instead, Matthew Smith sat dutifully at his desk. His blond hair was neatly combed, and he was freshly shaven and bright-eyed. The ex-patrolman wrote carefully, his tongue (Riot was amused to see) protruding slightly from his lips. A sure sign of absolute focus.

  Smith glanced up, and quickly laid down his pen to stand at near attention.

  “At ease,” Riot said dryly. The younger detective cleared his throat, and appeared to make an effort to relax. “How is Mrs. Artells?”

  “Everything seemed fine, sir.”

  “Call me, A.J. I’m not your commanding officer.”

  “Right, er—A.J.” The name appeared to make him uncomfortable.

  “‘Mr. Riot’ works, too.”

  Smith looked relieved. “I beat Mr. Artells back to the cabin, and kept a lookout from when he first arrived. Everything seemed quiet and amiable. No shouting. I could see them talking at the table in the kitchen. They were holding hands. Mrs. Artells was humming the next morning, and they went for a picnic and swim—all very romantic.”

  “Is it?” Riot asked.

  The question gave Smith pause. “I think so. Women like that sort of thing, don’t they?”

  “Some women.” Riot placed his hat on its hook, and frowned. Had Isobel enjoyed their afternoon swim? She had not seemed particularly moved. Relaxed, yes. Enjoying herself, definitely. But what stirred her passions?

  His thoughts drifted back to Isobel earlier that morning—and lingered there. The feel of her in his arms, the smell of soap on her skin, waking up beside her. If he had dallied a moment longer, he would have roused her in quite a different manner. But this was not casual. He didn’t want to rush things—not with her. She was not a bored divorcee, or an independent widow looking for a charming bedmate. This was—

  “Should I not have left, sir?”

  “What?” Riot pulled his mind back into focus.

  “The Artells,” Smith said. “Should I not have left?”

  “No, that was fine. It sounds as if Mr. Artells behaved himself. Any luck on locating Mrs. Parks?”

  “Who?”

  Riot stopped in the middle of hanging up his coat. “Didn’t Monty tell you?”

  “No.”

  He sighed.

  Smith shifted on his feet. “Monty told me to watch the office because he was on a case. There’s some messages on your desk.”

  Riot walked towards his office, and Smith raised his voice from the other room. “That Kingston fellow keeps calling. He won’t talk to me on account of me being an imbecile.” Alex Kingston had not developed a high opinion of Monty and Smith during the investigation into his missing wife.

  “Noted.” Riot closed the door, and turned to the stack of papers. He shuffled through the mess on his desk: case notes, telegrams, messages from reporters requesting an interview with Sarah. But there was no message from Monty. Riot had an overwhelming need to discover what had become of Abigail Parks.

  Feeling sentimental? Ravenwood asked.

  “I thought you left.” He didn’t look up, didn’t want to know if he’d see a phantom, or some mental conjuring of his madness sitting in the chair across.

  Isobel deserved better than an old man with a ghost on his heels.

  I’m observing your blundering investigation, his dead partner said.

  “Perhaps you should contribute,” he said sharply.

  Ah, my boy, you know why I can’t. I’m the scratch in that skull of yours; the niggling thorn prickling your thoughts
. Ravenwood lengthened every word, drawing out each syllable with a click of teeth.

  Are you running from that intriguing woman?

  “I am not,” he said.

  You confided in her, shared your bed, and now you’re here.

  “I’m trying to discover who killed you.”

  Ah.

  The sound was irritating. Riot looked up, but the chair across the desk was empty. Still, he asked the question plaguing his mind. “What were you doing while I was handling the Quarantine Scandal?”

  No answer. Of course not. Before his wounded mind decided to conjure a pink elephant, Riot picked up the telephone receiver and pressed the lever. “The Law Offices of Alex Kingston.”

  Minutes passed, and questions grew. What had Ravenwood meant when he mentioned another possibility? The man had had enough research projects for two lifetimes. He’d kept meticulous notes with which to dispute the findings of ‘incompetent’ criminalists in the rising field of forensics (which had been most everyone in Ravenwood’s opinion).

  Riot had been assuming that his partner was doing what he always did. But what if Ravenwood’s death had nothing to do with the tongs? What if someone just wanted him out of the way, and used the tongs as a scapegoat? The way Timothy Seaward used the missions and tongs as cover to carry out his hellish bloodlust. The city itself did that very same thing—politicians blamed the Quarter for disease, crime, and the loss of every white man’s job. But who else would have killed Ravenwood, and why?

  “Riot.” A sharp, deep voice crackled down the line. He tried not to think of this brute of a man blackmailing Isobel into his bed. Riot swallowed down that cold rage, and buried it deep, like any skilled gambler.

  “Kingston,” he said easily. “I hear you’re looking for me.”

  “I have a job for you. Artells told me he was pleased with your work. A shame you couldn’t find my wife in time.” Straight to the point.

  “You don’t sound like a man wanting to hire me,” Riot said.

  Kingston grunted. “I like you. You don’t back down.”

  He has no idea, Ravenwood said, with a rasping chuckle.