Where Cowards Tread (Ravenwood Mysteries #7)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Priber shook his head. “No. They cleaned up, and left it for him.”

  “Did he have any belongings? Clothing? Boxes? Furniture?” Matthew asked.

  Priber shook his head. “The place was empty.”

  “Did they lock the backdoor?”

  “I’m sure they did,” Priber said, taking care not to look at his superior.

  Isobel was sure the man didn’t know.

  They got nowhere else with their line of questioning. And they learned nothing more from the Golden West Hotel. San Francisco was transient. People came and went, some stayed and some didn’t. What was one more man coming in from the countryside?

  “We could check the Call to see who placed the wanted ad,” Matthew said, as they stood on a street corner. The suggestion broke Isobel from her thoughts. She looked up, half surprised to find Matthew standing there instead of Riot.

  “I mean… not you. I could go in.” Color rose in his cheeks. “Sorry, Mrs. Riot, I forgot about that bad business there.” He left the words hanging.

  “Considering how I left, it might be amusing to walk back into the building.” Bruised, battered, and about to be arrested. “But no… I wonder if any of Mack’s friends visited him in recovery.”

  “I just saw him yesterday. And I’m sure others did before me,” Matthew said. “The way he talks he was well liked at the Call.”

  The edge of her lip quirked. “Mack would claim a hangman loved him.”

  The county hospital was overcrowded, as usual, so Isobel didn’t bother checking in. Matthew appeared flustered as she walked by the desk and headed for the recovery ward.

  “Shouldn’t we check in?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Why? They’ll just send us to his bed.”

  “But the nurses. And what if a doctor notices us just wandering about?”

  Isobel tossed an amused glance at the man. “Are you worried they’ll hold you down and force a urinary catheter on you?”

  Matthew’s mouth worked. He had the most unforgiving color. Then he closed his mouth, and set his jaw in what Isobel was beginning to think of as his “patrolman’s face.” He wore a bowler and suit, but it seemed to transform into a uniform with the strength of his posture.

  “Relax. I’ll handle it.”

  Isobel led the way through twisting corridors to the recovery ward. The desk nurse on duty was busy with a patient, so Isobel walked past her to the bed where she had last seen Mack.

  A man with a broken arm lay there. She spotted the black-haired nurse Mack had been making eyes at.

  “Miss?”

  The woman looked up from the bed she was changing. “Yes?”

  “Your patient, Mack McCormick, did he go home?”

  The woman’s face fell. “Are you a relation?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “I’m his niece.”

  Matthew made a strangled noise behind her.

  The rest was a blur—hushed voices, a white-coated doctor, words of condolences.

  Blood sepsis.

  Mack had not gone home.

  For the second time in a week, Isobel found herself in a morgue. She stared down at the big Scotsman on the table. His crooked nose, his reddish hair, his face devoid of humor.

  “Does he have family?” a voice asked.

  Isobel shook herself from a daze. Matthew repeated the question.

  “I don’t know,” she heard herself saying. “I don’t even know where he lives… lived.”

  Mack had been fine last week.

  Isobel turned to the nurse. “I don’t understand. He was on the mend. He was up and talking and laughing—”

  “Infection, Miss. I’m sorry.”

  “But I visited him on Tuesday. He was in recovery.” There was a quiver in her voice.

  “And I was here yesterday,” Matthew said with an unsteady voice. “He was up and walking around and talking about being discharged.”

  The nurse spoke words of comfort, explanations about a weakened liver, but Isobel only half heard. She lifted the sheet to inspect his gunshot wound. Fluid seeped from it.

  “He did seem fine,” the nurse said. “But blood sepsis… I’ve seen it kill a man in half a day. It only takes a bit of cloth left in the wound. He was up and about, then he got fever and chills. Lost consciousness. If it helps… I don’t think he suffered much.”

  “Was anyone with him?” Matthew asked.

  “Why yes, just before he fell ill,” the nurse smiled at Matthew. “An older woman came to visit—a reporter, he said, from the Call. Sharpe, I think. And then a black-haired man with a white streak at his temple came first thing this morning. He paid for his funeral and said he’d look for his next of kin.”

  Isobel looked up at the last. “Riot was here?”

  “I think that was his name. He was a real gentleman.”

  Isobel sucked in a sharp breath. “Thank you.” She touched Mack’s cold hand for a moment, before hurrying towards fresh air.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Riot?” Matthew asked as she waved down a hack.

  “Stop calling me that. Isobel will do.”

  “Doesn’t change my question,” he said.

  “Riot was here. He saw Mack.”

  “And?” Matthew wore a look of utter confusion.

  Isobel turned to her bodyguard. “Monty Johnson arranged the attack on the agency.”

  Matthew blinked. His mouth worked. “He wouldn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t he?”

  “But why?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is Riot knows, and I fear he’ll do something rash now that Mack is dead.”

  Matthew hopped to open the carriage door for her. “Mr. Riot do something rash?” he asked climbing in after her. “I doubt that.”

  Isobel shot him a look. “You don’t know my husband very well.”

  Ravenwood Agency looked like a charred brick. The windows were boarded up, the brick blasted by dynamite. Chunks were missing, and the door didn’t hang quite right. There wasn’t even a sign. The building mirrored Isobel’s current mood—battered from all sides. It certainly sounded like it was being battered from the inside. A symphony of hammers played.

  She pushed open the door, and it fell off the hinges. Matthew stepped up to right it, and she stood in the empty barroom, surprised. The debris was gone, the floor swept clean, and despite a patch of char, the office was relatively unscathed. A single table and two chairs had survived the attack, and Mack’s fern. Lotario, as dapper as could be, sat at the table with Tim. The two men were supervising an army of workers, while sipping wine poured from an obscenely expensive bottle.

  Miss Lucky Off sat on the bar by the telephone, her bare feet knocking on the side, as she smoked a pipe and let her rat drink from her wine glass.

  The workers all looked like cousins of Lotario’s bodyguard Bruno at the Narcissus. When Isobel entered, the hammering stopped, and the laborers paused to remove their caps.

  “Well, if it ain’t the hussy,” Lucky said.

  Isobel ignored the woman.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked her twin.

  He raised a glass to her. “Celebrating. Why don’t you gentlemen take a break.”

  “Yes, sir.” The men filed out, lunch boxes in hand.

  “Celebrating what?” she asked.

  “My new business venture.”

  “And what is that?” she asked slowly, glancing at Tim.

  The old man looked pleased with himself. And slightly tipsy.

  “I bought into a detective agency,” Lotario said. “Thirty percent, to be exact.”

  “We needed capital,” Tim said.

  “Not only is Mr. Amsel the better looking of the twins, he’s also keener,” Lucky noted.

  Isobel’s head hurt. “So you talked with Riot this morning? He came by?”

  “Well, no,” Tim said. “I didn’t exactly run it by him, but…”

  “I have an accountant,” Lotario said.

  “So no
one has seen Riot today?” Isobel demanded.

  Tim shook his head. There was something in her tone. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Mack is dead,” she said. “Sepsis.”

  Tim sucked in a breath. Lucky’s smug face fell. And into the ensuing silence, Lotario set down his glass and went to her, his fingers brushing hers.

  “I’m sorry to hear,” he said.

  Tim sighed. “It’s a dangerous business.”

  “Do you know where Monty is?” Isobel asked.

  Tim shook his head. “Haven’t found him yet. He’s gone from his lodging house. What are you thinking?”

  “That Riot’s looking for him.”

  The significance wasn’t lost on Tim.

  “Did you try his boxing club?” the question came from the woman on the bar. “I heard him ringing it up one day.”

  “Where is it?” Isobel asked.

  Lucky glanced at her nails, and sniffed. “Well, now. Look who needs my help.”

  “Mack is dead because of Monty,” Isobel said.

  Lucky cut off. “The Den, down by the warehouses.”

  34

  The Den

  The day began to wear on Riot. Hours had bled away, and a cool anger was the only thing that kept him going as he searched Monty’s haunts.

  Mack was dead. His agent. Gunned down like a dog for no good reason. Killed by one of their own.

  Eventually, Riot found his agent at The Den—a boxing club in a run-down warehouse district of Mission Bay. The gymnasium was full of half-clad toughs with bloody fists, but Monty stood out for his height and build. He was stripped down to his suspenders and undershirt. The shirt was soaked with sweat, and he smoked a cigar as he unwound the wraps from his fists. An opponent still sat stunned and battered in the ring.

  “You get lost on the way to that fancy fencing club of yours?” Monty asked as Riot approached.

  “Only looking for my wayward agent.”

  Monty glanced up from his wraps, the leather dangling from his wrists. “I’m not your goddamn agent anymore.”

  “I wasn’t aware you quit.”

  Monty plucked the cigar from his lips. “You’re a detective. I knew you’d figure it out sooner or later. Now unless you’re willing to get in that ring with me, I have better things to do.”

  Riot watched two men sparring in a practice ring. The coach stood nearby, hollering instructions as flesh pounded flesh. “I hear you joined the Pinkertons.”

  The Pinkertons were a quality detective service, but they were also in deep with the Big Four railroad tycoons. Pinkertons were strike-breakers, bodyguards, and lately, the personal detective agency of the railways. In some states they were regarded as little more than hired thugs. There were good and bad in the agency, and those in-between, just like in the police force.

  Riot hadn’t always agreed with their tactics. He was no saint himself, but shooting hard-working men trying to better their working conditions had never sat well with him.

  “A man can move up there,” Monty said. “And I don’t have to answer to a smart-mouthed bitch.”

  “This has nothing to do with my wife.”

  “Funny how you assume I was referring to Mrs. Riot. Did she give you permission to be here, A.J.? Never thought I’d see you so whipped.”

  “Whatever this is… it’s about you and me.”

  “You came all the way out here because I didn’t show up to work?”

  “The agency was attacked. Mack is dead.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Are you?”

  “He was all right,” Monty said, smiling around his cigar. “You accusing me of something, A.J.?”

  “I think it coincidental that you took up with the Pinkertons the day Ravenwood Agency was attacked.”

  “Coincidence is a bitch. I needed the money without the hassle of scraping to that ball and chain of yours, and writing goddamn reports for you.”

  “I also think it interesting that a group of drunks were hired to start a fight three blocks away from the agency by a man who fits your description—a man who was seen with the Pinkertons.”

  Monty smirked. “Seems I have a twin.”

  “Alex Kingston has a grudge against Bel and me the size of Texas. He was once attorney to the Southern Pacific railroad, and the Pinkertons are in deep with them. I’d say that all adds up.”

  “Here’s the thing, A.J.” Monty sucked in a breath of his cigar, savoring the moment. “I don’t work for you anymore. I don’t have to listen or answer to your shit.” He blew a cloud of smoke into Riot’s face. It took Riot straight back to his boyhood, to a run-down room and the line of men reeking of tobacco who came to use his mother.

  Riot snapped. He punched Monty square—a mean left hook that flung the cigar from his lips. Monty staggered, but kept his feet. Then he charged. There was no finesse, only pure rage. Riot was rammed against a punching bag, but it gave. He hit the ground, Monty on top, and quickly brought up the knob of his stick. It clipped Monty under the jaw. He fell back, stunned.

  Riot got to his feet, ready for another charge.

  “Hoy!” a gruff voice shouted as Monty rose in a crouch. “Take it into the ring.”

  Monty wiped blood from his mouth. “You going to shoot me, A.J.? Isn’t that what you’re good at. Too yellow to fight like a gentleman.”

  “A gentleman? You’re one to talk, Monty. You were too cowardly to try and kill me yourself. Instead you hired a group of sloppy thugs.”

  The boxing coach got between them, hands spread. He pointed to Riot’s shoulder holster. “Either leave now or get into that ring.”

  Every eye was on the pair.

  Monty spat. “He doesn’t have the balls to get into a ring with me.”

  Riot ripped off his spectacles, and tossed them onto a mat, before shrugging out of his coat. He unbuckled his holster, handed it to a gnarled old man, and rolled up his cuffs. He climbed into the ring with his ex-agent.

  The moment Riot cleared the ropes, Monty struck. It was a ferocious volley, barefisted and brutal. Riot got his forearms up, dancing to the side, keeping clear of the corners. Riot stayed out of reach, but Monty didn’t care about defense. He was on the attack.

  Riot ducked under a punch, and drove his fist into the man’s ribs. Quick on his feet, he was gone before Monty recovered, adding a second blow to the man’s kidney.

  Monty grunted. Riot danced forward, throwing two quick jabs. Monty absorbed the blows, and struck with a volley of his own. Riot deflected with his forearms, but there was power in those punches—power that shook Riot’s bones.

  They exchanged blows for a long three minutes. Ducking, dodging, slipping to the side, fists connecting with flesh, neither gaining the upper hand. Monty had all the advantage: size, reach, and speed. But Riot was quick and calculating, and calm. For every blow Monty landed, Riot landed three.

  Sweat and blood dampened Riot’s shirt. Monty was breathing hard, but Riot was only just winded. If he could just wear him down… Where was the bell? It was a distant thought, as Riot ducked under a massive fist.

  Monty drove him towards the ropes with another volley, then abandoned all pretense of boxing and charged. The large man slammed Riot into the ropes, and drove his head down on his.

  Riot heard a crack. Felt it down to his toes. His vision blurred, and spots danced across his eyes as a flurry of fists pounded his head, ribs and stomach. Riot tensed his muscles as he tried to slip free of the ropes.

  There was no bell. No call to break it up. This was no match.

  Numb to the beating now, Riot waited, grunting as a fist connected with his stomach, then came up towards his face. Riot struck, a quick jab that connected with Monty’s underarm. It shocked the man, enough for Riot to stagger away.

  Dazed and stumbling, he coughed out a mouthful of blood, and tried to shake the spots from his eyes, blinking rapidly.

  Monty swam into view. “That’s all you got?” He didn’t wait for Riot to answer. Mon
ty threw a wild, powerful hook. Riot stepped into it, lessening the force, and drove a fist into Monty’s sternum.

  Monty’s blow connected at the same time. It knocked Riot’s head to the side, blood flew, but he kept his feet. Monty stumbled backwards, trying to catch his breath, and Riot shook himself, pressing the attack. Quick and light, he jabbed at face, stomach, ribs until Monty slumped against the ropes. Riot didn’t back off. It was a mistake.

  Monty abandoned all semblance of a fair fight. He caught Riot in a powerful bear hug that threatened to crush his ribs, and used his superior weight and height to slam Riot to the mat. It knocked the wind right out of him.

  Lungs burning, Riot scrambled towards the opposite side and slithered under the ropes, falling to the floor. But when he tried to rise, a foot slammed into his ribs. Riot fell, gasping. Then a volley of blows came down on his face.

  Every pounding fist came from far away. Numb. Riot seemed to watch from high above as some stranger was beaten to a pulp below. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a bell dinged. Two men pulled Monty off Riot. Dazed and delirious, blinking frantically, he tried to stand, but his limbs weren’t working. The room was a blur, spinning, tumbling, falling.

  “Looking for these?” a voice asked.

  Riot lay on his back, trying to focus on the man, but there were a multitude of him, all holding a pair of spectacles. A moment later, Monty dropped the spectacles and stomped his foot. Glass crunched.

  The knob of Ravenwood’s walking stick caught Riot under the chin, forcing his eyes up. Monty’s battered face swam into view. “Your problem has always been that you don’t know when to quit. You pissed off some powerful men, A.J. That’s how this world works.” Monty leaned closer, nearly whispering in his ear. “You ever stop to think that I might have been trying to save your arrogant ass?”

  Riot coughed, blood spraying on Monty’s face.

  “You stay away from your betters, and keep away from me.”

  Monty’s scarred knuckles were the last thing Riot saw.

  35

  Rock Bottom