Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  "All I did was tell him about the horse."

  "After someone instructed you to help him lose."

  Silence. Frederick's gaze settled on the tooth in front of him.

  "Andrew Ross," she said the name abruptly.

  Frederick licked his lips. It confirmed her suspicion.

  "He wasn't killed in a robbery. He ran afoul of powerful men." It was a boldfaced lie. Andrew Ross was killed by a hatchet man in a completely unrelated incident. But she wanted him wondering if those same powerful men were in the room with her listening.

  "What did Andrew Ross tell you to do?" she asked.

  "Just like you said. He wanted me to steer Walker towards a bad bet. It wasn't difficult. I tipped him off with a few bankers, and then when he was oiled up, I set him up with a loser."

  "What did you get out of it?"

  "A cut of cash. A whole heap more than if I'd steered him towards a banker."

  She toyed with the red token in her hand. "That would be a mighty tick against your reputation, Freddy. No betting man would trust your judgment after a sour bet that large. What else did you get out of the deal?"

  "Money's not enough?" he shot back.

  Isobel flicked her fan against his other ear, but he only shifted slightly. She was losing her advantage.

  Isobel tossed the token on the table in front of him. "Tell me about that."

  "It's a faro token."

  "Andrew Ross carried the same one. So did Lee Walker."

  "Maybe we all play faro?"

  He was lying. There was too much coincidence surrounding that token. "I think you should tell me the whole story or I'll send a note informing Parker Gray that you've been talking."

  "I haven't told you anything!" That threat had burrowed under his skin.

  "Exactly," she purred in his ear. "But I already know enough to sign your death certificate. I'll pin enough on you that Gray will begin to have his doubts."

  He laughed, nervously. "Nice bluff."

  "I know Andrew Ross wasn't killed in an alley. I know you conned Lee Walker. I know Parker Gray has an interest in Vincent Claiborne. Why?"

  "I don't know!"

  "Who is Lincoln Howe?"

  "I don't know," he hissed. "You know more than me. Look, Ross asked me to steer Lee Walker wrong. I told him no—that my reputation was at stake. But it was quick cash, and he flashed that token there. He said it would open all kinds of doors for me."

  "Has it?"

  Frederick nodded. "I'm in with a higher class of crowd. At The Palm—everywhere I go I have connections. Men with money use me as their bookie. Gray said I can cash the token in for a favor, too."

  "What kind of favor?"

  "I don't know precisely."

  "How do you know where to show the token?"

  "It's casual," he said. "I just keep it in my palm when I give a fellow my card. It doesn't mean a thing to someone who isn't savvy."

  "Who will do you a favor?"

  "I don't know. But this thing—this token—it's bigger than Parker Gray."

  Those words stopped her dead. Her thoughts raced. They raced so far that she barely noticed Frederick was trying to work his way free. She let him struggle. Sailors never tied a shoddy knot. When perspiration broke on his brow, she slipped her closed fan under his chin, and raised it, speaking into his ear. "If I were you, Freddy, I'd take your cash and find somewhere to keep low for a while."

  5

  A Long Night

  The Gambler had two coins and a pair of gold cufflinks left to his name. And a hat. It was new, and brushed to perfection. A flaw of ego in an otherwise flawless act.

  —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  THE MORNING CALL NEVER slept. Nights, even on a Sunday, were a chaotic dash fueled by coffee and cigarettes. But a deadline hardly kept a room full of men from noticing a whore. As Isobel walked through the bullpen, a sea of eyes followed her.

  "How was whoring?" Mack asked when she stopped at his desk.

  "Productive."

  "Isn't it always? Did you find anything I can use?"

  She shook her head. "Nothing you'd want to use, Mack. Trust me."

  He smashed a cigarette into its tray. "This is a dead-end story."

  "Did you talk with Ross's friend, William Punt?"

  "I did. Same story I've been getting all over. Andrew Ross disappeared for a few days. The last anyone saw of him was at the tracks or at The Palm. He left for home, and that was that. Far as I can tell, that creepy fellow, Mr. Sims in the morgue, is just spinning a story about the body being moved."

  "Whatever you make of it," she said. "What did you say to Punt?"

  Mack narrowed his eyes. "Now that's an odd question, Charlie. Most would ask what he said. Is he involved with whatever is going on?"

  A fellow reporter stopped typing and cocked an ear towards them in the noisy place. Isobel glared at the man, and leaned in closer to Mack. "As I said, he's dangerous. I'd rather not find you rotting in an alleyway."

  "I could help you more if I knew what was going on."

  "I don't know what's going on yet."

  "I told Punt the same story as I told Freddy after you threw me over for him."

  "Did Punt buy it?"

  "How the hell should I know? All I got out of him was that Andrew Ross was a fine pugilist and he'd enjoyed sparring with him. He seemed surprised when I told him the body was moved."

  "Mack, I told you not to let on anything that you know."

  He lifted a shoulder. "How else am I going to justify questioning? I asked if Ross might have run afoul of any prize-fighters or creditors. He told me he didn't know. All the same, I'm dropping this. It's not gettin' me anywhere."

  Isobel nodded. It was for the best. But her lack of protest raised his suspicions. "You want me to drop it. Don't you?"

  "Now, yes." The key to this mystery was the red token; she needed to find out more. Who, what, why? It was no coincidence that Lee Walker, Freddy, and Andrew Ross all carried one. She'd wager every penny in her purse that the brick building run by Parker Gray was connected with The Palm saloon.

  Mack sat back, and crossed his massive arms over his chest. He looked like a petulant child. "I can take care of myself."

  "Bull-headedness won't stop a well-aimed bullet."

  "I once knew a fellow who caught a bullet between his teeth." When the toothy grin he offered failed to elicit a chuckle, he checked his watch. "How 'bout we have a proper dinner?"

  "I'm not hungry."

  "You sure? I hear whoring works up quite an appetite."

  "Did you happen to discover where Andrew Ross lived? And William Punt?"

  "Dinner first."

  "I can find out myself," she said.

  "Oh, come on, Charlie. I took you to a prize fight. I don't even get a kiss?"

  "You already stole a kiss."

  "All part of the act."

  "We're associates, Mack, not lovers."

  "But you're interested. Why else did you practically beg me to take you to the prize fight?"

  "For a story."

  "Look, you don't need to work anymore. I'll look after you. It's plain as day you're a soiled dove in need of a caring man."

  "Oh, am I?"

  "'Course you are. Why else would a woman be a reporter?"

  "Because we enjoy using our brains."

  "You have brains?"

  Isobel ground her teeth together. And then all at once, Mack started laughing. He sounded like a braying donkey blowing a trumpet.

  He wiped a tear from his eye. "If you're going to goad me, you'd best take it in return."

  "Fair enough." She grinned. "You had me."

  "I'd like to have more of you." He winked. But it was playful rather than leering, and she took it in good stride. Not that she doubted he'd turn down an invitation.

  "Why'd you go off with that Brit?"

  "I'm a soiled dove, remember. He was flush with cash."

  He blew a breath past his mustache. "If that's all it takes,"
he muttered.

  "Even though I found you a story, I'm too expensive for your pocket."

  "I'll sell my gold tooth."

  "Desperation is unbecoming, Mack. The addresses," she reminded.

  Mack reached for a pen and paper, and scribbled the information down. But before she could get a glimpse of it, he took the slip of paper away. "Promise me you won't go alone."

  "I won't." Charlotte Bonnie wouldn't go alone, but that didn't mean Isobel Kingston wouldn't.

  "Bonnie!" The bellow came from the hallway that led to the editor's office. "Mr. Spreckles wants to see you."

  Isobel arched a brow.

  "You can bunk with me if you get the axe." Mack raised his brows twice.

  "Remember, I'm too pricey."

  Isobel walked towards the editor's office with more curiosity than dread. She could always find another job. During the two years she had roamed Europe without a chaperone, she'd never wanted for food.

  Isobel made opportunities; she didn't wait for them to find her.

  A blond-haired man with a walrus mustache sat behind a desk. The wood gleamed with polish, and a crystal ashtray held down a neat stack of papers. The man took in her finery in silence. Finally, his gaze settled on her eyes.

  She thrust out a hand. "Charlotte Bonnie. We haven't met, sir."

  "J.D. Spreckles." The editor shook her hand. Direct and strong, she made sure to return the gesture with equal strength. Newspapermen didn't appreciate a wilting flower. Editors wanted females they could send into a madhouse, or around the world—a woman game for stunt reporting. "I hear you cover the detective Atticus Riot."

  "On occasion." Mostly mid-mornings, she thought. He covered her, too.

  "Then you know him?"

  "I do."

  "I want you to get an interview. He's refused to talk with anyone."

  Isobel cocked her head. "Has something happened?"

  Spreckles regarded her severely. "How the devil don't you know?"

  "Another story has me occupied."

  "Well, this isn't a society soiree, Bonnie. I'd rather send one of my top reporters, but this detective is reticent."

  Isobel bit back a retort, took a breath, and said it anyway. "If your 'top reporter' can't get the story, then perhaps you should reassess his position."

  Spreckles raised his brows, and then broke into a low chuckle. "Maybe you're right."

  But the minor victory felt hollow in her gut. She was cold, and a dread caught in her throat. "What happened?" she asked.

  Spreckles plucked a paper from the stack, and slid it towards her. "He shot and killed a man this morning. The inquest is tomorrow."

  The ground dropped from beneath her feet.

  ✥

  With a trembling hand, Isobel slid her key into the front door, and hurried into the foyer of Sapphire House. She needed to change into suitable clothing to search for Riot. A number of telephone calls had informed her that he wasn't in the city jail, but neither was he at Ravenwood Manor nor in his office.

  A pit had opened in her belly. She felt hollow, like a drifting sort of apparition. Reason told her that Riot was alive and well, and the inquest only a formality, but love—that irrational, irritating state—made her drop her keys in the foyer.

  A curly-haired woman scuttled out of her hole as Isobel bent to retrieve the keys. Mrs. Beeton walked right past Isobel, and applied her pristine rag to the door handle.

  "Evening, Mrs. Beeton."

  "Eight fifty-six," the landlady muttered. Narrow-sighted and single-minded, the woman didn't spare Isobel's silks and décolletage a single glance when she'd finished polishing the knob. Instead, her eyes sharpened on Isobel's costume jewelry. She admired it, and offered to polish the pieces.

  Isobel extracted herself from the woman's beady eyes. "Perhaps later."

  "They're fakes, you know," Mrs. Beeton huffed. Offended by the notion, she turned to a grandfather clock to begin her ritual winding.

  Isobel lifted her skirts, and bolted up the stairway. One of the many benefits of rooming at Sapphire House was a landlady who noticed only jewelry and time. Mrs. Beeton also believed that the room Isobel had rented was cursed (more than one occupant having died in it) and let it out for a fraction of the going rate. It fit nicely with Isobel's pocketbook.

  As she inserted her key into the lock, her mind raced with possibilities. Had Riot murdered Jim Parks outright, or had it been in self-defense? She made a sound of frustration as her key scraped against brass. Where was he?

  The door next to hers was wrenched open, and a tall, skeletal man with a mop of curly gray hair stepped into the hallway. His old-fashioned frock coat was patched in many places, and he had ink stains on his long fingers. His bushy brows drew together.

  She nodded in greeting. "Mr. Crouch."

  "I will not tolerate your noisy clients, Miss Bonnie."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  He gestured sporadically at her person.

  Isobel glanced down. "Oh, yes, of course. Not to worry, I keep them gagged."

  "Try not to stink up the place when you die," he snarled, and stalked over to the railing. "Mrs. Beeton!"

  With more important things on her mind than what fresh offense the landlady had committed, Isobel stepped into her rooms and shut the door. She reached for the gas lamp, but froze. Moonlight streamed through a crack between curtains, illuminating a shadow. The intruder rose smoothly. She tensed, but a shift of light betrayed a hint of silver near the man's eyes.

  All the worry and dread rushed from her bones. It left her unsteady. To buy herself time, she struck a match, and when she spoke her voice was light. "Just the man I wanted to see after a day of whoring."

  The mantle caught in the lamp, and warmth flooded her room. Atticus Riot opened his mouth, but whatever he had been about to say died on his lips. He blinked at her dress.

  At another time she might have laughed at his surprise. But not today. Relief drove her into his arms. His beard tickled her cheek, and she savored the scent of him: wool and silk, and a hint of sandalwood and myrrh.

  "I thought I had the wrong room for a moment," he whispered in her ear.

  Isobel pulled back to meet his eyes. They were warm and calm, and she felt as if she were falling. To steady herself, she glanced around her room. It was filled with wigs, racks of disguises, trunks, bladed instruments, and a narrow bed stuffed into the corner. "Unlikely," she said dryly. "Are you all right?" Even as the words left her lips, her fingers slipped beneath his coat, probing for wounds.

  "I suppose you heard."

  "Some of it. I was occupied elsewhere."

  "Whoring?"

  "I've certainly had my fill of men trying to kiss me today."

  Riot brushed a thumb over her lips.

  "You have gunpowder stains on your fingers," she noted absently.

  "Can we talk about that later?" he murmured.

  "You'll have to distract me."

  "I thought you'd had your fill of men trying to kiss you."

  "Not you." She removed his spectacles. "Never you," she breathed.

  He was alive and well, and she needed to feel him.

  Isobel ran her fingers over his beard, and he covered her hand with his own, turning it to bury his nose in her palm. Riot closed his eyes and breathed her in, then pulled her close and kissed her, gently at first.

  Riot was all passion wrapped in control, a calm sea she loved to agitate. He opened his eyes. May I? Always a silent inquiry. She savored the moment before he gave into desire. It was irresistible.

  When she ran her nails down his neck in answer, his control snapped. His lips came down on hers, and she threw herself into his advance. She ripped away his stiff collar, tore through his waistcoat and shirt, searching for the heat of his flesh. When she found it, she pressed her lips against his throat, and brushed her fingers over his ribs.

  Riot groaned, every inch of the man trembling with intensity. He gripped her thigh, and pulled her firmly against his hips. It s
tole the breath from her lungs. And she lost herself to him.

  ✥

  "Cafuné," she whispered.

  Riot stirred at the sound of her voice. "What does it mean?"

  "There's no word for it in English. But it's this…" she ran her fingers through his hair. "…between lovers."

  "I like that word."

  They lay intertwined on the narrow bed. Half-undressed, her bodice was partially undone, enough to free her breasts. Her dress had disappeared on the floor, but she had somehow retained her silk stockings and garters. Other matters had been far more pressing.

  Isobel held Riot in her arms. He was relaxed and limp, a warm weight that covered her like a cherished blanket. His head rested between her breasts, his body stretched along her own. She could feel him unwinding with every caress.

  She traced the scar along his temple, trailed her fingers through his raven hair, and slipped her hand beneath his undershirt. His skin was damp from exertion. Needing to feel every inch of the man, she freed him of the last remnants of his clothing. His own fingers deftly worked at the hooks of her bodice, and she took a grateful breath. The rest of their clothing ended up on the floor. Riot shifted, reached an arm over the side of the bed, and came back with a blanket. He pulled it over them, and returned to her arms.

  "My breasts have to be the flattest pillow you've ever laid on."

  She felt him smile. "What they lack in volume, they make up with enthusiasm."

  Isobel snorted, and flicked his ear. "Why don't you ever smoke?" she asked suddenly.

  "I don't mind if you do." His breath tickled her skin.

  She lifted a shoulder. "It takes all the fun out of it when no one minds."

  He chuckled, a thing felt rather than heard.

  "I like the flare of the match more than the taste," she admitted.

  "Remind me to keep you well away from explosives."

  Isobel sighed. "I've always dreamt of dynamiting a hole in a mountain…or anything, really."

  He raised his head to look at her. Amusement danced in his eyes. "Some girls like flowers, others lace, but I reckon only one prefers dynamite."