Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  The undertaker took one look at Riot, put down his hammer, and quickly shuffled backwards, bowing until he disappeared behind a curtain.

  Riot slapped an open palm against the knob of his stick. One mistake and he had lost his chance. A simple introduction had invoked fear and death. Not justice.

  Hoping to salvage the situation, he walked through the curtain, and froze. A line of cots stretched across the room. An old woman lay on the top of the nearest. Pale and marbled, she had been dead a few days, and awaited her journey home. Then there were the not quite dead, festering with infection and sickness. A young woman was missing half her jaw, ravaged by syphilis, clinging to life yet begging to die.

  Riot sucked in a sharp breath of foul air. The stench knocked him back a step. Pain laced his temple and beat at his skull as the room spun. He saw the room as if looking down from above, but it wasn't this coffin shop. It was another. His own blood-soaked body was being carried by a mound of rags.

  The world snapped back into place, and Riot fled the coffin shop. There wasn't enough air in the world to fill his lungs. He walked in a daze, without seeing, setting a brisk pace that bordered on a run.

  By the time he came back to himself, he was nearing Golden Gate Park. Exhausted, he stopped to pry his fingers from the knob of his walking stick. Riot stared at his palm. The engraving was etched into his skin. He took a breath, and massaged feeling back into his fingers. As he stood there, trying to regain his senses, he spotted a man rounding the corner—the same who had been following him in Chinatown. Only now the man was perspiring. When he spied Riot's glance, his feet stuttered, and he quickly ducked into a barber shop.

  Clenching his jaw, Riot slapped the point of his stick against the boardwalk. If there was one thing he hated worse than being shadowed, it was being shadowed by an amateur.

  Riot entered the barber shop. The Shadow was sitting in a chair, preparing for a shave, only his skin was awfully smooth.

  Riot sat in a chair, and ran a hand over his beard. "A trim, if you please," he said to the barber.

  The Shadow shifted in his seat. Brown hair, long sideburns, and a mustache. There was nothing spectacular about him, except that he wasn't in the least bit threatening. Not sitting in a chair with his throat about to be exposed.

  The barber nodded to Riot. "You're next, sir."

  "That suits me just fine."

  The barber nodded, and draped an apron over his customer with a flourish. He worked a lever, and the chair tilted back. The Shadow's throat was vulnerable, and his eyes rolled to the side.

  Riot crossed his legs and regarded the man. "You look as though you were only shaved this morning."

  The barber applied lather. "I like to be fresh," the Shadow said with a chuckle.

  "Hardly fresh with the way you're perspiring. Didn't I see you in Chinatown?"

  "Maybe so. I was just there."

  "That's quite a walk."

  A skilled razor zipped over the Shadow's cheeks.

  "I'd like to know who hired you," Riot said.

  "What?"

  "Who hired you to follow me."

  The barber paused, razor poised. He raised inquiring brows that were hairless. Why are barbers always bald? Riot mused silently.

  "By all means, sir. Keep at it," Riot said to the barber.

  But the Shadow would have none of it. He ripped off his apron, and made to stand. "I don't know what you're—"

  Riot slapped his walking stick to the side, hitting the Shadow square across the chest. It knocked him back into the chair, and Riot stood, pinning the man with the tip of his stick. "Who hired you?"

  A movement off to the side warned him. Without taking his eyes off the Shadow, he drew his revolver and pointed it at the barber. "Do not involve yourself in this, sir."

  Riot stared down at the Shadow. When the barber raised his hands, Riot inclined his head. In one smooth motion he uncocked his revolver, and holstered it.

  The Shadow had his lips pressed tightly together. At least he had some professional principles. Riot patted him down. A Shopkeeper and a billfold were in his pockets. Riot ignored the revolver and rifled through the man's billfold. No red token. But a calling card for a Mr. Bill Wyatt, Private Investigator.

  "Mr. Wyatt, I'll ask you again. Politely. Who hired you to follow me?"

  "Summon the police," Mr. Wyatt said.

  The barber didn't make a move.

  "He's a wise fellow, Mr. Wyatt. You, however, are not." Riot pulled out a stack of cards from Wyatt's billfold. A single one caught his eye. Alex Kingston.

  "If I ever catch you following me again, I'll take it as a threat. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Mr. Riot."

  "And keep away from the Pagan Lady, or I'll take it personal."

  Mr. Wyatt's forehead creased. Only a fraction. It was enough. He had no idea what the Pagan Lady was. With a curse, Riot flicked the card at the man's face, and walked out of the barbershop.

  24

  All is Lost

  It was safer to meet at my manor, in the conservatory. Informants came and went without notice.

  —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  "YOU LEFT ME IN jail, Mack!" Isobel Kingston had the big Scotsman cornered. Bells, rings, and the chatter of typewriters drifted from the corral.

  "I dinna leave you there. I dinna get your message."

  Isobel pinned the man to the wall with her gaze.

  Mack McCormick deflated. "Until later."

  "The message boy said he gave it to you straightaway." A nickel had loosened the messenger's tongue.

  Mack muttered under his breath. "I was on my way to bail you out, but the editor told me to wait—to give you more material for your story."

  Isobel ground her teeth together. "Except someone else stole my story out from under me."

  "It was bound to get out," he said.

  "I hope he managed to make his rent for the month."

  "I hear she only got a dollar for it."

  "She?"

  Mack clamped his lips together.

  "It was one of the Sob Sisters, wasn't it?"

  "I'm not saying a word."

  "You already have." She jabbed a finger into his gut. "Talk."

  "Or what? You'll box my ears?"

  Mack McCormick was over six feet tall and solid as a bull. Even so, every bull had a weak spot. Her fist wasn't far from his, but she reeled herself in. Dropping a fellow reporter to the ground wasn't quite called for. Yet. Besides, he might be her only ally—as much as any reporter could be.

  "I would have bailed you out, Charlie," he rumbled, and then flashed a grin. "After making a deal that I get a cut of your story."

  "At least you're honest. Which one of my 'sisters' left me in there to rot?"

  Mack crossed his arms. "Does it matter? You still have your vagrant story. This way it's been primed, and readers are waiting to hear more. The public love a damsel in distress. Besides, it's not like the Call was the only one to catch wind of your arrest. We were just the first to get it on the press. There's always a mob of reporters loitering around the station, waiting for a story."

  "You're right." She took a step back. He couldn't know of course. That there was an excellent chance that Parker Gray and his lot had been alerted. And now, thanks to the unknown snitch, Parker Gray could easily discover her nom de plume.

  Isobel rubbed her forehead.

  "You might as well go and write an exclusive, Charlie." Mack nodded to a reporter walking by, waiting until he was out of earshot. "What were you really doing out there at night?"

  She smiled. "Just like I said."

  "Do you ever tell the truth?"

  "Always."

  Isobel ignored further questions, and left him in the corridor looking disgruntled. But the story she really wanted to tell wasn't ready yet. She and Riot suspected Parker Gray and his associates were dealing in far more than flesh for sale.

  Isobel walked through the crowded corral, aware of eyes on her.

  "
Nice work, Bonnie," a reporter called out.

  "Whatcha do to get that exclusive with Atticus Riot?"

  She had forgotten all about the inquest. "Took a bath. Try it sometime, Willy." Open stares turned to laughter in her wake.

  The Sob Sister's office was full. Sara Rogers, her hair in a severe bun; an older, worn woman by the name of Rose; and a woman a few years older than herself, Jo Kelly. And, of course, the indomitable Cara Sharpe. The other women were always on their best behavior when Sharpe was present.

  "I'm nearly through here," said Miss Rogers. Her working space was as tidy as one came. Everything was laid at right angles and spaced with deliberation. There was not a crease in a paper. She gathered her papers up, and knocked them against the desk with a sharp slap.

  "How did jail treat you?" Jo Kelly asked. She was dressed in the latest fashion, her walking dress was tailored, and her copper hair curled to perfection. She covered society affairs, and dressed the part, even in the office.

  "About the same as I remember."

  The women in the room paused, and looked at her. Isobel flashed a grin. But Jo Kelly wasn't shocked at all. The look of satisfaction on her face made Isobel's skin crawl.

  Sara Rogers stood, her papers in hand. "Let's hope the almighty desk editor gives me good pay for this." She didn't look hopeful.

  "I'll beseech the gods of ink and pen," Isobel said, taking over her desk. A round of Amens were muttered into the air. After Sara Rogers had marched out, Isobel turned to the others. "Who wrote the article about me being locked up in jail?"

  "I did," Rose said. "My boy at the jailhouse relayed it to me. I needed rent." The older woman was haggard and thin. Isobel could hardly come up with an ulterior motive for her bit of reporting. "I figured it would help your story rather than hurt it. I wasn't planning on sniping it out from under you."

  "You should have interviewed her in the jailhouse," Cara Sharpe said, without looking up from her desk. "You published half a story."

  Rose wilted. "I got it on the press before the other newspapers."

  "If someone had thought to bail me out when I called, I might have had an entire story to publish," Isobel said.

  Cara Sharpe regarded her. "Spreckles thought otherwise."

  "Perhaps there's a bigger story brewing." Jo Kelly smiled. Before Isobel could ask about the comment, Jo stood, gathered her things, and left.

  Squaring her shoulders, Isobel turned to her typewriter. As her fingers flew over the keys, her mind raced ahead. Sorting facts. Sifting details. Moving pieces around her mental chessboard. As far as games went, things looked grim.

  "Look, Bonnie," Cara interrupted her thoughts.

  She looked up from her typewriter to find the office empty, and a fully typed article in her reel.

  "You have steel in your spine, but you need to be careful. Stunt reporting has to be authorized, or the paper won't back you when you land into trouble. And even if your story is authorized by the editor, sometimes they throw you to the dogs anyway."

  Isobel lifted a shoulder. "I seized an opportunity."

  "A man came looking for you the other day," Cara said.

  "I figured as much."

  "Average fellow. I didn't like the look of him."

  "If he was average, then what struck you?"

  "There are men, and there are killers. Whatever story you're working on, leave it alone."

  An average killer. Isobel had always imagined that she'd receive her quieting dose of lead from a man with an eyepatch, or one wearing turquoise boots. But average? How tedious.

  It didn't matter now. Time had run out, and danger stood at her doorstep. She casually took out her cigarette case. The red token that she had taken from Andrew Ross was tucked neatly in the case. Isobel offered a cigarette to Cara, tilting the case so the token was visible. As Cara took a cigarette, her eyes lingered on that token.

  "You seem to have an inkling of what I'm digging at," Isobel said.

  "What you're digging is your own grave." Cara's fingers trembled as she struck a match.

  Isobel leaned towards the woman. "Tell me what you know."

  Cara shook her head. "I know enough to keep my mouth shut."

  "You're a reporter."

  "I'm a reporter who's still alive," Cara said. "There are a handful of men in this city who can't be bought. Most of them are dead, or have been brushed aside. There are stories that no newspaper will touch. Do you understand?"

  "That I'm on my own? Yes."

  Cara nodded.

  "That's exactly why I didn't want my name in a newspaper."

  "You should have thought about that before you pulled that stunt. I hope it was worth it."

  "You said some of those men are dead. Who do you know that can't be bought?"

  "Fremont Older, but he doesn't own the Bulletin, so he can only go so far. Money turns San Francisco's gears. It's a well-oiled graft machine, as he's fond of saying."

  "Anyone else?"

  "The Examiner. But Hearst is a wild card. He has his own agendas."

  Isobel turned back around, and stared out the window. A shadowy organization of powerful men with money to bribe judges, jury, and police. Even if she and Riot were able to gather solid evidence, the conspiracy, whatever it was, might not even reach the courts. A pretty little problem.

  "Bonnie!" a voice snapped her around. A skinny boy bolted into the room. He was built like a reed and had the voice of a ringmaster. "The editor wants to see you."

  "Joey," Cara said. "That is no way to speak to a lady. How many times have I told you to behave like a gentleman?"

  Joey ducked his head. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. Sorry, Miss Bonnie."

  When Joey had stumbled out, Cara said, "Good luck, Bonnie. You'll either be promoted or fired."

  "There's no gamble without risk." The comment made the older woman flinch.

  Isobel marched across the corral, article in hand. She wasn't about to surrender her exclusive to the desk editor until she discovered if she was about to be fired. She could always take her skills to another newspaper.

  Isobel knocked on the editor's door.

  "Come."

  Determined, Isobel marched into the office. Scent came first. Familiar, cloying cigar smoke, sharp aftershave, and copious amounts of pomade. Sight came next, as her gaze jerked to the side, to a bull of a man towering over her. Alex Kingston. Isobel turned to run, but her blackmailing husband stepped in front of the doorway.

  All her resolve bled into the ground.

  "Mr. Kingston. Mrs. Kingston." Spreckles inclined his head. "My office is at your disposal. Take as long as you need."

  The editor slipped out, Alex slammed the door, and grabbed her by the throat. "I knew it was you at that inquest." His voice shook her bones.

  He pushed her against the wall. Frames clattered to the ground. She didn't flinch. She hung helpless in his iron grip, her toes just brushing the floor.

  "I thought you were a ghost," he hissed in her ear.

  "Clearly I'm not." Her voice was threadbare.

  "No." His face twisted. "What you are is a conniving bitch!" The back of her head hit the wall.

  "Men abducted me, Alex." She sounded desperate to her own ears. Confronted with him, she felt herself slipping back into the role she had assumed: a timid, sweet-natured socialite. It made her sick. "I thought it was you—"

  "Why the devil would I abduct my own wife?"

  "I thought you were tired of me and wanted me dead."

  "You're lying." His lip curled. "It was another man, wasn't it?"

  "Those men tried to kill me—"

  "Shut up!" The back of his left hand slapped her face. A sharp, lingering sting that awakened her rage.

  "You blackmailed me into marrying you, Alex!"

  "I loved you."

  "You were destroying my father."

  "That was business, but you were pleasure." His thumb caressed her cheek, over the burn of his strike. Bile rose in her throat.

  "You ca
n't bully someone into loving you," she growled.

  "I don't give a damn if you love me." His eyes turned to ice, and that hand tightened until air came scarce. Spots danced in the corner of her vision. She had to focus on breathing. "It's that damn detective I sent after you. Atticus Riot. You've both been playing me this entire time. You're after my money!" His left hand came up a second time, whipping her head to the side. She tasted blood.

  Isobel reacted. She reached up, gripped the fingers clenching her neck, and wrenched two of them backwards. A snap, a roar, and Alex Kingston released her.

  Moving to the middle of the office, Isobel wiped the blood from her lip. "I want a divorce, Alex."

  Clutching his broken fingers, he straightened. Now he was wounded, and as furious as ever. "You committed fraud," he panted.

  "No." The word gave him pause. Gone was the society wife. There was only steel in her eyes and voice. "I escaped a belligerent husband." All at once, she dropped back into her role, and batted her eyes at him. "I can play the victim, dear husband. Who do you think the jury will believe?"

  He chuckled. It made her skin crawl. "I buy jurors, dear wife. Judges, too. And police." He took a step forward. "You have no choice but to come back to me."

  "So that's it? You want me to come back to you?" She laughed.

  There was a pleased look in his eye that cut her amusement short. "You will come back. Your mistaken death can easily be excused. The newspapers will publish any story I feed them."

  She cocked her head. "I don't think so."

  "You may not now. But think longer on it, my sweet. I'll ruin your father and mother. And I'll ruin you. The only work you'll be able to find will be in the cribs and cow-yards. And if you think you can run to Atticus Riot… think again. There are plenty in this city who'd like to see him dead."

  "No," she whispered, taking a step back towards the desk. Alex took a step forward. "Men tried to kill me. I thought it was you, but it turned out it was my brother Curtis."

  "Why should I believe a word you say?"

  "Because I'm backed into a corner." She knocked on the desk.

  "You think I give a damn about the truth?"

  "I thought Curtis was working for you."