Jin set the box on her desk, and marched over to the feline.
“That is my bed. Leave. Now.”
Watson purred at her.
Jin reached for the cat, and a split second later she leapt back with a bloody line across her hand. “Yiu!”
Watson squinted with contentment and began kneading the blanket, purring as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened.
“He’s worried about you, is all,” came a voice. Sarah stood on the attic steps, looking between the railing slats. She knocked on the wood, even though Jin was looking right at her. The southern white girl seemed unbothered by Jin’s glare. “And before you say not to come in, I’m not inside your room.”
“You are in my room.”
“I’m on the stairs. Not my fault there’s no door at the top.”
“There is a hatch at the bottom,” Jin pointed out.
“I knocked, but you didn't answer.”
Jin was not about to get into an argument over door placement. “The cat is not worried about me. He attacked me.” Jin brandished her bloody hand.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Do you want him off your bed, or not?”
Jin hesitated. After a moment’s thought, she gave a curt nod.
But instead of picking the cat up, Sarah sat beside it and began stroking its back. Watson’s purr turned into a buzzing machine.
“Are you all right?” Sarah asked.
“I do not see how that question has anything to do with picking up a cat.”
“You don’t like your present?”
Jin looked away. “I do like it, but I am not worthy of it.”
Sarah looked at her, puzzled. “Why would you say that?”
Jin bit her lip. Why, indeed, had she told Sarah anything at all? Jin instantly regretted the comment.
“Look, I won’t beat around the bush. I know you don’t like that sort of thing, so why are you crying?” Sarah asked.
Jin set her jaw. “You would not understand,” she said through her teeth.
“’Course I wouldn’t. I’m not you. You don’t understand me either, I suppose.”
“What is there to understand about you?”
Sarah sighed, but she let the comment roll right over her. Sarah Byrne was not easily provoked, as long as Jin left her art book alone. “I thought we had an all right time together with Isobel’s parents. It was fun, don’t you think?”
Jin lifted a shoulder.
“It helps to talk to people when something’s bothering you,” Sarah fished.
Jin crossed her arms in reply.
Sarah stood. “School starts at noon.” She started towards the stairs.
“You did not take the cat.”
Sarah looked back at her. A freckled face and large hazel eyes, curly black hair whipping out of a braid every which way. Sarah had a face of a young woman who had been loved. Trusting. Carefree. Naive. And yet… Jin shifted under her gaze. Sarah knew a lot of things. “I think you need Watson. He’s trying to teach you how to be a friend.”
Sarah left Jin alone with the fat cat on her bed. Jin frowned down at the creature, Sarah’s words hanging in silence.
With a sigh, Jin turned to her desk, and stood over her gift. The note was open. Isobel’s cramped script twisted her heart.
This has been in my family for generations. It’s traveled the world twice over. It was my grandfather’s and his father’s before. And now it’s yours. Welcome to the family.
The world blurred. Tears sprang to her eyes. She couldn’t accept this treasure—this honor. Jin had plans. Bad ones.
5
Leaps of Logic
A gruff man with a drooping mustache leaned back on two legs of his chair. The legs were questionable, but he balanced with his boots on a table as he flipped through a notebook. Atticus Riot had spent a good number of years hoping Montgomery Johnson would flail backwards from a chair. A small, wistful part of Riot hoped it would knock some sense into the man. But he would never wager on it.
“Wilkinson case: cheating wife.” Monty flipped to another page. “Brown case: cheating husband.” Another page. “And the Donalds case: the wife was sneaking out to plan a surprise anniversary party to celebrate two years of marital bliss.” Monty turned his head to propel a wad of tobacco towards a spittoon. A thick, brownish streak oozed down a side of the green patina.
Tim huffed around his pipe stem, a puff of smoke spewing from his lips. “I’m sure that went over well.”
Monty inched back a centimeter and the chair creaked in protest, giving Riot hope. But not today. “When I told him, Donalds turned brick red and tried to wiggle out of paying us.”
Riot braced himself for what was to come.
“Did you get the cash?” Tim asked.
“’Course I did.”
“Not by force, I hope?” Riot asked.
“Well, I didn’t have a fancy gentleman’s stick to beat him with.” Monty nodded towards the silver-knobbed walking stick resting against Riot’s chair, then looked over to the bar, where Isobel had planted herself. A few minutes before, a newsboy had come barreling into the agency carrying another stack of newspapers in various states of decay. Now that delivery was scattered over the countertop and she was flipping through pages with an irritated air. When one newspaper disappointed her, she tossed it onto a stack and grabbed the next.
Monty shot Isobel a glare, then turned that glare on Riot. “I told Donalds if he didn’t pay us that meant he broke contract and we weren’t obligated to privacy laws. So I threatened to tell his wife he suspected she was cheating.”
Riot nodded to the grizzled man. “Quick thinking, Monty.” Another newspaper was flattened on the bar as Isobel bent to decipher its cramped script.
Tim scratched at his beard. “Huh.” He was also watching Isobel’s curious behavior.
“I solve three cases, and all I get is a ‘huh’?” Monty growled.
Mack McCormick and Matthew Smith tore their eyes from Isobel. Riot had to admit, she was distracting.
Isobel hadn’t acknowledged the other agents, she hadn’t returned Mack’s banter, and she hadn’t looked up when Riot called them to order for a meeting. No one knew what she was looking for. And that included her husband.
Had she even noticed she was using a bar as a giant desk? The old saloon wasn’t far along in renovations, but it was serviceable. Tim had framed in a consultation room, an office for files, and bricked up most of the windows. But the rest of the office still resembled a saloon and it would likely remain so because Riot had no intention of demolishing the bar. It made for a convenient workspace. Shelves that once held liquor provided storage for a small arsenal of weapons and ammunition, but more importantly the shelving was backed with iron plate. Riot was loath to tear down a bulletproof barrier.
“I’ll see you get a bonus,” Riot said to Monty. The offer appeased the grizzled agent. Monty clunked down on the floor, leaned forward, and extended a hand.
Riot eyed the dirty fingernails. “After you turn in your reports.”
Monty leaned away, and spat a wad of tobacco on the floor.
Riot ignored the gesture, and turned the meeting over to Tim for a report.
“Mack and me traced that stolen racehorse,” the old man said. “Idiot thieves covered half the thing in shoe polish, and was hiding with it in a shack down in Oakland. They took one look at Mack and ran for it.”
Mack McCormick grinned, and cracked his knuckles. He was a useful agent. Both intelligent and intimidating—a rare thing for a tough—and he was devoted to Isobel. Perhaps a little too devoted.
“I couldn’t catch ’em,” Mack said.
Tim puffed angrily on his pipe. “We got the horse.”
“A sick one,” Mack growled.
Riot raised his brows in question.
Tim shifted, plucking the pipe from his lips. “Cussed fools didn’t know shit about horses. They fed it bad oats.”
“Will he recover?” Matthew Smith asked. Clean c
ut, his collar was crisp and he sat ramrod straight in his chair. There was compassion in his voice and kindness in his eyes. He hadn’t cut it as a policeman, and Riot wasn’t sure the young man would make it as a detective. Not for lack of intelligence, but for a large heart. There was worry in the man’s voice. True worry—over an animal. What would a murder investigation do to that heart? Riot didn’t want to find out, so he’d been assigning Matthew to simple cases.
Again, Riot glanced at Isobel, who was as young as Matthew in body, but not in mind. That same large heart beat in her breast, but it was surrounded by layers of iron plating.
Isobel Amsel was not callous. She just cared too much about things that mattered and that left very little patience for social niceties. She circled something in a newspaper, and set it on a smaller stack.
Tim shrugged. “We got paid. The rest is up to the owners.”
“It’s not like those race horses aren’t run to ground, anyhow,” Monty said, ever the cloud of gloom.
Matthew sighed.
“And your case?” Riot asked, looking to Matthew.
The young man already had his notepad in hand. He straightened even more, and flipped it open. “A Mrs. Stewart reported her necklace stolen. She was distraught, because it was a wedding gift from her husband, and they’re set to celebrate their ten year anniversary. Her husband left on business two days before the theft and she was planning to attend some sort of charity dinner three days later. When she awoke on that third morning,” Monty snorted at the agent’s high words, “her lady’s maid, Miss Grace, was gone. Supposedly to do errands. But Miss Grace never returned, and Mrs. Stewart discovered the necklace was missing that afternoon when she was getting herself ready. I tracked the maid down in Sacramento. She says she didn’t steal the necklace.”
“And you believed her?” Monty asked.
“I did, yes,” Matthew answered. His gaze flicked to Riot, embarrassed.
“Why did you believe her?” Riot asked.
“She seemed sincere. She was really worried.”
“What reason did she give for leaving?” There was no judgment in Riot’s voice, only curiosity.
“She knew she’d be blamed.”
“Let me guess,” Monty said. “A wide-eyed cherry with heaving breasts.”
Matthew blushed. “No, well yes. Not the bre… bosom.” Matthew snapped his notepad shut. “Look, Miss Grace promised to stay at the hotel where I found her while I sorted things out.”
“She’ll be long gone, boy,” Monty said.
“I don’t think so.” Matthew looked at the other detectives defiantly. “What else was I supposed to do? I searched her rooms and she didn’t have the necklace. I can’t very well rough her up without proof she’s done something illegal, and I’m not about to risk a lady’s reputation over circumstantial evidence. I genuinely believe her. She was scared.”
“Of being caught,” Monty said.
“Did you go around to the local pawn shops?” Tim asked. He was looking at the young man with a baleful eye.
“I did. The necklace is distinctive: a large sapphire nestled with tiny diamonds. Mrs. Stewart said two of the diamonds were missing. None of the pawn shops had seen it.”
“What is your next step?” Riot asked.
“I don’t know. But Mrs. Stewart wants that necklace back by next week. She’s trying not to involve her husband in the matter. She said if Miss Grace returns the necklace, she’s prepared to simply dismiss her without charges.”
“Did anyone else have access to the room?” Riot asked.
“The cleaning maid. The butler, I suppose. But they’re still there. I searched their rooms, too. Before Mrs. Stewart contacted the agency, she thought she might have just misplaced the necklace and so she turned over the whole house. It’s not the first time she’s misplaced something.”
A newspaper ruffled loudly in the silence as Isobel folded it haphazardly and stuffed it on the larger pile.
“Why don’t you send Mrs. Riot with him,” Monty said loudly, though he was never soft spoken. “Or is she too good to do any work, like she’s too good for our meetings?”
Monty was goading Riot. He always did. But this new dynamic of a woman—Riot’s wife—working for the agency had complicated things. Riot had to be careful not to take sides. He glanced at Isobel, who seemed oblivious to the comment.
“Because Charlie’s the boss’s wife,” Mack said in defense. “She can damn well do as she pleases.”
“Yeah, she does as she pleases as long as she’s screw—”
“Shut it,” Tim snapped Monty short. There was something in that blue stare that made Monty click his mouth shut. Tim had no qualms about pulling a trigger. The old man was quite good at it.
“I do as I please no matter who I’m screwing,” Isobel said without looking up.
Monty choked on his tobacco wad. Matthew turned a new, vibrant shade of red. And Mack started chuckling.
Riot adjusted his spectacles. “We have virgin ears here, Bel,” he said gently.
She paused, then looked up to focus on Matthew. “Pardon my language,” she said. “It’s the husband.”
Confusion passed over the men’s faces. They looked at Riot with the same question in their eyes: Was she blaming her foul language on him?
Riot took a moment to think on her claim. “The husband?” he asked.
“Who else?” she countered.
“Mr. Stewart?” Matthew asked, perplexed.
“Yes, that’s what I said. Did you think I meant Riot?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Riot—”
“Isobel will do,” she said briskly. “Or Charlie, or whatever the hell you like.”
“Bitch?” Monty asked.
The big Scotsman leapt to his feet, and Riot’s hand twitched to pick up his walking stick and beat Montgomery Johnson senseless. Riot did stand, but only to place a hand on Mack’s chest, stopping him short. He turned to Monty, staring down at the smug detective. “I’m only going to warn you once, Monty,” Riot said, calmly.
“Or what?”
“He’ll let me loose on you,” Isobel said with a click of teeth.
Riot had no such intention, but he didn’t press the issue.
Matthew shifted. “Why do you think Mr. Stewart would steal his wife’s necklace? He wasn’t even in town.”
All eyes turned to Isobel, who looked particularly small standing at a bar piled with stacks of newspapers. Her black-dyed hair had faded over the summer, and golden hues were beginning to come through like sun breaking through fog. She still had the coal smudge on her nose from earlier.
Isobel focused on Matthew, who shifted in his chair.
Riot waited with the rest of the agents, though he wasn’t as doubtful of her claim. She gave her answer in a perfunctory tone that barely allowed for breath.
“You said the husband left two days before. On business. And he was due back for their ten year wedding anniversary. Two days later, the lady’s maid begins preparing Mrs. Stewart’s clothing for the charity function. She discovers the necklace missing, knows she’ll be blamed, and tells the household she’s off to run errands. But she takes off for good. When she doesn’t reappear, Mrs. Stewart begins dressing herself and finds the necklace missing.
“Three people had easy access: Mrs. Stewart, Mr. Stewart, and the lady’s maid. You say Miss Grace didn’t steal the necklace, and I believe you.”
“But why would he steal it?” Matthew asked.
“Mr. Stewart didn’t steal it,” she said impatiently. “He took it on his business trip to have the two missing diamonds restored for their anniversary. Tell Mrs. Stewart that you know where the necklace is, and you’ll have it for her in a few days time. That way the husband can still surprise her. You can clear Miss Grace’s reputation after that.”
Silence.
Isobel had made grand assumptions and giant leaps of deduction wrapped in a perfectly logical bundle. The agents were trying to pluck at the threads to unravel her the
ory. But there were no loose ends.
Some might say it was a good guess, but Riot had worked with Zephaniah Ravenwood long enough to know that some people had an extraordinary knack for deduction. Isobel was one of those rare people.
“And that,” he broke the silence, “is why Mrs. Riot does as she pleases.”
Isobel turned her gaze on him, her eyes crinkling in a smile.
Monty got out his tobacco box, and stuffed another wad into his cheek. “You’re guessing.”
“I never guess,” Isobel returned.
“The husband might have pawned it himself,” Mack argued, grasping for threads.
“The Stewarts aren’t at their rope’s end. The wife hired our agency instead of contacting the police, which would have cost her nothing and would make sense if she wanted to collect insurance money. Therefore, the necklace clearly holds sentimental value for her, which makes it priceless.”
“Maybe it’s not insured,” Monty countered.
Isobel arched a brow at Matthew, who flipped through his notes. “The necklace is insured,” he confirmed.
“Could’ve been the butler, or anyone else,” Monty said.
Tim nodded in agreement.
“I admit, matrimony has made me supremely optimistic,” Isobel said crisply. “But I’m willing to wager a full week’s pay. Are you, Montgomery?”
The man’s jaw stopped working. He sucked in air between his teeth, leaned to the side, and spat into the spittoon. “I’ll take your wager.”
“I hope you have a nest egg. Anyone else?” Isobel searched the room for volunteers. No one else was willing to go up against her logic. She turned back to her newspapers.
“So whatcha doing, Charlie?” Mack ventured.
“Reading newspapers.”
Monty cursed under his breath, and stood. “I need a drink.” He grabbed hat and coat, and stomped for the door. He grabbed the handle and wrenched it open just as a man was about to knock. The newcomer arched his neck to look up at the grizzled man and took a hasty step back, nearly tripping down the steps. Monty bulled past the newcomer without apology.
Where Cowards Tread Page 3
