Record of Blood (Ravenwood Mysteries #3)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Where do you take the girls?” Riot asked.

  “Here,” Seaward answered. “And then Mr. Jones takes them across the bay in his boat. It throws the tongs for a bit of a loop.”

  Ravenwood arched a brow. “Does he?”

  Seaward nodded. “That’s what he told me.”

  “Who does he entrust the girls to?” Riot asked.

  “I don’t know. I just do as I’m told.”

  Riot reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out the post-mortem photograph of the fourth victim. “Do you recognize this girl?”

  Seaward squinted at the photograph. “I’m not sure.”

  Riot was tired of hearing that answer. “Yes or no will do.”

  “It’s dark when I help them escape.”

  Ravenwood interlaced his long fingers. “How do you know what girl to rescue?”

  “Mr. Jones tells me where to get the next girl. I go and get her that night—if she’s still there—and then I take her here in the basket in the morning.”

  “We’ll just have to confirm your story with Mr. Jones, then.”

  Seaward paled. “I’ll lose my job.”

  Riot took a breath. He wanted to throttle the man. “Children are being murdered. And so far you’re looking like our prime suspect.”

  Seaward looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not murdering no one, and Mr. Jones isn’t either.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “He’s a good Christian man with a wife and children. And he’s well off. Why would he do all that?”

  “Why, indeed.” Ravenwood frowned. “The most ruthless person I’ve known was a church-going Sunday school teacher. God has nothing to do with the likes of evil. And evil often wears a saintly mask.”

  Riot studied Seaward. He couldn’t quite pin the man down. He hadn’t expected loyalty. “Regardless,” he said. “There’s a way to put the question to rest without him knowing you talked with us.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re going to help us.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Same as you always do.”

  21

  Hindsight

  Tuesday, July 21, 1896

  Those last words rang in Riot’s ears as he sat, days later, on the trawler waiting for the delivery wagon that would deposit Seaward and his load.

  The days had not been spent idly. Jones Jr. was indeed a family man, and the fishing society had nothing but praise for him. But the account book revealed a suspicious amount of money passing through the yard. Jones Jr. was not without stain, and he appeared to be reaping the benefit of ill-gotten gains. The question of where the money came from, and where it was going, would have to be determined later.

  Tim and Ravenwood waited with a boat at the end of the wharf, and another agent waited inside the hidden room at the lumber yard. It was left to Riot and Monty to stow away on the trawler.

  They needed to catch Jones Jr. in the act.

  Riot crouched outside the cockpit, pressed against the bulwark. He had a view of the wharves looking through the windows, and easy access to the trawler’s saloon. Monty was in the hold. They were taking no chances.

  A wagon rattled on the wharf, and Riot poked his head around the cabin, watching its approach. It was the lumber wagon. But only a single man sat in the seat. Dread hit Riot full in the gut.

  Jim Mason drove the wagon. He was as large as a bull, but his hand with the horses was gentle. He clucked them to a stop, and climbed off the seat. Mason reached over the side and hoisted a basket out of the bed, then lugged it towards the boat. He hopped on the rail with a shudder of deck boards, and disappeared into the cabin. Timothy Seaward was nowhere in sight. This was not the plan.

  Riot drew his gun, and stepped into the hatch. “Hands up, Mason,” he ordered calmly.

  Mason put his hands up, then spun. But his left hand wasn’t empty. A knife whizzed towards Riot’s face. He ducked under the missile, and fired, but the shot only grazed, and in the next second a bull of a man rammed into him. He was thrown against the bulkhead. A fist came crashing down next. Pain stung the side of his face, his spectacles flew off, and his gun clattered to the floor. A volley of fists followed.

  Stunned, Riot struck blindly. He landed a solid punch to the man’s face. It felt like hitting a stone wall. A lethal fist drove towards him, and he ducked under and behind the man. Mason twisted, throwing another punch. Riot retreated, trying to put space between them. His heel hit the basket on the cabin floor, and he lost his balance.

  Mason charged, and when he hit, it felt like a stone wall had thrown itself at him. Three hundred pounds of muscle landed on him, and a smell of blood and death assaulted his senses.

  Mason raised his fist, and Monty Johnson leapt into the fight. The big brawler threw himself on Mason’s back, wrapping his arms around the thick neck in a chokehold. Mason’s fist paused in midair, hovering over Riot’s face. The combined weight of both men was crushing the air from his lungs. Riot could not breathe.

  “Mi Dios,” Mason breathed. He didn’t seem to notice Monty on his back, attempting to choke the life from him. Mason’s eyes were wide, and they were fixed to the side.

  With a surge of strength, Monty pulled the man off Riot. They both fell to the ground, and Riot gulped in a breath. He choked on blood, and spat it out. The cabin was blurry. He scrubbed the blood from his eye, and squinted with the one that was still functioning. What he saw made him sick. The basket had overturned, the lid had rolled across the cabin floor, and its contents were laid bare. A girl’s butchered body lay on the cabin floor.

  There was clear shock in Mason’s eyes. And his mind finally caught up with the scene. Riot could see the wheels of his mind turning. He had brought the basket. A dead girl lay inside. No matter his innocence, any jury would be more than happy to hang a Chileno with circumstantial evidence like that.

  “Wait!” Riot barked, holding up a halting hand, before the man exploded into action. “The night guard Seaward—where is he?”

  Mason was so stunned that he answered in Spanish, which was well and good because Riot could speak it just fine.

  “He said he had to get groceries, and asked me if I could take the fishing…” Mason trailed off. Pale and bloodless, he couldn’t take his eyes off the girl. His body convulsed, and he had the look of a man about to be sick.

  Monty wisely let go of him as he retched.

  “Where did you drop him?” Riot demanded.

  Mason wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “End of Market.”

  It was near the vegetable markets and fish vendors, but it was also by the ferry building—the gateway to every train leaving California.

  Riot snatched up his spectacles and gun. The world came into cracked focus. “Signal Ravenwood,” he said as he hurried out of the cabin.

  “Where are you going?” Monty yelled.

  “The ferry building!”

  The streets were clogged with wagons, lumber carts, pedestrians, and everything in between. A hack would have been useless in the morning rush, so he ran. Heedless of his own safety, he sprinted through the crowds, not caring whom he jostled on the way.

  The ferry building was caged in scaffolding, a skeleton of construction, its planned tower and clock not even close to completion. There was no time to check his watch, and the sun was blanketed behind thick fog. He ran, pounding through travelers moving towards the docks. He took a guess, and headed towards the ferry terminus for Oakland.

  Riot nearly ran into a knot of policemen. He skipped to the side, and blinked through the cracks in his spectacles. A knot of uniforms surrounded a tall, stately gentleman. Ravenwood. What the hell was he doing here?

  Riot opened his mouth to shout at the man to help him look for Seaward when the knot of men parted for the briefest of seconds. Timothy Seaward lay cuffed on the dock. Riot skidded to a stop, and pressed a hand to the stitch in his side.

  The police parted for Ravenwood. “Slowing down, my bo
y?” There was amusement in his voice. And it drove Riot over the edge. He was not amused. Not after what he had seen. He launched himself into the break, throwing himself at Seaward. Fists fell, flesh pounded, blood filled his vision. He reached for his revolver.

  “Atticus!” Ravenwood’s voice cut through the haze, and an iron hand locked around his arm. His fingers brushed the stock. As Ravenwood pulled him off Seaward, the butcher started laughing. Spittle and blood dripping from his chin.

  “I’m dead already,” Seaward wheezed. “Those chinks gave me the French Pox. This will speed things along.”

  Riot shook free of his partner’s restraint.

  “A crime of convenience, then,” Ravenwood said. “And vengeance. The cuts were simply intended to point a finger at the tongs.”

  “Don’t matter,” Seaward said. “These Chinese are like rats. Diseased, foul, stealing our jobs.” He spat on the ground. “You thought you were all high and mighty. Smart like, but I had you both fooled. Lowly little me felled the great Ravenwood.”

  Riot tensed, his fingers twitched. The iron hand returned, locking around his wrist.

  Orders were shouted, and Riot heard himself telling the police about the girl in the basket, and then he left. He found himself walking. San Francisco moved around him in a haze, but his blood blazed. Slowly he became aware that he was not alone. Though walking must have pained the aging detective, Ravenwood limped alongside, relying heavily on his stick with every step.

  Conscious of his friend’s limitations, Riot slowed his pace. He glanced at the streets, and realized he was walking up California, towards Chinatown—towards the dark cloud of smoke that hung over the Quarter.

  “You suspected,” he bit out the words.

  “Tim was on the boat. I saw no reason to be there. All other avenues were covered, so I simply waited at a less likely possibility. I thought he might try to escape.”

  “I looked that man in the eye,” Riot growled. His words were full of rage, and anger, and a whole heap of regret.

  “Seaward felt justified. Given his prejudice, I doubt he considered it murder. Perhaps he felt that he was ridding the world of the disease he contracted.”

  Riot did not answer; he didn’t trust himself to answer. He felt out of control, and that was never a good thing. He didn’t say a word until they reached the lumber yard. Ignoring the protests of the workers, he stalked up to the tool shed, and when they became persistent, he brandished his gun. Mr. Jones Jr. called his men away, and Riot opened the secret door.

  The agent who was guarding the room was dead. His name was Clark, an experienced man who had met a brutal end. There was blood and entrails, and a racial slur written in blood on the stone. Seaward had butchered the girl here, knowing full well he would be caught.

  Ravenwood poked his head in, and grunted. “I’ll summon the police.”

  As his partner walked away, a cold rage gathered in Riot’s blood. He’d be damned if he’d fail another child.

  22

  Strike of Lightning

  Tuesday, March 5, 1900

  Isobel cursed her rash decision. She had let emotion cloud her judgment. Why on earth had she thought Riot would already be in danger? But there had been something in her captors’ voices that spooked her. She had been filled with an irrational fear for him.

  It may have been the numerous kicks to her gut.

  Cold, sore, and hungry, she stomped back to the Pagan Lady. Light seeped from the portholes. Suppressing a sigh, Isobel braced herself for yet another worried face as she opened the hatch.

  The shipmate stove was blazing, and the cabin sweltered. Her twin hopped up the moment her foot touched the ladder. His golden hair was undone, brushing his shoulders. Lotario looked luminous in the fire’s light.

  “Bel!”

  Isobel slammed the hatch, already regretting her choice to come here instead of going to her room at Sapphire House. Lotario always fussed over her. “I’m fine.”

  Lotario rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you always? I told Atticus you would be. Where did you run off to? You were supposed to meet me.”

  “I was looking for a horse.”

  She rummaged through the galley, produced a tin of hard biscuits, jerky, and an apple, and tossed them on the table, sitting down to stuff everything she could into her mouth in the least amount of time.

  “I’m glad to know where I stand.” Lotario hovered over her. She could feel him frown. “You look terrible.”

  “I feel worse than I look. The horse gave me issues.”

  “I hope he was worth it.”

  “I found him.” She shrugged.

  Lotario walked over to the galley, filled a large kettle with water from the stores, and set it on the stove. “You need to clean up. I can’t stand it when you’re filthy; it makes me feel dirty, too.”

  She looked at him as she gnawed on a biscuit. The moment he sat down on the berth across, Watson jumped on his lap, and preened until Lotario started petting the tabby.

  “When did you get a cat?”

  “I didn’t. He volunteered to guard the Lady.”

  Lotario smiled, stroking the feline’s back. “I like him,” he said with a yawn. He leaned on a pillow, and pulled the blanket over him. “So where did you go?”

  “To Ocean Beach.”

  “Atticus and I followed your trail there,” Lotario drawled. “It was exhilarating, to say the least.”

  “Atticus?”

  “Yes. I can’t call him Riot, too. That would be odd.”

  “Because there’s nothing odd about you and me already?”

  Lotario fluffed his hair. “We’re a perfect pair,” he agreed.

  “What did you two do at the beach?”

  “We asked questions. I felt like a real detective… you know, I could get used to this sort of work.”

  “Except there’s usually an element of danger involved.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Oh, yes, of course.” Lotario tugged the blanket closer, as if taken by a sudden chill. “I could be an armchair detective. You know like Sherlock Holmes’ more brilliant brother Mycroft.”

  “You are lazy.”

  “I know, it’s perfect,” he said. “But don’t think I missed your exclusion of brilliant.”

  “You know you are, Ari.”

  That soothed his wounded ego.

  “For example,” he said lazily through half-closed lids. “From the way you’re sitting, I know your stomach is hurting. You sat the same way after you fought off that pack of dock boys who were bullying me.”

  Isobel sank her teeth into a hard piece of jerky.

  “And you’re wearing gloves to hide some other obvious injury.”

  “The horse kicked me. I’ll be pissing blood for a few days.”

  Lotario clucked his tongue. “Naughty horse.”

  “Where did you and ‘Atticus’ go on the beach?” she asked.

  “Oh, everywhere. He sent me to the more civilized venues by the Pavilion, while he traveled south along the shore. We couldn’t find a trace of you. Only some tracks of an apparent scuffle. The rain, you know, made a mess of everything. He’s a very useful man to have around, though.”

  “Yes,” she said faintly. Abruptly, she stood, grabbed a pot, and poured hot water into it from the kettle. She disappeared into the forward cabin to wash. Not that she was the modest sort where her twin was concerned—the pair had formed a bond in the womb that was nearly tangible to this day, and she was never quite sure where she left off and Lotario began. But she didn’t want him to see whatever bruises had blossomed.

  “You should let him know you’re safe as soon as possible. He was ready to storm the gates.”

  “The gates to where?” she called back. As she peeled off her clothes, she grimaced at the angry boot shaped bruises stamped on her abdomen. She tried not to look at the rest of the bruises.

  “Oh, you know…” he drawled vaguely.

  She clenched her teeth. “No, I don’t know.”

&n
bsp; “If you were the more brilliant part of the pair, then you would.”

  Isobel poked her head into the saloon. “Enlighten me.”

  “Nowhere in particular. All of Ocean Beach.” She could tell when Lotario was lying. And she said as much.

  “As if you’re not?” he shot back.

  Isobel sighed, and applied herself to scrubbing. When she was clean and dry, she pulled on a union suit. The garment reminded her of Riot, and she could not quite shake the memory of him in his own union suit, disheveled and in a state of undress. But it wasn’t lust that preoccupied her; it was the cold sweat, the way he shook, the wild fear in his eyes. And finally the hard mask that had slipped into place when she had asked him about din gau. She shivered, and buried herself in a thick sweater. It had felt as if a door had slammed in her face—a wall had been erected, and she hadn’t known what to do. So she fled.

  She certainly didn’t like others prying into her past. Why should he tolerate it any better? She had become too comfortable with the man.

  Isobel had intended to tell him everything, but the moment she saw his distressed state she changed her mind. The bullet scar tracing his skull was known to her. Along with his headaches and night-terrors, and the talking dead man. What demons might she stir awake if she told him of the tong threat? And how could he expect her to share when he clearly would not?

  She frowned as she walked into the saloon. Lost in thought, she plopped on the same berth as Lotario, and the two curled up like a pair of cats for warmth.

  “You should tell Atticus that you’re safe,” he repeated. “He is worried.”

  “I already did. I left Wilson there.”

  “Oh. I thought you might have stayed.”

  “I’m tired, Ari,” she said into his hair.

  “Of course.” There was a long stretch of silence. And as her lids grew heavy, she heard her twin’s distant voice. “You should tell him—whatever happened. He loves you.”

  Isobel sighed. “Would you stop using that word. We’ve scarcely spent a week together.”