Their lack of attention didn’t ease the young Chinese woman’s apprehension. She spoke too quickly for Celia to make out more than a few words.
“What is she saying, Barbara?” she asked. “She said yan, didn’t she? That means ‘man.’ Is she speaking of a particular man?”
But the young woman grew alarmed by Celia’s questions and fled through a doorway behind them, disappearing from sight.
“She didn’t mean anybody in particular, Cousin Celia.” Barbara glanced toward the empty doorway. “She just wanted to know if the police have found the person who killed Li Sha. That’s all. I told her they’ve arrested the father of her child.”
She began walking toward Washington Street and the constable who was waiting for them around the corner.
“That was not all, Barbara,” said Celia, joining her cousin. “She acted as though she wanted to tell you something important. Something that had alarmed her. If she suspects she knows who killed Li Sha, she has to inform the police.”
“Would the police listen to her?”
“Detective Greaves would.”
Barbara did not respond.
“If that young woman told you something that Mr. Greaves should know, you must speak up.”
Barbara’s eyes were hard, making Celia ponder how well she knew the person standing next to her. “It’s gossip, Cousin Celia. That’s how they are. That’s how Li Sha was, too.”
That was how many teenaged girls were, Celia wanted to respond, but she didn’t, caught off guard by her cousin’s manner. “They are your people, too, Barbara.”
“No, they’re not. I don’t have any people,” Barbara spat, and she limped away through the traffic, the bits of red paper crushed in her fist.
• • •
“Tom Davies? You can’t be serious!”
Tessie Lange’s tirade carried clearly through the partly open door to the detectives’ office. Nick expected that even if he’d been on the street walking past the station he could’ve heard her screeching at Taylor.
“Is there somebody in this station with any smarts?” she asked. “Tom isn’t guilty of murder.”
Taylor was attempting to quiet her. “Now, Miss Lange—”
Nick heard the angry tramp of boots across the floor and he guessed she was out there, pacing. Just as he formed the thought, he saw her swish across the room, then march back.
“Why are you looking at me like I’m crazy?” she shouted at Taylor. “He’s not guilty!”
Briggs—in the office for once—shook his head over her tantrum. “Jeminy, that one’s madder’n a wet hen!”
“Do you have evidence that would get Davies out?” Taylor was asking, his voice calm. “After all, we did find a knife hidden in his room, and his landlady says he threatened Li Sha—”
“I don’t care what you found! Because I was with him that night and I know he didn’t do it!”
Briggs stopped midchew and whistled, spewing doughnut crumbs onto his beard. Here’s an interesting turn, thought Nick. But just as with Wagner, there were always women who were willing to vouch for their menfolk, whether they were guilty or not. Sometimes their willingness came from love. Sometimes it came from fear.
“You sure about that?” Taylor asked Tessie.
“Just let me see him.”
“Visiting hours on Saturday are this afternoon at—”
“I want to see him now!”
Taylor’s chair legs scraped across the wood floor. “Hold on, miss. I’ll talk to somebody about your request.”
Nick’s assistant entered the office, nodded at Briggs, and closed the office door behind him. “What do you think, sir? Captain won’t like it if we let her back there outside of regular hours.”
“She’s here to see Davies now, and the captain doesn’t need to know,” Nick answered.
Chuckling, Briggs got up from his desk. “Eagan’s not going to like this, Greaves.”
“And wouldn’t that make you happy?” Taylor shot back.
“Bootlicker,” Briggs snarled, and lumbered out of the office.
Nick watched him go. Their animosity went back a long way, to the day Nick had been promoted to detective ahead of Briggs. Briggs had credited Nick’s uncle Asa with pulling strings with the police chief. He’d never admit the early promotion had come because Nick was a better cop.
“Take her to see Davies,” he said to Taylor. “But tell her she only has five minutes to speak to him. I’m going to listen in the cell-house bullpen and see what we might learn.”
“Got it, sir . . . Mr. Greaves.”
Out in the main station room, Taylor led Tessie Lange off to the jail cells.
• • •
“Why are you here, Tessie?” Tom Davies asked, not getting up from where he lay stretched out on the narrow bunk.
Nick eased the cell-block door closed and slipped into the corner of the bullpen. Tessie wouldn’t notice him here, obscured by a stack of empty crates, apparently forgotten, that had once held ropes, chains, and stakes for closing off streets. Nick could easily see Davies from here, along with Tessie’s hands pressed against the thick iron grate that separated her from the prisoner.
“I wanted to see how you’re doing,” she said, leaning closer, her face coming into view.
At the far end of the six-foot-wide aisle that divided the two rows of cells, the warden snoozed on his chair, his feet pointed toward the corner stove. At the sound of a new voice, he propped an eye open for a second, then closed it again. He wasn’t worried about his prisoners, apparently.
“You’ve seen me. Now leave.”
Davies rolled over on the bunk to face the wall. A white-bearded prisoner across the aisle belched, and his cell mate offered to keep Tessie company when he got out, his lewd suggestions of what they might do together causing the other man to guffaw. Somewhere farther along the cell block, a man was mumbling angrily, when he wasn’t shouting obscenities or crying. There were a few women, too, ladies of the night in soiled bright dresses, their hair straggling, kept apart from the men by a thick wall of iron. People could easily die in a place like this, with its cold and damp, the smell of open slop jars and unwashed bodies, and mold darkening the stone walls. At night, rats scuttled about, nibbling. Preachers said hell was a place of fire and brimstone; if they’d ever come down here, they might think differently.
“Tom, I’ve told them you’re not guilty,” Tessie said, leaning into the grate until her forehead rested against the metal. “I’ve told them I was with you.”
“Why did you do that?” he snapped. He lurched off the bunk, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the empty bunk above. He walked up to the floor-to-ceiling grate and stared at her. The light from a solitary lantern hanging on the far wall illuminated his face, and the black stubble on his chin made him appear wan and sickly. “Just stay outta this, Tessie, before they begin to suspect you, too.”
“I told them that because it’s the truth! I don’t care what people say about me, Tom, if I can get you out of this place.”
“The magistrate has charged me with murder. I can’t be bailed and I’ll be stayin’ in here to rot until I hang.”
“You won’t hang. I won’t let them hang you,” insisted Tessie. “I went to see Connor, but he told me not to bother him about Li Sha.”
Nick wondered if this Connor fellow was the man she’d gone to visit in the Barbary.
“Course he doesn’t want to hear about her!” Davies said. “Hell, he probably killed Li Sha, much as he hated her.”
“Don’t say that, Tom! Connor’s your friend.”
“Well, he didn’t like her at all, now, did he?” Davies slipped a finger through an opening in the grate and pointed at her, grazing the tip of her nose. “And neither did you. You and Connor in it together, then?”
She recoiled from his touch. “No
!”
Davies withdrew his hand. “Go home, Tessie. We made a mistake, you and me. ’Tis time to forget it.”
“But I love you!”
“Too late to be realizin’ that,” Davies said, watching her face. “And I loved her.”
“How could you have loved a yellow China girl? She wasn’t carrying your baby, Tom. There’ve probably been all sorts of other men since she left that brothel. Don’t be an idiot.”
The white-bearded prisoner across the way, who’d been hanging on their every word, grunted a sound of pleased surprise. The warden started snoring.
Davies curled a fist and pressed it against the iron grate, inches from her face. “You’ve been sayin’ that just to make me hate her as much as you did. There weren’t other men.”
Taylor slipped through the cell-block door. “Eagan was out there looking for you,” he whispered to Nick. “He wants you up in his office in five minutes or else.”
“He doesn’t come in on Saturdays,” Nick whispered back.
“He did today, and he’s mad enough to chew nails and spit rivets. He’s heard you went to see Palmer.”
Nick cursed under his breath.
“Listen, we can put this behind us,” Tessie Lange was saying, with what Nick judged to be foolhardy persistence. “You’ll get out and then you can be with me—”
“Stop it, Tessie. I’ll not be gettin’ outta here,” he hissed, stepping backward. “Go home. Just go home. And leave me be.”
“I won’t give up.”
“Then you’re a fool, woman.” Davies climbed onto his bunk and turned to face the wall again.
“Go get her,” ordered Nick, heading to the bullpen door. “And bring her to my office. I need to ask her about a man named Connor.”
“Your time’s up, Miss Lange,” Taylor announced, striding forward. “Time to go.”
“I’ll get you out, Tom!” she cried. “I swear I will.”
The grizzled prisoner found her vow riotously funny, his cackle echoing off the cell-block walls.
• • •
Celia, still wearing her garibaldi and holland skirt, crouched in the garden. She was pulling weeds among the rosebushes, which were just beginning to put on fresh leaves. Addie liked to shake her head over Celia whenever she came out here. It was not much of a garden and certainly very different from the magnificent flower beds her aunt had maintained in Hertfordshire. All they had in San Francisco was a patch of land with a set of wicker chairs and some rosebushes, two poles with a clothesline stretched between them, and a spot of wet ground where Addie tossed refuse.
But Celia came outside to work in the garden and listen to Mrs. Cascarino singing in her kitchen, to watch for seagulls whirling overhead, and to breathe in the smell of the warm soil. Calming, all of them. And Celia needed calming after the morning she’d had. After she had left her patient, she’d visited five different surgeons, none of whom was willing to make a trip to Chinatown to help a dying Chinese prostitute. She’d approached a sixth and begged him until he claimed he would see what he could do. His promise was the best Celia could accomplish. She’d saw the arm off herself, but she did not have the proper tools or necessary training.
Celia felt the first drops of a rain shower and stood, wiping her gloved hands down the apron she’d borrowed from Addie, and regarded the rosebushes. Her aunt would be appalled by their sickly appearance. Perhaps, though, if Celia paid them some attention this year, they would eventually thrive.
“Oy! Ma’am!”
She spun about to face the voice. “Owen! Good heavens, you startled me!” What a relief to see him, though.
He closed the gate behind him, his left arm hugging his side. “I’ve got some news.”
She peered at him. “Are you hurt?”
Owen glanced down at his side as if he’d just remembered it. “Fell into a ditch. I was listening in, you see—”
“You fell into a ditch?” She peeled off the thick gloves she wore when she worked in the garden and hurried over to him. “Does it hurt to breathe?”
“A little. But it’s not bad. The ditch weren’t so deep,” he said, winking.
She prodded his ribs. “Cough, please.” Owen did as ordered, wincing, but she could not feel any bone grating against bone. “Just a bad bruise, I think. Or a tiny fracture.”
He grinned at her, revealing a dimple. “That’s good, then.”
The rain started to fall more steadily. “Come inside and explain to me what caused you to fall into a ditch.”
They retreated to the kitchen, interrupting Addie, who was busy making shortbread. The kitchen smelled sweet as Addie pulled the biscuits from the little oven in the Good Samaritan stove.
“Sit,” Celia said, pressing Owen into a chair.
He sniffed the air and smiled blissfully. “You’re the best cook, Addie, know that?”
“Owen Cassidy, you’d eat anything set before you, so you can save the compliments,” she replied, but she looked pleased anyway as she set the biscuits atop the stove to cool.
“So, the ditch?” Celia asked him.
“A bunch of fellas got together last night, you see. To talk about them rioters and how rotten unfair it is they got sent to jail.” He watched Addie as she slid shortbread onto a plate. “But I wasn’t invited to join them. So I thought I’d just give a listen at the window of the house where they were meeting.”
“What did they say?” asked Celia.
“There were talking mean, saying there’s a man who’s planning trouble for the Chinese, and then they started laughing. Well, it weren’t like funnin’ laughing, or nothing.” Owen scrunched up his face at the recollection. “They want to burn ’em out, Mrs. Davies. Them Chinese and anybody who hires ’em.”
Burn them out. “Did you happen to hear this fellow’s name?”
“All I heard was Connor. But there are dozens of Connors around.”
“Yes, I know.” It was a popular name among the Irish. But still, this was information to share with Mr. Greaves if he did not already know it.
“Och,” muttered Addie, and she set the plate of shortbread in front of Owen, who scooped a biscuit into his mouth.
“And then one of ’em came to the window,” said Owen, his mouth full, “and I got scared they’d see me outside and I ran off. But it were already dark and I didn’t remember the ditch that’d been cut along the road and I fell in. Banged up my side.” He patted his ribs.
“How serious do you think they were about attacking the Chinese?”
“Don’t know, ma’am. They do like to talk big, but sometimes they like to cause trouble, too.”
Did they also like to slink around in shadows and spy on people? “You did not hear any of these men mention us here, did you, Owen?”
“Nope,” he said, looking worried. “You think they might be after Miss Barbara again? I mean, more than what those kids said to her the other day?”
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”
“I’ll give a listen. How’s that?” he said.
Oh dear. I have put him in more danger.
“You’re a brave laddie, Owen, you are,” said Addie. “And for being so good, you may have another biscuit.”
The boy happily obliged. “By the way, Addie,” he said, dribbling crumbs down his shirt. He licked a finger to catch them up and pop them into his mouth. “I might know somebody who’d like to go walking with you along North Beach some Sunday. Like to meet him?”
Addie colored. “Whisht, lad, what sort of nonsense are you talking? A friend of yours? Whatever gave you such an idea?”
“You did. Don’t you ’member?”
“No, I dinna remember,” she said, and turned back to the stove, slamming a pot onto the hob.
Owen chuckled and jumped up. “Thanks for checking my ribs, Mrs. Davies.” He snapped
up a handful of shortbread. “I’ll be going now.”
With a grin, he stuffed two into his mouth and darted out the rear door.
• • •
“It’s about time you got up here, Greaves,” said Captain Eagan, moving aside a stack of papers he’d been reviewing.
Nick stepped into the captain’s office, a nicely furnished room with a soft carpet and polished wood paneling. A room that didn’t stink like the police station in the basement.
“A woman was visiting Tom Davies,” Nick said. “I wanted to hear what they had to say to each other.”
Eagan eyed the clock on his desk. “It’s outside of visiting hours.”
“Have to take advantage of opportunities when they arise.”
The captain inhaled, his burnished police badge winking in the glow of the gas chandelier. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve been questioning Joseph Palmer. What the hell’s that all about?”
Time to tread carefully, Nick. “I’ve learned the murdered Chinese girl knew him and might have met with him the night she was killed. She was looking for money to leave town.”
Eagan leaned forward. “And you’re thinking that Joseph Palmer, one of the most respected men in San Francisco, met this girl and ended up killing her? That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s a lead, sir. I’d be stupid not to follow it.”
“No, where you’re stupid, Greaves, is messing with him,” said Eagan. “Take my advice and leave Palmer alone. Men like him can cause more trouble than it’s worth. Trust me.”
Nick stared back at his superior. There were days when he despised the captain, even though his uncle had thought the world of Dennis Eagan. The best police officer you’ll ever meet, Nick. Do as he says, and you’ll go far.
Eagan might be the best police officer Nick would ever meet, but the captain was too cozy with men who liked to throw their weight around. Men like Palmer.
“I’m just doing my job, Captain.”
“You’re wasting valuable police time on this, Greaves,” Eagan shot back. “We have a suspect in jail. And I hear Taylor’s involved. Mullahey, too?”
No Comfort for the Lost Page 13
