Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  The door slammed, leaving Riot to contemplate the fate of his spectacles. He really should’ve left them on the boat.

  5

  The Nymphia

  A horde of religious picketers laid siege to a three-story brick building on Pacific Street. Reporters mixed with preachers, and a line of police in front of the hotel’s ornate gates kept the mob at bay.

  Pacific Street was in chaos.

  Newly opened the previous year, the Hotel Nymphia had been a simmering scandal in San Francisco from the moment of its conception. Isobel hadn’t gotten around to seeing it. What with investigating her family’s misfortune, being blackmailed into marrying a brute, her subsequent ‘death’ and miraculous rebirth, her divorce, remarriage, and adopting two daughters, there just hadn’t been time.

  Since she held no illusions of policemen ushering her through the gates, she turned the corner onto Stockton, and strolled past what looked like an abandoned building until she came to an alleyway.

  She peeked around the corner.

  Policemen stood at the back entrances and fire escapes. Steeling herself, Isobel marched up to the nearest officer. Or at least that was her intent. As soon as an officer spotted her, he rushed forward and made a grab for her arm.

  She skipped out of his grasp, and he raised his billy club. “Trying to sneak around, eh?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “You won’t run this time.”

  “You’ll have to come get me, then.”

  The officer was handsome, youthful, and completely dim-witted. He rushed her, confident in his size. She stepped into his reaching hands, grabbed his wrist, and twisted with his body. The officer screamed as he dropped to his knees. She let go before the maneuver snapped his wrist and hurried to the door. He lunged to his feet.

  The door was unlocked, so she slipped inside and turned the latch, as the officer thudded against the outside. Now to find Inspector Coleman.

  The empty hallways were dingy and run-down, cheap carpet already showing its age in worn tracks. It smelled of mildew and cigarette smoke.

  Lotario, her twin, had the highest standards for brothels. He would be appalled. He only worked out of the Narcissus, which equaled the Palace Hotel in extravagance.

  Isobel followed her ears towards a commotion. She walked through a dirty kitchen, and pushed open a swinging door. About one hundred women, all naked save for garters, were corralled in a restaurant. They were shouting insults at the harried police officers, who were trying to quell the growing unrest.

  An officer guarding the swinging door seized her arm. “Oi! Where’d you come from?”

  “I need to speak with Detective Inspector Coleman.”

  The officer looked her up and down in confusion. She was dressed; the other ladies were not. “Why don’t you just wait over there with the rest of the scarlet ladies.”

  “Splendid idea.”

  He shoved her into the crowd of disgruntled women. Isobel gave up trying to avoid brushing bare breasts, buttocks and thighs, and bullied her way to the front of the crowd. As the only clothed woman in the room, she attracted attention, puzzled glances and glares in equal measure.

  “What’s happening?” she asked a black-haired woman, who looked set to commit arson with her cigarette.

  “Another raid. Usually they cart us away. But we’ve been stuck here for over an hour. Won’t even let us get our clothes.”

  “You didn’t even have time to grab a chemise?”

  The woman eyed her up and down. “You haven’t been here before, have you?”

  “Charlotte Bonnie. Reporter. I snuck in the back.”

  “And I’m Anne Glory,” she said dryly. “Women aren’t allowed clothing in the Nymphia. We’re required to be naked at all times.”

  It sounded like a crude joke, but it wasn’t. Anne was serious, and the implications made Isobel’s stomach churn. “Was everyone caught?” she asked.

  Anne shook her head. “There’s anywhere from a hundred to three hundred working girls at any given time.”

  Isobel tried to imagine that overflow of naked women streaming into the streets. Maybe they’d grabbed sheets first? “Do you have any idea why they’re keeping you?”

  “No. But the bulls are holding some johns across the way. They usually let the men off with a little slap to their dainty wrists.”

  Usually. But not today. Her mind leapt to the obvious conclusion.

  Isobel slipped past the rest of the angry women until she found herself at the front of the group. Someone shoved her into the arms of a strapping officer with a billy club. “I have information about the murder,” she said, quickly. “But I’ll only talk to Inspector Coleman or Sgt. Price.”

  He frowned down at her. Then, like she’d given him a magic password, he shoved her into another officer’s hands. “Claims she has information.”

  “Tell Inspector Coleman my name is Riot.”

  “Keep an eye on her,” the first officer ordered his brother-in-arms, before he trotted up a stairway. She fluttered her lashes at the officer, then stood on her tiptoes to look into the room on the other side of the hotel lobby. Angry male voices rumbled from that direction. The men weren’t behaving any better. She suspected they’d been helping themselves to the contents of the saloon.

  Soon enough a familiar figure came pounding down the steps. He looked grave and disapproving, but then the bullish Sgt. Price generally looked like that. Although today his handlebar mustache was twitching.

  He drew her off to the side. “What the blazes are you doing here, Mrs. Riot?”

  “I need to speak to the Inspector.”

  “How’d you know about the murder?”

  “Why else would you need a Detective Inspector to round up whores and johns, then detain them for so long?”

  “Yes, but what the devil brought you here? This is no place for a proper lady.”

  “I usually turn up at improper places, Sgt. Price.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “What’s happened now?”

  “Riot’s been charged with a murder he didn’t commit. Inspector Geary and his goon O’Hare arrested him. They had a warrant.”

  The sergeant grunted. “Geary hates A.J.’s guts.”

  “Yes, I know, Riot being a ‘pompous ass’ and all. But given his recent brush with death, I don’t think he’ll survive whatever interrogation they have planned.”

  Sgt. Price muttered an oath. “O’Hare doesn’t go easy on prisoners.”

  She must have swayed, because Price grabbed her arm. “I’ll figure something out.” Sgt. Price beckoned a pale man over. He wore a bowler and suit rather than a uniform, and his red hair curled from under his hat. “Doyle. Get down to the Mission station. Find Inspector Geary and tell him that Detective Inspector Coleman has you on guard duty for Atticus Riot.”

  “What’s he in for now?” Doyle asked.

  “Murder. Don’t let Geary bully you. I don’t want to find a blasted bruise on A.J. Clear?”

  Doyle nodded, and left.

  “Can you trust him?” Isobel asked.

  “Doyle knows A.J.”

  Isobel felt like she could breathe for the first time in an hour. “Thank you, Sergeant,” she said with feeling.

  “You sure A.J. didn’t do it?”

  “Yes.” At least the possibility was slim. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  Price tightened his grip, keeping her in place. “You need to stay clear of whatever mess he’s fallen into.”

  “Riot’s been accused of murder,” she hissed. “I can’t just stand idly by.”

  “If you go down to the station and make a fuss, Geary will toss you in jail, too. That won’t do A.J. a jot of good.”

  She ground her teeth together. A dozen arguments and insults battled on the tip of her tongue, but he was right. Damn him.

  “Look here, Mrs. Riot. The Inspector wanted me to escort you out, but… maybe you can help us.”

  “Tossing a bone to a yapping dog?”
<
br />   “Something like that.” Price flashed his teeth, then leaned in closer. “There’s a dead man upstairs. We have close to two hundred suspects, and the murderer might have already slipped out. I don’t want to be here till hell freezes over taking statements. Maybe you could speed things up as a…” He searched for a word.

  “Consulting detective?” She liked the sound of that.

  Price frowned down at her. “Don’t go thinking you’re some damn Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I’m far too short, sergeant.”

  “I’m going to regret this,” he muttered.

  6

  Interrogation

  By the time Inspector Geary returned with his goon, Riot’s shoulders were cramping and his knees had gone numb.

  “O’Hare, we’re not savages. Get this prisoner a chair,” Geary said, folding his hands behind his back. Given his resemblance to a gargoyle, Riot wondered if years of looking down at prisoners had shaped him, or had he started out like that naturally.

  The two mysterious men walked in, too, stepping aside to observe.

  O’Hare came back with a chair, then bent to unlock the chain from Riot’s handcuffs. He kept the irons on, though.

  Riot eyed the chair sideways, considering his options. He knew what Geary wanted—to watch him struggle to stand with pins and needles in his legs. The alternative was to stay on his knees. So Riot made himself a third option.

  “Four men against one? Scared I’ll bite, Inspector?”

  A hand slapped the back of his head. “You can talk when you answer a question. Not before, Smart Ass,” O’Hare growled.

  “That’s Mr. Smart Ass to you, O’Hare.”

  A billy club came down on his shoulder blades. Riot moved with the blow, lessening its effect, as he toppled to the stone. It still stung, but the fresh pain distracted from his cramping shoulders.

  All things said and done, lying down was a relief. He shifted onto his side to wait.

  “Pick him up, O’Hare.”

  The big officer wrenched him upright, but Riot’s legs gave out and he fell onto the chair. Small victories, he thought.

  Riot studied the graying man in the corner. As he watched Riot in return, the edge of his bushy mustache twitched upwards. A smile? Had the man realized Riot’s manipulation of the officers? Riot doubted those squinting eyes missed much.

  The graying man held a familiar revolver. Riot’s own Smith and Wesson No. 3. The question was, who was in charge here?

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Riot asked.

  “You don’t need to concern yourself with those two.”

  “Liam Taft. This is Sam Batten.” Liam’s voice was rough with gravel. He offered nothing more.

  Geary thrust two fingers at Riot’s eyes, then gestured back to his own. “I’m the one you need to worry about.”

  Riot shifted in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position with his arms behind his back. “I’m finding the knot in my shoulder too distracting to worry overly much.”

  “O’Hare will make you forget about that knot if you don’t answer me, Riot. Where were you on November sixth?”

  “What day was that?” Riot asked.

  “The day you killed Monty in cold blood.”

  “I’d nearly forgotten you and Monty were friends.” Riot wasn’t watching Geary when he said it, he was watching Liam Taft for a reaction. But a quick, hard slap that rattled his head interrupted his observation.

  Riot squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing.

  “Answer the inspector,” O’Hare warned.

  “Let’s see… today is a Wednesday,” Riot said through clenched teeth. “What is it? The fourteenth?”

  “Playing dumb won’t work,” Geary warned.

  “I’ve been in Muir Woods and Willow Camp for the last week and a half. Do you think I usually dress like this?”

  “Today is the fourteenth,” Sam confirmed.

  Riot nodded his thanks. “Let’s see, we left for Muir Woods on the third. That was a Saturday. So… I suppose by the sixth we were at Willow Camp exploring the beach. Or hiking in the woods. I can’t honestly remember.”

  “And I suppose you were with your mongrel ‘family’?”

  “I was.”

  “I’m sure they’ll vouch for you,” Geary said.

  “Along with several people at Willow Camp, and likely some at the new inn up that way.”

  “Why, because you’re so memorable?”

  “Because my daughters and their friend were screeching and hanging off the gravity train. Then they got kicked out of the inn. I’m still not sure what they did. No one is talking.”

  “That may be, but that doesn’t mean you were with them.”

  “It’s easily verified.”

  “But you’d have plenty of time to take a ferry back, shoot your ex-agent, and pop on back over.”

  “What time was Monty killed?” Riot asked.

  “You’re not asking the questions here,” Geary said. “And I’ll not waste my time with your paid alibis. I’m sure that bullet between his eyes will match the one in your revolver.”

  “Considering how much you dislike me, I wouldn’t be surprised, Inspector.”

  O’Hare slapped the side of Riot’s head with his billy club. Riot’s vision blurred, and when he’d refocused, Liam had shifted positions. He’d crossed his arms and turned his attention on the officers. But Liam was a hard one to read, especially without spectacles.

  “Tell me about your fight with Monty,” Geary ordered.

  “Ask your goon to stop hitting me.”

  “O’Hare’s just playing with you.”

  Riot squinted up at the looming gargoyle. “Monty beat me near to death. My head hasn’t recovered. You hit me any harder and you’ll have a dead man on your hands.”

  “So you had motive,” Geary said. “Write that down. Revenge. And you knew where to find him. Opportunity.” No one in the room wrote anything down. Riot doubted O’Hare could write. “Why’d you go visit Monty at his boxing club?”

  “Same reason there’s two Pinkerton operatives standing in the room.” Riot’s guess was confirmed when Geary hit him across the face. If he’d been wrong, and they were U.S. Marshals, Geary would’ve made sure Riot knew it. Geary did like to gloat. But Riot had wagered correctly, because U.S. Marshals would’ve been in charge.

  Riot worked his jaw, tasting blood on his lip. “You seem more the vengeful type than me, Inspector.”

  “Always an arrogant ass, aren’t you?”

  “Funny, Monty said that same thing after he beat me up.”

  “Answer my question. Why’d you visit Montgomery Johnson?”

  “There was an attack on Ravenwood Agency. A captured assassin told me that a man seen with the Pinkertons had hired them to kill me.”

  Sam Batten glanced at his partner, who only stared down at Riot in consideration.

  “And based on that bit of information you surmised it was your agent?” Geary pressed.

  “The man who hired the assassins fit Monty’s description, and he wasn’t at the agency during the attack. Monty had made himself scarce.”

  “Was there bad blood between you two?”

  “You should know, Inspector. I wager the two of you talked about it.”

  Geary glared.

  “Or was it him and O’Hare?”

  O’Hare slapped the back of his head again. A wave of dizziness hit Riot full on, and his vision narrowed to a tunnel. His shoulders felt a long way off.

  “He can’t talk if he’s unconscious,” Liam said.

  Geary snorted. “He’s faking it.”

  “I don’t think he is,” said Liam. “Why don’t you get this fellow some water and dim these lights.”

  “You’re not in charge here,” Geary said.

  Liam raised his hands. “Just a suggestion, Inspector.” His tone seemed to soothe Geary’s ego. The inspector nodded to O’Hare, who reluctantly did as ordered.

  Soon enough, th
e lights dimmed, and a tin cup of water hovered in front of him. It churned Riot’s stomach.

  “How badly were you beaten, Mr. Riot?” Liam asked.

  “It laid me out for weeks.”

  “And yet you went camping,” Geary said.

  “Three weeks after the fact.”

  “After one of your agents was killed,” Geary accused.

  “In the attack on my agency. Yes. Mack McCormick.”

  “Then you confronted Monty. He got the better of you, and you went back and shot him. That’s a little more than coincidence, considering your reputation.”

  “I was with my family. If I were you, Inspector, I’d be searching for the culprit who hired Monty to kill me.”

  “With the way you make friends, that’d be half the city.”

  Riot raised his head to look Geary in the eye. “You included?”

  O’Hare raised his club to strike, but a knock on the door interrupted the blow.

  The door opened, and a hesitant officer poked his head inside. “Sir, there’s a—” the man didn’t get to finish. A rough, edgy man bulled his way inside.

  “Doyle, here. I’m to guard the prisoner.” Doyle wore a cocked cap and had a scar along his chin. Pockmarked, with a face like leather, he was as tough as he looked. Riot nearly shuddered with relief. Without waiting for permission, Doyle took up a position at Riot’s side, opposite O’Hare. The two men glared at each other, the tension thick enough to feel.

  “On whose orders?” Geary demanded.

  “Detective Inspector Coleman’s.”

  Riot barely heard the words. They came from far away, every breath sending a sharp pain through his skull.

  “Wait outside,” Geary ordered.

  “I’m not to leave his side, sir. Orders are orders. You’ll have to take it up with the Inspector, sir.”

  Geary ground his teeth together. “And why does Coleman care about my prisoner?” He directed the question to Liam, who looked just as curious to know the answer.

  It was Doyle who spoke. “A woman bullied her way into the Nymphia during a raid and made a nuisance of herself.”