“Do you always get the same room?”
“I do. I’m popular.” Anne gave her a wink. “I do this thing where—”
Sgt. Price cleared his throat, loudly. “Stay on subject, Miss Glory.”
Isobel raised the edge of her lip. “You can tell me later.” She slipped out her cigarette case and offered one to the woman.
“Now these aren’t the cheap kind.” Anne took two, tucked one between her breasts, and struck a match for the other. “Any road. I’m popular, so I get my pick. Some girls just give it a go for a week, and move on.”
“Is that common?”
Anne wrinkled her nose. “The working conditions aren’t great. Some don’t make enough to pay their rent for the day. There’s a lot of competition here. And some don’t fancy the peep shows. It’s one thing to wave your ass up in the air for one fellow, but to have a crowd of eyes watching… well, not all the girls can take the constant staring. It gets to you after a while. No privacy. No time to recover, or even clean up in private. If a man comes in while you’re wiping yourself down from the last, you have to take him. There’s no choice here.”
Sounded like reason to murder a man.
“How long do the rooms rent out for?”
“Twenty-four hours. You can leave before, as long as your bill is settled. But most of the girls go till they drop. Then we take our earnings and live like queens for a week. I have a regular room at the Palace.” Anne gave a shrug. “Whiskey gets you through a shift like that.”
“Are there rooms that aren’t occupied?”
“Sure,” Anne took a long drag. “The peep hole stays open so men don’t waste their coin on those. Too many complaints otherwise.”
“Who keeps the dimes?”
“We do. But they cheat us. Most use slugs now.” She made a sound of disgust. “Some fellow down the street started selling fake coins. Twenty slugs for five cents. The bastard. Now there’s a man I’d like to kill.”
Sgt. Price cleared his throat. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Kind of you.”
“What if a john gets rough?” Isobel asked.
Anne grimaced. “There’s the watchmen. One out back behind the building, another in the manager’s office. Then there’s the rovers down in the saloon and poolroom to keep grubby hands away from us, and two watchmen on every floor, one for each wing. If you’re lucky, you can throw the lock, and make it out into the hallway. Some times a watchman hears, and sometimes…” She paused to take a drag with a shaky hand. “Sometimes he’s paid not to.”
“Are there any men who regularly rough up women?”
Her twin never went anywhere without his bodyguard, Bruno. But then Paris, his working name, was the star of a burlesque show in a high-class parlor.
“The fellows ripe with cash are always the worst. They can’t get away with the things they do to us at a high-end brothel, so they come here—the largest cow-yard in the world.”
“Names?”
“There’s a reason we call them johns.”
“Do you know who rented room 136?”
A flicker of a lash. “There're upwards of three hundred girls in this hellhole. I don’t bother with names on the upper floors, but you can ask the watchman. That’s Becker’s floor.”
Isobel had the bodyguard for the third floor brought in. He hadn’t fled with the others (or he’d been too slow) and didn’t appear worried. As a watchman paid to keep the peace, she doubted he’d even be fined. He was just doing his job.
He was a sour smelling man, who had helped himself to a bottle of whiskey while being detained. Bruised knuckles, one black eye, and a cut lip.
“Had trouble on the third floor?” Isobel asked.
“Who are you?”
“Your judge and jury,” Price said. He pushed the man onto a stool. The watchman bristled, but paused at the badge on Price’s chest.
The men were of the same build. Both rough, but Price kept his whiskers orderly, and his uniform crisp.
“Your eye, Mr…”
“Becker. Earl Becker.”
“Did you get in a fight?”
“Not a day goes by that I don’t have to throw some drunk fellow out. Now what’s a lady like you doing here?”
A ‘lady like her’ wanted to get as far away from this man as possible. Or knee him. He had the perpetual leer of a man who saw women as lustful possibilities.
“Questioning you, Mr. Becker. I thought that’d be obvious.”
“But why?”
“Were there any disturbances in the past twenty-four hours?”
Becker considered the ceiling for a minute as he sucked on a tooth. “Sure, three fellows thought they’d get a deal if they all went in at once.”
“And the woman in the room?”
“Some sort of Mexican or Apache, how the hell do I know? She ran out into the hallway screaming.”
“And you…”
He stiffened. “I had some words with them. They went on their way. I don’t like fellows roughing up the women. I got no use for that here. The whores give them what they want. Why the hell do these fellows have to put bruises on them too?”
Isobel found that the longer she stayed in this hotel, the sicker she was becoming. It was one thing to put a foot in the underworld, but quite another to spend any length of time in it as a woman.
“I don’t know, Mr. Becker. But I do know that there is a dead man on your floor. On your watch.”
Earl’s eyes widened. She could feel Sgt. Price’s disapproving eyes on the back of her skull, but there was nothing for it. She didn’t have time to tiptoe around a murder investigation. Discretion was nice, but there was nothing like dangling the word murder in front of a suspect.
“What room?” Earl asked.
“One thirty-six.”
He sat back.
“Do you know who was renting that room the last twenty-four hours?”
“Sure. It was a Japanese woman. There’s only two in the cow-yard. That’s how I remember.”
“Do you remember the men who visited her?”
Earl barked out a laugh. “I’m not a log book. I remember which women are on my floor. I can’t keep track of the men who come and go.”
“Did anyone bother her on your shift?”
“No, no one.” But that wasn’t true. Isobel knew he was lying. He’d been too quick to shake his head.
Isobel looked to Sgt. Price. “Have one of your officers take him around to the detainees in the saloon to see if he can identify the woman.”
An officer soon came to take Earl Becker away. “He knows something more,” Isobel said.
Price shrugged. “Hard to tell. Most everyone is hiding something here. I’ll keep him overnight and let him stew till we can track down this woman and confirm his story.”
“Let’s check the lockers.”
The manager was a thick, older woman wearing a faded silk dress and diamond teardrop earrings. She kept the keys to the lockers on a ring that could double as a bludgeon.
Mrs. Honeyford fumbled with her key ring as she searched through the keys. Eventually she located the right one, and opened the locker.
“Do you keep a logbook of who rents the rooms?”
“I don’t ask no questions. I just let out the rooms and take the money.”
“Do you give the residents duplicate keys?”
“All the keys are right here.” The manager patted her key ring.
Isobel searched the clothing inside the opened locker. A ruffled white blouse, a plain gray skirt and matching coat. The shoes were dainty. Perhaps even smaller than Isobel’s own feet. The personals were store bought, but the corset was strange. It had two buttoned flaps over the breast area.
Easy access, maybe?
Isobel sniffed at a stain on the fabric. Sour milk.
Ah. A nursing corset.
“Do you remember the woman who rented this room?”
Mrs. Honeyford shook her head. “My memory isn’t
what it used to be. And there’s so many that come and go.”
Isobel doubted that.
“Are there any nursing women in the saloon?” Isobel asked Sgt. Price when they were alone again.
“Why?”
“The locker had a nursing corset in it.”
“Oh.” He colored slightly. “I’ll have the matron check.”
“And if the clothes fit… Well, I’ve given you a place to start, sergeant. If you’ll excuse me, I need to check on Riot.”
He looked confused. “You’re not going to follow up on this?”
“And comb San Francisco for a lactating woman with small feet and an infant?”
“A Japanese woman.”
“So Mr. Becker claims,” she said. “He may be tossing us an easy scapegoat. You know as well as I do how the courts treat suspects of oriental descent. Let alone a prostitute.”
Price couldn’t argue with that. “I’ll read through the interviews. But she might not have a child.”
“Why do you say that?”
Price turned brick red. “Some men pay for that sort of thing.”
Isobel raised a brow in consideration. Then wondered if she was more naïve than she imagined. “Have someone bring the interviews by the agency when you’re finished. I’ll see if anything strikes me.”
But he didn’t leave right away. Sgt. Price insisted on escorting her out the gate. He wasn’t about to let her walk unescorted through a brothel, and she found herself grateful for his chivalry. The place made her skin crawl.
“Had you heard about Monty’s murder?”
Price shook his head. “Inspector Geary and O’Hare work the Mission Bay, and I don’t recall seeing it in the newspapers, but I’m not the most diligent of readers. I don’t much care to read about more crimes on my time off.”
“Understandable.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up, though. Do you think it was the same people who attacked Ravenwood Agency?”
“Perhaps…” she hesitated, weighing how much she should share with Price. “We think Monty was the one who hired those men to attack the agency.”
Price digested this. “Did Monty pan him out, too?”
She nodded. “Riot went to question Monty at his boxing club. It ended badly. I think whoever hired Monty to kill Riot covered their tracks.”
“A.J. told us the man who was hired to kill him was seen with the Pinkertons.”
Isobel knew this, of course. Riot had told her what he’d shared with Coleman and Price.
“There were two men at the docks with Geary and O’Hare. They didn’t introduce themselves, and they weren’t wearing uniforms or badges.”
“What’d they look like?”
She described both men.
“I don’t recall any police inspectors who fit that description.” Price frowned as he searched the street, but his thoughts were far away. “You say A.J. was with you the whole time you were in Willow Camp?”
“He was in no condition to go sailing off in the middle of the night to kill someone in the City.”
“Have to admit,” Price mused, scratching his chin. “Sounds like something he would do. All things considered.”
“I would’ve noticed.”
“Aye, but would you tell us?”
Isobel crossed her arms.
“Let’s hope someone remembers him at Willow Camp besides you.”
13
Sideways
“Where is she?” Tobias asked.
Jin and Tobias sat on the curb, playing jacks across from the police station.
“Sarah is fine,” she said, glancing at the sky.
San Francisco didn’t abide by regular seasons. Half the time fog obscured the sun, so someone who wasn’t familiar with the city had trouble telling time without a watch. But the city had its quirks, and longtime residents got by just fine.
The fog generally burned off by noon and the sun came out. Sometimes crisp and cold (it didn’t matter if it was summer or winter) and sometimes hot and close. But around three o’clock the fog would roll in again, and the sky either turned a brilliant red or quickly darkened. Today it was getting cold and dark, which put the time somewhere around four o’clock.
“My ma is going to skin me.”
“You say that every time.” Jin adjusted her coat, feeling the reassuring stick of dynamite she’d wrapped in a newspaper. They’d done as instructed… after a fashion. Jin had picked through some old newspapers she’d found in a bin and read up on what happened with Montgomery Johnson. There was only a short three sentence blurb about his death. According to the newspaper, he’d been shot and robbed. That was all.
“This could be the time she finally does it. We need to do something,” Tobias said.
“The police are probably giving Sarah tea and cookies, and letting her talk with bahba.”
Tobias stood, dusting off his backside. “Probably.” But he didn’t sound convinced. Jin wasn’t either.
“We’ll just go… ask. Police can’t arrest two kids for asking after their sister, can they?”
“Police can do whatever they like.” Jin knew this for a fact. She’d seen too many policemen taking bribes from hatchet men and shoving runaway slave girls back into the hands of their captors.
“Maybe we should become policemen,” he said, polishing an imaginary star on his breast as they crossed the street to the station.
“Was your father with you the entire time?”
The question was harsh. Demanding. But Sarah Byrne Riot did not cower, even though she’d rarely been so scared. Instead, she stared back at the officer, and repeated her demand. “I want to see my father,” she said for the hundredth time.
Some hours ago, she’d entered the station and asked to speak with him. The desk officer left her waiting on a bench for a full hour until a man with thick brows and sloped shoulders came out. He was the same man from the docks.
“Were you with Atticus Riot these past two weeks?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice of you to come in and give a statement.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Sarah said.
The man smiled. An Inspector Geary, she’d later learned. “But I’m sure you want to, young miss. You might be able to clear your father’s name.”
“I just want to see him.”
“Oh, so he wasn’t with you the whole time? Is that why you won’t give a statement?” Geary purred.
Sarah narrowed her eyes up at the man. “He was with me.”
“Then there’s no harm in giving your statement, now is there?”
A year before, Sarah trusted the police and would’ve given a statement. But she’d been a witness to murder. For her own safety, she’d gone into hiding, and then endured a tedious court trial. She’d learned a thing or two about the justice system.
“Not without an attorney,” she said.
Geary nodded to one of his officers. “He’ll show you the way.”
But the big officer hadn’t led her to Atticus. He’d taken her to a room with a table and chair and ordered her to wait. On his way out, he’d locked the door.
Sarah tried knocking, but no one answered, so she sat. And waited. Then waited some more. Until she had to pee so bad the corner looked inviting. Eventually that creepy policeman entered with his enormous shadow.
She couldn’t even use the corner now. And they’d refused to let her use a toilet. The big policeman brandished a notepad and pencil and started hammering her with questions,
When did you leave?
What time?
What ferry?
Was Atticus Riot on the ferry?
The questions came, and the men loomed, until Sarah was close to tears.
They ignored her repeated request. Inspector Geary leaned forward to place his hands on the table. She could smell his breath. He’d eaten something with garlic.
“I’m going to ask you one more time.” There was an obvious threat in his tone now. “Was
your father with you the entire time?”
Sarah crossed her arms and glared back at him. “This is illegal, and you know it.”
“So is obstructing a police investigation.”
“I want to telephone my attorney. Now.”
“Sure, Miss Riot. Whatever you wish.”
Only the big officer didn’t escort her to the telephone. He led her straight to a holding cell packed with other women.
The door clanged shut behind her. One woman ranted in a corner, another who was clearly drunk sang on a bench, and a dozen more stood staring vacantly at the floor.
“I don’t suppose there’s a toilet?” Sarah asked the sanest looking woman in the bunch.
The group parted, revealing a bucket in a corner. Considering the mess at its base, she wondered why they even bothered with a bucket at all.
The fog had rolled in and the air had turned crisp. It cut straight to the bone, and it would only get colder over night. Riot didn’t have a coat, or even a hat. At least he had a vest and his shoes.
No one had challenged him during his stroll around the yard, and now he sat with his back to a wall, trying to keep warm. One drunk stirred and stumbled off to urinate in a corner, while the group of excited white men started an impromptu prizefight that looked like colliding blurs to him.
Three drunk men snored on the ground, and a large, burly fellow had fought the others off for an entire bench to himself.
“Hey hombre, you got a light?” a man called.
Riot squinted. But he couldn’t see much. Only a blur of white he thought was a Stetson on a head. Riot started to shake his head, but remembered he’d pocketed a matchbook he used to start fires at Willow Camp. Riot raised the matchbook between two fingers, and the man walked into view. His Levis showed the wear of a man who sat in a saddle most of the day.
“Gracias,” he muttered, as Riot tossed him the matchbook.
The man struck a match and lit up with a sigh.
A loud crunch sounded from the vicinity of the prizefight and the group went wild. Riot reckoned someone had been knocked out. Whatever happened, the wild group turned their energy on the Chinese, shouting insults.
Beyond the Pale Page 6
