Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Can we trust him?”

  “I’m not sure we have a choice.”

  Riot swirled his glass, which had been mysteriously refilled. Was she trying to get him drunk? “The way he steered the conversation towards the reasons I left makes me wonder what Jim Hagen’s up to.”

  “But you didn’t get Hagen fired.”

  “My accusations and initial report eventually did.”

  “Is he the type to hold a grudge?” Isobel asked.

  Riot knocked back his whiskey, teeth clicking against the glass. “He’s the type.”

  28

  Garbage Duty

  Tim perched on the first rung of a round pen, arms hanging over the side to keep him in place as he admired a horse being worked, its trainer turning with it as it pranced in a circle.

  “That there is a fine horse,” he said to his companion.

  “Maiden now, but I’d bet my hat she’ll be a banker,” said Skunk. The fellow looked like he’d fallen on his face one too many times. Flat-faced, flat-nosed, and skin like a gnarled oak. He mumbled something fierce, too. Everyone called him ‘Skunk’ on account of him not being able to smell a skunk spraying him.

  “Tell you what,” Tim said. “I wouldn’t trade one of these fancy fellows for a good bangtail. Can’t get down a mountainside on one of these.”

  “Amen. But I’d take one in a race any day.”

  “Damn straight,” Tim said. “I could do without the owners, though. Constant burr in my ass back in the day.”

  Skunk eyed him. “You got the look of a jockey.”

  “Fellow my size? Sure enough. Nothing…” Tim waved his pipe at the surrounding stables, “so fine though. Now these rich folk got their own bookies catering to them.”

  “No races without them rich folk. I could do without the crime going on here.”

  “What is it about tracks and crime?”

  “Money, I suppose,” Skunk mumbled. “A man doesn’t bet less’n he’s hungry for cash.”

  “Or food. What would it be, spend your last twenty-five cents on food for one meal or bet it all on a horse?”

  Skunk chewed on the thought. “Guess it keeps men like me working.”

  “There’s that, too.”

  A gentleman in a flat cap came walking around one building. Noise from the grandstands carried cheers and thundering hooves, but it was fairly peaceful in their corner of the grounds.

  “There he is.” Skunk had sense enough not to nod towards the man. Tim eyed the fellow as he climbed a wooden stairway to an office above a stable house.

  “Don’t look like much,” Tim noted.

  Skunk shrugged. “Does his job.”

  Tim shook his head. “Pinkertons at the racetrack. I suppose it’s ’bout time.” The Pinkertons did have a branch for private security.

  “Stop the crime ’fore it happens.”

  “For those that can afford it.”

  Skunk chuckled, a deep rolling sound. “Ain’t that the way of things?”

  “Why the secret, though?” Tim asked.

  Skunk shrugged. “Hard to stop lardons when everyone and their mothers know you’re a lawman. Them Pinkertons keep low.”

  “Sure, but you know who they are.”

  Skunk tapped an ear. “My sniffer may be knocked into a cocked hat, but my wattles are just fine.”

  Tim knocked his own hat against his thigh and hopped off the fence. “Welp, wish me luck.”

  “You’re gonna need it.”

  “I may be old, but I still got some kick in me.”

  “Stable hand be a better bet.”

  “I aim high,” Tim said. He tipped his cap, and walked bold as brass towards the upper-story office. There was nowhere to hide around the building. It was set apart from the others, and the upper story was higher off the ground than usual, so that made climbing through one of the narrow windows near impossible without a ladder.

  Tim eyed the door as he applied his fist to the wood. Solid core. New lock. There’d be no easy break-in here.

  “Come,” a voice said.

  Tim stepped in and removed his hat. The man in the cap looked up in surprise, eyes narrowing. He was in his late forties, with salt and pepper hair, of average height and strong build. He wore a revolver on his hip, and his hand rested on the grip. “Who are you?”

  Tim ducked his head, turning his cap in his hands. “Name’s Tim, Mr. Carson. I hear you’re the man to see for a job.”

  “I’m not hiring.”

  “I’m handy in a fight.” Tim flashed his gold teeth as he stepped up to the desk. “Ornery as heck, and still alive. I’d be useful.”

  Carson’s hand fell away from his gun. “Useful? I don’t need someone with one foot in the grave.”

  “But I need work somethin’ awful. I can shoot. Still got one good eye.”

  “Get out, old man.”

  “I can clean. Be an errand boy.” Tim grabbed the trash bin. “I can take this out right now. Shine boots—”

  Carson came around the desk and gave him a shove. Tim stumbled against the wall, clutching the bin to his chest.

  “Out, before I toss you down the stairs.”

  “Mr. Carson, please. I’m good for a lot.”

  Carson jerked his head to the side. “Go.”

  Tim ducked an apology. “Yessir.” He hurried past Carson, making for the exit.

  “Wait.”

  Tim froze, then turned. “Had a change of heart, Mr. Carson?”

  Carson wrenched the trash bin from his arms, then nudged him out none too kindly. The door slammed on his back, and Tim skipped down the stairway with a whistle on his lips.

  29

  Scientific Method

  “Dare I ask what you’ve been up to?”

  “Oh, you know, visiting brothels, meeting with prostitutes, being threatened by my twin’s madam.”

  “So the usual?”

  Isobel flicked his ear.

  “Careful. I’m fragile.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Did your meeting with Hera have something to do with the Nymphia?” Riot asked.

  “Before I tell you, I’d like to test a theory. You’re the only test subject who will do.”

  “All right…” Riot said slowly.

  Her eyes flashed with excitement. “Bed or rug?”

  “What’s your theory?” Riot asked.

  “I can’t tell you. Yet. How much have you had to drink?”

  “You tell me. You’ve been filling my glass.”

  “Would you say that you’re fully in control of your senses?”

  “I’m likely more relaxed than I should be considering that look in your eyes.”

  “Riot,” she said, with a flutter of lashes. “Surely you trust your wife?”

  “Will this involve anything flammable?”

  “No.”

  “The rug is fine, then.”

  “The rug it is.” Isobel was on her feet, bristling with energy. She pushed the trunk out of the way, placed the whiskey bottle on top, then he stood so she could lay down a blanket. “Right. Off with the underwear.”

  “I’m relieved you didn’t ask another man to strip for you.”

  “I need someone with an athletic physique and strength.” She gestured up and down his body. “If you’d been in lockup one more day, I might’ve had to start looking elsewhere.”

  “Remind me to thank Mr. Fry for that article.” He stepped out of his drawers, planted his feet and spread his hands. “Satisfactory?”

  “You’ll do. Now lay down.” She gestured impatiently at the floor.

  Riot crossed his arms, stroking his beard in consideration. “In the middle of the blanket?”

  “The bed was narrow. Maybe three feet wide.”

  “Am I supposed to be a side sleeper, back, or stomach?”

  “However men usually lie with a lady of the line.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Really?”

  “That surprises you?”

/>   “I just assumed…” she trailed off.

  “That I was like most men?”

  “No.” Isobel frowned, then amended her statement. “Yes. Honestly, I try not to think about it. You did grow up in San Francisco, and were a lifelong bachelor who clearly knows his way around women.”

  “And with the number of brothels it’s easy to imagine every man in the city frequents one.”

  “It does seem that way.”

  “I grew up in a crib, Bel. I’ve seen too much pain to get any pleasure out of that world.”

  Isobel caught his eyes, and he gave her a lopsided grin to lighten the mood. She played along. “But widows and divorcées are fair game?” she asked.

  He spread his hands. “Apparently they find me charming.”

  Isobel’s gaze drifted downwards. “That must be it.”

  Riot cleared his throat. “Back to your mysterious theory. From my second-hand experience, terms of transaction are always discussed first.”

  “Ah.” She tapped her lips.

  “Maybe it would help if you told me what you found?”

  “No, I want you to be surprised. I need a reaction. Let’s assume the terms were for a… erm.”

  Riot cocked his head, waiting, while color spread down her throat. He helped her along. “A frenchie? Tip the velvet? St. George? Haul the ashes? Beast with two backs?”

  Her blush deepened. “I can’t help but note the first thing that came to your mind. When do you think a man is at his most vulnerable?”

  “Were there marks on his wrists?”

  “No. Not of the rope variety. I checked. He put up a fight, fending someone off from the front.”

  “This won’t involve any sharp objects, I hope? Scissors, perhaps?”

  “You really think that of me, Riot?”

  “I’m going to tactfully ignore that question.”

  She crossed her arms.

  “St. George, then.” Riot lay on the blanket, folding his arms behind his head.

  Isobel narrowed her eyes as she straddled him. “You look entirely too smug.”

  “Just playing my part.”

  “You can’t fake this.” Isobel gave a wiggle, and all thought fled his brain. Riot gripped her arm and drew her down, but she stopped short of kissing him.

  “I’m told whores don’t kiss,” she whispered.

  “I’m not a client.”

  Isobel smiled. “Humor me.”

  With the way she was moving on top of him, Riot was willing to do whatever she wanted. A number of pleasurable minutes passed until Riot forgot how or why they had ended up on the floor.

  Then without warning, Isobel shifted her body to wrap her legs around his thighs, pinning him, then pressed his hands over his head, against the floor. “Fair warning, Riot, I’m going to try to kill you now.”

  Mind muddled with pleasure and whiskey, it took a moment for her words to sink in—at least until she pressed a handkerchief over his nose and mouth.

  Riot narrowed his eyes. And she rolled hers in return. “Would you at least pretend I’m smothering you?”

  It wasn’t hard to pretend. He couldn’t breathe. But he wasn’t all that concerned, only eager to get back to what they’d been doing. Though pinned as he was, it was proving difficult.

  Riot tried to raise his arms, and she bore down on him with her weight. He tried to kick up, but was pinned by her legs. Then she started stuffing the handkerchief into his mouth.

  That got his blood pumping. With a surge of power, Riot broke her hold, and after a brief but fierce struggle, he came out on top, pinning her in much the same way. Riot spit the handkerchief out.

  They were both panting now.

  “Damn,” she breathed. “That was too easy.”

  “My turn,” Riot said.

  “Are you going to try to kill me?”

  “No, but I’ll leave you breathless.”

  He did. Thoroughly. Again.

  A fist banged on the adjoining wall. “People are trying to sleep!” It was her neighbor, Mr. Crouch, a semi-retired forger.

  Isobel panted against Riot’s neck. She was too overwhelmed for embarrassment. “That was louder than I intended,” she breathed.

  “I could still arrest him.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Or you’ll bite me again?”

  She glanced at the mark she’d left on his shoulder. “It’s your fault.”

  “Entirely.”

  When they finally broke apart, Isobel collapsed onto her back, trying to catch her breath. Riot stretched alongside her with an appreciative glint in his eye. A sheen of sweat and firelight glistened over their bodies.

  Her head fell to the side to meet his eyes. “I do believe you deviated from our terms.”

  “You broke terms first. Trying to kill me wasn’t part of our deal.”

  “Hmm.” She snuggled closer, head on his chest, and he idly stroked her back. They lay for a time, drifting in a daze. Then the weight on his chest left, and footsteps padded towards the bathroom.

  When Isobel returned, she pulled a blanket over him, but didn’t stretch along his body. He could feel her thinking. Could practically hear the gears of her mind whirring.

  “I beg your pardon?” he murmured.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  Riot opened his eyes. Isobel was propped on an elbow, looking thoughtful. She was wearing a chemise that was near to translucent set against the firelight. His mind was muddled—dazed, even—and she seemed a dream. Sleep beckoned, but there was something he wanted to know… the thought fought its way to his lips. “What have you been up to, Bel?”

  She told him, and he listened, fighting against the urge to sleep. By the time she finished, he was left trying to sort through the details. Why was it proving so difficult? He felt like a dumb brick.

  “Thank you for playing along. I needed to know if someone my size could smother a man like Dominic Noble. The prostitute who rented the room, if that was her locker, wore clothes of my size. Same goes for Jacob Dixon. He’s taller than me, but I’d wager a hundred dollars I could best him in a fight.”

  “There’s the laudanum to consider.”

  Isobel was trailing her fingers over his chest. “I may have put a small dose in your tea,” she admitted.

  Riot blinked. Suddenly the fog in his mind made sense.

  She smiled back. “You’re more relaxed now,” she pointed out.

  “It’s fortunate the fellow wasn’t poisoned.”

  “I would never use anything lethal. I promise.”

  “If I fall asleep while you’re talking, it’s your fault.”

  “I’ll try to be interesting,” she said. “But this scratches off two suspects, I think. I’m stronger than most women, and I didn’t stand a chance against you. Even drugged, you broke free of my hold with little effort. Dominic Noble was both younger and larger than you.”

  “Footballer?”

  She shook her head. “A rower. And I think a swimmer by the look of him. Possibly trained with weights.”

  “There’s the back doors, fire escape, and the resident passages in the brothel to consider. Someone could’ve slipped into the room.”

  “Hell, there could’ve been two people. Or four.”

  “I don’t think he’d have been able to fight as much. One would have pinned his arms while the other smothered him. I’ll admit, the handkerchief is a disturbing detail. It’s personal—revenge for an assault, maybe?”

  “I thought of that. Perhaps Dominic nearly choked a woman to death during sex.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time it happened.”

  He felt her cringe.

  “A large woman might be able to manage,” he suggested. “Years ago, there was a woman by the name of Miss Marshall in the Barbary Coast. Everyone called her Big Louise on account of her size—she was over three hundred pounds and was known to fall on anyone who irritated her.”

  Isobel stared at him in disbelief. “You’re joking.�
��

  “I’m not.” He started shaking with laughter. “I won’t ever be able to get the image of Tim crushed under her out of my head.”

  Isobel snorted. “It’s a wonder he’s alive.”

  “He’s tough as leather.”

  “I spotted a few women of considerable mass in the Nymphia, but I can’t see them managing to pin Dominic’s hands.”

  “There are other ways to smother a man.”

  She cocked her head.

  Riot gripped her waist, and slid her up, until he was eye level with her breasts, then he buried his face between them to demonstrate.

  Isobel got the hint and wrapped her arms around his head. “But can’t you pry me off?”

  “Why would I want to?” came his muffled reply.

  “Obviously you can still breathe.” She tightened her hold. With his arms free, he tried to push her away, but she wrapped her legs around his torso in a bear hug. His legs flailed, useless, as he struggled to buck her off.

  Finally, Riot tapped her back, and Isobel let go. He gasped for air.

  “That could work, Riot,” she said, rising to her knees. “It would explain why Dominic had blood under his fingernails. He may have been trying to claw her off, in which case, she’d have scratches down her back.”

  “With a heavier woman, there wouldn’t be much fight at all.”

  “You mean a curvier one.”

  “A man can certainly get lost between a pair of breasts.”

  “Speaking from experience?”

  “Purely theoretical.”

  “Wise answer,” she said. “But if this is a case of death by cleavage, why the handkerchief and pencil?”

  “He may have blacked out. The murderer thought him dead, then he came to, and they grabbed whatever was closest.”

  Isobel pursed her lips in thought. “He could just as easily have fallen asleep, dazed with drink and laudanum, then woke to someone smothering him.”

  “All possibilities,” Riot agreed.

  She sighed. “Then I can’t discount the woman who rented the room. And it still leaves the question… what would a man like Dominic Noble be doing in the Nymphia?”

  Riot’s jaw cracked with a yawn. If he stayed on the floor a moment longer, he’d drift off to sleep, so he sat up to stoke the fire. “A proper brothel will have a madam overseeing everything—to make sure men behave. It’s the women of the house who have the control, or should. Women set the rules in a respectable brothel. But the Nymphia… it sounds more like a street of cribs.” He stabbed at a log with the poker. “Men go to those places when they want to be in charge.”