“Lotario was fond of Dominic. Close, even. But that doesn’t mean Dominic couldn’t have had a darker side. So, say he gets rough with the Japanese woman in the room, she smothers him, steals his clothes because her bill wasn’t settled, and leaves.”
“Or she just plain robbed him.”
“There’s that, too.” Isobel leaned against the trunk with a sigh. “Hundreds of suspects, all with fake names. Most escaped. And only a carpenter’s pencil to be found. The family doesn’t want their own son’s murder investigated, the police won’t investigate, and even my twin and his madam warned me away. I can’t help but think maybe I pushed Miss Hayes into making the wrong choice.”
“You were honest.”
“Was it honesty, or was I looking after my own interests? I find this case intriguing. The complexity daunting in a perfectly splendid way.”
Riot stared appreciatively at his wife. She was breathless with excitement—a brimming energy that was a tangible thing. She had that same intensity when they made love.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Fondly.”
Riot had to laugh. “Arousal suits you, Bel.”
“I’m not…”
“Stimulated?”
“Mentally, yes.”
“Either way, you’re entrancing.”
“It’s because you can’t see me without your spectacles.”
“I can see you blushing.”
“The fire is hot,” she said primly. “What if I don’t like the climax?”
“I’m certain you weren’t faking the last two…”
“To the investigation.”
“Ah. Interesting word choice.”
“Are you trying to distract me?”
“I’m not the one who brought up climaxing. Fair warning, I’ll need some time to recover before we—”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re flustered.”
“Do try to focus, Riot.”
“I might be able to, if someone hadn’t drugged me.”
“It was a small dose.”
Riot draped an arm over his knee. “So you say.”
“It wasn’t enough to impede your… vitality.”
“Here I thought you married me for my wit and charm. Turns out you were after my prick.”
Isobel poked him with a toe. “You’re not even slurring your words. Though I’ll have to remember laudanum makes you vulgar.”
“Would my ‘doodle’ have been a less vulgar euphemism?”
Isobel’s lips twitched as she fought down a laugh. “I’m sorry I drugged you without warning.” Her voice only wavered a little.
He stared at her. Waiting.
“And pretended to murder you.”
Riot gestured for her to keep going.
“I won’t do it again. Though you are rather amusing like this. And relaxed. You haven’t reached for your gun once.”
“That’s because you had it firmly in hand the whole time.”
Isobel sighed. “I left myself wide open for that one, didn’t I?” Riot started to reply, but she quickly pressed fingertips to his lips. “Don’t say it.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and a moment later a warm, velvety soft tongue flicked across the pad of her finger.
Isobel took her fingers away. “Are you quite done?”
Riot thought for a moment. Then looked under the blanket around his waist. “Maybe not.”
She arched a brow. “Do try to be serious, Riot. What if we don’t like what we find at the end? What if the poor woman was only defending herself?”
The question sobered him. “A knock on the head is defense. Stuffing a handkerchief down someone’s throat with a pencil is another beast entirely.”
“Still.”
“Bel, the police aren’t looking for a murderer. They’re not even reporting it as one. If we don’t like what we find, we’ll leave it be.”
“And hope we haven’t stirred up a mess.”
“We usually stir up a mess,” he pointed out. “We may uncover something more sinister.”
“Like blackmail.”
“That was my first thought. If Dominic was being blackmailed for his affairs with men, he might have confronted his blackmailer. Or this could be a crime of hate, and the murderer is targeting men with similar tastes.”
“In which case we need to stop him—or her.”
“Where to start?” he asked.
She quirked her lip. “You know precisely where to start. You’re just being courteous.”
“It’s your investigation. You’re a police consultant, after all.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“That’s pride you hear, Bel.”
A blush spread over her cheeks. “Discretion isn’t my strong point, nor patience.”
“I had noticed.”
“As much as I loathe to suggest this… I think we need to divide our forces.”
“I’ll take the Nymphia,” he said quickly.
“But I could just as easily disguise myself as a young man.”
“No.”
Isobel arched a brow. “Are you telling me what I can and cannot do?”
“Yes. On this.”
She searched his eyes. The whimsy was gone, replaced by a haunted look. “Men don’t go to brothels like the Nymphia for companionship. They go when they have a mind to be worse than animals. I’ll hire on as a watchman. It’ll give me freedom to poke around and make friends with the women.”
“Perhaps I don’t like the idea of you wandering around a hotel full of naked women.”
“I won’t be wandering, Bel. Besides, disappearing will keep the hired guns off my back, and give Tim more time to dig into what Monty was up to.”
“About that…”
Riot frowned at her.
“What?” she asked.
“That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not indignant over being tied to a domineering husband?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not. I just expected a proper tongue lashing.”
Isobel rubbed her arms. “I wasn’t much looking forward to a prolonged visit. That place made my skin crawl, Riot.” He shifted to wrap an arm around her, and she leaned into his body, eyes on the fire. “And… you’re right. I’ll have more luck infiltrating the Noble household.”
“That won’t be without risks,” he said. “But while we’re planning… I think it’s high time I have a chat with the people who robbed me.”
“What’s your plan?”
“It could be dangerous.”
“Then perhaps you should wait to finalize any plans until you’re sober.”
30
Paranoid Lawmen
The Monday hustle on Post Street was reassuring. A man could get lost in the crowd. That’s precisely what Atticus Riot wanted. He leaned against a brick wall under the shadow of an awning, watching the street traffic. Wagons, cable cars, bicycles, electric motorcars, and horses—it was an impromptu orchestra of near collisions. To say nothing of the pedestrians. And the noise. The ringing of bells, whistles, clop of hooves, engines, shouts, and clatter of cable cars could drown out a gunfight.
Riot took a sip from his thermos. He’d prepared the tea himself that morning (though Isobel had offered with a flutter of innocent lashes). He smiled to himself, then took a bite of the muffin he’d bought from a nearby wagon. A line of its customers stretched along the sidewalk, as others stood off to the side enjoying a quick breakfast. Dressed in cloth cap and rough clothes, he was just another face in the crowd on his way to work.
Across the street, Riot spotted his quarry. A graying, bow-legged man sauntered out of an office building. Liam Taft paused to settle a Stetson on his head as he eyed the crowded street, then started walking down the sidewalk.
Riot handed thermos and muffin to a little girl in a patched dress
drooling at the bread wagon, then weaved his way through traffic after the agent. The Pinkerton was easy to follow—tall and distinctive, he stood out in a sea of city suits.
Riot knew the man’s destination, so he took his time, letting his quarry get farther ahead. He wanted to make sure no one else was following the agent. When Riot was satisfied, he slipped from the flow of pedestrians to stick a cigarette between his lips. His position offered an excellent view of a coffeehouse across the street.
Liam Taft sat inside at a front window. Riot knew the place well, which was why he’d chosen it (and because there were three exits from the building).
He reached for his pocket watch, then sighed when he found it gone. Losing Ravenwood’s watch, along with his walking stick, stung. Riot wagered Monty had taken the heirlooms out of spite.
Out of the corner of his eye, he took in the street scene. No one was loitering behind a newspaper or perusing a shop window; no hacks waited and no one was lingering where they shouldn’t be.
Risking life and limb, Riot struck off across the busy street, trotting in front of a cable car. He paused halfway to let a motorcar zip past, then weaved his way between a hay wagon and a lumber cart, and finally tipped his hat to a woman riding a bicycle.
The coffeehouse was clear of its morning rush, but not empty. A few glanced his way when he entered, but no one avoided looking at him, or stared overly long. He removed his cap, and took a table in a corner, with a view out of the window and a clear path to the exits.
“Can I get you something, sir?” a waitress asked, pouring him coffee without prompt.
“Full breakfast, if you please, and…” he dipped his chin to where Liam Taft sat, “bring that fellow’s order over here. Old friend of mine. Tell him I’ll pay.”
She smiled and went off to relay the message. With an irritated push of his chair, Liam stood and strode over, coffee in hand. He tossed his hat on the table, and took the chair opposite.
“I don’t care for damn spy games. My back was itching over there.”
“Do you have a bounty on your head, too?” Riot asked.
Liam turned a squinty eye on him. “Best to always assume so.”
Riot gestured at their table. “Is this better?”
Liam scooted his chair to the side, so his own back was to a wall. Now Liam had a view of the window, too. They sat at opposing walls, the corner between them, elbows nearly touching.
“Two paranoid lawmen walk into a coffeehouse…” Riot said wryly. “There must be a joke somewhere in that.”
Liam grunted.
Riot didn’t waste time with any more pleasantries. “Are you satisfied my agency has nothing to do with that fake Pinkerton badge?”
“I don’t have proof either way, but if you’re involved I should retire here and now.”
Riot waited for more, but Liam seemed content with silence. Unhurried, he drank his coffee, then swiped the liquid from his mustache. “Mrs. Riot is some woman. I figured she’d tell you about that badge.”
Riot watched the man for any hint of threat, but the compliment seemed sincere. Still, he didn’t want to bring Isobel into this anymore than she already was, so he steered the conversation in another direction. “You asked me why I left the Pinkertons. Does this business have something to do with Jim Hagen?”
Liam grunted, then nodded in thanks when the waitress set down their orders. He picked up his silverware and dug into his bacon and eggs. Riot did the same. After last night, he was starving.
“I reckon we both keep our cards close,” Liam said after a time. “This could be a long breakfast.”
“You’ve already interrogated me, Mr. Taft. It’s your call. How about you just tell me what’s going on.”
Liam smoothed his mustache. “No guesses?” he murmured.
Riot considered the challenge over his next bite. “You don’t like the city. You don’t like crowds. You’re not from here. Like most Pinkertons you travel extensively, but from your accent, I gather you’ve lived or still live in Oregon. You were transferred to look into rumors of corrupt Pinkertons, because they needed fresh blood.” Riot looked at him. “Or rather, old trustworthy leather.”
Liam gave a dry chuckle, then returned to his breakfast. They both ate until their plates were clean, then Liam pushed his away and leaned back in his chair, hooking thumbs under his vest. “This might have something to do with Jim. Some rumors reminded me of that pile of horseshit. ’Course you seemed the type, too.”
“I know better than to use the Pinkerton name.”
“Figured that out,” Liam said.
“What rumors made you think of Jim?”
“Four years ago, William Pinkerton came to San Francisco to negotiate a deal with the Southern Pacific to provide railway security for their lines. He signed contracts with several other corporations, too. So the agency set up an office in the city. Our arrangement has been good for railway travel, and overall, we have a favorable reputation in California, unlike the bad blood between us and other states. But recently word wormed its way up to the Oregon division that the Pinkertons were willing to do anything for the Southern Pacific, even if it went against policy.”
“How recent?”
“Rumor reached us midsummer,” Liam said. “And I got left holding the short straw. My wife doesn’t much care for this city, and this investigation is taking longer than she’d like. I was putting a lot of hope in you—that somehow you were involved.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Me and Sam haven’t found anything within the agency office either, so when that police officer came to us with a fake badge, I got to thinking maybe this ex-Pinkerton agent who struck off by himself—that’d be you—was using our name to drum up work or discredit the agency out of spite. That might explain why his agent had a badge.”
It made sense. Riot might think the same himself. He’d be fuming if someone was discrediting Ravenwood Agency, or even using its name. A bad reputation ruined a detective—at least for any sort of lawful work.
“Usually whenever someone impersonates a Pinkerton, it’s to intimidate,” Liam continued. “A man will think twice about picking a fight with a national detective agency known for being relentless hunters and staffing a small army. Then there are the fellows who just like to look important. Others want a free ride on a train. Hell, I caught a fellow tossing our name around to get women. That’s how I got my wife.”
Riot liked the man’s dry humor, but he showed no reaction. Only took a sip of coffee in thought. “What type of jobs are these fake Pinkertons taking?”
“Rumor says they’ll take anything, which makes me think of the bounty on your head.”
“The Southern Pacific doesn’t much care for me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because my agency exposed and humiliated Alex Kingston. He’s the attorney for San Francisco’s elite, with strong ties to the Southern Pacific and the Union Club set. He’s a man who gets things done for his clients.”
“Your wife’s ex-husband, too.”
“That, too. He blackmailed her into marriage.”
“Sounds like a man I’d like to shoot.”
“You’ll have to get in line.”
“I followed some of that trial.” Liam gave a shake of his head. “Those were dangerous waters you got yourselves into. But I’d think bringing down an organization working against the Southern Pacific would clean the slate for you.”
“I suspect Alex wants me dead, but he also has a long line to get behind.”
Liam gave a raspy chuckle, as he slipped free his tobacco pouch. “I will say Inspector Geary doesn’t much care for you either. But then I don’t much care for him. And any man with a wife willing to climb into a cesspit for him must be all right by my book.”
Isobel was also willing to drug him in the name of an investigation, but he didn’t mention that part, only waited to see where Liam would take the conversation next.
“So let’s say this agent of
yours gets involved with these fellows—fake Pinkertons who do dirty work for the fine gentlemen of this city. Monty pays some brutes to dynamite you. It all goes wrong. Then you confront him. He doesn’t kill you like he’s supposed to, so they pop him one in the head for being disloyal.”
“That’s what I think happened,” Riot said. “But have you considered the possibility that the badge isn’t a fake?”
“What are you getting at?”
“A new branch of Pinkertons you don’t know about.”
Liam ran his tongue along the cigarette paper. “I’d know. This isn’t official,” he muttered. “I got my orders from The Principle.”
That meant one of the Pinkerton sons.
“All right,” Riot said. “So maybe this group is hiding behind the Pinkerton name. If word got out about their activities, as it has, eyes would turn to the Pinkertons. When it comes to railway barons and mining magnates, your agency already has a shady reputation. Easy to point fingers your way.”
Liam struck a match, cupping his hands around the cigarette, as he nodded in agreement. “All fits,” he said with a puff of smoke.
“So where is Jim Hagen?”
“We lost track of him. If the rumors are true, which I think the fake badge confirms, then we’re dealing with professionals rather than some young fellow flashing a fancy badge around.”
“Jim certainly knew how to cover his tracks.”
“Funny how easy it is to pick up those skills in this line of work.”
It was true. A detective learned all the mistakes made by criminals. Deep down they knew they could do it better, and if there was one thing Riot had learned early on, it was that politicians were the most skilled of them all.
“We have an agent working on a lead at the Oakland racetrack,” Riot offered.
“Do you?” Liam asked, surprised. “Sam’s been poking around there, too. Hasn’t turned up much of anything yet, but he hasn’t been at it long.”
Beyond the Pale Page 18
