“Could be,” Riot agreed.
“But you already suspected him?”
“I did.”
“And you’re all right with this?”
Riot glanced sideways at her. “I’ve known Tim most my life. I know his methods. The killer was quick and efficient and left a hard trail to follow. I reckon he has an alibi, too.”
“He shot Monty in cold blood,” she whispered.
“Tim is from a different time. The west was wild in my day, but in his… there wasn’t even a police force. He’s lived his life by justice, not law. He was only protecting his own.”
“Many a murderer has used that as justification,” she said, for argument’s sake.
“They have,” Riot agreed.
“And we hunt them down and turn them over to the authorities.”
“We’re not lawmen; we’re detectives. Truth is a messy business.”
“Yes, but how do you know when you’ve crossed a line? How do we know Tim hasn’t already?”
“I can’t even answer that about myself, Bel.”
She hesitated. “Did you intend to kill Monty when you confronted him?”
Riot shook his head. “I wanted to give him a chance to explain…” He trailed away, then muttered, “I should’ve just shot him.”
“I don’t think you sleep as easy as that, Riot.”
“Can you? Knowing what Tim did?”
She didn’t answer straightaway. “I’m not really one to pass judgment.” Considering she’d killed her brother. But then Curtis had been trying to kill her.
True, Monty had hired men to dynamite the agency, and Mack had died in that ambush. But all they had was circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.
Where did one draw the line?
“Neither can I,” Riot said. His voice was tight with pain, with memory, and a lifetime of blood on his hands.
Isobel closed her eyes, reining in her thoughts. “You suspected Tim shot Monty… but you let that fellow go.”
“I didn’t know he saw Tim.”
“But there was a chance.”
“There was a chance,” he admitted. “But you told me to let him go.”
“Would you have quieted that thief for good if you’d known?” she asked.
“I intended to turn him over to the police.”
“But he’s a witness to the murder. He saw Tim. That man’s testimony could hang him.”
Riot turned away from the street to look down at her. “There’s the difference between murder and justice. Tim wouldn’t kill that fellow to protect himself.”
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
“Ask him.”
Isobel swallowed, trying to imagine that conversation. Then she tried to imagine not having it. “What are we going to do?” she asked.
Riot squeezed her arm. “We find out who hired Monty.”
34
Muddy Morris
By the time Isobel and Riot found the Pinkerton agents, the night had flowed into twilight and the ocean wind had blown in a thick fog. The Pinkertons stood by a police wagon talking with officers, while two gang members sulked inside the cage.
Sam eyed Isobel’s split lip. “Looks like you chased a curly wolf, too.” He looked about how she felt.
“Something like that,” she muttered.
“They’re a slippery bunch,” Liam noted.
“Anything more from these two?” Riot asked.
Liam smoothed his mustache. “They claim scavenger rights. The fellow was dead, so they scavenged him.”
Isobel stepped up to the cage, but she didn’t recognize any of their clothing as Riot’s. Had this pair seen Tim, too? What if Riot was wrong about his old friend? Blinded to Tim as he’d been with Monty. The thought unsettled her.
Where did one draw the line between murder and justice?
Sick with her own moral confusion, she stepped away from the cage, and focused on the next step: Muddy Morris.
It was an apt name for the gang’s fence. More scavenger than criminal, he lived on a barge moored in the salt marsh of Mission Bay, the smell of rotten eggs and spoiled meat permeating the area.
Isobel frowned at the flat-hulled barge mired in mud some fifty feet away. It brimmed with makeshift sails serving as canopies, old jackets left out to rot, and timber haphazardly stitched together to create a ‘cabin.’ Warped planks spanned the distance from shore to boat.
“I’m relieved it’s low tide,” Riot said.
“I wouldn’t trust it to float,” Liam agreed.
Isobel glanced at Liam. “Don’t tell me you can’t swim either?”
“No, ma’am. I should’ve done the paperwork and let Sam walk across that thing.” He’d sent his partner off to file reports. ‘A benefit of seniority,’ Liam had said.
“I’ll go aboard,” Riot offered. “We don’t want to spook him.”
Liam eyed the barge. “I don’t think Muddy Morris is going anywhere.”
“Try not to slip and fall, Riot. I can’t swim out to rescue you in mud.”
Riot balanced across the narrow plank bridge. From a distance, the barge looked like a junk pile waiting to be set ablaze, but as he crossed the bridge, he realized there was order to madness. “Ahoy there,” he called.
“Just a tic!”
Riot stopped on the gangplank, eyeing a tattered confederate flag drooping in the early morning fog. It wasn’t long after that a gnarled old man limped from under the canopies, wrestling one-handed with his trouser buttons. He wore an equally tattered gray coat, the right arm sleeve pinned back.
He stopped when he saw Riot, his eyes darting around the cramped boat.
“Are you Muddy Morris?” Riot asked.
“I am…” Morris said slowly.
“I’m not here for trouble,” Riot said. “Just looking for a few items some men from the warehouses might have sold you.”
Morris licked his lips. “Lots of people sell me lots of things. Ain’t none of it stolen, far as I know. I paid ’em fair for it.”
“I’m not concerned with how you acquired the items. I’m only interested in buying them back.”
The prospect of an easy resale brightened Morris’s day. “And what might those items be?”
“A gentleman’s walking stick. A silver pocket watch. A gentleman’s suit and hat. Those would’ve been about a month back. And just a few weeks ago, rougher clothing that’d fit a large man.”
Muddy Morris scratched his chin. “Don’t recall a walking stick or pocket watch. I’d recall that. But come along, I’ll show you what I got.” He waved Riot aboard and limped to the back of the boat.
Morris muttered to himself as he rifled through his belongings. Eventually, he remembered where he’d put the items, and tore back a tarp to reveal a pile: boots, coat, trousers, a revolver. No hat. Not surprising considering where Monty was shot.
Riot recognized the revolver as Monty’s—a Colt ‘self-cocker.’ He’d never cared for the weapon style. He picked up the large coat. Good wool. Not store bought. When had Monty ever worn anything but rough clothing?
Morris shifted nervously. “Fellow I got them from said it was their dear old pappy’s.”
Riot had a knack for people. He could read them like words on a page. It wasn’t conscious thought, or any line of deductive reasoning—he just knew. And right now he knew Muddy Morris was lying.
“Of course,” Riot soothed.
“I was waiting to cross the bay to sell ’em.”
“Was there a billfold?”
“Eh…”
The man rummaged some more, then lifted a lid to a basket where a heaping pile of leather billfolds lay. He passed over one. “No tender in it.”
“Calling cards, receipts?” Riot asked, opening it up. It was empty, and the man, naturally, shook his head. Riot tossed back the billfold, and turned to the trousers. He found a wad of receipts in the pocket. Monty hadn’t been the type to empty his pockets.
Riot stuffed
the receipts back inside. Best not to look too eager. “And the gentleman’s suit?”
“’Fraid I sold that a bit ago.”
A part of Riot was relieved. On one hand, the suit was bespoke from Steed and Peel, and the tailors didn’t come cheap. On the other hand, he’d nearly died in it.
Riot searched through the hats, then picked through the basket of billfolds, but didn’t find his own in the mess. It wasn’t special to him, or even expensive, but it had his calling cards inside. In the end, he gathered Monty’s belongings, and tossed the man a dollar.
“Hey now,” Muddy Morris said. “That there is worth more than a dollar.”
“The clothing was stripped from a man who was shot in the head.” Riot turned over the coat where someone had tried to scrub out a bloodstain. “A dollar will do, unless you want to explain to the police how you acquired the belongings of a murdered man.”
Muddy Morris grumbled, but said nothing more. Riot tipped his hat, and balanced back across the planks. He found Liam leaning against a hitching post. The old cowboy’s eyes glinted with amusement as Isobel paced back and forth in agitation. A cigarette dangled forgotten from her fingertips.
Riot knew his wife didn’t actually like to smoke; she just enjoyed lighting matches. She stopped when he approached. “Pockets,” he said, tossing her the trousers. She flicked the cigarette away and caught them to dig out the receipts.
“Seems he ate at the Jumping Moose a few times,” she noted.
“I know that restaurant,” Riot said. “There’s a launderer’s tag on the coat, too. We can check the hotels and laundries nearby.”
“My brother can’t remember anything…” Isobel was saying. “First, he told me it was the Red Star Laundry down the street, then the White Star. But I think he got confused with the Golden Star Laundry. Montgomery Johnson. He’s tall. Grumpy.” She held a hand high overhead. “With a mustache.”
The woman behind the counter was shaking her head.
Isobel tried a few words in broken Cantonese, but considering Jin claimed she sounded like a demented toddler, she wasn’t surprised when the woman crossed her arms.
It was about this time that Riot walked in. She met his gaze and an entire conversation passed between them. He had found nothing at the other launderers. He took her silent cue to step up to the counter, and addressed the woman in fluent Cantonese.
The woman started, surprised, then her face softened as he bowed. Isobel went outside to wait, and in less than five minutes, Riot joined her.
“The Brooklyn Hotel.”
“I really need to practice my Cantonese more often.”
“It wasn’t my mastery of language, it was my charm.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Riot.”
“You’re the one who said it first.”
“Among my many regrets,” she called over her shoulder.
The Brooklyn Hotel wasn’t the sort of place Riot would have expected Monty to stay in. For one, it was clean. Second, expensive. It wasn’t quite the Palace, but close to it. It was the sort of hotel a successful businessman might choose. For as long as Riot had known Monty, he’d only lived in run-down lodging houses, or shacked up with various women.
Considering his rough attire, Riot debated making up a story, but he was tired. So he nodded to Liam, who walked up to the hotel counter, and opened his coat, displaying the Pinkerton badge pinned to his vest. “Do you have a Montgomery Johnson staying here?”
The clerk consulted his book. “Room 12, sir.”
“We’ll need to see his room.”
The clerk hesitated, then looked to Riot and Isobel, who was in her Mr. Morgan guise.
“Monty hasn’t paid his bill, has he?” Isobel asked.
“No… he hasn’t returned.”
“That’s because he’s dead,” Riot said.
The clerk sighed and retrieved a key, handing it over to Liam. It seemed a Pinkerton badge did come with benefits. Riot had forgotten the perks of having a badge. Small wonder Monty carried a fake one.
Before they left, Riot pointed to a telephone behind the desk. “Would you please notify Inspector Coleman at the Hall of Justice that Montgomery Johnson was staying at your hotel. Tell him the Pinkertons are here investigating.”
The clerk picked up the receiver, and Riot followed Liam into the elevator. Impatient as usual, Isobel had sprinted up a stairwell.
“That woman of yours is excitable,” Liam noted.
“That’s certainly one word.”
“Is she usually this… focused?”
“When she’s hunting.”
Liam gave a dry chuckle as the elevator boy opened the cage doors. Liam had the key in hand, but when the two detectives arrived, they found Isobel already inside room 12, searching through a desk.
“I generally wait for the police,” Liam said.
“The maid let me in,” she replied, without looking up. “It’s been cleaned.”
Riot had to agree with her faint sigh. The bedding was laundered, items on the desk arranged, and the wastebasket emptied.
Riot opened the wardrobe, and cocked a grin at what he found. “There you are.” He snatched up Ravenwood’s walking stick and gave it a fond twirl.
“Your stolen pocket watch is on the dresser,” Isobel called from across the room.
“What’s that?” Liam asked.
“I’d like you to be a witness, Mr. Taft. That I’m not stealing this stick or the pocket watch. Monty stole them after he beat me near to death.”
“How do I know it’s yours?”
“There’s a hollow in the stick.” Riot thumbed a bit of filigree, then twisted the shaft once, and unscrewed the knob. He showed Liam the hollowed center. “It was Ravenwood’s. He willed it to me.”
Liam hefted the stick. “Not entirely hollow,” he noted.
“No, but well-balanced.”
“Riot,” Isobel called.
He started towards her, but paused at the bedside table, a book catching his eye. Not just any book, but a thick dictionary. Now that was odd.
“These betting slips were stuffed in this notebook. Several pages have been torn out. The rest is blank.” Although the names and dates differed, the tickets were identical to the ones Tim had pinched from the racetrack’s security office.
“What’s special about those slips?” Liam asked.
“Does your office handle security at the racetrack?” Riot asked.
Liam straightened from where he’d been hunched over by the bed. “No, but Sam told me a fellow named Carson handles security. He worked as a Pinkerton once upon a time. We checked into his record. Nothing stood out.”
“That could explain why Skunk thought he was a Pinkerton,” Isobel said.
“Skunk?” Liam asked.
“A horse handler,” Riot answered. He took up a pencil and started rubbing it over the paper beside the torn out notebook pages. “A stack of betting slips were in a receipt holder on Carson’s desk. Tim got ahold of some from his wastepaper basket. We thought it odd.”
Liam chuckled. “Wastepaper basket. Most just call it a trash can. Sure you’re not from England, Mr. Riot?”
“I’ve traveled there often enough.” Nothing showed up on the empty pages.
“I don’t see a bank book,” Isobel noted.
“That would be because he banked at a more traditional locale,” Liam announced. The graying Pinkerton was on his knees by the bed, holding up a handful of cash. “Stuffed mattress.”
“That’s more Monty’s style,” Riot said dryly.
Between the three detectives, they searched every inch of the hotel room. Isobel thumbed through the dictionary, and found an array of postcards tucked into the pages—all of naked women in various poses. Their names were printed on the back.
“He may have visited some of these women,” Isobel said, tossing the stack in front of the agent.
“I’ll have Sam follow up. He’ll enjoy that.”
“I’m sure he will,” Isobe
l said.
While Liam busied himself with counting the cash—a total of five thousand in bank notes—Isobel disappeared to search the bathroom. Riot tucked his pocket watch into his vest pocket, hooking the chain on a button. He felt a twinge of regret. Perhaps Isobel had been right—maybe Monty had felt slighted. Ravenwood had favored Riot with his belongings, not Monty.
Riot searched the clothing, turning it out and inspecting the lining for any hidden pockets. Nothing notable. Except Riot’s stolen hat. He’d set it down in the boxing club before fighting Monty. Now that, Monty had taken out of spite.
Riot turned again to the dictionary. It could simply be a convenient place to hide pornographic images from the maids, but Monty hadn’t been a reader, so why have a dictionary conveniently at hand at all? Riot was fairly sure he knew the answer.
35
A Cliff
Grimm White stood on the edge of a cliff. It wasn’t a real one, but it felt like one. His mother didn’t want him anywhere near this cliff. For over half a decade she’d kept him far away from the edge. Hidden. But he was sick of hiding. So he’d gone to Ravenwood Agency and interviewed, then lost his nerve.
Action had consequence, and sometimes the consequence could hit someone close. Grimm had discovered that the hard way.
He stared into the eyes of Sugar, and the horse stared back with understanding. It was time to make a choice. She nuzzled his ear, nostrils flaring softly against his skin. Grimm rested his head against hers. The scent of horsehair, of sweat, of hay, and earth. It calmed his mind.
Grimm could no longer live in the shadows. It was time to step off the cliff.
He found his mother in the manor’s kitchen. It was her haven. Her comfort. Whether the family found themselves in a shack, by a campfire, or in a cramped room, a cooked meal was always special. It made a place feel like home—no matter where that place might be. And with as much as his family had moved around, home was important.
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