The Devil's Teeth (Ravenwood Mysteries #5) Page 9

She nodded to the baubles. "Did he learn more?"

  Julius shook his head.

  "Does he have family?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "None that care. But he's full of caring. Sammy wouldn't harm a child," he said again.

  "Not even by accident?" She nodded towards his hand. Gravel was imbedded into the doctor's palm from when Samuel had knocked him to the ground to get at Bebé.

  His shoulders slumped.

  "Can you get him to talk?" she asked.

  "I may be able to, but Sheriff Nash…"

  Isobel raised her cuffed wrists. "Is a bully."

  "No," Julius corrected. "He's a man who's in over his head, and doesn't want to find another dead child on his watch."

  "Another?" she asked.

  "Last year. A girl fell down an abandoned well. He blames himself."

  Isobel frowned at the empty road. "If he's worried about losing another child on his watch then he should accept my help."

  "So sure of yourself?"

  "After observing Sheriff Nash my confidence is rising by the minute." Isobel turned, and strode back to the shack. Closing her nose to the stench, she wrapped the dead dog in its blanket and gathered it up in her arms.

  When she emerged into the light, Julius’s face softened. "We'll bury her under Sammy's favorite tree."

  "After we dig out the bullet. And after I make a telephone call."

  14

  Longing

  RIOT

  A room full of eyes focused on the gentleman in the fedora. Riot paused in the doorway of Ravenwood Agency, and nodded to the assembled detectives.

  "You're late, A.J.," Tim huffed. The wizened old man scowled at him. While everyone else sat at desks or on spare chairs, Tim stood, rocking back and forth on his heels. Even standing, he was about the same height of most of the men who were seated.

  "So I am," Riot said, unhurried. He placed his hat on its hook and shrugged out of his overcoat. It was summer in San Francisco, but the Silver Mistress didn't abide by seasons. She did as she pleased. Fog swirled outside the windows, obscuring the buildings across Market.

  "The rest of us dropped what we were doing for this here thing," Monty drawled. His dirty boots were on his desk, and his chair creaked as he leaned back. While Matthew Smith, neat and orderly, frowned at the gruff detective.

  "We're getting paid," Mack McCormick rumbled. He was the newest addition to Ravenwood Agency. Isobel had recommended him after he was fired for helping her. He was proving to be a fine detective, although he tended to flirt with every woman he came across.

  "I got cases," Monty grumbled.

  "You've been sitting in a dive drinking," Tim said.

  Monty shrugged. "It's surveillance."

  "I apologize for being late," Riot said. He walked into his office, heard Monty curse, and when Riot didn't find what he needed, he came back out. "No telegrams?"

  Tim leveled a stare at him that he hadn't employed since Riot was somewhere between hay and grass.

  "Afraid not, sir," Matthew said.

  Riot nodded as he cracked the window, letting cool air into the office. He put his back to the wall and waited, half watching the street below.

  "As I was saying," Tim said. "We need more agents. So if any of you know a fellow or two, now would be the time to have him interview."

  "Or her," Riot added.

  "Gah." Monty spat. "We don't need any more women. Look at all the trouble that woman of A.J.’s caused. And now she ain't even here to pull her weight."

  Mack chuckled. "Not much weight to be pulled on that one." The big Scottish man glanced at Riot, and cleared his throat. "I meant to say…" He stuttered to a stop under Riot's gaze.

  "Jesus Christ," Monty swore. "Stop walking on ice around him. That woman of his is a lunatic."

  Mack turned red. "Charlie isn't a lunatic." But he didn't sound convinced.

  Riot's lip hitched upwards. "I'll let Bel know you both asked about her."

  The telephone rang, and Matthew quickly answered it. "Ravenwood Agency."

  Tim made a face, and shooed the others into the conference room. When everyone but Matthew was settled, he picked up where he'd left off. "I agree with A.J. about more womenfolk. We handle some delicate cases. It might be easier for a lady to talk to another lady."

  Monty crossed his arms. "Where the hell we gonna put them? Bring in women and we need separate rooms for smoking."

  "I've asked you not to smoke in here," Riot said.

  Monty blew a cloud of smoke his way.

  "Well, anyhow, keep your eyes out for new blood," Tim said. "I have my eye on Grimm."

  "Who?" Monty asked.

  "Miss Lily's son."

  "The mute negro?" Monty asked.

  Tim nodded.

  "Better than some fainting woman."

  "What do you have against women?" Mack asked. "I know a few reporting women who'd knock you flat."

  Tim slapped his hand on the desk. "That's what we're looking for. See if any of your ladies want to interview for a position."

  Mack considered it, and then nodded. "I suppose they could do both."

  But Riot shook his head. "Discretion is key to an agency's integrity."

  Monty snorted. "Except your woman can do as she pleases. She made a nice nest egg off your cases."

  "They were her own cases, and it was after the fact."

  "Well, she dragged our name through the mud properly," Monty said.

  "Must have been some mighty fine mud," Tim crooned. "We've had more cases than we can handle since that trial."

  "That was 'cause A.J. here had a shootout in a courthouse."

  Tim ignored the fractious detective. "Just find detectives. We'll sort out the rest later. How's your case?"

  "You mean cases," Monty grumbled.

  "Which is why I'm trying to recruit more manpower."

  "I don't 'ave anything against manpower. It's the womanpower I won't tolerate."

  Mack chuckled. "I once met this circus gal who—"

  Matthew appeared in the doorway, and the Scottish man leaned in to tell Monty the rest. Matthew handed Tim a notepad, glancing at the snickering detectives. "A new client. They'd like to meet with Mr. Riot tomorrow afternoon."

  "Was it a nervous fellow?" Riot asked.

  Matthew shook his head. "A woman. Says she's in danger."

  "Gawd almighty. What's that make? The fifth this week?" Tim thrust his cold pipe stem into his mouth. Only one out of those five had turned into a legitimate case. Isobel's newspaper articles had captured the imaginations of women in the city, and the subsequent events in the trial had moved more than one woman to attempt to live out her fantasy, which unfortunately involved Atticus Riot.

  "The knight in shining armor," Monty sneered. "Always riding to the rescue of breathless females."

  "Why don't you take this one," Riot said to the Scotsman.

  "Mack already has two cases," Tim replied. "Monty has three. Matthew can only handle one case at a time, and I have a puzzle of one I was hoping to ask your help with. I thought you wrapped up your last case?"

  Riot's heart flipped. The only thing he wanted to do was board the next train to Napa Valley. "I did." The case involved a missing husband whom Riot had tracked to the house of a second wife.

  Tim eyed him, but didn't ask any more questions.

  The telephone rang again.

  Matthew hurried to answer the obnoxious device.

  "That reminds me." Tim flicked his notepad. "We need someone to answer that damn thing. A presence in the office—"

  "I need to speak with you about that," Riot interrupted.

  "Sir."

  Riot looked to Matthew. "Telephone for you. It's uhm… Miss Amsel."

  Riot shot out the conference room, ignoring Monty's bark of laughter. "Whipped!"

  Riot picked up the base and earpiece in his office. "Bel?" He stretched out a leg to close the door with his foot.

  "Riot." Her voice crackled over the line, and he smiled.
There was silence for a number of heartbeats. He couldn't find his voice. And neither could she.

  Isobel cleared her throat.

  But he beat her to it. "Is everything all right?"

  "I'm fine."

  She always said that when she wasn't.

  "Doctor Bright is here. He walked me to town."

  "Thoughtful of him."

  "I…" she stalled. But there were listening ears on the lines.

  "I know," he said. He missed her, too.

  A soft laugh came over the line. "You always know what I'm thinking. Here I thought 'tells' were limited to the physical."

  "I can see you perfectly," he said.

  "I probably don't look precisely how you imagine." He could hear the blush in her words.

  "You know me too well. I've finished my current case," he said.

  "Did it go well?"

  "No one died."

  "You sound disappointed."

  "I'm sure his wives were."

  "Sounds eventful." She paused. "I've lost my telegram carrier."

  "Oh?"

  She switched to Italian. "Two boys went missing. It has to do with a magnifying glass I found. I don't have much time to explain. I found one boy safe, but the other is still missing. My messenger is in jail."

  "Samuel?"

  "You know him?"

  "I spoke briefly with him when I visited for the week."

  "Did he actually speak to you?"

  "No, not really. I conversed with his dog. Gestures seemed to work with him though."

  "I wonder if his hearing was damaged by whatever injured his face," she mused. And then she seemed to come back to herself. "If only the sheriff were as patient as you."

  "Most lawmen aren't hired for their patience," Riot said. "I'm surprised the sheriff allowed you to search for the boys at all."

  "I have a way with men."

  Knowing Isobel as he did, there was far more to it. "You certainly do. Will the sheriff let you search for the other one?"

  "I don't know. He's questioning Samuel now. And not gently."

  "Proof?"

  "I found Samuel's boot print by a stream where the boys went missing. John, the younger one, described him as coming after them, and… Samuel's dog was shot with the same caliber bullet that was in John's rifle."

  "That sounds like a motive," Riot said.

  "Motive, opportunity, and evidence."

  "But no boy."

  "Right."

  "I'll be there tomorrow."

  "Don't you have cases?"

  Riot hesitated.

  "You don't need to drop everything on my account. I'm not sure the sheriff will allow me to investigate further."

  "I was planning on surprising you."

  "Well, it's not much of a surprise now."

  "Should I wait another week?" he asked.

  "You sound like you have something pressing to see to."

  "I don't recall saying a word."

  "Exactly."

  He settled back into his chair, and told her about the interview with Nicholas Stratigareas.

  "You should look into it," she said without hesitation.

  "Do you believe Nicholas is in danger?"

  "Sounds like it to me. Why do you think he's lying?"

  "You made Ravenwood Agency famous, Bel."

  "It was famous long before I came along."

  "Then at the very least you breathed life back into it. We've had a number of clients come in with fabricated stories."

  The line crackled when she snorted. "Don't you dare pin all this on me—you did your fair share, Mr. Frequently-energetically-and-thoroughly."

  "I didn't hear any complaints from you at the time." When her laughter died, Riot sobered. "Why do you believe Nicholas is in danger?"

  "The shoes, Riot. His shoes were moved half an inch to the right," she said matter-of-factly.

  "I'd rather visit you."

  "I'll be bullying the sheriff into cooperation."

  "And if that fails?"

  "I think you know."

  He winced. He knew. She'd break the law to find that boy. So he gave her the only advice he could. "Instead of bullying, try feeding the sheriff's ego."

  "You know I'm dreadful at that sort of thing."

  "I know. That's why you need the reminder."

  "I feel like every second matters." There was a tremor in her voice.

  "Every second does matter," he said simply. "I don't envy you." He hesitated. "These cases rarely end well."

  Isobel swallowed. "Perhaps there's time yet."

  "You have a way of bending it to your will. I'll be there as soon as I'm able."

  "I know." The line went dead, and everything that was left unsaid twisted his heart. Riot wasn't sure if the telephone was a blessing or a curse. The distance between them had been amplified, and he ached to hold her—to run his fingers through her hair, to kiss the quirk on her lips, and feel her body sigh. Only three months remained of her sentence. The outcome of the trial could have been far worse.

  "How's Miss Bel?" Tim asked.

  Riot blinked at the old man. He hadn't heard him enter. He quickly straightened and started sorting through his case notes. It gave him a chance to find his voice again. "Despite the local sheriff's misgivings, she's trying to help him search for a missing boy."

  Tim scratched his beard. "He'd be a fool not to take her help."

  "I agree. Did you need something?"

  Tim thrust his pipe at the mess of papers. "You said you wanted to talk about hiring someone to help in the office."

  "Yes, of course." Riot gestured to the chair opposite. There was no easy way to broach the subject. "We need to talk about the state of our finances."

  Tim nearly choked. "The what?"

  "Ravenwood's estate."

  "You mean yours."

  "Yes."

  Tim beamed. "Miss Lily takes fine care of that."

  "That's why I was late. She spoke with me earlier."

  "Oh." The little man seemed to shrink.

  "We're near to broke, Tim. You've been using Ravenwood's estate like a personal bank."

  Tim scratched at his bushy white beard, and mumbled something under his breath.

  "Pardon me?" Riot asked.

  "I need to pay the boys."

  "In a month or two you won't have money to pay them. There's hardly any money left."

  "It's not entirely my fault, boy. You think all those attorneys for Miss Bel's trial worked for free? We were swamped with legal fees."

  "I'm not placing the blame entirely on your shoulders. But I will need to see your account books for the agency."

  "You don't have time for all that, A.J. Leave it to me."

  Riot folded his hands on the desk, and regarded his old friend. "You don't keep records," he surmised.

  Tim spluttered. "Why keep damn records? Life is too short."

  "Does the agency keep an account with a bank?"

  "Hell no!" Tim slapped the desk. "How many bank robbers have we gunned down? And how many got away with hard-earned wages?"

  "None that we chased."

  "Exactly. I'm not putting my money into a safe so some slick-fingered fellow can pinch our gold. I pay in cash. And I don't trust no bank."

  Tim was a gold-miner to his bones. And holding to that era's tradition, gold was spent. Even if that meant pulling out perfectly healthy teeth to replace them with gold ones. Riot glanced at the golden gleam between his friend's lips.

  It was his own fault. Riot had left for three years—had run away and dumped everything on Tim's shoulders. The man had many talents, but money was not one of them. Although when it came down to it, gamblers weren't much better than miners with money. Riot was the lesser of two evils by a very thin margin.

  Riot smoothed his beard, and stared at the scratched desk for inspiration. "We could hire an accountant." But that would cost money they didn't have.

  "I don't trust them," Tim shot back. "How many murders have we traced back
to a seedy accountant? I'll just ask Miss Lily to do it."

  "Miss Lily has quite enough on her plate already," Riot said. "Do we have set prices?"

  Tim thrust his pipe at the younger man. "You're set on turning us into the Pinkertons," he accused.

  "No, I'm not. But considering their office is across the street, I think you've been wanting to thumb your nose at them. How much is the rent for this office space?"

  Tim ducked his head, and mumbled a price that made Riot twitch. Market Street was prime real estate. "First thing we need to do is find a cheaper office. And I want receipts, Tim. From here on out. Write them out on whatever you have. I don't care. But every time money passes through those fingers of yours, write it down. Get Tobias to help you with figures if you need to."

  Tim turned red, and sprang to his feet. "I can goddamn well put two and two together, boy."

  "It's anything over two and two I'm worried about."

  Tim slapped his hat on the desk. "Why you arrogant little runt."

  Riot sat back. "An insult isn't a denial."

  Tim gave him a rude gesture that amounted to two before stomping out. Riot put his elbows on the desk, and held his head in his hands. His fingers worried at the deep scar slashing across his temple. His life had been far simpler before Zephaniah Ravenwood had come along.

  15

  Playing with Fire

  ISOBEL

  Isobel hung the receiver on its hook, and stared at the paneled wall. Her heart was somewhere on the floor. Aware of watchful gazes, she shook herself and dusted off her skirts.

  The telephone operator, who had been pretending to read a book, looked up with a smile. "Is that all, Miss?" Her eyes flickered to the handcuffs around Isobel's wrists.

  "Do you have a hairpin?"

  The operator fished in a drawer and produced the required object, then cast a puzzled look at Isobel's short hair. With a smile, Isobel pinned back an annoying tendril. She had not accounted for growing her hair out. It was tedious.

  She turned on her heel and walked out into sweltering air.

  Julius leaned in close. "Just so you know, I do speak Italian."

  "I know." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Tell me about the girl who went missing last year."