No Pity For the Dead (29 page)

“Come on, Grace. We've been dismissed,” said Miss Walford.

The two girls tromped off toward the parlor, leaving them alone. In no time, the sound of the piano drifted across the intervening hallway.

“Your cousin doesn't like your being associated with me, does she?” he asked.

She gazed down at him, her face close enough that it wouldn't take much effort at all to reach up and touch it. Not much effort
at all. “Since you usually end up in this condition, can you blame her?”

“Nope. But
you
do.”

Finished with cleaning his wounds, she dropped the cloth into the bowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you want her to understand why working to get justice is so important to you,” he said, watching her thread the silk suture through the eye of a curved needle. Her palms were scabbed from where she'd scraped them on the rocks at Cliff House, and the need to protect her almost swamped him. “More important even than your patients and this clinic.”

She paused, the threaded needle dangling from her fingers, and glanced over. The look in her eyes meant he'd read the situation correctly. “Am I merely being arrogant to think these crimes are any of my affair, Mr. Greaves? Am I nothing more than utterly selfish to be so heedless of others' justifiable concerns for my well-being?”

“It's a disease, ma'am,” he answered. “And we've both caught it.”

“Then you do not think I am wrong to be involved?”

“Now, I didn't say that.”

“No, you did not,” she replied. “But I am grateful you did not demand that I keep out of your way as you used.”

“I've learned there's no point to telling you that,” he replied.

A smile danced over her mouth. “Hold still. I will endeavor to be quick.”

He tried not to flinch as the needle punctured his skin. True to her word, she was quick. Quicker than the doctors who'd stitched him up during the war.

“There. All finished,” she announced, tying off the thread. “I shall put a small plaster or two over the cut for protection.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“So what do we do with the information that Cuddy Pike is very likely in San Francisco and Katie encountered him at Burke's?” she asked, crossing the room to fetch a strip of adhesive plaster.

“Still a needle in an uncooperative haystack, ma'am. I expect he's changed his appearance and his name.”

“But he could not change the way his face flushes.”

“Then we need to get some men angry,” he said. “Maybe Mr. Pike is masquerading as Rob Bartlett, Dan Matthews' friend. The one who convinced Matthews—and Cassidy—to dig up Nash in the first place. I'd been thinking Martin had hired Bartlett to kill Nash, but maybe Bartlett had an entirely different reason to murder the man.”

“I did suggest Mr. Bartlett was worth considering, did I not, Mr. Greaves?” she asked. “Yet why would he encourage Dan Matthews to dig in the cellar if he knew Mr. Nash's body was there? I keep returning to that question.”

He explained the theory he'd mentioned to Taylor—that Bartlett, if he was the murderer, got scared when he learned work on the cellar was planned. Who'd suspect the fellow who told his friend to dig around?

“Mr. Bartlett also knows Eddie and could have asked him to deliver the note to Virgil,” Mrs. Davies said, finishing with the plasters and straightening. “But why arrange a meeting at the offices where you worked? Why not another, unrelated location?”

“He figured Nash wouldn't be suspicious. Remember, Nash
thought the note had come from Martin. His office was a logical place to meet.”

“And Mr. Nash had gone willingly, unsuspecting it was a trap,” she mused.

“I've already asked Mullahey to bring Bartlett into the station,” he said. “We can have Miss Lehane come in to see if she can identify him.”

“
If
we can find her in order to do so, Mr. Greaves.”

*   *   *

T
hey agreed that while Mr. Greaves checked Burke's Saloon, Celia would go to Katie's boardinghouse.

“She didn't come home last night,” said the landlady, tall and broad of shoulder as so many of them seemed to be. Petiteness, Celia supposed, would not be a desirable characteristic if one wished to maintain discipline over a house full of young women. “Ought to toss that one out. Sneaking men up to her room in the evening, and she thinks I don't know. I don't run that sort of establishment. But what can you expect from a saloon girl?”

“You are certain Katie did not return last evening?”

“You can check her room if you don't believe me.”

“May I?” Celia asked, making the woman frown; obviously, she had not actually meant to allow Celia to visit Katie's rooms.

“Come on.”

Celia followed the landlady up the steps to the topmost floor, the ceiling dipping low beneath the roofline, the air warm and stuffy. There were only three rooms up here where the rent would be a trifle higher than for the dark and noisy rooms overshadowed by the neighboring buildings. Celia did not care to consider where a girl who worked at Burke's obtained the extra means.

The trill of a woman's singing echoed along the short hallway.

The landlady glanced toward the sound, which was emanating from behind the closed door at the end. “That one's always chirping a tune. She saw some Italian lady singing at the Academy of Music, and now she wants to be famous, too. When pigs fly and snails gallop is what I say.” Her keys jingled as she unlocked the door to Katie's room. “See? Empty.”

Celia could see that for herself as she stepped inside, the colorful quilt in place atop the bed, the blinds drawn, the room quiet and still and somehow larger without Katie's vigorous personality to fill it. Dresses hung from nails pounded into the far wall, and Katie's comb sat on the washstand next to the white enameled basin. Their presence led Celia to conclude the girl had not meant to leave for any length of time.

“Did Katie mention to any of the other boarders that she did not intend to return to the boardinghouse last night?” she asked.

“If she did, I ain't heard,” said the woman, her gaze lighting upon a pretty Wedgwood blue shawl tossed over one of the two chairs Katie owned, a speculative look in her eyes. “If she doesn't come back, I wonder what'll happen to all her things.”

“Katie
will
come back,” said Celia. She would not see another innocent woman die, as had happened the last time she and Mr. Greaves had worked on a case together. She simply would not. “I promise you.”

“Is that so?” asked the landlady. “Well, tell her when you find her that she's got until the end of the week to move all her stuff outta here. I'm gonna find a respectable girl to rent this room. One who doesn't work in a saloon or bring men home.”

Or long to sing in theaters?

“I shall inform her,” Celia answered, sweeping past the woman and back into the hallway.

“You do that!” the landlady shouted after her.

Out on the sunlit street, Celia was greeted by the stink of sewage, a scattering of dust swirling over the cobbles that made her hold her breath, and the din of the blacksmith's shop across the road. The saloon where a woman sang “Aura Lea” had yet to open.

“Where are you, Katie?” she asked aloud once the gust of wind had subsided, the tiny lump of fear that had taken hold in her stomach turning into a full-fledged stone.

*   *   *

“D
on't know why you're here, Detective. I haven't done anything wrong,” said the owner of Burke's, sneaking a look at Nick's cuts and bruises. By this point, his face must be every color of the rainbow.

“I have some questions for you,” said Nick, wishing his mouth didn't hurt every time he opened it.

“About the saloon?” They were out on the sidewalk, and Burke jabbed a thumb in the direction of the front door. “It's closed. I know the law.”

“I'm not here to see if you're opening before seven, Mr. Burke,” said Nick, moving aside to let a shop boy wheeling a cart pass. “I'm here to ask about one of your girls. Katie Lehane.”

“She was
not
dancing the other night. I know the rules about that, too, and I told the officer as much. Can't you fellas believe a man?” Burke shook his head. “I'm gonna get rid of the girls. They're just not worth all the trouble they bring. Men fighting over them. And police coming around, wondering what they're up to.”

Nick exhaled, which made him realize how much his ribs were hurting on top of everything else. When did Frank get to be such a good pugilist? “How about this? How about you just tell me if Katie came into work last night?”

The saloonkeeper peered up at him. “That's all you want to ask me about?”

“That and if she seemed bothered. Left early, maybe?”

“Didn't seem bothered to me.” Burke cast a look toward the sky, where all memories were apparently located. “Not much, at least. Maybe a bit more quiet, and she didn't sit with any of the men like she often does. She stayed until closing like usual. Walked home by herself like usual, too, because her place isn't far from here.” His eyes widened as understanding finally dawned. “Has something happened to her?”

“Did she mention anything about leaving town?” Nick asked.

“I told her she should always walk home with one of the other girls or my barkeep,” said Burke. “You don't think one of my customers had something to do with her disappearance, do you?”

“I didn't say she disappeared, Mr. Burke. So just answer my question.”

“She didn't say anything to me about leaving town. In fact, when she left last night, she said she'd see me tomorrow,” he said, wiping his palms down the apron tied around his waist. “Is she dead? Is that what's happened, Officer?”

“If you're a praying man, Mr. Burke, I'd start now.”

*   *   *

T
aylor was waiting for Nick inside the detectives' office. Unfortunately, Briggs was in there, too, his heels up on his desk, a stance that showed off the worn spots on the bottoms
of his boots. The crumbs from one of his molasses doughnuts littered a piece of brown paper, and he was licking his fingers with a smacking noise.

When Briggs saw Nick entering the room, his brows jigged up his forehead, and he let out a long whistle. “Whooee, look at you, Greaves!”

Taylor's brows did likewise. “Sir?”

Nick tossed his hat atop his desk and took a seat. “Frank Hutchinson lands a mean punch.”

“Ha!” Briggs guffawed, and slapped his thigh. “Don't that beat all!”

“Did Mullahey bring Bartlett in, Taylor?” Nick asked, following his policy of ignoring Briggs whenever possible.

Taylor recovered from the shock of seeing his boss with plasters stuck to his face—wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last—and ceased to gawk. “Yep. He's had a visit to the booking sergeant and is cooling his heels in our fine accommodations as we speak. As wrathy as thunder, though. Swears he had nothing to do with Nash's death, and we can't prove otherwise.”

“They always say that,” said Briggs, trying to sound authoritative.

“Dad blame it, I know that, Briggs!”

Nick checked the clock hanging on the wall. Almost time for Mrs. Davies to show up. “I'm expecting Mrs. Davies, Taylor—”

“Mr. Greaves,” she announced, abruptly appearing at the doorway like the dove a magician would conjure from an empty sack. She greeted Taylor and Briggs, who'd scrambled to his feet. At least the man knew how to show respect to a lady. “She did not return to her rooms last night. Did you speak with Mr. Burke?”

Nick rose as well. “According to him, she came to work and left at her regular time, said she'd be at work today as usual.”

Mrs. Davies twisted the straps of her reticule around her hand. Behind her in the main office of the station, one of the policemen was leaning over in his chair to get a better look at her. Nick really wished they'd learn to mind their own business.

“Gad,” she said. “So she has disappeared.”

“Is somebody missing, sir?” asked Taylor.

“It seems so, Taylor,” said Nick. “Her name's Katie Lehane. A witness who might be able to tie Rob Bartlett to Virgil Nash's murder. Alert the men that we're looking for a saloon girl—”

“She has red hair and is very pretty,” added Mrs. Davies. “And was likely wearing an orange checked dress. It is her favorite, and I did not observe it hanging in her room.”

“We're looking for a girl who works at Burke's Saloon matching that description,” Nick continued. “And put a notice in the newspapers looking for information on her whereabouts. Who knows? Maybe we're concerned for no reason, and all she's done is gotten scared and gone to stay with a friend for a day or two.”

“She did not take any of her dresses or even her hair comb with her,” said Mrs. Davies. “A woman never goes anywhere for any length of time without her brush or comb.”

So maybe Katie
hadn't
gone to stay with a friend. “I'll take your word on that, ma'am. Go on, Taylor.”

“Want me to take care of this before I go talk to that Eddie kid?” he asked, rummaging through his coat to fetch out his notebook. “I was just headed over to Montgomery, but if this is more important—”

“Yes. It's more urgent we find her,” said Nick. “Shall I have one of the policemen see you home, Mrs. Davies?”

“I'll take you, ma'am,” Briggs offered, his eyes twinkling in a way Nick didn't care for.

“Thank you, but I shall be fine. It is not far,” she said, her eyes never leaving Nick's face. “I merely want Katie found. That is all I am worried about.”

“We'll find her, ma'am,” he replied.

But when they did, would she be alive . . . or dead?