A Barricade in Hell (6 page)

“Maybe there's nothing to see, no pattern.” Jack frowned and tugged the end of his mustache, thinking. “But I'm not a big believer in coincidence either.”

Gabe stopped short of stepping out of the corridor and into the noisy station lobby. Midday was always busy, the benches arranged in front of the desk sergeant full of a mix of criminals and solid citizens who'd come to lodge complaints, sometimes loudly. The sound of motorcars, newsboys hawking papers with the latest war news from Europe, and horse-drawn cabs drifted through the open front doors and echoed off the high ceiling, adding to the noise. Once they left the relative shelter of the hallway, the din would engulf them. He'd be forced to shout to make sure Jack heard.

News of murder shouldn't be delivered at the top of his voice. The victims deserved more respect.

“We know how Wells died.” Gabe leaned against the wall, scowling at the rookie who'd slowed down and appeared too curious about their conversation. The young patrolman blushed and hurried past. “Two weeks ago, an eighty-year-old shopkeeper in Chinatown, Mr. Sung, and his granddaughter were found dead in the back room of the family herb shop. The family was afraid a rival tong had ordered the old man killed and the granddaughter got in the way. They refused to involve the police.”

“What changed the family's mind?” Jack pulled a stubby pencil and his moleskine out of a pocket and began taking notes. He'd filled hundreds of the little notebooks over the years and saved every one of them, a scribbled history of their time on the force. “I don't remember the last time a Chinatown victim's family or neighbors spoke with the police. Not willingly.”

“The girl's fiancé went to his tong leaders to ask for vengeance on whoever killed her. No one knew anything about the murders or who might be behind them. Word spread that the killer was someone from outside the community and that the girl's parents had permission to talk to the beat cops. Mr. Sung was well respected. The tong wants his killer found. They might wage war on each other inside Chinatown, but the tongs don't like outsiders coming in and murdering their people.”

Jack let out a low whistle. “Now I understand why the detective flagged the case file. How did the old man and his granddaughter die?”

Gabe settled the fedora on his head and slipped on his overcoat. He led the way into the lobby, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets and heading straight for the door. Air was as important as food. “I don't know. The family buried the victims before they reported the murder. Then they refused to tell the officers who took the report.”

Jack stopped in midstride, green eyes wide with disbelief. “Wait. The tong allowed them to report the murders, but not how they died?”

“I didn't believe it either, but that's what the report says.” He was rapidly losing his appetite, and the crawling sensation on the back of his neck was worse. Much worse. “I don't want to make too many guesses or draw conclusions yet. Not until we get a chance to speak to the family ourselves.”

They stood in the middle of the crowded lobby staring at each other. Supposition and experience battled in Jack's eyes. Gabe waited his partner out, letting him think everything out and sort through what little they knew.

At the beginning of any murder case, they collected all the scattered details, the tiny bits of information they managed to dig out of dark places or that were handed to them. They didn't have near all the pieces yet. That took patience and time.

Jack finally nodded. “Answer a question, Captain Ryan, and then I'll let you buy me a steak. What are the chances that Mr. Sung and his granddaughter died the same way as Bradley Wells?”

They began moving toward the door and fresh air again. Gabe kept his clenched fists hidden inside his coat pockets. “I don't know. All the investigating officers could get out of the parents was that they couldn't anger the family's ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Jack pursed his lips. “We're already involving Dora in the Wells case. Maybe we should take her with us to talk to the Sung family.”

“Maybe. We'll head over to Chinatown this afternoon and try talking to the girl's parents without Dora. If that doesn't work, we'll introduce them to Madam Bobet.” His stomach continued to rumble, a consequence of skipping breakfast to wash dishes for Delia. If he was lucky, food would chase away the sour taste on the back of his tongue. “She might be able to convince the family their ancestors won't be angry if they speak to us.”

“How is Dora, anyway? I don't think Sadie and I have seen her since we all had dinner. That was right after Stella's christening.”

“I think she misses Daniel, but she'll never admit to that.” Gabe shrugged. “The only one who really knows is Dora. She hasn't said much about his leaving and going home to Portugal.”

“She won't. That would be admitting she's afraid he won't come back. I don't think it's much comfort to her that he's not in the middle of the fighting. Bringing Dora in to consult on a new case might be just what she needs.”

“You're probably right.” The idea of bringing Isadora in on the investigation soothed some of the uneasy feeling crawling over Gabe's skin. “Let's go find that steak. My treat.”

*   *   *

It was midafternoon before he and Jack finished going through the burglary files. All the remaining shops had been empty at the time of the break-ins. Gabe found himself oddly grateful for that.

He gathered their notes and the files, locking them safely away in his desk. They hadn't found much that looked important, but the reports focused on the bare facts of the break-ins. In a city the size of San Francisco, burglary was all too common and unremarkable. Finding evidence that linked the robberies to the murders would take more digging, more questions.

Fog had moved in off the bay again, swirling in thick layers that hugged the sidewalks. A fine sheen of moisture coated Gabe's office windows. The streets would be slick with it too, making the drive to Chinatown slow.

Gabe and Jack shrugged into their heavy coats before leaving his office and crossing the front lobby. They'd almost reached the door to the street when shouting and a scuffle broke out near the desk sergeant's raised counter. Gabe glanced back, curious.

A man broke free of the knot of cops and civilians surrounding him, and dashed across the lobby. He ran hard, dodging around a patrolman and the two prostitutes in the officer's custody, and nearly knocked over an older, well-dressed gentleman. Officer Polk sprinted after him.

“Jack! Jack wait!” The man tripped over the hem of his coat and fell, scrambling to his feet again just as Officer Polk tackled him. Polk pulled the man's arms up behind his back and forced him to move toward the desk sergeant. The man kept shouting. “Jack, you have to help me! Please, Jack, please!”

“Archie? Archie, what are you—? Polk, hold off a minute.” Jack wiped a hand over his mouth and muttered something too quietly to be heard. He started toward Officer Polk and the struggling suspect. “I'm sorry, Gabe, I can't leave yet. I know this man.”

“Not a problem.” Gabe took one look at his partner and went with him. Jack's face was chalky, ill looking. “This man is a friend of yours?”

“He was. I haven't seen Archie Baldwin in almost two years.” Jack cleared his throat, subdued and serious. “He went to Europe and volunteered to fight with the Belgian army. I'd heard he was back. And I'd heard he'd changed.”

Jack didn't need to say the words; Gabe saw the evidence of what the war had done in Archie Baldwin's face and wild eyes. He'd met other men with that same haunted expression, good men who'd joined the war in Europe believing in glory and an honorable cause. That belief didn't survive the horror of rats and mud-filled trenches, watching other men die on barbwire tangles, and the slaughter they couldn't escape.

“Shell shock,” the doctors called it. Such an innocuous name for minds shattered on a barricade in hell.

Baldwin was unshaven, scruffy, and rough, as if he'd slept hobo-style in Golden Gate Park for days. His expensive serge suit and overcoat were filthy, shoes caked in mud or worse. His suit jacket was missing buttons, and a pocket hung half torn away.

Gabe got a good look at Baldwin's white dress shirt as Polk swung him back to face Jack. Rusty brown stains splashed the front, splatters that went from his collar to his untucked shirttails. Dark stains splashed the front of his trousers as well.

Blood. Too much blood to have come from the scratches on Baldwin's face and the backs of his hands. He spared a glance for his partner. Jack's face was closed off, careful; he'd come to the same conclusion.

“Oh thank God, Jack, thank God.…” Baldwin slumped in Polk's grip, sobbing. “You have to help me. I didn't know anyone else or … or where else to go. You're my only hope.”

“I'll do what I can for you, Archie. We'll go someplace quiet and you can tell me all about it.” Jack took hold of Archie's arm and gestured for Polk to let go. Baldwin sniffled and wiped his face on a sleeve, but didn't struggle or try to get away. “I'd like to speak with the officer who brought him in. Do you know who that was, Patrolman?”

Polk scowled and brushed at the front of his uniform, trying to remove specks of dried mud picked up during his struggle with Baldwin. “He's not under arrest, Lieutenant. Lewis pointed him out to me before he went off duty. Said this gentleman wandered into the station house and sat on the bench sometime early this afternoon. Officer Lewis thought the gentleman might be drunk and it'd be best to keep an eye on him. I've been watching him since my shift started. He's not drunk. I'd stake my reputation on it.”

Gabe watched Baldwin from under the brim of his hat. His men were well trained. Anyone who staggered into the police station in the middle of the day and took a seat would come in for extra scrutiny as a matter of course.

That Baldwin's filthy, stained clothing drew special attention wasn't a surprise. He was dressed like a rich man who'd gone slumming on the wrong side of the tracks and found trouble.

A lot of trouble. Gabe unbuttoned his overcoat. “Did Mr. Baldwin say anything when he came in?”

“No, sir.” Polk pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket. He frowned and scrubbed at a spot on his sleeve. “Lewis asked if he could be of assistance. But Mr. Baldwin insisted he'd only speak to his friend, the sergeant. Wouldn't talk to anyone else, but he wouldn't say who his friend was either. He was quiet up until a minute ago, so we let him be. I'd have come to your office if I'd known he wanted to speak to Lieutenant Fitzgerald.”

“We'll take it from here, Officer.” Gabe exchanged looks with Jack and took hold of Baldwin's other arm. Two years ago, Jack had been Sergeant Fitzgerald, but Archie wouldn't know about his promotion. “Your office or mine?”

Jack made a face. “Neither. I don't want to risk that stench lingering. Let's find a free interrogation room until this gets sorted.”

“Excellent idea.” The stomach-turning smell was familiar, but Gabe couldn't place it. He quickly ran through a list of possibilities, from sun-rotted garbage and sewage to the stale smoke of rum-soaked Cuban cigars, and gave up. None of them matched the vague memory of smelling that same odor, an old memory from the days he and Jack still walked a beat. Chasing it down could wait. Right now, other pieces of information were more important.

Finding out whose blood soaked Archie's shirt topped Gabe's list.

Six interrogation rooms lined a narrow corridor behind the desk sergeant's high perch. The cell block was behind a barred door at the end of the hallway, only a short walk for suspects who suddenly found themselves elevated to prisoners. They took Archie into the first open room on the left. Four plain, straight-backed chairs and a scarred pine table took up most of the space in the narrow room. Three plain lights hung on long cords from the high ceiling, casting bright spots of yellow light on the scuffed linoleum floor.

Gabe shut the door and leaned against it, arms folded over his chest. He wasn't looking forward to discovering Archie Baldwin's unpleasant secrets.

Jack steered Archie to a chair. Baldwin dropped onto the seat, staring at his shoes and hands resting on his knees. Tears slid down his chin, dripping onto the lapels of his overcoat and into his lap. He didn't look up.

“Tell me what's wrong, Archie.” Jack dragged a chair from the other side of the table, flipping it around so that he straddled the seat. He gripped the top chair rail tight, knuckles bled white. “Why did you come looking for me this afternoon?”

“I couldn't think of anyone else. I need help, Jack.” Archie sniffled and hiccuped. “Mandy's gone.”

“Gone?” Jack's back stiffened and his tone grew fierce, insistent. “What do you mean by gone, Archie?”

“Gone … I don't know where she went. I can't find her.”

Gabe raised an eyebrow at Jack. “Mandy?”

“Amanda Poe, heiress to the Poe and Blake Shipyards. Walter Poe died about six months ago. She's engaged to Archie. Or she was before he went to Europe.” Jack swallowed, but didn't look away from Baldwin's face. “That's how I heard Archie had come home from Europe. Sadie and Amanda are friends.”

Gabe briefly considered stepping in and taking over the questioning. Jack was personally involved here, maybe too involved to be impartial, but his partner was also the best interrogator on the force. No one was better at coaxing information out of a witness or a suspect. He decided to watch and wait.

And Baldwin, sitting there in his bloodstained, filthy clothing, was a suspect in Gabe's mind now. The knot that had been in his gut since he first discovered that Archie was Jack's friend tightened.

“Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning and take it slow.” Jack put a hand on Archie's shoulder and gently shook him. The muscle twitching in his jaw gave lie to the soft patience in his voice. “Where is she, Archie? Where did Mandy go?”