No Pity For the Dead (17 page)

He glared at the worn-out old cowboy studying Owen from a chair he'd propped against the wall of the closed saloon across the road. Owen's glares didn't scare the fellow, who calmly tucked his arms beneath his bright-colored Mexican serape. He didn't much like this part of town, not that where he lived with the widow lady who rented him a room for fifteen cents a day was a whole lot better. And since this was where Dan lived, he sort of had to stand here.

“Well, dang it, I don't got to. I'm not learning anything, am I,” he muttered to himself.

And who asked you to keep an eye on Rob Bartlett and Dan Matthews, anyway?

He'd been twiddling his thumbs since Kelly had marched him out of the offices, spending too much time thinking about how he could help solve the case. All that thinking time had given him this bright idea on top of last night's bright idea. And now his stomach started to growl. He wondered what the widow lady might set out for supper once he got back. Probably soup and stale bread again. Maybe he could stop at Mrs. Davies' instead and see if Addie had anything for him. She never turned him away. Plus, maybe he'd get news about whether Mrs. Davies had gotten his job back for him.

There was a commotion up the road as a kid ran in front of the horsecar clipping along Kearney and the driver shouted at him, joined by a chorus of pedestrians with loud opinions on the stupidity of street urchins.

Commotion over, Owen scratched at an itch on his neck and returned to watching Dan's lodging house. Maybe he was wrong about Dan. People didn't usually go around killing folks just because they owed them money. Though the more Owen
thought about Thursday night, the stranger it seemed that Dan had been so all-fired keen to dig around in Mr. Martin's cellar. It'd been a mighty big risk from the start. So why the heck had Owen gone along with the scheme and gotten himself fired?
Shoot, you're dumb, Cassidy.

On the other hand, maybe Dan did want to kill the guy because he couldn't pay him back. He could've easily buried him in the cellar, too. He always seemed to have Mr. Kelly's key to Martin and Company's front door, so why not be the one who did it? Lure Nash there and kill him. And Dan would've known about the oilcloth scraps the business across the alley always discarded behind their store, the scraps used to wrap the body. Of course, almost everyone working at Martin and Company knew about them.

But why dig the body back up?

I'll never get the hang of this. Durn it all.

Owen kicked at the wall behind him. He still hadn't seen hide nor hair of Dan. Just some Chinese scuttling past in their shiny silk tunics and all the wagons and carts rattling along the street. A restaurant down the road looked to be filling up with laborers and sailors. No women among them. It was that kind of place.

Owen shifted his stance again and noticed that the cowboy had gone off somewhere and that shadows were beginning to stretch along the road. What time was it? Owen had stopped paying attention to the church bells a while back. Maybe he should leave.

He was about to turn away, when hands grabbed him from behind, pinioning his arms against his back.

“Yowch!” Owen cried, struggling against his assailant.

The man yanked him backward. “What the hell are you up to, Cassidy?”

“Bartlett, let me go.”

Rob spun him around. “You spying on Dan? Is that what you're doing?”

“I'm not.”
Durn it. Durn it!
This hadn't worked out at all. Not one dad-blamed bit. “I was just passing by and—”

Rob, who hadn't let go of Owen's left arm, yanked it so hard, Owen thought it would pop clear off his shoulder.

“No you wasn't. You was spying on Dan,” Rob said, leaning in. His breath didn't smell all that good. “You think he killed that fella? Is that what you're doing here? You helpin' the police?”

“No, Rob, honest!” Owen had forgotten all about the ache in his back and feet and how cold it was, because he was sweating like a pig and scared to death. Rob had strong hands, and he was hurting him. Didn't Dan once say he'd been given some sorta nickname that showed what a mean cuss he was? If Rob killed him, would anybody notice he was missing? Mrs. Davies would. She cared about him. And Mr. Greaves had warned him to stay outta trouble.

Durn
.

“Stop shaking, Cassidy.”

“Sorry, Rob,” he answered, trying to keep his voice from trembling as much as his body.

“You'd better leave well enough alone if you know what's good for you.” Rob released him with a rough shove. “Now get outta here.”

Owen happily obliged.

*   *   *

B
lasted woman. Here we go again.

“Why can't she stay out of trouble?” The roan he'd rented pricked its ears, and Nick leaned forward to pat the horse's neck. “She's just as bad as Cassidy.”

Nick had taken his time returning from Cliff House. He trotted the horse through the city streets, steering the roan around kids playing with a ball made from strips of cloth. A man Nick had arrested last year for cheating gullible tourists strolled out of a restaurant, cleaning his teeth with a silver pick. He saluted as Nick rode by, but hastily turned the other way, slipping into a nearby alley. It might make for a fun evening to chase after him. Nick would if he weren't so angry over what had happened at Cliff House.

He'd been too focused on the mob tormenting Barbara Walford to realize where the real threat lay. Because of that distraction, he hadn't seen who'd given Celia Davies a shove over the wall. And nobody else had, either, apparently. She was lucky not to have suffered more than a tear in her gown and some bruises.

Blasted woman.

Nick reined in the horse at the door of the brick stables on Montgomery, a block over from the police station. The liveryman scurried through the tall arched opening that led to the stalls, bringing the smell of manure and straw with him. He took the reins while Nick slid down from the saddle.

“Send the charges to my boss,” Nick said to the man, who led the roan inside.

He made for the station, though on a Sunday he could justifiably head to his rooms. But there was nothing more there to entice him back than on any other night of the week, except
for a dog. And Mrs. Jewett was happy to attend to Riley while Nick was off doing police work, so not even the dog needed him.

The stink of the basement jail cells, wafting through the barred windows level with the roadbed, greeted Nick long before he reached the side door to the station. His foot had just descended to the first step when a scrawny kid rushed across the road from the direction of Portsmouth Square, weaving between the hacks lined up on its perimeter and almost getting trampled by a cart horse.

“Oy! Detective!” Owen Cassidy hailed him. “There you is! Are!”

What did he want now? “What is it, Cassidy?”

Owen trotted over. “I've got information, sir.”

“You don't have to call me ‘sir,' either.” That was Taylor's habit. Did he look like he needed to be called “sir”?

“Okay, Mr. Greaves,” he said, eyeing Nick from beneath the brim of his wool cap as if not sure it had been a good idea to have stopped him.

“Just tell me your information, Cassidy, okay?”

“Well, I ain't seen hide nor hair of Dan Matthews all afternoon, and I'm wondering if he's skipped town,” he said.

“Have you been watching him? I thought I told you to be careful!” Why couldn't he listen? Just like Celia Davies. Both of them were deaf.

“I was being careful. Sorta,” he said. “But I want to be a cop like you, Mr. Greaves. Plus, I thought that watching Dan's place would help make up for what I did wrong by digging in Mr. Martin's cellar. And that whole mess last night. I was gonna follow him if he went out, see who he met, but he never left the whole time I was standing across the street from his boardinghouse.”

Owen peered at him, seeking Nick's approval. But Nick doubted that any praise he'd lavish would be enough to banish the hunger in Owen's eyes, which always made him look as if he were lost and searching for something out of reach. Nick had seen Meg look like that more than once. Adrift. Needy. He should've worried more about what those feelings could mean, but he hadn't. He'd thought his sister would end up strong, like him and Ellie. Instead, she'd ended up dead by her own hand.

“How do you even know Dan was at his lodgings in the first place?” Nick asked.

Owen's face fell. “Guess I didn't think of that. But he must've been, if Rob Bartlett was there,” he said. “I ran into him while I was watching. He was going to Dan's, and he'd probably know if Dan had made plans to not be there. They're good friends.”

“Dan might not have told him his plans. Even if they are good friends.”

Owen's shoulders drooped along with his face. “Durn.”

“And you don't want to be a cop, Cassidy.”

“Yes, I do!” he insisted. “I want to make things right, like you and Mrs. Davies try to do.”

He
would
drag her name into the conversation.

“Come here.” Nick sat down on the dirty top step and indicated Owen should do the same. Never mind that people walking past on Kearney were staring at them. “Listen, Cassidy. Go to school. Learn a trade. Do something sensible, because being a cop is not sensible.”

That was Nick's father talking.
I thought you were smart, Nicholas. Why do you want to be a policeman?
His father hadn't been persuaded by the argument that his own brother, Asa, was a San Francisco police detective and a good one, the best.
Just
proves that Asa's more of a fool than I ever imagined,
his father had replied. Nick had never learned what had driven a wedge between Abraham Greaves and Uncle Asa. He'd never learned what had caused Meg to decide to leave Asa's house and strike out on her own, either, even though Nick had left her in their uncle's charge while he went off to fight in the war, expecting her to stay there. He'd never understood his sister's terrible decision, and he'd never understood his father's hatred for the uncle Nick had always admired. By the time Nick had figured out a wedge even existed between the two men, however, it was as firmly rooted as the one that stood between him and Frank Hutchinson.

Nick blew out a long breath. “Worse, Cassidy, the crimes never seem to end, no matter how hard you try, no matter how many people you send to jail. This job is nothing but frustration.”

“But we caught the folks who killed Mrs. Davies' Chinese friend and the girl who worked at that apothecary store, didn't we? That worked out.”

We.
“One success.”

Owen was beginning to look worried. “But you've had other successes, right, Mr. Greaves?”

“I have, but not enough to satisfy me,” he said.

The number of criminals who'd evaded justice took up more than the fingers on both of Nick's hands. Even the ones he'd managed to get sent to jail sometimes continued to commit crimes once they got back out. A boy not much younger than Owen had died because of a violent drunk who hadn't learned anything from his years spent in prison. And Nick had felt responsible.

“So if you don't want to grow up to be a bitter, disappointed old man like me,” Nick said, “don't be a cop.”

“Shucks, Mr. Greaves, you ain't old!”

But I
am
bitter and disappointed.
Maybe he should take his own advice and find a different line of work. He'd make a decent clerk, as much time as he already spent pushing papers around.

“And Mrs. Davies must think you're worth something, else she wouldn't bother with you!” Owen added with a wink.

*   *   *

“A
re you nae going to sleep, ma'am?” asked Addie, her long braid hanging down over her wrapper. The dining room lantern cast Celia's housekeeper in a pool of dim light, the kitchen at Addie's back hidden in shadows.

“I struck the wall harder than I thought,” Celia answered, setting her pencil atop the sheet of paper she'd taken from her clinic office. After a somber meal with her cousin, she had read through patient files, taken a warm bath, and tried to relax with a book. And failed miserably at sleep. She simply had too much to think about.

“I believe I am a singular bruise from my ribs to my knees.” Celia pressed a hand to her back and rubbed the ache there, something she was able to do since she was absent the interfering layers of a bodice and corset. “And I scraped my hands rather badly.”

“Do you want a poultice for the bruises?”

“I will be all right,” she said. “Is Barbara asleep?”

“At last. She's scared, though, poor bairn,” said Addie. “And so am I. Miss Barbara confronted again, and you . . . It doesna bear contemplating.”

“It was an accident, Addie. I was clumsy and fell.”

“If you believed that, you wouldna be making more lists,” she said, nodding at the paper at Celia's elbow.

“I was adding new thoughts to my inventory of suspects,” she said. “And it does no good to scowl at me, Addie. I am caught up in this investigation whether I like it or not.”

“Aye, that may be so, but I dinna have to be happy about it.”

“Please join me, though. And help me think,” said Celia as the case clock in the entry hall struck the hour. Midnight. It
was
late.

She yawned while Addie pulled out one of the chairs.

“If I am correct to link Mr. Nash's murder to my near collision with a quantity of sharp rocks, I must now consider which of my suspects had access to both the cellar and Cliff House,” Celia explained, picking up the pencil and indicating the tick marks she'd made next to the names. “Sadly, I have not eliminated many. The partners were all in attendance, including a new addition, Dorothea Russell. Although the likelihood she could have murdered and buried Virgil Nash seems rather remote. Furthermore, both she and her husband were standing nowhere near me when I fell.”
At least, I do not believe they were.