The Circuit Rider (14 page)

“I
t’s
some kind of Chinese symbol,” the young man said. “At least, that’s what most
of the men around here were saying.”

Tower
and Bird stared at the jagged design ripped into the woman’s body, and then
Tower pulled the sheet back over the body.

“No,
it’s not,” he said. “That’s got nothing to do with the Chinese.”

Bird
abruptly turned on her heel and walked out of the undertaker’s. She felt the
heat of her anger singe her cheeks. She ground her teeth until her jaw hurt.

She
headed straight for the nearest saloon, got a bottle of whiskey from the
bartender, and took a seat at the table farthest in back, with her back against
the wall.

Tower
entered the saloon moments later and walked to her table. He looked at her, an
odd expression on his face, then went back to the bar, ordered a beer, came
back, pulled out a chair, and sat down across from her. He sipped from his beer.

Bird
threw down two shots of whiskey in quick succession and caught Tower looking at
her.

“I
get the idea you know more than you’re telling me,” he said.

She
looked up at him, the way his face was so open. Almost like he
cared
about her. For a brief moment, she had the urge to talk about things she had
never talked about with another human being. But that door closed quickly, with
a resounding thud.

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Some sick bastard is slicing
up women.” She took another shot of whiskey. Felt the warm buzz start to
sprinkle its way across her forehead.

“The
same one who killed Nancy Hockings back in Green Springs,” Tower said. “He’s
heading west, too.” He sipped from his beer and got a little foam on his upper
lip, which he wiped away with his thumb.

Bird
nodded. “He is. And we’re going to catch up with him sooner than later. I
promise you that.”

Tower
must have heard something in her voice. Because he looked hard into her eyes.

“What?”
she said.

“If
you know something, you should tell me, especially if it will help us catch
this man.”

She
slammed her whiskey glass down. She absolutely hated it when men tried to force
her to do anything. But most of all, she hated it when they tried to get her to
talk.

“Goddamn
it!” she said, her voice loud and ragged. “I told you I don’t know anything
else.” Her tone cut through the dense air of the saloon, and several heads
turned toward their table.

Tower
held up his hands.

“All
right, I believe you,” he said.

To
Bird, it sounded like he wasn’t telling the truth.

T
he
Whitcomb estate encompassed its own plateau and series of ravines. A spring-fed
creek wound its way through the property and gurgled its welcome to guests within
a stone’s throw of the main building.

The
Whitcomb house was a structure of oversize proportions. Native timbers and logs
provided the framework, supporting a wraparound porch, four oversize gables,
and a roof made of Spanish tile.

Tower
had come alone, as Bird wanted to stay back in town.

He
left his horse at the hitching post and watering trough along the side of the
house. He climbed the steps to the porch and knocked on the massive rough-hewn
oak front door.

A
butler answered, complete with a black suit and white gloves. He was old; Tower
estimated him to be at least eighty years old, which in itself was an impressive
achievement out on the frontier.

“How
may I help you?” the butler said.

“If
they’re available, I would like a word with Mr. and Mrs. Whitcomb,” Tower said.

The
butler gave Tower a quick, but thorough, appraising glance from head to toe.

“May
I ask who’s calling?” he said.

“My
name is Mike Tower.”

The
butler opened the door and gestured toward a small handmade wooden bench with a
well-worn dark leather seat cushion.

“Please
make yourself comfortable while I inquire of the Whitcombs,” the butler said. Tower
took a seat and waited.

He
watched the butler disappear down a long hallway. Tower looked around the main
floor of the house from his vantage point on the bench. It was a spacious
entrance, designed to impress and intimidate, no doubt, with several hallways
leading off in different directions.

In
one room, Tower could just make out an impressive fireplace and an unusual
lighting fixture made with colored glass.

“It’s
Italian,” a voice boomed from down the hallway.

Tower’s
gaze fell upon a short, stocky man with huge, long arms. The physique reminded
Tower of photographs he’d once seen of lowland gorillas in Africa.

The
man lifted one of his thick arms and pointed at the light.

“The
glass is Italian,” he said. “From Murano. It’s a little island off the coast of
Italy. All they do is make glass. The best in the world.” The man stuck out an
enormous hand. “Name’s William Whitcomb,” he said.

“Mike
Tower.”

They
shook, and the man gestured for Tower to follow him.

“Let’s
talk in the library. Bertram is serving cognac.”

Tower
followed Whitcomb to a two-story library complete with a ladder system for
reaching the top shelves.

Tower
sat in a leather armchair, Whitcomb in a straight-backed chair that featured
horns at the top.

Bertram
the butler brought a decanter of cognac, which Tower declined. Whitcomb
accepted a healthy serving deposited into a heavy leaded-glass snifter.

“So
what can I do for you, Mr. Tower?” Whitcomb said. He sipped from the glass of
cognac and smacked his thick lips together.

“I’d
like to ask you a few questions about Sadie Bell,” Tower said.

Whitcomb
shook his head. “Horrible, horrible tragedy. The children absolutely adored
her, and I did, too. We all did. Just an angel of a girl. Is the riot over? I
heard Hop Alley was being burned to the ground.” Tower noted that Whitcomb made
the observation with next to no emotion. He ignored the question.

“Do
you have any idea why anyone would want to kill her?” Tower asked.

“Who
can explain those Chinamen?” Whitcomb asked. “They sit around, gamble, and
smoke opium, never tire of the cheapest prostitutes money can buy, and pray to
some strange god.” Whitcomb took in Tower’s attire. “You of all people should
know the dangers of worshipping a false god.”

 “Don’t
you find it strange that Sadie Bell was in Hop Alley?” Tower said. “From what I
understand, she would have had very little reason to go there.”

 “Maybe
she was taking some laundry there. Or possibly the Chinamen lured her there,
then captured her and took her against her will. Who knows?” Whitcomb took a
deep drink of his cognac. “Why do you want to know?”

“Well,
I know there are still some lingering hostilities against the Chinese
community,” Tower began.

“And
there should be.”

“But
the fact is, if the Chinese didn’t kill Sadie Bell, and we don’t know because
there hasn’t been a trial, then Sadie Bell wasn’t the only innocent person
murdered,” Tower said.

 “Don’t
you think it’s a bit late for that sentiment, Mr. Tower?” Whitcomb asked. “And
a bit late for this ‘investigation’ you seem to be undertaking?”

“I
believe there are still some unanswered questions.”

“Such
as?”

“A
friend mentioned that Sadie was not herself lately. Acting strangely, a
disheveled appearance, as if something was deeply bothering her.”

“I
saw no such behavior.”

“Did
your wife?” Tower asked.

Whitcomb’s
face turned a shade of crimson. “You’ll be wise to leave Annette out of this. This
has been quite an ordeal for her. She was very close with Sadie.”

“Is
she available to speak with me?” Tower said.

“Absolutely
not,” Whitcomb responded. “She is resting.”

Tower
heard the whisper of something in the hall. Had it been the soft scrape of a
shoe? Was someone listening just outside the door?

He
decided that with a man like Whitcomb, the direct approach might be the best.

“There
is also the issue of the mutilations done to her body,” Tower said. “They do
not appear to have anything to do with the Chinese.”

Whitcomb
quickly drank the rest of his liquor. His face had now gone from crimson to bright
red.

“I
don’t want to speak of atrocities in this house. This is a family home, Mr.
Tower. These types of conversations are better held in a court of law or a
sheriff’s office. Not here.”

“I
meant no disrespect.”

Whitcomb
set his empty glass on a table next to his chair and stood.

“Now,
I’ll have Bertram show you out. I have much work to do.”

Tower
stood and allowed himself to be escorted from the Whitcomb house.

The
heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, a resounding punctuation to his visit.

T
he
whorehouse was called the Emerald Club, and the green carpet combined with the
green paint left no doubt as to the origin of the name.

Bird
walked inside and inhaled the cloying scent of perfume. She assumed men walking
in associated the smell with all sorts of pleasant activities, but it made
Bird’s skin crawl.

There
were several ladies seated on ostentatious but well-worn chairs and couches. Both
the furniture and the women looked tired. The heavily painted faces, thick with
rouge, all looked at her with bemused skepticism.

“You
looking for some lady love?” one of the women asked. She had yellow teeth and a
scar just below her hairline.

“Kind
of you to ask,” Bird responded. “But I haven’t looked for any kind of love in a
long time. No, I’m looking for Big Kate.”

The
woman with the scar got up, walked into the back, and promptly returned with a
woman who was at least a foot taller than Bird and outweighed her by a hundred
pounds, if not more.

The
woman had an almost regal face, an enormous head, an anvil-like chin, and a
towering mass of bright-blond hair.

Bird
knew a wig when she saw one.

She
had come to the Emerald Club because the men at the saloon had spoken of Big
Kate and how she had hidden some of the Chinese women during the riot. Bird
figured if anyone might provide some objective information, Big Kate would be
the one.

“I’ll
be damned if it isn’t Bird Hitchcock,” the woman said, her voice a rich
baritone.

Bird
looked closely at the woman, hiding the surprise from her face. Being
recognized happened occasionally, but she wasn’t expecting it here.

“Do
I know you?” Bird said.

The
woman’s bright-green eyes twinkled at Bird. Maybe the Emerald Club hadn’t
gotten its name from the interior decoration, after all.

“We’ve
met, but I’m sure you don’t remember,” Big Kate said. Her voice had the deep
resonance of an opera singer Bird had once seen in Kansas City. “You were
drunker than a degenerate passed out in a whiskey distillery, and you nearly
shot the balls off of my boss!”

Bird
shook her head.

“You’re
right,” she said. “I don’t believe I recall that. But it does sound like
something I might do from time to time.”

“What
can I do you for, Bird Hitchcock? Need some female company?”

Why
did they keep asking her that? What did she look like? A woman-lover?

“I
understand you’re a woman of high moral fiber,” Bird said. “And that you cared
for some Chinese women during the riot.”

“That’s
right. I don’t like to see innocent women and children hurt. I’m not about to
let that happen right under my nose. If those Chinamen did what people say,
that’s one thing, but I sure as hell doubt the women and children did.”

“What
can you tell me about Sadie Bell?” Bird said.

Big
Kate took a quick glance around the room. All of the women were listening.

“Why
don’t we go to my office and chat?”

The
big woman led Bird to a tiny enclosed porch that had been converted to an
office and shut the door behind them. Big Kate took a seat in a rolling wooden
chair that was stationed behind a heavy desk.

“Why
the secrecy?” Bird said.

“Let’s
just say there isn’t a lot of discussion going on about poor Sadie, and there
should be.”

“How
come no one’s talking?”

Big
Kate looked out the room’s two small windows.

“Good
question. Something doesn’t seem right about it, is all. But whenever something
like this involves the powers-that-be, people tend to get pretty tight-lipped.”

Bird
knew she was talking about the Whitcombs.

“So
what do you think happened?” Bird said.

Big
Kate shrugged her big shoulders. “I’ve been wanting to talk to Dawn about it,
but she hasn’t been in for the past few days.”

“Dawn?”

“Dawn
Ratcliffe,” Big Kate said. She adjusted the wig on her head, using a small
mirror propped on her desk. “She lives out east of town with her brother on a
small spread. She was friends with Sadie, sort of on the sly, seeing as how Dawn
worked here and the proper ladies don’t necessarily like to mingle with the
likes of us.”

“So
why hasn’t Dawn been in?”

“Don’t
know.”

“What
else do you know about Sadie?”

Big
Kate looked directly at Bird. “I’ve seen my share of troubled young ladies. I
know the ones that are slightly off and the ones that are deeply tormented. Sadie
was of the slightly variety but headed toward deeply at a pretty fast rate.”

“Any
idea why?”

“No,
ma’am.”

Outside
a door slammed, and somewhere a dog barked in response.

 “Seen
Toby Raines lately?” Bird said as casually as she could.

“Toby
Raines? God, no, not that one. Haven’t seen him, don’t want to. He’s like the
dark legend no one talks about. The bogeyman. Why?”

Bird
stood.

“Just
wondering. Thanks for your time. And sorry about trying to shoot the balls off
of your boss.”

“Don’t
worry about it,” Big Kate said. “I ended up cutting them off myself a few weeks
later. Finished the job you’d started.”

Bird
wasn’t sure if the woman was joking or not.

Decided
she wasn’t.