Against a Brightening Sky (18 page)

“All right. Lead the way.” He caught Randy's eye. “Come with us. I want you to take notes.”

He trudged up the stairs behind Rockwell, moving as slowly as a man twice his age. Gabe paused at the top and pressed a hand to his side, shaky and sweating. “The beat cop said a girl named Trula May was found with the victim, but that the killer didn't hurt her. Did she see anything?”

Lon's neck flushed hot, and spots of color burned on his cheeks. “No, sir, I'm afraid not. Trula May was crying too hard to say much, but Miss Maggie explained. Mr. Rigaux liked to do special things with some of the girls. He paid extra for girls that were willing.”

Randy looked up from his notebook, an eyebrow quirked and pencil poised over the page. “What kind of special things?”

“Ropes and blindfolds.” Lon flushed deeper and waved Gabe toward an open door. “Mr. Rigaux liked to tie them up.”

Baxter had set up the tripod for his new Speed Graphic and was busily taking photographs. Gabe stayed back out of the way. The photographs were important, a record they could come back to time and again. He still studied everything about the room and the placement of the body carefully, setting the details in his mind.

The room wasn't overly fancy, decorated more to set a mood than to impress. White lace curtains hung over the street-side windows, but heavy damask panels hung behind, shutting out light and the view from below. Red silk scarves covered bedside lampshades, softening and tinting the harsh electric light. Rigaux's clothes—an expensive shirt and collar, black jacket and black trousers—were folded neatly on a padded bench under the street-side window. Polished black boots sat on the floor underneath.

Short lengths of thick rope sheathed in soft satin were knotted to the headboard. Trula May wouldn't have been able to get loose on her own, and the cord looked to have had been hastily cut to free her. Small chintz and taffeta pillows in delicate pinks and mauve filled the corners of a settee. The pillows matched the torn, blood-splashed coverlet that had slipped half off the bed and onto the floor.

Breathing through his mouth was an old habit, helping to block out the worst of the smell of stale piss, the stench of blood and voided bowels. Rigaux had panicked when attacked and lost control, a common thing for someone who'd died suddenly and violently. Gabe guessed Rigaux had been somewhere between thirty-five and forty, and looked to be a few inches shorter than Jack. At one time, his thick brown hair had been slicked back with pomade, but now it stuck up at odd, grotesque angles.

Rigaux's naked body sprawled across the bed on his stomach, as if he'd attempted to crawl away. At first glance, Gabe thought the victim's throat had been cut, but he soon realized there wasn't enough blood. A closer look revealed a thin wire garrote wrapped four times around the man's neck. The first two fingers of one hand were trapped under a loop of wire and nearly severed.

Gabe walked around the edge of the room, viewing the scene from all angles. Discovering how the killer got in and out without being seen didn't take long. A window stood open on the far side of the room, away from the street and overlooking a back porch roof. Once out the window, the drop to the roof, and from there to the ground, was only a few feet.

He glanced at Randy and gestured toward the body. Dodd didn't have Jack's experience, but he was still a decent detective. “What does this tell you?”

Dodd didn't hesitate. “They came at him from behind. Since I can guess what he was doing, surprising him wasn't difficult. He fought and tried to get away, but he didn't stand a chance. See the dark patch in the small of his back? If I had to guess—I'd say the killer put a foot or a knee into his back for leverage. The poor bastard suffered. This was personal.”

“It was personal. The killer scared the hell out of the girl, but he didn't hurt her. He wanted Rigaux.” The truth in that settled under his skin, deep and unmistakable. “Let's go talk to Maggie and Trula May.”

He found Maggie DeVere in a private sitting room on the ground floor. Two burly patrolmen stood watch outside the door. The room wasn't very large and didn't have any windows, but Gabe decided that was precisely why she'd chosen to wait there with Trula May. With only one way in, she'd see anyone coming at her. And unless Maggie had changed a great deal, she'd have a pistol within reach.

Maggie looked startled as Gabe and Randy came in, but promptly smiled. “Gabriel Ryan, as I live and breathe!” She stood and came to greet him, hands outstretched to take his. Rings glittered on every finger, stones scattering light. She'd bobbed her thick black hair since the last time he'd seen her, a fashionable style that flattered her. “I haven't seen you in years. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

Maggie DeVere had been born on a hog farm in Kansas, but anyone who didn't know would never guess. He and Jack had met her more than fifteen years ago, back when they were inexperienced rookies. Maggie was young and pretty and naïve, newly arrived in San Francisco and easy prey for the ruffians along the wharfs. She was also smart enough to know she didn't want to stay on the streets.

He'd been wise enough to walk away from her after Victoria died in the 1906 fire. Maggie wanted more than he could give.

Now Maggie DeVere was the picture of charm and good breeding, well dressed and well spoken. Years of effort went into perfecting that impression, years of living in the shadow of society and being sneered at. No one sneered now. Maggie had too much money, knew too many secrets.

Gabe hoped that made her happy. He smiled and took her hands. “Hello, Maggie. It has been a long time. I guess that means you've stayed on the right side of the law.”

“I was always on the right side.” Maggie leaned and kissed his cheek. “Given the circumstances, I'm glad you're in charge of this case. Trula May and I can trust you. Trula May Wright, this is Captain Gabe Ryan. Don't be afraid to talk to him. Gabe will do his best to help you.”

His first impression of Trula May was that her eyes were too big for her face, but that wasn't strictly true. “Fragile” was the word he settled on. Breakable. Her soft brown eyes appeared larger because of how fine boned and delicate her features were. She was very young, with olive skin and light brown hair that hung in waves over her shoulder. Dusky circles stained the paler skin under her eyes.

He doubted that she'd slept at all the night before. “Hello, Trula May. You can call me Gabe if you like.”

Trula May tugged her silk dressing gown tighter over her chest, staring at the floor and refusing to look at Gabe. She was barefoot, a thick, woolen blanket covering her legs and her lap. Bruises darkened one ankle. From the looks of things, Maggie had rushed her out of the room containing Rigaux's body, not bothering with clothes or anything but getting away. Given the state Trula May must have been in when found, he wasn't surprised.

Maggie traded looks with Gabe and sat down again, taking Trula May's hand. “You need to tell Gabe what you remember, Trula. Once you answer his questions, we can get you cleaned up and Lemira and Jane will take you to the Sausalito house. Milton will drive the three of you and go with you on the ferry. You'll be safe in Sausalito and no one will find you. But you have to talk to Gabe first.”

Gabe crouched down in front of her, putting himself at Trula's eye level. She looked even younger up close. “I'm sorry we have to do this now, but it can't wait. Not too many questions, I promise. Could you tell how many men came into the room?”

Maggie's girls weren't innocents or they wouldn't be here, but their experience didn't extend to witnessing murder. He waited patiently for his question to work its way through the thick fog of shock and fear that had left Trula numb.

“Tw-two. There were two.” The slim hand clutching the dressing gown trembled. “One put his hand over my mouth and told me … he told me to lie still. He said … he said if I made any noise, I'd die too. The whole time I heard Jaret choking—and he kept kicking me and kicking me, fighting to get away … then he stopped moving.”

Gabe couldn't keep from flinching. He couldn't imagine what that had been like for her, or what telling him now cost. “Did the man attacking Mr. Rigaux say anything?”

“He—he said prayers while Jaret died.” Trula May stared, her huge brown eyes even larger with fear. Tears slid down her face, unnoticed. “And he'd stop for a second and I'd hear the wind howling … and the other man, the one with his hand over my mouth, he'd say Jaret's name and the wind got louder. They did that over and over. All I could think of is how Father Bryan half sings the Latin prayers during High Mass and—and the deacons answer.”

His heart sped up, trying to outrace the ice threatening to freeze it solid in his chest. “Do you remember any of what he said?”

She hunched her shoulders, curling in on herself. “I couldn't understand him.”

Randy cleared his throat. “Gabe—”

Gabe held a hand up, stopping him. Randy had recognized the give and take necessary for magical incantations. They'd both heard Isadora and Delia do it a hundred times or more.

A spell. Memories of hearing the wind howl during the riot around Lotta's fountain came back, strong and vivid. The way Gabe thought of this case twisted. “Did either one of these men say anything more before they left?”

“They warned me not to make any noise or they'd come back for me.” Trula shrank into the corner of the sofa, sniffling. “I never even heard them leave.”

“You were brave to tell me all of that. Thank you.” Gabe didn't try to hide the wince as he stood. He had more important things to think of than his dignity. “Could I have a word in the hallway, Maggie?”

She peered at him quizzically, her expression not giving much of anything away. “Of course. Give me a minute with Trula first.”

He reined in the impulse to pace while Maggie reassured Trula. Randy stood a few feet away, scribbling in his notebook, more silent than Jack would ever be, but that was for the best right now. Gabe needed to think, think hard, and he imagined Dodd did as well. Both of them knew the implications of Trula's story. Other than Jack, they might be the only cops in San Francisco who did.

Once Maggie stepped into the corridor, Gabe asked the two patrolmen stationed outside the sitting room to stand in the open doorway. Having them wait where she could see them might give Trula a feeling of safety. He took Maggie's arm and walked her a few feet away.

“I need you to tell me how Rigaux ended up in Trula's bed, Maggie. You wouldn't let him near her if you thought she might get hurt. I know you better than that.” She stood with her arms crossed and stared at the floor, the pose reminiscent of Dora. Gabe glanced toward the sitting room and lowered his voice. “No games or dancing around the truth. I'm trying to keep that girl alive and catch the killers.”

“I've no intention of keeping secrets, Gabe. My biggest concern is how to get Trula safely away from here and make sure those men never find her.” Maggie rubbed her eyes. “What little I know about Jaret Rigaux may not be useful.”

“Tell me what you can and let me be the judge of what's useful or not. If I have questions, I'll ask.”

Maggie did pace while speaking, burning off pent-up energy in short loops that spanned the width of the broad hallway. “Jaret tended to boast and talk endlessly about himself, but Trula liked him. Despite appearances, he was … gentle with her. He was married, rich, and harmless, and seldom spoke about his wife.” She turned and faced him, her expression stricken. “Oh, Gabe, I just thought. His poor wife. Finding out he's dead will be hard enough. Does she have to be told how he was found?”

“We have to tell his wife where he died and that he was murdered. That isn't a secret we can keep.” Informing the next of kin was always a difficult, unhappy duty. The circumstances of Rigaux's death would add humiliation to his widow's grief once they became public knowledge. “I'll do my best, Maggie, but the papers are bound to catch wind of this sooner or later. I was surprised not to find a pack of photographers out front when I arrived. Reporters usually beat me to a murder scene.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “I called in a few favors. The press will hold off for a few more hours. Trula should be far away from here by then.”

Gabe traded looks with Randy. He hadn't realized Maggie had that much influence. “All right, that explains the lack of reporters. Finish telling me about Rigaux.”

“There isn't much more to tell. Jaret and his wife came to San Francisco from Europe just before the war ended. I know he was born in Belgium, but his mother was Russian. His wife's family is Russian too.” Maggie shrugged and fingered the thin gold chain around her neck. “Like much of the nobility, they were forced to leave rather quickly. He bragged about their daring escape often enough, there might have been some truth in the story.”

Randy spoke up, pencil poised over a fresh notebook page. “Did he say where they'd escaped from?”

“Not in detail.” She frowned and sat on a small fainting couch placed against one corridor wall. Maggie pulled a red satin pillow into her arms, hugging it tight. The mirror above her head reflected the sitting room door and the two scowling patrolmen blocking the way inside. “All I know for sure is they abandoned an estate belonging to his wife's family somewhere near the Black Sea. Jaret fancied himself an aristocrat, but all his money came from his wife. She's the one with noble blood and titles.”

“One last question, Maggie. How often was Rigaux in Trula's room at night?”

“Two or three times a week for the last six months.” Maggie sat up straighter, understanding shining in her eyes. He'd expected nothing less from her. “Often enough to make him easy to find.”

Gabe had stopped thinking of his hunches as nothing more than educated guesses years ago. Too many turned out to be leaps of faith that paid off, often bridging gaps in evidence and showing him new pathways to the truth. Strong pulls toward any bit of evidence or information were always worth chasing.