The Circuit Rider (27 page)

B
ird walked her horse along the street; she felt a thrumming in her veins. It was the size and the scope of the city. It invigorated her, excited her, made her want to take this oversize community by the tail and give it a few good shakes.

She walked over to Union Square, watched the ladies with their big hats walk arm in arm with men wearing stiff black suits and top hats.

The occasional youngster would run by with a stack of newspapers.

Bird spotted a place that looked like it might have what she wanted. It was called Peterson’s Spirits Emporium and Gambling House. Not exactly her kind of place, but maybe they had exactly what she was looking for.

Namely, alcohol.

And lots of it.

Bird tied her horse outside and walked up to the saloon’s plate glass window, then looked inside. Yes, it had what she needed. A long bar, half full with men, and two bartenders. She definitely liked the idea of two bartenders. She could drink twice as fast.

The rest of the space was filled with tables for both drinking and gambling. Various tables had card dealers, but most were filled with men drinking and smoking cigars.

She walked in, and the smell of cigars and whiskey embraced her like an old lover. A thick veil of smoke hung a foot below the silver ceiling. In the corner she hadn’t been able to see from outside, a finely dressed man in a bright-blue vest pounded away on a piano, creating a raucous rhythm. It was a kind of music Bird had never heard before. She decided she liked it.

She made her way to the bar and pulled out the money Father Silas had paid her. It was quite a bit. The church’s donation baskets must be quite full these days, she thought.

Bird ordered the best whiskey they had, a full bottle, and set about demolishing it.

“You look familiar,” the bartender said. He was a young man, with huge shoulders and a devil-may-care smile.

Bird looked at him. He wanted something. They
all
wanted something.

“You Bird Hitchcock?” he said.

She shook her head.

“No. And a woman of my good standing would be insulted by you making that accusation.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow at her.

“Well, I apologize, ma’am,” he said. “I would have been happy to buy Bird Hitchcock this fine bottle of whiskey, but if you’re not her…” he said.

Bird stuck out her hand.

“Pleased to meet you.”

The bartender refunded Bird’s cash for the bottle.

Free
whiskey
, Bird thought.
The best kind.

“Heard you were in town,” the bartender said. “My name is James Boer. We met back in Abilene a couple years ago.”

“Sure, I remember you, James,” Bird lied.

“I’ve been mixing drinks here for the last few years. Even wrote a book about them.”

“Congratulations,” Bird said. She downed another shot of the whiskey and poured herself another. This was good stuff. Smooth as liquid smoke, rich with the flavor of oak barrels and amber magic.

Boer pushed a thin book across the bar to her. “You should read it sometime, lots of creative ideas about how to make drinks.”

“I have the perfect recipe for a whiskey drink,” Bird said. “Only one ingredient. A glass.” She raised her shot glass to the bartender and tossed it down. “They complement each other perfectly.”

Boer moved down the bar, and poured various liquids into a glass with two ice cubes, and brought it back to Bird. “Try this,” he said. “It’s one of my creations.”

Bird looked at it. It was clear, but it had bubbles in it. She drank the whole thing down. It was a little sweet, but the flavors were interesting.

“Interesting,” she said.

“It’s called a gin fizz.”

He was beaming at her.

“Well, Mr. Gin Fizz, I bet you’re pretty well known around this town with these fancy drinks and a book to boot.”

He nodded. “If I may be so immodest to agree with you…”

“So you probably know a lot of people, too. Am I correct?”

“That would be accurate,” Boer said. He took the empty glass from Bird and poured more whiskey into her shot glass.

“Well, have you ever heard of a man named Toby Raines?” she said.

Boer shook his head.

“Can’t say I have. But San Fran is a big town,” he said. “Should I know him? What does he do for a living?”

“He kills young women,” Bird said.

She looked at the bottle of whiskey. It was nearly gone and it must have been the good stuff, because she was feeling it through all of her body.

“No, can’t say I’ve heard of that man’s name,” Boer said. “But I believe you might want to check with the police station. There’s one just around the corner on First Street.”

“Why would I do that?” she said.

“Because I heard they had an unusual murder just last night. Some young girl. All sliced up with a knife.”

“W
e have a very dire situation within our community,” Silas said. “And when I say community, I don’t mean our city. I mean our church.”

“What kind of situation?”

Silas got to his feet, crossed the room, and picked up a Bible. He came back to the table and set it down. He tapped the leather cover with his thick fingers.

“There has been some discussion about you,” Silas said. “Some news of your exploits in getting here has been bandied about via the telegraph.”

“I don’t like how that sounds,” Tower said.

“Actually, I believe it may be a blessing in disguise. Some of the things we have heard about you may prove to be useful, if they are, in fact, true.”

“What is it?” Tower said, his voice sounding more tense than he would have liked.

Silas met his gaze directly. “It’s the kind of situation that requires the need of a trained investigator.”

“I see—,” Tower started to say.

“Yes, I know you used to be an investigator with a detective agency.”

Tower nodded. “The telegraph again.”

“That’s not important. What is important is that you look into what happened to a man named Bradley Kirner. Mr. Kirner worked for me in various roles. Mr. Kirner was an accountant. One of his duties was to help manage the finances of the church.”

Tower waited.

“He has disappeared.”

Silas let out a long sigh.

“Along with nearly all of the church’s money.”

B
ird found the police station, called First Station, with an attached jail that she overheard someone refer to as the calaboose.

The bartender had told Bird that the San Francisco Police Department had big fancy headquarters at City Hall, farther into the city, but that the girl had been murdered not far from First Station. Bird figured that if the law acted here like it did everywhere else, the people working on the case would be at the closest station.

First Station was a short, squat stone building with a heavy front door and a square plaque made of stamped metal that read “SFPD First.”

Bird opened the door and stepped inside.

A heavy wooden desk sat immediately opposite the entrance, manned by a stoop-shouldered officer wearing a gray uniform and sporting a heavy mustache.

“Afternoon,” Bird said.

The man looked up and nodded, appraising Bird’s guns with a cool glance.

“I would like to talk with the officer investigating the murder of a young girl,” Bird said. “I might have some information relevant to the case.”

The man sat back.

“And who are you?”

“Priscilla Lavender,” she said. Maybe she was a bit paranoid, but she saw no need to announce to the police that she, Bird Hitchcock, was in town. Who knew, maybe there was someone, somewhere, wanting to arrest her for something she’d done the last time she’d been to San Francisco.

Stranger things had happened.

“What kind of information do you have, ma’am?” the officer said. His fingers went to his mustache, and he stroked the end of it.

“Possibly relevant information,” Bird said. “Are you investigating the case?”

The man ignored her question, hesitated as he seemed to make a decision, then pushed away from the desk and went to the hallway off to the left.

“Burgoines!” he shouted out.

There was the sound of a chair scraping and people talking, and then a bowling ball of a man appeared in the doorway.

“This woman claims to have information for you. Relevant information, is how she described it,” the deskman said.

Burgoines looked at Bird with the same cool detachment, especially when his eyes touched on her guns.

“Why don’t you come back here, ma’am,” Burgoines said.

He stepped aside as Bird walked past.

Burgoines shut the door behind them.

At the end of the hall, Bird spotted another long table, with a uniformed man sitting at its head. A few other officers milled about, and a row of prisoners sat along one wall.

Burgoines brushed past Bird and turned in to one of the offices.

Bird followed him inside.

Burgoines sat behind a small desk and folded his arms across his chest.

“So who are you?” he said.

The hell with it
, Bird thought. “Name’s Bird,” she said.

His brows knitted. “Two guns tied low. Bird. Would you happen to be Bird Hitchcock?”

She nodded. “Guilty as charged, Officer.” She wondered if he was going to come around the desk and try to arrest her.

“One thing about life,” he said. “You never know what’s coming.”

Wishing to change the subject back to what was important, Bird said, “So I heard a young girl was murdered here recently.”

Like a good poker player, Burgoine betrayed no change in expression, Bird noticed. He waited for her to go on.

“And that someone had cut her up pretty badly with a knife.”

“If we do have a murder case on our hands with that kind of detail, it hasn’t been released to the public. So I can’t respond to your statement one way or another.”

Bird waited.

“However, I am a detective, if you haven’t already figured that out. So if such a case existed, I would be in charge of it.”

“A detective, huh?” Bird said.

“You claimed to have relevant information. What exactly do you know, Ms. Hitchcock?” Burgoines said. “I figure a woman with your reputation wouldn’t exactly waltz into a police station for enjoyment.”

“You are right, Detective. I do have information,” Bird said. “Your murder victim? I know she’s not the first, and I highly doubt she’ll be the last.”

S
ilas had given Tower the last known address for Bradley Kirner, and now he made his way there.

The afternoon sun was strong on Tower’s back, but the air was cold, which Tower found refreshing. Everywhere he went, it seemed like the streets were crowded and room was at a premium. It was as if the city itself were as surprised as everyone else at how quickly it was growing.

Tower eventually found the address, and he discovered that Kirner had lived in a room above a tobacco shop on Ripley Street. It was a busy commercial neighborhood with several grocery stores and a pharmacy.

After climbing the stairs and knocking on Kirner’s door, a knock that received no answer, Tower went back down to the street and walked into the tobacco shop.

Behind the counter was a short man in a striped shirt, suspenders, and striped pants. He had a large belly and a ruddy face.

“Do you know who rents out the room upstairs?” Tower asked the man.

“That unpleasant job is squarely in my domain,” the man said. He stuck out a thick hand. “Name’s Rocco Giovanni.”

“Mike Tower,” Tower said and shook the tobacconist’s hand.

“Can’t say it’s been a success, my idea to rent out that room,” Giovanni said. “Rent is past due again, and I haven’t seen my tenant in a week.”

“That’s what I’m here to talk with you about,” Tower said, thinking that it couldn’t be a good sign that a man in charge of the church’s finances was having trouble paying his rent. “I work for the church, where your tenant, Mr. Kirner, is employed. He seems to have disappeared.” Tower decided not to mention the missing money.

Giovanni shook his head. “I was afraid of something like that. Although it does surprise me. The young man seemed like an upstanding citizen. That is, until he began skipping his rent payments.”

“When did that start to happen?” Tower asked.

“Recently,” Giovanni said. “I haven’t paid enough attention, I must confess. It drives my wife crazy!”

Tower pressed ahead. “Would you be willing to let me into the room? The church has asked me to try to locate Mr. Kirner and make sure he’s all right.”

Giovanni folded his arms across his chest. “Ordinarily I would say no — after all, it is a breach of privacy. But since he is late with the rent anyway, I might as well say yes. And it’s for the church, so I don’t think it can be the wrong thing to do.”

Giovanni opened a drawer beneath the cash register, pulled out a key, and handed it to Tower. “Just bring me the key back when you’re done.”

Tower thanked the man and once again climbed the steps to Kirner’s room.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Whatever he was expecting, perhaps a neat orderly room that would belong to an accountant, was not what he saw.

What he saw, instead, took his breath away.

The walls were covered with pentagrams.