From the Ashes (Ravenwood Mysteries #1)

Two Empty Chairs

"ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, A.J.?" A voice drifted in the dark room.

"I believe I indicated my preference for a hotel," Riot returned, navigating the darkness. Avoiding the greater shadows, he twined his way through the clutter towards the windows while Tim fiddled with the gas lamps.

"The house has been scrubbed from top to bottom and back up again. You'll find nothing but life."

"And plenty of memory."

A soft light suffused the circular room, illuminating its ghostly contents. Riot turned from the brightness, avoiding the two chairs by the cold hearth, nudging a curtain aside to gaze at the fitful fog instead.

Tim eyed the detective. The years had weathered Riot's exuberance, worn away the rough edges and left him hard. Veins of steel ran through his short beard and a mark of wisdom slashed across his temple.

Tim rocked back on his heels and returned to his toes. "Plenty of time left to make new ones."

"Leave it, Tim," Riot warned. A shadow stirred the fog. The disturbance strode through the gardens with a confident swagger. "I see our resident lady of the night entertains her clients in Ravenwood's old consultation room."

"How'd you guess?"

"I should think the French doors make an ideal room for liaisons."

"Annie is real respectable," Tim defended.

"How I've missed San Francisco and her society," Riot mused, letting the curtain fall back in place. "One of the few places where you'll hear 'respectable' applied to a prostitute."

"Oldest profession there is," Tim shrugged. "Never understood all the fuss. Scarce as women were in forty-nine, the ground was sacred where a woman walked—any woman."

"Straight forward as always." The edge of Riot's lip quirked. "I do believe I have missed you."

"It happens," Tim sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Not the same since you left."

Riot glanced at the two pieces of draped furniture by the fireplace. He knew those worn chairs by heart, could see them in his mind's eye along with every book that used to fill the barren shelves. Despite his weariness, he could not bring himself to sit in his old chair and stare at the emptiness across. Instead, he walked over to something resembling a hat stand, pulled off the drape, and hung his fedora and coat on the hook. "Did you bring your case notes?"

"Don't you want to eat or—" Tim gestured vaguely around the room. "Settle in?"

"I would like to retire," Riot said, sitting on the edge of a crate near the window. "The sooner this case is complete, the sooner I may do so." Deep brown eyes that were nearly black in the subdued light settled on Tim expectantly.

In answer, Tim patted his coat, trousers, and waistcoat, muttering under his breath until he pulled a tattered notepad from beneath his belt. The spry older man situated himself in front of the fireplace. He held the notepad aloft, at arm's length, and cleared his throat as if preparing to deliver an oration. Squinting appeared to help him decipher the scrawl.

"On Tuesday, December 26th, shortly after her husband left for Oakland, Isobel Kingston told the staff that she intended to visit her family in Sausalito. She took a hack from her home on Nob Hill. The fare was paid to Market, but the hackman said she exited just short of the ferry building. The intersection was jammed by an accident. The hackman thought she was in a hurry.

"Of all the travelers, ferry crew, ticket counters, and dockhands we questioned, Smith managed to find two witnesses, a mother and daughter, who placed her on the 9:00 ferry. None of the other passengers could confirm or deny this. Mrs. Kingston never arrived at her family's home. And no one realized she was missing until the next morning when her father, Marcus Amsel, received a ransom demand."