The Killing Look Page 6

  Dunleavy looked at Cade and Samuel with narrowed eyes. He clearly wanted to be present for whatever comeuppance his captain had planned, but he was a man of duty. With one last hard glance at the two men on the couch, he left the room. Smith gave the two of them a smile, then took a seat on a nearby chair.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s talk about what just happened.”

  “First things first,” Cade said. “Is Mrs. Hamrick all right?”

  “And her daughter,” Samuel burst in.

  “Mother and daughter are fine,” Smith said. He smiled. “In fact, it was Mrs. Hamrick who helped repel at least one assailant. With a shotgun secreted in her bedchamber, as it happens.”

  Cade recalled the blasts he’d heard from upstairs. “She shot one of them. I saw another one of them trying to drag a wounded man out of here.” He nodded at Samuel. “I think this one finished the wounded man off.” He realized too late how that might sound, then lamely finished, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Smith just nodded as if it didn’t matter. “So. Tell me everything that happened,” he looked directly at Cade, “from the time you arrived back at the house.”

  Cade got the point immediately. Nothing was to be said about where they’d been prior to their return. “When we pulled up, all the lights were off.”

  Smith nodded. “We’ve established that. The gas was turned off. Do you have any idea how or why that was done?”

  Cade shook his head. “I ain’t no engineer, sir. I don’t even know how you might do that.”

  Smith just nodded, his expression patient. “Go on.”

  Cade did as he was asked. When he got to the confrontation in the carriage yard, he couldn’t keep calm any longer. “I shot him, sir. I shot him over and over. But the bastard kept getting back up. I don’t know how.”

  “Body armor,” a voice came from the door.

  The man who spoke was much taller than Smith, at least six and a half feet, and as broad-shouldered as the sergeant who’d detained them earlier. He wore the same long gray coat and silver star. His face was lean and chiseled, clean-shaven, but scarred as if with an old pox. He held a short-handled hatchet in one hand. He advanced into the room as if making an entrance on a stage before tossing the hatchet onto the floor. In the silence his entrance had created, the hand-axe clattered loudly on the floorboards. “Boo How Doy,” the man said.

  Cade shook his head as if to clear his ears. “What?”

  “Chinese tong assassins,” Smith said. “Green Dragon, unless I miss my guess.” He nodded to the man who’d just entered. “Lieutenant Webster is the police department’s chief authority on the Chinese community. And their crimes.”

  “Well, I’ve met a few Chinamen along the way,” Cade said. “Smart ones, dumb ones, young ones that was strong as a bull, and old ones you could break in half with a little finger.” He looked at Webster. “But I never heard of any of ’em bein’ bulletproof.”

  Webster smiled indulgently. “You’re new in town, Mr…Cade, is it?”

  Cade nodded.

  The smile faded. “You don’t know what the good people of San Francisco are up against.”

  “Well, if it’s bulletproof Chinamen, maybe we’d best start talkin’ terms of surrender.”

  “That is not an option,” Smith said.

  “That was actually a joke, sir,” Cade replied.

  “This is no joking—” Smith began, but Webster interrupted.

  “Some of the Boo How Doy wear chainmail jackets under their clothing.” He smirked. “It helps spread the superstition among the ignorant rank and file Chinese that they are some kind of supernatural killers. Invincible. Immortal.”

  “Chain mail isn’t supposed to stop bullets,” Cade protested.

  “It will slow them down, though. You definitely injured the man you shot,” Webster said. “We found blood in the courtyard.” He looked grim. “But these men are fanatics. They consume wildcat meat before battle, thinking it will give them supernatural strength and ferocity. And, of course, many of them are out of their minds on drugs and potions their heathen herb doctors concoct.”

  It all seemed too fantastic to be true. Cade shook his head. “Okay.” He stood up. “Well, if that’s all you fellows want to know, I’m goin’ to check on Mr. Hamrick.”

  “Hold up there a minute, Mr. Cade.” Smith stopped him with an upraised hand that came close to pushing against Cade’s chest before Cade stopped him with a look. He let the hand drop and smiled ingratiatingly. “I assure you, Mr. Hamrick is fine, as are his wife and daughter. We just have a few more questions. I’m sure you want to help the police in this investigation.”

  Cade sighed and sat back down.

  The “few more questions” turned out to be the same questions asked in different ways to see if Cade would change his story. At one point, Samuel was taken out of the room to be questioned separately. Cade held onto his patience as long as he could and told the story over and over. His answers grew shorter, more snappish, and he was about to stand up again and tell them all to go to hell when Smith stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Cade. I believe that’s all we will require. I’m sure you’re tired.”

  I was tired two goddamn hours ago, Cade thought, but he just nodded. As he reached the door, Smith called out, “Don’t leave town, Mr. Cade. We may have other inquiries.” Cade bit back his response and kept going, merely raising a hand in acknowledgment. He trudged up the stairs. All he wanted was to go to his room and collapse. The excitement of the evening had been turned to dust by the steady grind of Smith’s questioning, and Cade was tired enough to want to throw himself on the bed and fall asleep without even taking his boots off. But he wanted a drink first.

  He went to his bag and rummaged around until he came up with the pint of whiskey he kept in the bottom, a pair of socks rolled around it for protection. He liked to tell the rubes the whiskey was for snakebite, but the only effect it would have on a bitten man would be to let him die with a smile on his face. He pulled the cork from the bottle and took a drink. The sweet burn of the good whiskey made him smack his lips. He bent down, took off one boot, then another, then took another drink. As he tipped the bottle up for a third, there was a knock at the door.

  Jesus, he thought, What now? “Come in,” he called out.

  Samuel opened the door, stepped through, and closed it behind him. He looked as tired and ragged as Cade felt. He stood for a moment, shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot, looking at the floor, then at Cade.

  “Some night,” Cade said to break the silence.

  “Yes.”

  Cade held out the bottle. “Care for a drink to calm your nerves?”

  Samuel hesitated, then walked over and took it. He looked around.

  “Ain’t got a glass,” Cade said, “but I’m pretty sure I ain’t got nothin’ catchin’.”

  Samuel looked at him quizzically. “Not a lot of white men would share a bottle with a Negro.”

  Cade shrugged. “I been travelin’ a while. Worked with all sort of people. Blacks, Mexicans, even a Jew one time in the Dakotas. Drank with ’em all in various circumstances. This is about as various as circumstances get, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Samuel nodded and took a drink. He grimaced slightly as the liquor went down. He still seemed to have something he wanted to say.

  Looks as if I’m not gettin’ to bed just yet, Cade thought with an inner sigh. “Well, pull up a chair and sit if you like.”

  “Thank you.” Samuel handed the bottle back and pulled the room’s one chair over by the bed. Cade noted that the bottle was half empty. Tired as he was, he didn’t want to pass out. Still, he took another, shorter drink and handed the bottle back to Samuel. “You got somethin’ on your mind?”

  Samuel didn’t take another swallow. “I owe you my thanks,” he said. He didn’t look at Cade as he said it. “I believe you saved my life.”

  Cade shrugged. “I figger you did me the same favor. So,
thanks right back at you.”

  Samuel hesitated, then took another drink, a long one. Gonna need to talk to Bridget about supplies, Cade thought. Samuel handed the bottle back and looked straight ahead. He let out a long, shuddering sigh.

  It began to dawn on Cade what was troubling him. “First man you ever killed, I reckon.”

  Samuel looked at him. He nodded, then looked away. “Not your first.”

  “No.”

  “Does it get easier?”

  “Pray that it don’t,” Cade said.

  “How many men have you killed?”

  “Depends. We partners now?”

  Samuel looked shocked. “What? No!”

  “And why not, considerin’ that we just saved one another’s lives and are now sharin’ a bottle of middlin’ good whiskey?” Samuel remained silent, until Cade lost the miniscule shred of patience he had left. “We ain’t partners, then the answer to that question ain’t none of your goddamn business.”

  Samuel got to his feet, still without expression. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “Apology accepted. And you’re welcome. For shootin’ that Chinaman.”

  “You’re welcome as well.” Samuel walked out.

  “Exhaustin’ son of a bitch,” Cade muttered. He blew out the lamp. As he stripped to his drawers and laid himself down, he couldn’t seem to close his eyes and sleep. He stared at the ceiling for a long time. How many had it been? Hard to tell how many in the war. The fury of the charge, a figure in the smoke, the quick glimpse of a face contorted in fear or rage, the flash of a pistol…he couldn’t rightly say how many of those shots had taken life and how many had maimed or wounded, whether a desperate passing saber slash had killed his opponent or left him with a scar to show the admiring townsfolk and grandchildren in the long years to come. He’d ridden through the aftermath of battles, seen the dead lying grotesque and bloated on the ground, and honestly couldn’t say which ones he’d killed. He couldn’t even tell who, if anyone, he’d killed this night. The thought weighed on him. It occurred to him that a man should know how many people he’d killed. After thinking about that for a long time, Cade finally fell into a fitful and troubled sleep.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The light outside Cade’s window was still dim when he awoke, the sun not yet up. He made his way to the “siphonic water closet,” as Bridget had called it, the ache in his bladder overcoming his trepidation at the unfamiliar contraption. It seemed to work okay. He pulled trousers, boots, and shirt on and went downstairs. The aroma of fresh coffee tickled his nose as he reached the bottom of the back staircase and he followed it to the kitchen. He saw no one there, but the pot was on the stove. After rummaging around in the cupboards, he found a cup and poured himself a generous serving. He grabbed a rickety chair near the wall and hauled it out the side door to enjoy his coffee out of doors in the dawn. It was only after he set the chair down that he noticed Mrs. Hamrick.

  She had her back to him, bent over a raised bed of flowers near the carriage house. He grunted softly in annoyance and picked up the chair to take it back inside. She may or may not have heard the sound, but she turned and saw him. He stopped, chair held in one hand, coffee in the other, frozen as if he’d been caught stealing. She didn’t move or speak, just regarded him with that unsettling silent gaze. “Um, good morning, ma’am,” he said finally, setting the chair down.

  “Good morning.” She walked over and stood in front of him.

  He gestured to the chair. “Would you like to sit, ma’am?”

  She shook her head. “You go ahead. And drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

  He felt the heat of embarrassment rising in his face. “I don’t think it would be right to sit down and drink while you’re standing there empty-handed, ma’am.”

  She smiled. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, ma’am. Maybe I should.”

  “Nonsense.” She was still smiling. “Have a seat and wait here.” She brushed past him, so close he caught the scent of lilacs in her hair. He didn’t know what to do, so he did as he was told, taking a seat and a sip of the coffee. The taste brought an involuntary smile to his lips. The coffee was strong enough to strip paint, but that was how he liked it. It had been a while since he’d had something besides the belly-wash to be found in the local dives.

  He heard the door swing open and turned slightly. Mrs. Hamrick was there, holding a cup in one hand and a wooden folding chair in the other. He was astonished when she brought both over, snapped the chair open, and took a seat beside him. She took her cup in both hands, bent down to take a long sniff of the rich aroma, and closed her eyes before taking the first drink. “Ahhhh,” she said in a voice so thick with pleasure he wondered if he should be watching. She opened her eyes and smiled at him again. “I hope the coffee isn’t too strong for your liking.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “Just the way I like it.”

  “Would you like sugar? Cream?”

  He shook his head. “Never got a taste for those. “

  She nodded, as if he’d passed a test. “My father was the captain and owner of a merchant ship. He wasn’t home much. But when he was, he always had a pot of strong coffee on the stove. The best beans, brought straight from the Indies. He always said, ‘If ye wanted a cuppa cream an’ sugar, why’d ye ask for coffee?’” The last part was delivered in a Scots brogue that sounded straight out of Glasgow. The mimicry was so unexpected, Cade laughed. She laughed as well. They drank again. It was a moment before she spoke again. “So. Last night.”

  He didn’t know where to go with that, so he answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  He shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

  “Hm,” she murmured. She took another sip and waited before speaking again. “Is it true that Samuel killed a man?”

  He tried to puzzle out how to answer, whether to try to comfort or soothe her, or to evade the question. She fixed him with a level stare. “The truth,” she said firmly, her dark eyes boring into him.

  “I…I believe he may have,” Cade said.

  “Hmmm,” she repeated. She took another sip. “I don’t know if he’s suited to that.”

  Cade shrugged. “I don’t reckon he had any choice.”

  “Of course not,” she murmured. “Those men meant us harm. Me and my daughter. That’s why I shot them as well.”

  “You, ma’am?”

  She nodded. “You heard the shotgun, I imagine. Did you think it was my daughter pulling the trigger?”

  “I heard, yes, ma’am.”

  Her smile was thinner this time, with less humor in it. “You look shocked. Are you surprised I would defend myself and my child?”

  He shook his head. “I been around long enough to know you don’t get between a mama bear and her cub. But a shotgun ain’t usually a lady’s weapon.”

  She snorted. “A lady’s weapon is whatever the lady has at hand.” That silenced him again. She drained the last of her cup and looked at him. “Why did my husband hire you, Mr. Cade?” The companionable tone of her earlier reminiscence was gone. Her eyes were narrowed, calculating, and her voice was hard.

  “He said he had business interests that got some people mad at him. Like those Chinese. So he needed a bodyguard.”

  “Who he then took with him on one of his whoring expeditions, leaving myself and my daughter to fend for ourselves.” She said it matter-of-factly, without malice or bitterness. He was feeling deeply uncomfortable again. He took another drink of the coffee, which was rapidly cooling.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Cade.” She stood up. “I don’t blame you. You and Samuel arrived in the very nick of time, and thus, became the heroes of the hour.” She shook the last few drops of coffee out of her cup onto the grass. “But perhaps I will be needing your services as much, if not more, than Mr. Hamrick.”

  “Maybe,” Cade said weakly. “Or, you know, we can hi
re someone for you…”

  “That would be an additional expense I’m not sure I’m willing to incur.”

  He was nonplussed for a moment. She smiled, and this time all the humor in it was gone. “I don’t suppose he told you, did he? This house, these clothes, your salary…it all comes from me. Mr. Hamrick has almost no cash to his name. What real estate he has is mortgaged to the hilt. The bulk of the family fortune is mine, built on what my father left me. A fortune which I myself have grown and cultivated. Have a good day, Mr. Cade. I’ll call on you when I need you.” She turned and walked back inside, leaving him gaping after her like an addlepated rube.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “You failed,” McMurphy said.

  The man behind the curtain replied in that infuriatingly calm voice. “How so?”

  “You didn’t take the girl. Or the woman. You lost how many men? And for what?”

  “Hamrick is in fear now. His torment is just beginning.”

  McMurphy shook his head at the sheer blockheadedness of the man. How could someone so dense have risen to head the Green Dragon Tong?

  The man behind the curtain chuckled. “You gwai loh are all the same. Always in a hurry. Always wanting everything at once.”

  “The wife and the daughter were going to be the key to getting at Hamrick’s money. The money he took from me. How are we going to get our investment back?”

  “You told me it wasn’t just the money. You want your former partner to suffer. And I guarantee you, he is doing so at this very moment. Is it not more satisfying, more…artistic…to make the suffering last?” There was an undertone of sadistic glee in the voice that shriveled Murphy’s anger inside him and left a chill of fear in its place. “Now we’ve got the police asking questions,” he said weakly. “It’s going to be harder to get at Hamrick. Or his money. And there’s this gunman he hired.”

  “The police in this city are no worry. All of them are grasping, greedy fools. For sale, like everything in this city. If necessary, I will make arrangements with them. Out of my own funds. As for the gunman, he will be no impediment.”