From the Ashes (Ravenwood Mysteries #1)

The Husband

THE CABLE CAR WAS dragged up an impossible road. At the hill's peak, Riot stepped off the running board, dodged a pair of weary horses, and climbed the steps to a sprawling brownstone. Bright bulbs of electric light watched his easy ascent. The glass doors opened, welcoming his gender and attire.

Riot's footsteps echoed in the entranceway. He removed his hat and gloves, passing them off to a severe attendant.

"I'm a guest of Alex Kingston." Riot presented his card. "Kindly inform him of my arrival."

"If you will wait in the French room." With a whispered word, the attendant passed the card to another man of paleness and jet and then swept his arm towards a side door. Riot was shown from the hall of echoing splendor into a smaller room of dark wood and leather. He settled himself in a comfortable chair before a window, waved away the offered cigar and brandy, and patiently waited.

The Pacific Union Club dominated Nob Hill while the rest of the world kneeled at its feet. Fog crept along the wide windows, muting the city's lights. They were like tiny lanterns adrift in a dark swirling sea.

Time ticked, the pendulum swung in its gilded embrace, and the Grandfather rang ten, a mournful sound that heralded an imposing presence. Heavy footsteps marched across the wood and Riot rose, turning to meet his client for the first time.

"Has your damn agency found my wife, yet?" Alex Kingston filled the room like a statue in a square. Well into his fifties, as solid as an ox, and severe as stone.

"If that were the case, a telegram would have sufficed," Riot answered easily.

Kingston stopped directly in front, looming over the smaller man. Riot raised his eyes from a broad expanse of starched shirtfront to Kingston's face. The man's eyes were pale and icy, and his nose broad and flat.

"I want my wife returned," Kingston rumbled as if addressing her abductor.

Riot stood his ground, forcing the larger man to take a step back. "Of course you do," he answered, "or you wouldn't have contracted our agency's services."

To hide his failed gamble, Kingston turned towards the sideboard. "You haven't found her."

"No, but I do have questions that may aid our investigation."

"I already answered your associate's questions. What was his name—Smith."

"Your wife is missing, Mr. Kingston," Riot said, resuming his seat. "Is there a limit to the number of questions you're willing to answer?"

The large man sighed, swirling his brandy thoughtfully. After a moment, he downed the snifter in one gulp.

"No, of course not." His shoulders deflated and he sat heavily in the chair opposite. "The thought of her with those men—a man can only take so much." Kingston gripped the armrest, knuckles white, and straining.

Riot feared for the armrest's future.

"I have some questions that want answering and then I'll leave you to your evening. Considering the press camped outside of your home, I thought it wiser to interview you here."

"Ask," Kingston rasped.

"You and Mrs. Kingston were married late October."

"What does that have to do with her abduction?"

"Until we know who abducted her and why, I consider every question and answer relevant to the investigation."

"It's obvious why," Kingston growled. "They want money."

"But why Mr. Amsel's money? You're the husband and the wealthier relation."

"I've hired you to answer those questions."