From the Ashes (Ravenwood Mysteries #1)

Two Empty Chairs

"Her family wasn't aware she was visiting?" Riot asked, crossing his arms.

"They were not," Tim replied. "She had intended to spend Christmas with her family, but canceled due to her husband's plans. The morning she was abducted, Mr. Kingston left at 6:45 on an urgent matter. One of his warehouses was targeted by an arsonist. According to the household staff, Mrs. Kingston left very shortly after her husband, without sending word ahead to the family."

"Are we speaking of the Alex Kingston? Attorney to San Francisco's elite?"

"The very one," Tim nodded. "Property investor and lawyer. He's a wealthy man in his own right."

"And what of Mrs. Kingston's father?"

"Marcus Amsel is a wine merchant and his wife hails from a family of boat builders. After Mrs. Amsel's parents died, she inherited the family business. Her husband runs the enterprise along with three of his eight remaining sons."

Riot arched a brow. "How many daughters?"

"Just one on this side of the pale," replied Tim. "Seems the boatbuilding business has taken some hard knocks in the last year. Lost the family a lot of money."

"Odd then, that the ransom demand would be sent to the father and not the wealthy husband," Riot mused. "What were the demands?"

"One hundred thousand cash, stuffed in a black bag, placed in a rowboat, and tied to the end of a long wharf at Mr. Amsel's shipyards. They gave him a week to gather the money. If the police are brought in, then she'll be killed, but things became a bit complicated when another demand appeared on the front pages of the Sunday Call, Chronicle, and Bulletin."

"The front page?" Riot asked in surprise, rubbing his chin.

"I know, it don't make much sense. Back in a lick." Tim darted from the room with the nimbleness of an old billy goat.

Riot pondered the ceiling for an exasperated moment before drifting slowly over to the two armchairs. He ran his fingers over the drape, gently tugging it free, revealing a stately chair that could double as a throne.

Zephaniah Ravenwood had loathed comfort. A relaxed body, he often intoned, impeded one's mental faculties.

A movement by the door caught Riot's eye. The outline of a small shadow spread over the hardwood floors.

"You may as well come in, Tobias." Riot's offer was answered by a squeak.

The boy shuffled inside, looking shame-faced and nervous.

"I hold no tolerance for eaves-dropping, young man," Riot reproved, and then softened, "Unless it's done properly. How much did you overhear?"

The boy shyly summarized the entire conversation.

"A woman's life is at stake," Riot said, firmly. "Not a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you swear yourself to secrecy?"

"I will, sir."

"Good, sit down, and if you have anything to add, then do so." Riot gestured towards his dead partner's chair. Tobias sat, eyes wide and roving.

Ravenwood's presence lingered in the room, settling heavily on Riot's shoulders. But as long as the boy remained in the chair, that presence was tolerable. That, and it amused Riot. His partner would have had an apoplectic fit.

Shortly, Tim returned with newspapers in hand. He blinked at Tobias, glanced at Riot, and chuckled before handing the papers over.

Riot spread three newspapers along with one handwritten note on the crate. The note was nearly illegible, riddled with poor grammar, spelling, and punctuation: