A Barricade in Hell (16 page)

Gabe

Cold wind hit Gabe in the face as he got out of the car, each biting gust brimming with the smell of fresh creosote and salt water. Hordes of keening gulls and terns wheeled in interlocking circles against the cloudy afternoon sky, riding the wind to spiral upward. Gulls broke the pattern every so often, watching for the opportunity to dive from high above and steal fish from brown pelicans or cormorants that didn't guard their catch.

Back when he and Jack walked a waterfront beat, he'd spent hours watching the birds' antics. Gulls were consummate opportunists and unabashed thieves, not above stealing a young patrolman's lunch if given the slightest chance. At least the birds were honest about their intentions. You learned not to turn your back on a seagull.

Gabe surveyed the construction site, observing faces, the way men stood in tight groups, restless and muttering, or alone, scowling and still. Knowing when not to turn your back wasn't always an easy call.

Fresh-cut pilings, big around as a man's body and twenty feet long, were stacked on the landward side of the construction site. Vans and flatbed trucks were parked near the timbers, each painted with the name
POE'S CONSTRUCTION
. He refused to believe that was an omen. Walter Poe's company had won most bayside construction contracts for more than twenty years.

They'd sunk pilings for the pier out two or three hundred yards from shore, topping all but the last dozen yards or so with green-brown, creosote-stained planks. This was one of the last new piers under construction near the Ferry Building, all slated to open sometime in 1918. At least one pier would be dedicated to ferries carrying passengers through the delta and all the way upriver to Sacramento. Others would be devoted to freight and transporting crops from Central Valley farms to ports up and down the coast.

Timber-framed and stucco-covered buildings opening onto the Embarcadero would go up last, the public face of the working piers. He'd seen a drawing of the design in the
Examiner,
a caption beneath stating that the two-story arches facing the street were similar to those at the Chelsea Piers in New York. All in all, a great deal of money had gone into the project, but over the long term, even more money and jobs would flow into San Francisco and the state as a whole. Most people saw that as a good thing.

According to the newspapers, work had gone well until now, keeping to or even a little ahead of the announced schedule. Progress had been helped along by relatively mild weather, no major accidents, and a ready supply of labor.

Finding a body tangled in a set of winch cables put an end to the site foreman's perfect record of not missing a day.

The construction crew stood idle and watched his squad work, grim faced and appearing decidedly unhappy. It was a small crew of no more than ten men, all older, settled, and no doubt experienced. Losing a day's pay could mean the difference between a workman's family having enough to eat or not. Gabe sympathized, but he didn't have a choice. Finding evidence they could use would be difficult enough. Maybe impossible.

But the longer he watched, the less sure he was that a lost day was the crew's only source of discontent.

Men in suits circulated among the coverall- and dungaree-clad construction workers, likely supervisors sent out by the head office. One carried a megaphone to make sure the orders he gave were heard. Scowls blossomed in the supervisors' wake, accompanied by angry muttering.

A heavyset man in a brown plaid jacket climbed onto a stack of planks, loudly proclaiming that work was halted until the police sorted out their investigation. He ordered the crew to go home, but no one made a move to comply.

Jack came around the front of the car, hands stuffed in his pockets. He hunkered down into his overcoat, whistling tunelessly and studying the scene. Gabe waited for his partner to reach his own conclusions. It didn't take long.

“The construction company seems to be in an awful big hurry to get its employees to leave. Securing the site or stowing their gear doesn't seem to be a priority.” Jack tugged the end of his mustache. “I wonder what they have to be so nervous about?”

“Other than a dead body?” Gabe gestured toward Marshall Henderson facing down one of the suits a few yards away. An older man, dressed in patched coveralls and a grimy denim work coat, stood just behind and to the left, poking his finger at the company official and shouting. Wind and noise from adjacent piers carried most of his words away, but Gabe didn't need to hear. Marshall's presence between the two of them was all that kept the men from coming to blows. “I'm going to guess it's us. They don't want their men talking to the police.”

“The crew doesn't seem in any hurry to leave.” Jack pulled his notebook and a well-chewed pencil out of an inside pocket. He pointed at a knot of four workers standing near the stack of pilings. “I'll see what I can find out from that bunch.”

Raised voices came from the rowboat bobbing underneath the half-built pier. They'd freed the woman's body from the cables and gotten it into the boat. Gabe had seen bodies after they'd spent days in the water, exposed to the uncertain mercy of sun and birds and ravaged by hungry fish. He wasn't in a hurry to see another. That the dead woman might be Delia and Sadie's friend only added to his reluctance.

Instead he joined Patrolman Henderson. A year before, he might have seen relief in Marshall's eyes at having a senior officer there to back him up. Now all Gabe saw was the stubborn determination not to let anger get the better of him and to keep the situation under control. Even so, a little of the tension went out of the young officer's stance.

Marshall gestured at the man in coveralls. “Captain Ryan, this is Michael St. John. He's been a foreman on site for more than five years. Mr. St. John feels he might know something that could aid us in our investigation. His boss here, Mr. Edwards, wants a company lawyer to hear the story first and threatened to fire Michael if he talked to me. I've tried to get him to explain why a lawyer is necessary, but Mr. Edwards doesn't feel an explanation is in the company's best interest.”

“And why is that, Mr. Edwards?” Gabe stared at Edwards, unsmiling and businesslike, and didn't offer his hand. He wanted no doubt of where he stood. “I can't think of a reason one of your employees wouldn't be free to make a statement to the police if they choose. Not unless the company is liable in some way for this woman's death. Is that the case?”

Edwards was not quite as tall as Henderson, with thinning blond hair and a pained, pinched expression. Gabe guessed he was more than forty, given the maze of wrinkles in Edward's face and neck, and the telltale stoop to his shoulders that spoke of years bent over a desk. He'd likely spent his life working for Walter Poe's company, offering loyalty in exchange for a promised pension.

“No, no. Of course not.” Edwards pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, using it to wipe his wire-rimmed spectacles. His voice was calm and his manner self-assured, but sweat glistened on his forehead. On such a cold day, Gabe could only see that as a sign of nerves—or guilt. “I didn't mean to give that impression. But it's my job to protect company assets and our good name. Surely you can understand that, Captain. Poe Construction can't afford to have its name bandied about in the newspapers. Especially not in connection with such an unfortunate incident.”

Rather than set him at ease, Edwards' glib explanation made Gabe doubly certain more was at stake here than the company's reputation. He hid clenched fists deep in his overcoat pockets. “Death is always unfortunate, especially in these circumstances. But that still doesn't explain why you'd threaten to fire your foreman over speaking to Officer Henderson. Make me understand, Mr. Edwards. Otherwise, we can continue this conversation at the police station. It shouldn't take more than an hour or two for me to finish here.”

Edwards slipped his spectacles back on and used the handkerchief to dab his face. “I'd hate for you to embarrass the department, Captain. Our attorney should arrive at any moment, and we can settle the matter.”

“Oh to hell with it. And to hell with you, Angus.” Michael St. John scowled and unhooked the large ring of keys attached to his belt. He flung them at Edwards's chest. The keys bounced off, landing in the street between the two men. “Fire me if you want. No job is worth not being able to sleep at night.”

Gabe caught Marshall's eye as the patrolman started to interfere and shook his head. He wanted to see how this played out.

Fear flashed in Edwards's eyes, quickly hidden again behind outrage and bluster. “Think carefully before you say anything, Michael.”

“You can't threaten me with Tommy's job no more. I sent him up to Seattle to work with my brother.” Michael St. John planted a hand in the center of Edwards's chest and shoved, forcing him back a step. St. John was near the same age and a good five inches shorter than Edwards, but years of hard work had left him well muscled and much stronger. “I won't keep your dirty secrets, Angus. Neither will the rest of the men.”

Gabe cleared his throat and put a hand on St. John's shoulder. “Feel free to say anything you like, Mr. St. John. No one here will stop you.”

“I shouldn't have let Angus and his threats stop me before. Stupidest thing I ever done.” He shoved Edwards again, and this time Henderson did step between them. St. John threw his hands up in disgust. “This ain't the first body to wash up at the job. I made the mistake of sending for Angus when my son found the first. Thought he should be here as the site overseer. I should have sent Tommy running for the police first.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Close to three, four weeks now.” St. John glared at his boss, fists opening and closing at his side. “Angus gathered up the whole crew and said not to go to the police or talk outside of work if we wanted our jobs. He did the same thing when the second body showed up. Only that time he said the police would find a way to blame one of us. He was looking at my boy when he said it.”

“That's not how it was, Michael.” Edwards's expression was haughty and defiant. “You know that's not how it was.”

“Ask any of the men here, Captain. Not one of them will tell you a different story.” St. John pointed to the group of men gathered round Jack. His voice was harsh, rasping. “We all got families to take care of. Twice this bastard made us choose between doing right and putting bread in our children's bellies. He'd have done the same again, but I'd had my fill. I sent one of the boys to find the beat cop.”

“Twice before today?” Marshall looked ill. “What happened to the bodies?”

St. John jabbed a finger in Edwards's direction.. “You'll have to ask Angus. Company men took them away once it got dark. We'd come to work the next day and they'd be gone.”

“I warned you.” Edwards's face flushed. “I warned all of you. You and your crew are fired, Michael. I'll have your pay sent tomorrow.”

Gabe had more practice than Henderson in keeping his public face in place, hiding shock and astonishment no matter what a witness said. St. John's story sickened him, but not as much as Angus Edwards's lack of remorse. “Let me see if I finally understand, Mr. Edwards. You threatened your employees, failed to report two deaths, and then disposed of the bodies. All to keep the company's name out of the papers. Now you're firing them for not looking the other way and doing the decent thing. Do I have that right?”

“Captain … we're one of the biggest companies in the city. If we were forced to cut the number of people we employ, either due to scandal or loss of business, those jobs would be sorely missed.” Edwards's mouth worked, as if trying to rid himself of a bad taste. He waved a hand toward the officers hauling on ropes, lifting the tarpaulin-wrapped body from the boat and up onto the pier. “These were street girls, doxies from the taverns. No one was going to miss them.”

Something in Gabe's face made Edwards blanch and step back. Not far enough.

Gabe grabbed the front of Edwards's coat, twisting the fabric in his fist, and hauled the man off his feet. Edwards dangled with his toes just brushing the ground, face turning scarlet. “You don't know who they were or where they came from. You sure as hell don't know if anyone missed them.”

Giving in to his temper was an indulgence, but Gabe couldn't bring himself to regret it. He let go of Edwards and pushed him toward Henderson. “As of this moment, you're under arrest for failure to report a suspicious death. If I had an ounce of evidence, the charge would be accessory to murder. Officer Henderson, find someone to take Mr. Edwards to the station. And I want statements from all the men on Mr. St. John's crew.”

Henderson tightened his grip on Edwards's arm. “I'll take care of it, Captain.”

He nodded to St. John and went to join Jack. His partner was pacing near the edge of the pier, waiting to view the body. He wouldn't let him go through that alone. Amanda Poe was Jack's friend too.

Deputy Coroner Sal Rosen waited too, fingers flexing around the handle of his doctor's case. Rosen was near fifty, short and blocky-looking with thick, straight gray hair and piercing black eyes. Sal was one of three deputy coroners working for the city, but he was the best in the department, hands down. He also lacked any political ambitions. Finding Sal here was a relief. Politics and unexplained death never blended well.

The dead were beyond knowing the indignities visited upon them. Ropes tied around the woman's body to haul her up the ten feet from the rowboat to the wood-planked pier didn't cause her pain. She didn't feel the jolt as they dropped her, slick, wet tarpaulin weighed down by water-soaked clothing slipping from his men's hands.

That didn't stop Gabe from cringing or feeling that he owed her an apology.

Unwrapping the tarp fell to the deputy coroner.