From the Ashes (Ravenwood Mysteries #1)

Red and Younger

ATTICUS RIOT STROLLED DOWN the pier appreciating the steady click of his stick on the dock planks. Conducting an investigation, he mused, was not unlike fishing. Any detective could cast his figurative net over the sea of humanity, but it was a skilled detective who chose the right time and place, rarely coming up empty. Riot moved towards a promising spot.

Two fishermen, one young and one old, sat mending their nets, arguing over politics and tides. In Riot's experience, there were two types of old men: those who kept their words close and those who threw them at anyone within range. He was hoping for the latter.

The men smelled of tar and fish, and their words mingled with the surf like old friends. When Riot stopped at the end of the dock, their conversation died. Sharp eyes left their nets, appraising and subsequently dismissing before returning to their livelihood and conversation.

That is exactly what Atticus Riot wanted. The lure was cast. There was nothing to do but wait.

He stood for a time, surveying Richardson's bay. A motley fleet of boats filled the bay: arks, yachts, three-masted steamers, and feluccas, all mingled on the still water.

Across the bay, a long stretch of inhospitable shore rose from the water. A few suicidal mansions perched on the cliff's edge, risking death daily for beauty's sake. The cliffs shared the water with Angel Island: the guardian of the western gate. It bristled with cannon batteries and troops, inspection and quarantine stations, ready to defend San Francisco on all fronts.

A rough voice breached the silence, interrupting Riot's consideration. "We've each of us—one and all—given our story to your ilk."

Riot turned towards the voice. The bent old man sat on a crate, gnarled fingers moving confidently over his net. He was a bundle of wool, huddled under a thick peacoat.

"I do not represent police or press." Riot produced his card, stamped boldly with a raven. The fisherman glanced at the card, and then at his younger companion, who leant forward to read what the older could not.

"Says he's a detective by the name of Atticus Riot with Ravenwood Agency." The younger man wore no coat. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, displaying thick, dark hair that traveled up his forearms, disappeared beneath his shirt, and sprang up at his throat. A swath of leathery skin, two bright green eyes, and a twice broken nose was the only thing distinguishing him from bear and man.

The old man removed his cap and regarded Riot, slowly perusing the detective's fedora, trimmed beard, silver waistcoat, and pinstriped trousers, as if he were a tailor's window model.

"Your name is known to me," the old man announced, nodding in satisfaction. "I've not heard it spoken in some years."

"I've been abroad," Riot supplied. "I'm afraid your name isn't known to me."

"They call me Red, and this here's Younger."

Riot touched the brim of his hat in greeting.

"You're looking for that Amsel girl, aren't ya?" asked Younger.

"I am."

"An honest family of boatbuilders." Red nodded down the long stretch of beach where a forest of masts clustered around docks. "Mr. Amsel did a fine job when he took over the Saavedra shipyards."

"A fine winemaker too, or so I hear," Younger threw in.

"A local label?"

"Up north in the valley, but we count him as one of our own, being that he married into the area."

"And all his wine moves through our ports," Younger finished.

"Most boats too," Red grunted.

"Do the Saavedra shipyards specialize in yachts?"