ROZ HAD TAKEN TO WORKING six days a week, partly to avoid Nick and partly because the wealthy matrons of San Diego had already overwhelmed her new business with fashion orders. She normally left home well before Nick arose. But on one particular morning in mid-August he caught her on the way out the door. He requested lunch with her on the forthcoming Saturday. He had something he needed to discuss, something that concerned both their lives and could wait no longer. Roz accepted the invitation, out of curiosity and because it provided as good a time as any to confess her pending departure from their marriage.
They met in the ground floor restaurant in Horton House. Wearing black boots and a scarlet silk riding dress of her own design, Roz arrived early and asked for a table in the corner, where they would be away from prying eyes and ears. After ordering a pot of tea, she checked her face in a compact and powdered her cheeks. It seemed peculiar but at the same time quite human that she wanted to look her best for this crucial encounter.
From the moment he arrived, Nick was in an agitated state, fidgeting with the silverware, twisting the linen napkin around his finger. He smiled shyly, asked how she was doing.
Roz decided to get right to the point. “Nick, there’s something I want to tell you—”
But he cut her short. “There is something I need to tell you first,” Nick interrupted. “I know things haven’t been very good between us lately. I admit that I haven’t exactly been the ideal companion.”
Roz sat back, hands folded on the table, eyes fixed on her husband, wondering what he was about to say.
“I’ve been spending far too much time on my work and not enough time on you. This is something I’ve only recently realized. You’ve been unhappy—it’s not difficult to tell. And it’s my fault, I know.” Nick took a deep breath. “But I’ve made some decisions. This Nemesis business will end tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” she asked. How could he place a date on such a thing?
“To be more precise, tomorrow afternoon or perhaps early evening, depending on how events play out. Clive and I are going to catch Nemesis.”
“What?” she asked, leaning closer to the table.
“We’re going to make a citizen’s arrest and turn him over to Sheriff Coyne,” Nick continued, in a tone that made it sound like a piece of cake.
“Have you lost your bloody mind—again?”
Nick’s eyes lit up. “I knew you were going to say that! And while it certainly may sound that way, I am absolutely serious. We have it all sketched out. A brilliant plan, if I may say so myself. I’ve made an arrangement to interview the killer at his secret hideout”—he purposely did not mention the threat against Fabian Kendall—“and Clive is going to help me lay the trap.”
Roz was truly stunned. “Neither one of you knows the faintest about how to go about arresting someone let alone a vicious killer.”
“That’s why I’ve got this.” Nick pulled back his jacket to reveal a miniature pistol tucked into his waistband. An Iver Johnson revolver with a much shorter barrel than the Colts common among those who normally packed a weapon and thus much easier to conceal.
Roz’s eyes flicked around the room, hoping no one had noticed. “Where in God’s name did you get that?” she whispered.
“I’ve had it for years. In my desk at work. I actually found it at a crime scene—a brawl on the waterfront. One of the combatants was either too drunk or too hasty to notice that his gun had gone missing. Can you believe it?”
“Have you ever used it?”
“Enough to know it works,” Nick told her. “Several times on my way to appointments in the backcountry, I stopped and shot at trees, rocks, and whatnot. Quite a handy little piece.”
“That doesn’t make you an expert,” Roz snapped back. “Or your plan any less dangerous.”
“No more discussion,” Nick ordered. “There’s one more thing I need to tell you.”
What more could there be? she wondered in silence.
“As soon as this business is finished …” Nick pulled a pair of train tickets from his coat pocket. “I’ve booked us a holiday back east. St Louis. Chicago. New York. I figured we could both use the time away, a chance to get to know one another again.” He sat up straight, grinning like a schoolboy. “I’ve gotta run now,” he said hastily, pulling back from the table. “As you might imagine, Clive and I have numerous details to work out.” He tossed his napkin on the table and was gone before she could open her mouth to protest.
Roz fetched her horse from the valet in front of the hotel and rode straight down Broadway. She could think of only one course of action: explain the situation to Cradoc Bradshaw and pray that he would help.
Bursting into the jailhouse, she found Cradoc and Wyatt sitting on either side of the marshal’s desk, deep in conversation. Both of them stood at once to greet the lady.
“Nick’s gone mad,” she blurted out, the Irish in her voice more prominent than usual. “He’s going to get himself killed.”
“What in blazes are you talking about?” the marshal asked. Although he already had a good idea what must have set her off.
“He’s going to interview Nemesis in person and try to capture him!”
“We know,” Cradoc said calmly.
Her eyes went wide. “You do? How?”
“Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that we are planning appropriate action.”
“To stop their rendezvous, I hope. Before Nick gets hurt.”
Cradoc shook his head. “Nick’s not the one we’re worried about. We believe Nemesis will attempt to kill someone else tomorrow afternoon and that Nick is planning to interview him afterward.”
“Oh my god,” Roz muttered. “He didn’t mention anything about another murder.”
He gave her a quick lowdown. “We already know the time and place. We’ll have men out in force. We don’t know precisely who the target is or what sort of weapon Nemesis will use this time. But given the nature of where and when the attack will take place, we figure it’s gotta be a firearm.”
Roz looked up at him. “Nick’s also got a gun. A tiny pistol he’s taking to the interview. He doesn’t seem the least bit worried that his crazy plan could backfire.”
The marshal rolled his eyes. “He wouldn’t.”
“You’ve gotta help. Get him out of harm’s way.”
“He doesn’t want my help,” Cradoc said bitterly. “He wants to be the hero. If you couldn’t dissuade him, I sure as hell can’t.”
“If the shoe was on the other foot, he’d do it for you. You wouldn’t have to ask. I wouldn’t have to beg you.” Roz paused a moment, giving him time to mull that over. “The least you can do is try.”
But Cradoc still wasn’t convinced. “He’ll accuse me of trying to derail his story, won’t appreciate my help in the least bit.”
“But I will,” Roz pleaded. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
Cradoc ran both hands across his scalp. There was no way he could win this battle. “All right,” he said without much conviction. “I’ll do what I can. But you’ve gotta understand that Nick is determined and unpredictable. And so is this killer. Anything can happen out there.”
Nick and Clive met at the Times office on Saturday evening to run through final procedures. Where they should be and what their respective tasks were on Sunday afternoon. Where they would go directly after Kendall’s rally and what they would do immediately following the interview. Clive had already decided to hold the presses, summon everyone back to the paper late on Sunday night and ram through a special edition focused on both the grisly crime and their heroic capture of the killer in the aftermath.
Nick removed a handkerchief from his coat and placed it on the desk in front of Clive. “I thought you might need this,” he told his boss, peeling back the edges to reveal a small pistol similar to his own. “Know how to use one of these?”
“More or less,” said Clive. “I carried one during the war—in case I was mistaken for a Yankee and needed to defend myself. I know the basics.”
“If it comes down to the crunch, be prepared to fire.”
“And what do you consider the crunch?”
“If either of our lives is in danger,” Nick responded.
“You’re quite serious about this.”
“It’s serious business. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think it required armament.”
“Clive, if you’re getting cold feet …” The comment nothing short of a dare.
“Far from it,” was the editor’s fraudulent response. He knew he would never use the gun. But he wasn’t about to tell Nick that. Not at this late date. “You can count on me.”
They shook hands, wished each other luck, and set out for their respective homes. Nick to his house on Golden Hill, Clive to his motor yacht along the waterfront, both of them fully aware that their lives would change drastically during the next twenty-four hours.
A pair of Wyatt’s men, muscle from his saloons in the Stingaree, tailed Nick all the way home with instructions to watch from a safe distance and follow him back into the town on Sunday. Jose Cota and Fatty Rice, in civilian duds rather than their navy blue uniforms, had a similar task—keeping tabs on Clive Bennett until the campaign rally.
A trap within a trap within a trap, everyone certain they had the upper hand.