Fine Blue Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 4) Page 13

  The best piece of information we gleaned—the best, mind you—came from another homeless man who stopped us upon seeing us show off the sketches. He claimed Lanky had stolen his coat a month back and demanded we return it. After lying and telling him I’d look into the matter, I asked where the theft occurred, and he pointed us toward an alley a couple blocks from where we’d found him dead yesterday morning.

  That provided me the impetus to return to the scene of the original crime, but by the time we finally arrived, I needed a break. I settled myself upon the stoop of the shuttered Lucky Baldwin’s and rubbed my feet through my shoes.

  “You doing ok?” asked Shay.

  “You know me,” I said. “I can’t get enough low-intensity aerobic exercise.”

  Shay shook her head. “And to think you give me crap for being too skinny. Not such a disadvantage when it comes to endurance activities, is it?”

  “Hey, I’m working on it,” I said. “Just you watch. I’ll be down to a svelte two-oh-five by the new year.”

  “No fair leaving Daisy at home on the day of the weigh in, though.” Steele glanced into the alley between the bar and the back of the Church of the Divine Rebirth. “So what do you make of that derelict’s testimony?”

  “The guy who claimed Lanky stole his jacket?” I asked. “I don’t know. I guess it means Lanky had sticky fingers, and that he spent most of his time in this general vicinity. Which makes sense why he was murdered here. If I was a deranged hobo killer, I’d go where the transients live to find new victims.”

  Shay hummed. “Right. Which makes me think we’re canvassing this district with the wrong sketches in hand. I mean, let’s be honest. Nobody cares what happens to the homeless population. These business owners we’ve been visiting? They’d rather all the vagrants went away. So they ignore them. Tune them out. I’m surprised we’ve had as many successful hits as we’ve had, to tell the truth. Whoever killed them, on the other hand, might be far more remarkable.”

  “Problem is,” I said, “other than the fact that we have no idea who we’re looking for—who really qualifies as suspicious in this neighborhood? There are bars galore here, and they’re busiest at night, filled with all manner of New Welwic’s best and worst. While that gives us more potential witnesses, it also gives us more potential suspects, and makes the locals immune to the presence of suspicious outsiders.”

  Shay shook her head and sighed. “I guess.” She nodded in my direction. “Your feet ready to keep moving?”

  I leveraged myself into a standing position using the lip of the doorway. “As ready as they’ll ever be. Unless you want to give them a nice little massage…”

  “Dream on.”

  “Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying,” I said. “Why don’t we revisit this church and that brew pub we stopped at yesterday morning? We’ve got sketches this time, so perhaps that’ll help ring more bells. And then? Lunch. I’m starving.”

  25

  We scooted around to the front and pushed our way back into the Church of the Divine Rebirth. I shivered as the damp, chill air touched my skin, protected as it was from the sun’s rays by the trees. I imagined the dense interior foliage worked wonders in the summer months, but in the winter it left something to be desired—which, I suspected, explained the church’s barrenness. I couldn’t spot a single patron in the building’s cavernous main room, homeless or otherwise. Likely they’d all swarmed the nearest house of worship that chose to use its tithe money on firewood.

  “Hello?” I called. “Anyone home?”

  My voice echoed off the walls a couple times before dying amidst the bark and remaining leaves of the trees.

  I snorted. “Wonderful. How these religious nuts convert walk-ins off the street if they’re not Johnny on the spot with the theological mumbo jumbo is beyond me.”

  Shay glanced at the empty recessed common areas set into the earth between the tall oaks and maples. “Maybe they already gave up for the day.”

  “A workday that’s over before lunch?” I asked. “Sounds like a good gig if you can get it.”

  I made a beeline for the back of the establishment, where the building’s wooden benches clustered around an open area and where doorways into the back of the house beckoned.

  “You’re not going to take the scenic route?” asked Shay as she followed me. She nodded in the direction of the walking path meandering drunkenly through the trees.

  “I don’t have time for that,” I said. “My stomach is getting closer to rebellion by the minute. Besides, I figured that thing was more for the church’s faithful, and last I checked I hadn’t signed on to become a Rebirther, or Rebirthian, or whatever it is these whack jobs call themselves.”

  “I don’t know,” said Steele. “In the grand scheme of things, their religion sounded pretty tame. I got the impression it was mostly about a closeness with nature. Lots of faiths emphasize that.”

  “While true,” I said, “those other religions don’t plant trees in their cathedrals in lieu of roofs.”

  As we reached the benches, the creak of a door drew my attention. An impossibly tall, gangly youth with a bowl cut ducked and stepped out from underneath the frame, carrying with him a metal ball suspended from a trio of fine chains. Smoke poured out through small holes in the ball, carrying with it scents of dried flowers and herbs.

  I flagged the kid down with a wave. “Hey, Slim. What’s new?”

  Shay elbowed me in the ribs. “Call him by his name. Just because he’s mute doesn’t mean he likes your disparaging nicknames.”

  Chester walked over to meet us, swinging the metal ball back and forth, spreading smoke and incense as he did so. The chains seemed like threads in his skillet-like hands, and I imagined he could crush the fragrant ball like a grape should he choose to do so. He nodded in greeting.

  “Slow day, huh?” I asked.

  He nodded as he continued to swing the ball back and forth.

  I gestured in the contraption’s direction. “Are you going to keep that…thing in motion the entire time we talk?”

  Chester dipped his head, and Shay tapped me on the arm. “I think it’s called a thurible.”

  I gave my partner the fisheye. “I thought that was one of those metal things you put on your index finger while stitching.”

  “That’s a thimble.”

  Chester pointed at Steele and nodded again. Apparently, my highly-prided vocabulary didn’t extend to religious paraphernalia or sewing equipment.

  My stomach growled at me, and I figured I’d get to the point. I dug the two sketches out of my pocket—both of which already showed wear along the creases—unfolded them, and showed them to Chester.

  “Alright, tall guy,” I said. “If you’ll recall, we stopped by yesterday to investigate a murder. This fellow on the left is the one who got axed. This one on the right is another vagrant who we found dead this morning. We’re trying to find any information we can on the pair. Either of them look familiar?”

  Chester’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the sketches. With his free hand he rubbed his smooth chin, and he kept the thurible swinging rhythmically with the other. I got the impression he’d had lots of practice. Eventually, he pointed at Lanky’s sketch and nodded.

  Perfect. Now we’d reached the interesting part of the interview. “And I don’t suppose you could, you know…tell us anything about him?”

  Chester shrugged and shook his head, but then he extended a finger before beckoning with it and pointing in the direction of the open doorway.

  Shay and I deftly interpreted the gesture. We followed him through the entryway, into a barren corridor, and up to the second floor, where we stopped before a closed door. A faint, monotone chanting drifted over from the other side.

  Chester knocked, making the wooden barrier clatter in its frame.

  The chanting stopped. “Come in,” came a gentle voice.

  Chester opened the door, revealing a small, well-lit room heavily populated by plush, colorful pillows, a
pair of low coffee tables, and a wide variety of houseplants. More smoke and incense infested the air, enough to make the thurible’s meager emissions seem like a gnat’s flatulence. I gagged as the thick combination forced its way down my throat.

  Inside the room, Pastor Bellamy sat on a pile of pillows on the floor. He rose awkwardly as we approached, using the wall for support—probably because of his bum knee. “Ah, detectives. Please, please, come in. What brings you back into our warm embrace?”

  Shay snorted and made a sound reminiscent of a dog preparing to vomit. While she struggled to contain her overactive olfactory senses, Chester moved to the far side of the room and hung the thurible from a long, metal stand with a hook at the end. Then he joined Julian Bellamy at his side.

  “Well, we were hoping to, ah, ask you about some… arhem! That is, some… hurhurm!” I waved my hand in front of my face as I coughed. “Sorry… Could we open a window? Or move into the hallway?”

  “Absolutely,” said Bellamy. “My apologies. Chester?”

  The assistant moved to the side of the room and threw open the windows before grasping a long handled fan that stood at their side. With a few powerful back and forth strokes of his arms, the air began to clear.

  I glanced at Shay to see if she was doing any better. She performed some facial aerobics and paired them with a weird blowing air out the side of her nose thing, but she nodded her approval.

  “Thanks,” I said as I gave Chester a nod. “Pastor, if you’ll recall, yesterday we told you about the murder that occurred in the alley behind your church. We’ve hit a snag with regards to our suspects, but on the bright side—for us anyway—we’ve had another murder. Not too far from here. Another transient. Given that you said many of them cycle through your church, we were hoping you might’ve seen one, or both, before.”

  I dug the sketches back out of my pocket and showed them to Bellamy. As he looked at them, Chester tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the drawing of Lanky.

  Bellamy nodded sagely. “Ah, yes. Good eye, Chester. This other one, I’ve never seen. But this man—” He tapped Lanky’s drawing. “—I remember quite well. He’d drop by every couple weeks. Help himself to our generosity, or take advantage of the shelter the boughs of our trees provide. Kept to himself, mostly. From the few times I tried to engage him, I got the impression his mental faculties were somewhat suspect.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  The pastor brushed his salt-and-pepper hair back as he shrugged. “The usual. I think he suffered from paranoia. Perhaps even delusions. Such things aren’t uncommon in the homeless population.”

  Shay coughed and cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice sounded raspy. “Do you know any specifics about him? His name. Hometown. If he had any friends. That sort of thing.”

  Bellamy tapped his chin and stared at the ceiling. “His name. Yes. What was it… Chuck? No… Buck. That’s it!”

  “Is that a first or a last name?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Bellamy.

  “And I don’t suppose he shared any other information with you?” I asked.

  “Not really,” said Bellamy.

  “Right. Because that would make our lives far too easy.” I sighed and cast my eyes out the window, where they were treated to all the majesty and splendor of the shuttered bar’s roof, and beyond that, another brick wall.

  “Is there…anything else I can do for you?” asked the pastor.

  I nodded in the direction of the windows as I tucked the sketches back into my pocket. “We had another report from a homeless man placing Lanky—err, I mean, Buck—in this general location. What do you suppose drew him here?”

  “Other than us?” asked Bellamy.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell the pastor that street people probably didn’t flock from miles around to gander at their wacky roof-less church. “Um…yes. Other than you.”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Perhaps he frequented the trash cans behind that restaurant next door. They always seem to do good business, especially throughout the day. I imagine they must throw away some leftovers.”

  “Don’t you feed the homeless?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Bellamy, “but we are of meager means. Limited donations of late have meant fewer meals for us to distribute.”

  My stomach growled again at the mention of food. “Alright. Well, I appreciate your help. If you think of anything else, any information that might help us identify the victim or lead us in the direction of his killer, please drop by the 5th Street Precinct. Steele?”

  I jerked my thumb toward the door, but Steele gave me a narrow-eyed nod first. “Daggers…why don’t you show them that token?”

  I blinked. I’d forgotten about the thing, but Shay had a point. The strange imagery on the token’s face held a bit of a cultish aura about it, so why not ask the whackos to see if it rang any bells for them?

  I dug the coin facsimile out of my pocket and handed it to Bellamy. “We found this on the body of the second vagrant. I don’t suppose you know what it means?”

  The pastor’s brows furrowed. His lips pressed together, and after a moment, he shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t recognize this symbol.”

  He held the token back out to me, but I didn’t take it.

  “Chester,” I said. “What about you? Anything?”

  The tall young man stood to Bellamy’s side, hands clasped in front of him. He’d remained motionless during our back and forth. Now his eyes darted from me to the token to Bellamy and back to me. I swore I caught a hint of motion in the youth’s jaw, but he merely shook his head.

  26

  I spent the majority of our minute long jaunt over to the Delta Deli & Brew Pub mulling over whether the facial tic I’d seen on Chester had been real or a figment of my imagination, but the deli’s shopkeeper bell brought me back to attention.

  Shay held the door open for me. “After you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Despite Pastor Bellamy’s claims about the deli’s popularity during daylight hours, the place stubbornly remained as barren as I remembered it. Like the previous morning, a single customer sat at one of the booths by the windows, tapping his fingers on the table and eyeing us with distrust.

  At least this time someone manned the hostess station, though not the same greasy-haired orc as before. A rust haired man with freckles dotting his high cheekbones, perhaps in his mid thirties, stood there, hunched over the lectern with his mouth half open. I wondered if he was drugged or merely tired.

  I approached him. “Hi. Uh…is Wayne here?”

  “Who?” The word came out slurred, and I placed my bets on drugged.

  I wracked my brain. “Oh, how did he pronounce it? Way-ee-anne?”

  “Wheyiane,” said Shay.

  “Right,” I said. “That guy.”

  “He’th indithpothed today.”

  As the redhead spoke, I realized the entire left side of his face refused to move alongside the rest. Perhaps I’d been wrong, and his dumbfounded appearance was due to a medical condition rather than sloth or dope.

  I tried to ignore the man’s lisp. “What happened to him?”

  “Intethtinal dithtreth.”

  I grimaced. “Say no more. Who’s in charge, then?”

  The guy gave himself the pointy thumb treatment. “That’th me. Mark Andrewth. I’m uthually the nightthift manager.”

  “Nightshift?” said Steele. “That could be beneficial.”

  Mark’s eyebrows crumpled together. “What’th thith about?”

  “We’re detectives,” I said. “We’re investigating a murder of a homeless man that occurred in the alley a couple nights ago, as well as another similar homicide we found out about this morning.”

  Mark’s eyes widened in response to my initial declaration of fact, but they quickly returned to normal size. I pulled out the sketches.

  “These are the two vagrants,” I said. “One of them may have gone by
the name of Buck. Do either of them look familiar?”

  Mark took a quick glance at the sketches—perhaps a little too quick. “Nah. Thorry.”

  “You sure?” asked Steele, perhaps picking up on the same speed of reply I had. “Take a closer look. One of them in particular was known to frequent this area.”

  Steele’s appeal didn’t change Mark’s mind. He frowned—or at least tried. Half his mouth didn’t cooperate. “I’m telling you, I’ve never theen thethe guyth.”

  “Alright. No need to get testy.” I swapped the drawings for the token that also resided in my pocket. “What about this? We found it on one of the dead guys. Do you have any idea what it is?”

  “Lookth like a token of thome thort.”

  I wanted to press my forehead into my palm, but I somehow managed to keep my composure. “Yes, we know that. I meant if you had some idea of what it represents, or where it came from.”

  Mark stared at me blankly.

  “Wonderful,” I said as I returned the metal disk to my jacket.

  “Anything elthe you need?”

  I tried to engage my brain in further lines of possible questioning, but my stomach kept poking its head in and screaming at me. If I didn’t cram something in my maw soon, I might collapse in on myself like one of those inflatable kid’s dolls under the weight of a Quinto belly flop.

  I turned to Steele. “You want to do lunch?”

  My partner suffered an eye tic. “Here? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, why not?” I said. “You remember our chat about hidden culinary gems, right?”

  “Well, yes, but—” She grabbed me and pulled me close, lowering her voice as she did so. “Daggers, there’s no one here. I mean nobody. And did you forget what Mark here told us. Wheyiane is out due to intestinal distress. I wonder where he could’ve contracted such a thing…”