Fine Blue Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 4) Page 3

  5

  Back in the halcyon days of my youth, the city embarked on a fairly serious campaign to rid New Welwic of homelessness. Tens if not hundreds of thousands of crowns were raised through new taxes and private donations to help solve the problem, but in the grand wisdom of political groupthink, it was decided that said monies wouldn’t be used to fund meal centers, half-way houses, and vocational facilities where the homeless could learn skills that would help them feed and house themselves. Instead, the crowns were spent in the hire of teams of roving mercenaries who would impound the homeless, load them onto carts, and drive them into the countryside where they’d be unceremoniously dumped.

  The plan had only a couple minor problems. The first was that the homeless, despite their excessive quantities of hair and dubious aromas, were a crafty folk. They realized they had appendages attached to their hips, known as legs, that would allow them to walk back to the city. The second problem was that the city hall-sanctioned thugs roaming the streets realized their pay would cease as soon as the hobo infestation cleared, so they began to drop off the impounded bums closer and closer to the city to ensure their continued employment.

  Of course, the city eventually caught word of the scam, so they cancelled the program altogether, which only made things worse because the majority of the mercenaries then joined the ranks of the homeless.

  I wrinkled my nose as I walked into the alley, greeted by the ever-too-familiar aroma of stale urine. It was at times like these I wished the city’s efforts to eradicate the homeless had succeeded, but then again, if our nation’s finest couldn’t even be counted on not to relieve themselves against lonely brick walls, what did it matter?

  I heard a rustling, and a couple street people at the far end of the alley made themselves scarce, darting into a cross street. I grunted. We might have to round them up later. One of them might’ve seen or heard something of significance.

  At my side, Shay dropped to one knee to inspect a wall. A mask of impassiveness shadowed her face, which was no small feat given her sense of smell was notably better than mine.

  “I don’t think you’re going to find the murder weapon embedded in that abandoned bar’s exterior grout,” I said.

  Steele ignored my jab. “Seeing as we’re dealing with red brick, I’ll forgive you for not noticing, but there are blood splatters here.”

  I leaned forward to get a better look, but I honestly couldn’t make out a thing. I did notice a patch of dirt at my feet that seemed darker than those surrounding it, though. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  Shay leaned over to a scuff mark on the wall and gave it a rub with her thumb. I walked over to a collection of trashcans, where I found Quinto standing, staring at them, with his hands on his hips.

  I clapped the big guy on the back. “Ah, the joys of police work. Am I right, old friend?”

  “Yeah,” rumbled Quinto. “Nothing gives me more joy than sifting through piles of stinking refuse in search of bloody instruments of death.”

  I grabbed a can and tipped it over, spilling its guts all over the alley floor.

  “Hey, Steele,” I called. “You going to come over and help?”

  “Sorry,” she said, her voice oddly melodious. “I’m busy with these scuff marks at the moment. Besides, my elite observational abilities would be wasted digging through trash.”

  I couldn’t see her face as she had it pressed against the wall, but I was sure she sported a malicious grin.

  Quinto snorted and adopted a similar smile as he dumped another can’s contents on the ground. “I think she means our skills, on the other hand, are ideally suited to rifling through garbage.”

  “Hey, I can live with that,” I said. “It means I have job security. There’s always a demand for guys like me. Guys willing to get dirty in the line of duty.”

  I dug Daisy out of the interior of my coat and gingerly used her to poke through the trash, making sure to keep my fingers clear of the gross rubbish.

  Quinto shook his head. “Have you ever looked up ‘hypocrite’ in the dictionary?”

  “There aren’t any pictures, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I said. “I learned that early on in life while looking up ‘gullible.’”

  The big lug nodded at my nightstick. “How’s Daisy feel about being used in such denigrating fashion?”

  “She knew what she was getting into when I liberated her from that construction site all those years back,” I said. “Besides, it’s not the worst thing she’s been subjected to.”

  “Creepy,” said Steele in a high, undulating voice.

  Right. I shut my yapper and kept sifting. Amidst the refuse, I found plenty of the usual: old newspapers, spoiled food, a few tattered rags that might’ve once been clothes, crumpled flyers for local bars and peep joints, and a rat that was very much alive and unhappy about its current housing situation. But there were also some oddities: the cracked remnants of a ceramic vase, a bent metal plate that looked as if it had served one too many tours of duty, and a fair amount of ashes, either from wood or charcoal. The latter wasn’t particularly odd, except for the fact that the spent fuel emitted an interesting aroma. A floral one, and not unpleasant. Considering the alternative, I didn’t complain.

  Quinto finished sifting though his share of the garbage, and despite his mockery, I’d noticed he’d primarily used his feet. Who’s the hypocrite now, big guy?

  “Find anything?” I asked.

  “Not really,” he said. “You?”

  I shook my head. “Not unless you count the remains of this vase, and I don’t think Tim or Drake asked their assailant for a break, dug around in the trash for an urn, smacked the hobo over the head with it, and then stashed the scraps.”

  “Probably couldn’t have killed anyone with it anyway,” said Steele as she wandered over.

  “You done with your inspection?” I asked.

  “Just finished,” she said.

  “How convenient.”

  Shay flashed that malicious grin I was sure she’d been wearing before. She shrugged in response.

  “So did you glean anything from your endeavors that us plebeians couldn’t have?” I asked.

  “The blood I showed you is recent, no doubt about it,” said Steele. “The spray pattern indicates someone was hit, not that someone fell. And while I did find scuff marks on the brick, I didn’t see any that could’ve been left due to an impact with Sergeant Holmes’ face.”

  “So, basically,” I said, “you confirmed our suspicions.”

  “Someone needed to,” she said.

  “Quinto’s confusion not withstanding, I felt they were rather obvious.”

  “Says the man with trash juice on his shoes.” Shay’s eyes twinkled.

  I grumbled and took another look around me. The hobos at the end of the alley had smartly chosen not to return. At the cross street where they’d disappeared, smoke puffed from a chimney in the back of a building. Above me, high on the second floor of the ostentatious building with the leafy topping, a few windows stood open to the elements.

  I turned toward the mouth of the alley and called out. “Phillips! Hey, Phillips!”

  The clean cut young chap popped his head in and ran over. “Yes, sir, Detective. Any leads?”

  It wasn’t any of his business, but I could understand his curiosity. “Not so much. You said there were witnesses from the bar across the street? That heard fighting?”

  “That’s right,” said Phillips. “I think they’re still here, chatting with Gorman or Poundstone.”

  “Good. And what about these two buildings?” I indicated them with my thumb.

  “Um…I think this big one’s a church,” said Phillips. “And the one that backs into the alley…a bar, maybe?”

  “You’re a paragon of knowledge, Phillips,” I said.

  The kid looked at me blankly. “Um…what sir?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Quinto, why don’t you go see what you can wring out of those barflies?
Steele, you’re with me, as always. Let’s flex our vocal muscles and see what else we can learn about the events of last night.”

  6

  Steele and I pushed our way through the wide double doors gracing the front of the church. As they closed behind us, I stopped, craned my neck to the sky, and stared.

  “Well,” I said. “I did not expect that.”

  Apparently, my initial characterization of the church as having shrubbery growing on its roof was grossly inaccurate. The shrubbery was the roof. Centenarian trees sprouted from the floor of the church, stretching their boughs up, up, up toward the sky. Dense clusters of leaves, some of them orange and yellow but many still green despite the oncoming cold, blocked our view of the sun and spilled over the church’s exterior walls.

  Heavy vines, also thick with leaves, wrapped themselves around the tree trunks and boughs. They wandered across cables that had been hung from the top branches of the trees and crept onto the thick, unfinished wood columns lining the sides of the common area, adding a muted brushstroke of bluish-green to the space.

  The floor was of packed dirt rather than tile or stone, and although a cluster of two dozen rough, wooden benches surrounded an open area on the far side of the church, the majority of the building’s interior was pockmarked with much smaller gathering spaces—circles of brick, recessed into the earth, where people might sit and dangle their legs. If only they’d had a fire pit in the center, I could’ve envisioned myself rubbing shoulders with Shay at one, drinking a beer and toasting marshmallows.

  “This place seems right up your alley,” I said to Steele.

  She gave me a furrowed brow sort of look. “I’m no more religiously inclined than you are, Daggers.”

  “Yeah, but this place is so open,” I said. “So airy and natural. So very…elven.”

  Shay’s look deviated not one whit. “I grew up in a small apartment in midtown. The nearest park was four blocks away.”

  “So you’re telling me you don’t feel any connection to the trees?”

  “We had a bonsai in our living room,” said Shay. “I liked it. It was cute.”

  A stone path meandered around the church interior, eventually making its way to the cluster of benches at the backside, though it did so with no sense of haste whatsoever. I strolled across it as I continued to gaze upon the interior. A number of worshipers sat at the organically distributed stone circles, though upon further inspection, many of them appeared to be curled in balls, sleeping. More hobos, based on their attire. Churches always attracted them in droves, but given this particular chapel’s lack of a solid roof, I wasn’t sure I understood the appeal.

  Before we’d made it halfway along the path, a couple of men materialized from a doorway set in the wall not far from the benches and approached us. I pegged the first of the pair as in his mid-fifties. Wavy, salt-and-pepper hair swept across his temple and over his ears, pairing nicely with the pale grey frock that reached to the tops of his shoes. He walked with a slight limp, but his cornflower blue eyes seemed as bright and healthy as those of a man twenty years younger.

  Behind the older gentleman followed a tall and thin adolescent. Exceptionally tall. I’d wager he had me beat by at least a foot. His long arms hung at his sides, capped with hands the size of frying pans, and his sandal-clad feet would’ve fit comfortably in clown shoes. Angry, red acne dotted his face. Between that, his gangly build, and an outdated bowl cut, I gathered he probably wasn’t beating young ladies off with a stick.

  “Good morning, pilgrims,” said the elder statesman as he neared, “and welcome to the warm embrace of the divine. May the strength of nature course through your veins and fill you with the spirit of the everlasting.”

  Oh boy. Here we go…

  I waved a dismissive hand at the pastor. “I’m sorry, but we’re not here for your insights into life, death, and the grand purpose of the cosmos.”

  “Oh?” The man lifted a brow. “Do you need a place to rest your weary heads? Or a hot meal, perchance?”

  Ah. Food. That would explain the hobos.

  “No, thank you,” said Steele with more grace than I could’ve mustered. “We’re here for information, actually. I’m Detective Steele, and this is Detective Daggers. We’re with the NWPD.”

  “I see.” The man clasped his hands and dropped them to his lap. “Well, I’m Pastor Bellamy. Julian Bellamy. What brings you to the Church of the Divine Rebirth?”

  “Church of the Divine Rebirth?” I asked.

  I regretted the question as soon as it left my lips. Bellamy launched into a well-rehearsed spiel.

  “The Divine Rebirth is an idea as old as civilization, as old as nature, as old as time itself. We followers of the Divine Rebirth believe in a cyclicality in all things. Wealth and poverty. Bounty and famine. Wetness and drought. But most importantly, we believe in the cyclicality of life and death.

  “You see, detectives, we all possess within us an essential core of our being—a spirit, if you will—that existed before our birth, that has always existed, and will always exist. It is the spark of life, and every living being, every plant, insect, or animal, sentient or not, carries within it this divine spark. And upon our deaths, this spark will travel through the divine cycle and give new life in what we call the gift of creation. That is why we celebrate and revere every life, from that of our fellow downtrodden man to that of the noble trees and every creature that makes them their home.”

  Bellamy punctuated his speech with a grand sweep of his arms, as if to encompass the entirety of his church. Throughout the discourse, the supremely tall youth stood at Bellamy’s back, his head bowed and his lips sealed.

  I surprised myself by not only staying awake through the impromptu sermon, but staying alert. Must’ve been the coffee.

  I pointed at the beanpole. “What’s up with Slim?”

  Bellamy blinked. “Oh. This is Chester. He’s my assistant.”

  Chester bobbed his head.

  “Does he talk?” I asked.

  “He is physically able, but he chooses not to,” said Bellamy. “He took a vow of silence a little over a year ago.”

  “Is that a thing in your religion?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Bellamy.

  Stupidly, I waited for an explanation, but by some miracle, none came.

  “So,” said Bellamy. “What can I do for you, detectives?”

  I pointed to the far side of the building, past the benches where Julian and Chester had emerged. “We noticed some windows high on your church, backing up to the alley. Tell me, Pastor, what do you have on that side of the building?”

  “Kitchens and meeting spaces on the first floor, primarily,” said Bellamy. “Living and work quarters on the upper levels.”

  “So you live here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Why?”

  “We’re investigating a disturbance that occurred late last night in the alley,” said Shay. “A few other witnesses reported hearing yelling. We were wondering if perhaps you heard anything more concrete, given your proximity.”

  The pastor nodded. “Ah. Yes. That. It woke me up. Before the break of dawn. I’d say…five thirty or so.”

  “And what did you hear?” I asked.

  Bellamy rubbed his smooth cheeks. “Well. There was an argument. Between a man and a woman. And yelling, both male and female. Oh, and fighting.”

  I gave my partner a tilted head and raised eyebrow combo, as if to say Bellamy’s story matched our suspicions. She’d clearly hoped for more.

  “Can you be more specific?” asked Shay. “Did you hear any names, or make out any phrases?”

  Bellamy shook his head. “I’m afraid not. With the chill in the air, I keep the windows closed overnight, and they do a fair job of muffling sound—which is a good thing, to be honest, because we have more than our fair share of boisterous partiers roaming the streets in these parts. Eventually I did rise and head to the windows to investigate, but by that point, whoever had been involved i
n the altercation had moved to the end of the alley.”

  “And what about you, Slim?” I asked. “You hear anything?”

  Chester—who now that I thought about it, must’ve been a half-giant of some sort—gave me a blank stare before looking to Bellamy for guidance.

  “Go on,” said Bellamy. “Answer the detective’s questions, Chester.”

  The tall youth looked at me expectantly.

  I scratched my head. “Um…do you have a system for communication? Hand signals or something?”

  “We ask yes or no question, and he nods or shakes his head.”

  “Clever,” I said. “Ok, then, Chester. Did you hear the yelling last night, too?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you overheard anything specific?” asked Steele. “Anything Pastor Bellamy didn’t?”

  He paused briefly, his eyebrows wrinkled, then shook his head.

  “Well, that was…brief.” I’d meant to say pointless, but Shay had given me one of those ‘be nice’ looks. I glanced at her. “So, now what?”

  “You could try the restaurant next door,” offered Bellamy. “It’s possible someone there heard something I didn’t.”

  “At five thirty in the morning?” I said.

  “They serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner, seven days a week,” he said. “Someone should’ve been there.”

  “Thank you, pastor,” said Shay. “We’ll check it out.”

  We turned to go.

  “Wait,” said Bellamy. “Pardon my curiosity, but…what exactly happened out there?”

  I paused and looked back at the guy. “A transient got beaten to death.”

  His face fell. “You’re kidding.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “The other bums actually threw a birthday party for him, but he suffered a heart-attack when the stripper burst through the cake.”

  Steele smacked me in the arm, and Bellamy looked at me sternly. “Are you always so glib in the face of death?”

  “Comes with the territory,” I said. “You get immune to it after a while.”

  I also wanted to ask why Bellamy seemed so crestfallen over the death of a downtrodden transient, given his belief in the ‘Divine Rebirth’ or whatnot, but I’d learned my lesson the first time—which was to not feed the priest any straight lines he might interpret as requests for theological discourse. I had enough on my plate at the moment, and my coffee’s intellect-perking magic could only be stretched so far.