Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) Page 3

  I nodded thoughtfully. “See, that’s why I keep you around. I never would’ve picked up on that last bit.”

  My partner crossed her arms. “And since when do you have a say in whether I get to stick around or not?”

  “I’ll have you know I have the Captain’s ear on personnel decisions. I’m a very important man.” I waggled a finger.

  Shay rolled her eyes. “Right.”

  We started to walk toward the apartment’s exit.

  “So hey,” I said, “what can you tell me about firing bricks so they end up a banana-yellow color?”

  “Huh?” Shay shot me a confused look. “What possessed you to think I’d know the answer to that?”

  “You’re a sciencey type,” I said. “Plus, didn’t you say your father was a chemist?”

  “Um, yeah. Chemist, not a mason. There’s a difference.”

  “You don’t have to get testy,” I said. “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

  Shay jerked a thumb back toward the bedroom. “So a dead guy with an icy dagger sticking out of his chest isn’t a good enough ice breaker for you, then?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “That ice breaker bit. Intentional pun?”

  Shay sighed. “Are you going to be like this all day?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m far too cheerful. But I’m sure an hour or so of questioning surly apartment tenants will change that.”

  6

  I sat on an unrelentingly stiff provincial-style sofa with a faded mauve floral print, the stench of stale cat pee filling my nostrils. Needlework throws and lace doilies crept in from the edges of my vision like dainty, cream-colored spiders, merging with the garish wallpaper to create a fearsome hellscape. All the while, fluffy feline assassins circled my legs and contemplated turning my pants into an impromptu scratching post.

  “How the hell did we let ourselves get roped into this?” I whispered to my partner.

  Shay displayed an evil smile. “You should be ecstatic. For once your charms actually worked on someone.”

  “I wasn’t trying to charm that eighty-year-old crone. She saw weakness in my eyes and pounced on me!”

  “Hush, Daggers,” said Steele. “I won’t judge if your love transcends traditional societal norms.”

  A soft, creaky voice worked its way to the couch from the confines of the kitchen. “I’ll be right there, dears. The tea’s nearly finished steeping.”

  I wiped a hand across my face and groaned. One moment we’d been standing in front of the apartment neighboring our crime scene, knocking on the hardwood, and the next thing I knew I’d been kidnapped and bound to a lonely old lady’s couch with bonds of pity and what I can only assume was commiseration. It wasn’t an emotion I was particularly familiar with.

  As if the invisible bonds weren’t enough, the old woman had strategically placed her cats around me and instructed them to attack in the event that I tried to leave. Oh, the command hadn’t been verbal, of course, but I could tell the furry monsters had an unspoken understanding with the liver-spotted one. Their beady little eyes betrayed their evil intentions.

  “We could try to make a break for it,” I said to Shay. “I think I can make it to the door before they overwhelm me.”

  My partner gave me a furrowed glance. “Huh? Are you talking about the cats?”

  “Shh! Don’t refer to them by name. It might imbue them with mystical powers. Besides—oh, never mind. Here comes the old lady.”

  The woman, who’d introduced herself as Gertrude Mallory, returned and placed a tray upon the wrought iron and glass coffee table in front of us. Three mugs of tea steamed merrily, emitting a sharp smell of cloves and cardamom, and a glazed porcelain platter held stacks of triangular, crustless white bread pressed around a firm, translucent vegetable. Cucumber sandwiches, perhaps? Did people actually eat those? I thought they were a figment of rich people’s imaginations.

  “So, where was I?” said Mrs. Mallory as she retrieved one of the mugs from the platter. “Oh, yes. I was telling you about my son, Percival. You see, when he was young, he left for the war, and—”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mallory,” I said. “As interested as we are to hear about your family—all seven of your children and their sundry offspring—we really need to step back for a moment and focus on what we initially came here for. To ask about your neighbor.”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said Mrs. Mallory. “I tend to get distracted easily these days. I have to admit, your kind eyes make me more chatty than usual.”

  Shay smirked and poked me in the ribs. I had half a mind to toss one of the more hostile-looking cats in the general direction of her face, but with my luck, the rest of the feline’s brethren would’ve turned on me in retribution. Instead, I pulled out my trusty spiral-bound notepad from one of my interior coat pockets and flipped to an empty page.

  “Well,” I said. “The first thing we really need to know is your neighbor’s name.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the old woman, her hands clutching the steaming mug for warmth. “His name was Terrence, Terrence Mann. Seemed like a reasonably nice fellow, but I didn’t know him well, to be honest. He kept to himself. Was nice and quiet, which I appreciated. Until last night, of course.”

  I scribbled a note in my pad. “So you heard a commotion?”

  Mrs. Mallory gave me a disapproving glance, one only a seasoned matron with years of practice could master. I feared I might be deprived of milk and cookies at snack time. “I may be old, Detective, but I’m not deaf. Yes, I heard the racket. Shouts and crashes. I would’ve gone for help, but I feared for my own safety, you understand.”

  “Did you hear anything specific during the commotion?” asked Shay. “Any names, for instance? Or what the argument might’ve been about?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Mrs. Mallory. “On the contrary, I didn’t hear any words at all. Just grunts and harsh yells, as if there was some sort of wrestling match taking place. Soon after that I heard crashing and thumping, but that was all.”

  “Do you have any idea who might’ve been at his place last night?” said Shay.

  Mrs. Mallory shook her head. “No. In fact, I’m surprised Terrence was even there. He worked nights. That’s one of the reasons he was such a good neighbor. He never had guests over at times when decent folks are asleep.”

  I looked up from my pad. “If he worked nights, do you have any idea why he would’ve been home last night?”

  “No. None,” said the old maid.

  Interesting. I made another note. “Where did he work?”

  Mrs. Mallory took a sip of tea as she mulled over my question. Part of me was almost tempted to have a sip of the foul brew. It was a far cry from coffee, but the Captain had shooed me out of the office before I’d had a chance to hit the break room. I was getting desperate for anything that might shock my system with caffeine.

  Of course, even the powerful scent of cloves and cardamom couldn’t drown out the pervasive stench of cat piss that seeped into my nostrils. I could only guess what the tea would taste like, should I be brave enough to put it to my lips.

  “Let’s see,” said Mrs. Mallory. “I don’t remember exactly. It was some sort of book binder, though. I remember that for certain. He’d often come home early in the morning with pre-release copies.”

  “Well, that explains all the books.” I turned to my partner. “Can you think of anything else we should ask?”

  I think Shay could see from the wild expression in my eyes that I wouldn’t last too much longer in the cat-infested hellhole. She took pity on me.

  “Just one,” she said. “Mrs. Mallory, can you think of anyone who might’ve held a grudge against your neighbor? Anyone who he had disagreements with in the past?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Mallory. “I’m terribly sorry, detectives. I wish I could be of more help, but as I said, I didn’t know the young man that well.”

  “That’s alright, ma’am,” I said as I stood up. “We’ll be i
n contact if we need anything else.”

  That comment brightened the old lady’s face. “Oh, yes. Please feel free to drop by. I’d love to have you over again.”

  “I’m sure you would,” I said.

  I hastily turned toward the door, hoping to make my escape before the cat lady’s sorrowful granny eyes could coerce me into staying for lunch.

  7

  I filled my lungs with great mouthfuls of sweet, clean air as we squeezed past the bluecoat at the door and back toward the scene of the crime.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s better,” I said.

  Detective Steele looked at me in a sidelong manner. “Oh, come on. The smell wasn’t that bad.”

  “Not that bad? Not that bad?” I said. “The only way it could’ve been worse is if there’d been a fully grown female tiger actively spritzing that lady’s furniture with her musk as we talked.”

  “Really, Daggers, what’s the big deal? Didn’t you once tell me a herd of stray cats had been living in your apartment when you first moved in?”

  I showed Steele how flexible my eyebrows were in my display of disbelief. “Wow. I’m surprised you remember that. Yes, I did. But that only makes me more sensitive to the smell. Do you have any idea how many months I had to keep my windows propped open and how many bottles of pine-scented cleaner I churned through before that horrible odor finally disappeared? And I had to replace almost my entire wardrobe afterwards. Try doing that on half a detective’s salary.”

  “Half?”

  “I’m divorced, remember? The rent on that place was a steal, but with all my cleaning expenses, I didn’t get into the black on my savings account for almost a year.”

  We stopped in front of the sideways bookshelves and piles of books that sprawled across Terrence’s living room floor.

  Shay eyed the assorted publications. “You really think this guy got murdered over a workplace dispute?”

  I shrugged. “Probably not, given the bizarre manner in which he was killed. But if he worked evenings, he shouldn’t have been here last night. I want to find out why he didn’t report in to his job as usual.”

  “Maybe he got sick,” offered Shay.

  “Oh, without a doubt,” I said. “He’s suffering from a raging case of pointy-thing-in-chest fever.”

  The two pulp novels I’d glanced at earlier lay on top of the nearest pile. Shay bent down and grabbed them.

  “Sam Simon and the Trolltown Beatdown and The Beast with Twelve Arms.” She glanced at the books’ spines. “Both published by Darkhorse Fiction. I’m guessing they’re not an academic press.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “But remember, Mrs. Gertrude ‘Mother-of-Cats’ Mallory said this guy worked for a binder, not a publisher. Check the front to see if either of them lists one.”

  Shay handed me one of the books while she looked through the other.

  “Hmm, no dice,” she said. “It lists a publisher address, though.”

  “Yeah, same here. Not that it does us any good.” I tossed the book aside and surveyed the massive pile of novels on the floor. “Well, I guess we’d better dig in and hope we get lucky. I have to admit, this brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘paperwork,’ though.”

  Shay groaned.

  I commandeered one pile while she took another. I’d barely worked my way through three titles when a cover caught my eye. I pulled it out and squealed like a very mature schoolgirl with laryngitis. “No way! Rex Winters!”

  I might’ve overdone the excitement. Steele jumped almost a foot in the air.

  “Good gods, Daggers! You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry,” I said as I dug through the pile. “I got excited. It’s just that it looks like our guy Terrence has almost the whole collection, even the limited edition Rex Winters and the Serpentine Sleuths novella.” I held it up for emphasis. “It’s been out of print for ages. It’s incredibly hard to find.”

  “Huh? Rex who?” said Shay.

  “Rex Winters.”

  My partner looked at me blankly.

  “Seriously? Rex Winters? The dashing, debonair detective who’s constantly teetering at the cusp of danger and bedding buxom beauties as he solves crimes? He was an inspiration to me growing up. In fact, we’re a lot alike, now that I think about it—at least in all the good ways.”

  Shay continued to stare at me.

  “Ok, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. He’s more lascivious than I am, though who can blame the guy, right? Regardless, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. We’re talking about a classic mystery series here, one that’s been going on for decades. It started to stagnate for a while, around book ten or eleven, but the last few novels have been fantastic.”

  Shay blinked. “I’m sorry. I’m still trying to process the fact that you read. Voluntarily, I mean.”

  “What? Why is that surprising?”

  “Um…I don’t know,” said Shay. “Maybe it’s your intense distaste of any research that involves cracking open a file. Or it could be your limited grasp of how to put words together into coherent sentences. There’s also the fact that I’ve never seen you do anything but drink and bitch in your free time.”

  I scoffed. “You should pay closer attention. I like books just fine as long as I’m not expected to have to learn anything from them. And you forget that I’m a single male with limited disposable income. Reading is a perfect hobby for me.”

  I turned my attention back to the limited edition Rex Winters novella. The spine was emblazoned with a simple gothic-style ‘CB,’ the emblem of the publisher, Chapman Books. I cracked open the front cover and scanned the text. Lo and behold, just below the address for the Chapman Books’ headquarters, a book bindery was listed: Williams and Sons. An address followed. I cracked another Rex Winters entry and checked the copyright page. Same publisher and binder. “I think I found what we’re looking for.” I passed the novel to Steele.

  “Looks good to me,” she said. “You want to go now?”

  I twisted my lips in thought. “Hmm. Well, the alternative is to interview more neighbors to see if any of them saw or heard anything of interest. Of course, that could expose us to more old ladies and their feline assassins. I say we let Quinto handle it. He’s a big boy. The cats won’t attack him.”

  Shay smiled. “We should probably let him know we’re leaving, though.”

  “And risk him bailing out on the dirty work? Not on your life. I’ll tell one of the beat cops to let him know we left. I need to talk to them anyway to have them bag all this stuff up. Also to have them ship the stiletto-clad body to the morgue.”

  “Works for me,” said Shay. “Quinto’ll know it was your idea to ditch him. And even if it was my idea, he’s incapable of getting mad at me.”

  It was true. The big gray guy had an incurable soft spot in his heart for my half-elven partner. Some days it felt like a big brother, little sister sort of relationship, and other days it was more like teenage infatuation. I found it a rather awkward situation, but Quinto and Steele seemed unfazed by the arrangement. Maybe it had to do with their shared status as half-breeds—allegedly, I should say, in the case of Quinto. No one was completely sure if one of his parents had been a troll or simply big and ugly.

  We started for the exit. I hesitated and glanced back toward the pile of books.

  Detective Steele paused. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s that Rex Winters novella,” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s rare. Really rare. And it’s the only book in the set I don’t own.”

  Shay crossed her arms. “You’re not seriously considering taking it, are you? That’s highly unethical.”

  I frowned. “You’re right. I should wait until we’ve wrapped up the case and then steal it from the evidence locker.”

  “Daggers!”

  “Hey, the guy’s dead,” I said. “Better those books find a good home than meet their maker in a police-issue incinerator.”

  Shay didn�
�t know how to respond to that. I have that effect on her sometimes.

  8

  After leaving detailed instructions with my blue coat-clad friend, Phelps, regarding what to do with the body, murder weapon, and various forms of evidence in the apartment, as well as guidelines about how best to break the news to Quinto that we’d left, my partner and I headed out toward the book bindery.

  Like most of the manufacturing in the city, Williams and Sons’ printing operations were located east of the Earl river in the dock district, where land and labor were cheaper to come by. Most hands that worked in the shipyards and mills and foundries on the east side of the river lived nearby, but some people, like our victim Terrence, chose to live on the west side despite its pricier rents. Given their proximity to the Erming—the worst slum in the city—parts of the dock district could get pretty dicey, especially at night.

  Luckily, the Captain, like Quinto, had a soft spot for my precious flower of a partner. He’d increased the rickshaw budget almost twofold since she’d joined the force, ostensibly to preserve her delicate feet. Not that Shay needed his charity. She’d learned her lesson after her first day on the job, wearing sensible flats from then on out instead of strappy high-heel numbers.

  Regardless, I wasn’t one to turn down a reprieve for my pavement slappers—and being Shay’s partner meant I got to ride alongside her without judgment—though it did earn me the occasional dirty look or two. I flagged down a nearby rickshaw driver and we clattered away across the cobblestones.

  After a half hour or so, we approached our destination. As we turned off West Avenue, a cloud of noxious gas slapped me in the face with the potency of a steroid-fueled Quinto punch. I gagged and stuffed my face into my coat sleeve. The smell was awful—some hellacious mixture of sulfur, turpentine, and the world’s worst batch of homebrewed beer. Shay responded in a similar manner, making a retching sound before cupping a hand over her nose. Even our rickshaw driver hacked and coughed when greeted by the stench, and he looked like he lived in a homemade lean-to scrapped together out of garbage and rain-warped paperboard.