Steele of the Night (Daggers & Steele Book 7) Read online

  I peered at it. I wasn’t so sure. It seemed a little too shimmery to be that. “I can’t speak as to the former. I’ve never seen a vampire bite victim before. For all I know, it’s a more orgasmic experience than the books portray it to be, with more ripping and tearing of flesh at the throat. But consider this—for all the blood that’s on him, there should be more. The attack clearly severed his jugular. There should be dried blood on the ground, on the tree. Everywhere. And there isn’t.”

  “Probably because he wasn’t murdered here,” said Steele.

  “Hey, you have a theory. I have a theory.”

  “Mine’s not a theory,” said Steele. “There are tracks in the underbrush. Go look for yourself.” She pointed toward the clearing.

  Rodgers, Quinto, and I all turned and followed her finger. Sure enough, there in the wet leaves and grass were a number of indentations. Leave it to Steele to spot what no one else did.

  I approached the nearest one and knelt to get a closer look. The indentation wasn’t particularly well formed—I think dirt would’ve been a better conduit for it than the layer of leaves and organic matter it was imprinted in—but two things were plainly obvious nonetheless. First, the prints weren’t human. They were much more rounded in nature. Second, they were HUGE. At least as long as one of Quinto’s massive flippers and over twice as wide, with a pair of heavy imprints at the top edge.

  I swallowed hard. “So…maybe the vampire has a friend who’s a shapeshifter? Because if they’re one and the same, I really don’t want to meet them in a dark alley.”

  I stood. Rodgers and Quinto eyed me and the footprint. Their countenances had noticeably hardened.

  “Oh, stop being a bunch of babies,” said Steele. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for all of this that doesn’t involve monsters.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said Quinto. “You’re not the one with a lingering werewolf scar on her arm.”

  I crossed back to my partner who was investigating the whip used to tie the stiff to the tree. The handle, which hung loosely at the man’s ribs, had been branded with text that read, ‘Tommy Llama’s—Exotic Leathers.’

  “Quinto’s right,” I said. “You may not be the psychic prodigy you once claimed to be, but you’re more well-versed in the magical and arcane than any of us. Given what you learned in school and over our previous cases, I can’t believe you’re not even a little concerned.”

  “I don’t know, Daggers,” said Shay. “I guess I’m more rational at heart. Occam’s razor, right? The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. And despite what you might want to believe, monsters aren’t what I’d call simple or logic—”

  Steele and I both startled as a loud, inhuman cry sounded from within the trees, a cross between a deep throated shout and a woofy bark.

  Rodgers looked around and into the trees. “By the gods, what the hell was that?”

  Steele glanced at the body, her skin tone paler than it had been a moment before. “Then again, Daggers, your theories often contain elements of truth. Phillips? Let’s get this body back to the precinct, ASAP. The detectives and I have a rock club to visit.”

  4

  I yanked on the front door to the Moxy and held it open for Steele, Rodgers, and Quinto. As I followed them in, a wave of cigarette smoke and stale beer smell hit me. I tried to wave it away, but unfortunately the smoke wasn’t so much an actual cloud as a pervasive entity, radiating out of the floors and walls and upholstery. As my eyes adjusted to the dim gloom within, I slowly took note of my surroundings. A lacquered bar stretched across the wall to my right, its wood marred by numerous knife-hewn carvings and warped by the sweaty bottoms of countless beer bottles and pint glasses. A sign under the stairwell pointed in the direction of the restrooms, and in front of me stretched a wide open space littered with flyers and bottle shards and mysterious stains. Past that sat the club’s stage, currently with the curtains drawn open. A couple people milled upon its surface, but no one seemed interested in cleaning the mess on the main floor.

  “Well, we’re here,” said Quinto, wrinkling his nose. “Anybody have a plan of action?”

  “Why don’t you and Rodgers head to the second level in search of a manager or owner?” I said. “Steele and I will see if those stagehands can help us.”

  Rodgers nodded. “Got it.” He and Quinto turned toward the stairs.

  I held my hand in the direction of the main concourse, and Steele followed it. One of the stagehands worked in the back, fiddling with the drums, or at the very least obscuring the set’s view from the rest of the establishment. The guy was enormous, with a black skull and crossbones tank top showing off his thick, muscular arms. Perhaps like Quinto not all of his ancestors had been of the human variety, though if so, it wasn’t obvious from his skin tone, which was a normal fleshy shade. What little light existed inside the Moxy’s dim interior shone off his recently-shaved head.

  The other hand sat at the front of the stage with his legs hanging over the edge. His chest length straw blond hair hung over his face as he peered at the guitar in his hands, plucking at strings and tightening or loosening the tuning pegs in accordance with their response.

  “Excuse me,” said Shay as we approached him. “I’m Steele, and this is Daggers. Do you have a minute?”

  The stagehand lifted his head and tossed his hair back. “Steel and Daggers. Niiiice names. I’m Diamond. You guys like to rock?”

  Good thing I hadn’t brought the coffee from the office with me, otherwise I might’ve sprayed it all over the poor guy’s face. As it was I settled for sputtering and blinking. “I…uh…what did you say your name was?”

  “Diamond Drummond. I work here. I’m one of the roadies.”

  The other guy in the skull t-shirt spoke up. “Don’t believe him. His name’s really Mickey.”

  “Shut up, Dennis,” said Diamond.

  Big Dennis chuckled, and Diamond smiled. I glanced at Steele. She returned a rather surprised look, confirming what I already knew.

  “So, Diamond,” I said. “Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like—”

  “Chaz Willy Wilson,” he said. “Yeah, brah. I know. He’s my half-brother.”

  Honestly, I’d undersold it. He didn’t look a lot like the presumed Chaz, who we’d found tied to a tree in the middle of Rucker Park. He looked exactly like him, or at least close enough for the differences to be negligible. Maybe his nose was a little less prominent, or his eyebrows a shade more narrow, but overall, they might as well have been twins.

  “So what can I help you with?” said Diamond as he plucked idly on the guitar. “If you’re looking for the band, they don’t get in until much, much later, and they never sign autographs before the show. Even then, you’ll be hard pressed to get their attention. Well…you’d be hard pressed.” He gave me a nod. “You, on the other hand. Steel. They might be interested in you.”

  “I’m not sure the interest would be mutual,” said Shay. “But either way, that’s not why we’re here. We’d like to talk about Chaz.”

  Diamond snorted. “Yeah, of course y’are. Go join a fan club or something.”

  “I think you misunderstand,” I said. “We’re not rock junkies. We’re detectives. You know? With the NWPD?”

  “Whoa, brah,” said Diamond, loosening his grip on the guitar. “Seriously?”

  “Aw, man. What happened this time?” Big Dennis abandoned the drums and joined us at the foot of the stage. “Did Chaz go on another of his wild, drunken benders? Get cited for possession?”

  “It’s, ah…complicated,” said Shay. “To be honest, we’re trying to figure out exactly what happened. We thought you guys might be able to fill in the gaps a bit.”

  “Well, think again,” said Diamond. “We didn’t party with them last night. I’ve no idea what he and the guys got up to. You should probably talk to Chaz himself.”

  “He wasn’t available for comment,” I said. “Bit tied
up, actually.”

  Shay gave me a sly smile. At least she appreciated my wit.

  “But that’s neither here nor there,” I continued. “Even if you guys weren’t hanging out with Chaz last night, you might be able to help shed some light on the situation. Mind answering a few questions about the band for us?”

  Dennis shrugged and sat down on the edge of the stage next to his blond pal. “Sure. Why not? Not like we have a whole lot to do. Bar doesn’t even open until noon.”

  “So you guys work here?” asked Steele.

  “Sort of,” said Diamond. “We work for Benson. He’s the Cobra’s manager. But we sort of work for Gus, too. He owns the Moxy. It’s complicated, brah.”

  Apparently, women could be ‘brahs,’ too. Good to know.

  I scratched my head. “What do you mean?”

  “We work for Benson, but because Yellow Cobra’s had a standing gig at the Moxy, we got conscripted to do regular bar work, too,” said Dennis. “Cleaning, maintenance, moving crap around, bartending. That sort of stuff. You know like when animals feed off each other and help each other out? What’s that called?”

  “A…symbiotic relationship?” offered Steele.

  “Yeah,” said Dennis. “That’s us. With the bar.”

  I wasn’t sure I approved of the analogy, but I wasn’t about to challenge Dennis on it. “We’re getting off topic. Let’s talk about the band. Dennis? Big D? Can I call you that?”

  “Better than his stage name,” said Diamond with a snicker. “It’s not fit for polite company, if you get my drift, brah.” He tilted his head in Steele’s direction.

  Dennis glared at the Chaz clone. “Man, you don’t know when to quit.” Eyes back on me. “Shoot.”

  “Perhaps you could start by telling us about the band,” I said. “Like who’s in it.”

  Diamond’s eyes widened. “Brah, you don’t know?”

  “We’re detectives,” I said. “We don’t get out much.”

  “Four guys, all told,” said Big D, who took our ignorance with better grace than Diamond did. “You already know Chaz, right? He’s the lead singer. There’s B. B. He’s on guitar. Good looking dude, man. Real lady killer, probably ’cause he’s got that elf blood like your friend Steele here. Likes to…how should I say this? Party? Like Chaz, but even more hardcore, if you catch my drift. Then there’s Sammy Styles. Long brown braids. Plays the bass guitar. More quiet than the other guys. Some of the ladies like that, though. And finally you’ve got Ritchie Roth on the drums. He’s a wild man—on the skins, I mean. Otherwise, he’s pretty similar to the rest of the guys. Which is still pretty wild.”

  A little too late, I realized I should’ve been taking notes. I reached into my fresh new jacket and produced a spiral-bound notepad, upon which I furiously began scribbling names. “Styles. Roth. We already got Wilson. Who was that last guy? B. B. what?”

  “DuPrat,” said Dennis.

  “So I’m guessing they had a show last night,” said Shay, gesturing toward the space behind us, “otherwise this place wouldn’t quite be in this state of disarray. I hope.”

  “Don’t judge us, brah,” said Diamond. “There’s lots to do around here. But yeah, there was a show. Three times a week. They’ll have another tonight.”

  I glanced at Steele. No need to burst that particular bubble yet. “So what time did the show end?”

  “Same as always,” said Big D. “About ten o’clock.”

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where did the band go?” asked Steele. “What did they do? What were the two of you up to?”

  Big D glanced at Diamond. “The band went to Billy’s, right? He was having a party after the show. One year anniversary of the Moxy hosting Yellow Cobra, I think.”

  “Billy?” I asked. “Who’s that?”

  “Billy Charles,” said Dennis. “He was one of Chaz’s biggest influences. Not sure how they met, but they’ve been friends forever. The band goes and parties at his mansion sometimes.”

  “But not you two?” said Steele.

  Big D snorted. “We’re not cool enough. Or rich enough. Or big-breasted enough. Take your pick.”

  “You offer a man a choice between big breasts and anything else, and you know what the answer is going to be,” I said.

  Steele frowned. “Daggers…”

  “Sorry,” I said. “So what did you two do after the band left for Billy’s?”

  “Stayed and helped bartend,” said Dennis. “I, uh…maybe helped myself to some free drinks, too. Then partied with some of the Yellow Cobra groupies. Diamond played guitar and waited for his girlfriend to get off work.”

  On cue, Diamond cut loose with a brief selection of chords. “Partied with the groupies? Brah, you babysat them while they waited for the Cobras to come back—which they weren’t going to do.”

  Big D scowled. “Man, why you gotta put me down like that? That chick with the smoky eyes was into me.”

  A big, rumbling voice sounded out behind me. “Steele? Daggers?”

  I turned. Quinto had crept up on us, he of the world’s lightest three hundred pound feet. “What’s up?”

  “Found a manager,” he said. “Thought you might want to come up and talk to him.”

  I closed my notepad and slipped it back into my jacket. Diamond continued to strum on his guitar. I wasn’t a rock aficionado by any means, but the melody tickled my ears in a way I found compelling.

  I gave the Chaz clone a nod. “So you play?”

  Dennis snorted. “Every roadie plays. The only question is what instrument.”

  “You’re not half bad,” I said. “Did Chaz ever give you a shot at making the band? You know, given you’re family and all.”

  Dennis caught my eye and shook his head, rather seriously.

  Diamond’s nose wrinkled and he momentarily stopped playing. “Brah, don’t even start with me. That’s a sore subject. His own half brother, and he won’t even give me a tryout. Not like him and B. B. haven’t had their problems…”

  I lifted an eyebrow. Problems?

  I felt a light touch on my shoulder, followed by Steele’s voice. “Daggers?”

  “Right,” I said. “Quinto. Lead the way.”

  5

  Quinto led us upstairs, through a narrow hallway lined with faded flyers and posters of long-retired acts, most of them with cheesy names that featured unnecessary slashed os and umlauts, bands like Riøt Squad and The Ündertakers. At the end of the paper advertisement-induced time warp, he cracked a door and ushered us inside.

  I’d thought the gloom in the rest of the Moxy had been bad. I’d been wrong.

  I squinted and tried to discern the various shapes within. The window—singular—was the first thing to come into focus, drawing my eyes like a moth to a sad, pale facsimile of a flame. Like the walls outside, it too had been covered in posters and flyers, turning the winter morning’s already pale sunlight into a feeble, orange- and yellow-tinged glow. Cigarette smoke choked the air, even more intense than in the main room downstairs. Apparently, whatever fresh hell into which we’d entered was a magnification of the rest of the Moxy—except for the stale beer smell. For better or worse, that had been replaced with a sweaty musk.

  “Daggers. Steele. There you are.”

  I recognized the voice: Rodgers’, coming from a person-shaped lump in front of me. He, too, slowly coalesced into human form, one with actual facial features and everything, muddy though they might be.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said, blinking. “Quinto said you found someone we should talk to.”

  “Yeah. Benson Forsythe. The Yellow Cobra’s manager.” Rodgers jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  I followed the hand sign. In the back of the room, a few feet shy of the wall, sat a desk, piled high with papers, empty liquor bottles, and ashtrays overflowing with butts, some of which still smoked. A pair of couches lined the walls in front of t
he desk, each of them occupied by an unconscious, or perhaps semi-conscious, young woman. A middle-aged man sat in a chair between the two, hunched over with a burning cigarette in hand. Another ashtray rested before him on a low coffee table. He wore his hair long, even though there wasn’t a scrap of it left on the top of his head. It hung limply over his shoulders, falling onto the fur collar of the heavy coat he wore. Given the temperature, he didn’t need it indoors, but apparently the man was into completely superfluous fashion choices, otherwise he wouldn’t have also been wearing a pair of wide-rimmed sunglasses.

  “What did you tell him?” asked Steele in a hushed voice.

  “Not much,” responded Rodgers in kind. “Just that we’re police, here to talk to him about Chaz.”

  Shay nodded and stepped around Rodgers toward the man. I followed, leaving Quinto and Rodgers by the door.

  “Benson Forsythe?” asked Steele crisply.

  The man flinched and held up his cigarette hand. “Please. Not so loud.”

  “I’m…speaking at a normal volume,” said Steele.

  The man took a drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. When he spoke, his voice flowed, raspy and unctuous at the same time, seasoned and yet somehow still raw. It grabbed and focused my attention, its unexpected power sending a chill down my spine.

  “Well, try and ratchet it down a few notches to something less than normal. In case you can’t tell, I had a bit of a rough night, and having your goons wake me from a pleasant slumber didn’t help. I suppose it could be worse. Better a visit from police thugs than my bookie. Still, it wasn’t quite how I’d hoped to—”

  Benson lifted his head, finally taking note of us—or at least of Steele. “Hello! Where were you last night? Hiding in my dreams?”

  Even if I hadn’t been romantically involved with Steele, my creepazoid alarm would’ve still sounded. “Cool it, Jack. You’re talking to police captain Shay Steele, here.”

  “Captain?” he said. “What the hell did Chaz get himself involved in anyway?”

  “We’ll get to that,” said Steele. “Why don’t you tell us about your star lead singer?”