Daggers & Steele 1 - Red Hot Steele Page 6

  Gretchen put Felicity’s hand over her heart. “Of course, my love.”

  The bombshell turned to us. “Excuse me detectives. I should go. Please, be gentle with Felicity. She’s a wounded bird, and her skies are stormy.”

  With that she left, taking with her the heat of a thousand suns and plunging the room into an icy quagmire, devoid of purpose or meaning. Well…perhaps that was an exaggeration. But the room sure did seem less bright without her.

  I blinked to clear the fog from my eyes and turned to the teary-eyed redhead. With her busty friend gone, perhaps we could all focus on the important matter at hand—the violent murder of her fiancé.

  15

  “So, um, Miss Talent,” I said. “Do you mind if I call you Felicity?”

  Red took a deep, labored breath and nodded through her tears.

  “Well then, Felicity, as my partner already mentioned, I’m Detective Jake Daggers. We need to ask you a few questions regarding your fiancé. How about you start with his name and a physical description?”

  “His name is Reginald. Reginald Powers,” she said. “Or I guess I should say his name was Reginald. He went by Reg. I still can’t believe he’s gone…”

  Her voice cracked and fresh tears sprung from her eyes. Her damsel in distress routine was the only thing preventing me from making another crack about her fiancé’s ridiculous name.

  Red composed herself and continued. “He was a little over six feet tall with dark hair and dark eyes. He had some dark elf ancestry. But it’s not what they say. They’re not all bad, you know? Reg surely wasn’t. He was the sweetest man I’d ever met…”

  More tears ensued. I started to wonder how deep Felicity’s reservoir reached. While she cried herself out, I compared Miss Talent’s description to my mental record of the dead guy. It was a match.

  I pulled out a spiral-bound notepad and pencil from an interior pocket of my coat. My old noggin could only hold onto so much new information before some of it would get displaced by thoughts of busty women or booze or juggling circus animals.

  “Can you tell us some personal information about Reginald? Who was he? What did he do for a living? That sort of thing.”

  “Well,” said Felicity. “He was a contractor.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Really? He built houses for a living? I wouldn’t have picked him for that.”

  Felicity blushed. “Oh, no. Sorry. That’s not what I meant. I mean he was good at negotiating contracts between parties. He worked for Drury Arms, an arms manufacturer. They supply weapons to the local infantry division, but Reg helped negotiate a number of big new deals with overseas commonwealths.”

  Interesting. I scribbled a note in my pad.

  Not content to sit and listen to my pencil rub against paper, Shay jumped into the fray.

  “Do you know if Reginald had any enemies?” she asked. “Had he been involved with anything dangerous lately?”

  I chuckled under my breath. It’s not that Shay asked poor questions, but the style in which she phrased them made it sound as if she’d plucked them straight from a police-issue how-to handbook on witness interrogation.

  Felicity shook her head. “No, not that I know of. Honestly, Reg was a saint. I have no idea why anyone would want to hurt him.”

  “Had he been acting strange lately?” Shay asked.

  “No…” Felicity paused. “Well, he had been a little nervous.”

  I raised my head from my pad. “Nervous? About what?”

  “About our wedding. We were set to get married just two weeks from tomorrow.” Felicity had composed herself admirably since the start of our interview, but the thought of her impending nuptials brought more fresh tears running down her cheeks. “Even though we were so close to the date of the wedding, he asked me last week if I wanted to elope.”

  Shay beat me to the obvious question. “Elope? Why?”

  “As I said, he was nervous. All the pomp and circumstance. The months upon months of wedding planning. I’ve been stressed out, too. I’ve tried to hide it, but I think it was getting to be too much for Reg. Maybe if my mother were here to run interference it might’ve been easier, but my father can be a little imposing on his own.”

  I let Miss Talent hold to the notion her fiancé had just been experiencing pre-wedding jitters. My experience told me otherwise.

  “And your father—what does he do?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s in the metals business. He owns a couple manufactories. We’ve been blessed with success, but if you ask father he’ll tell you blessings have far less to do with success than hard work.”

  “I see,” I said. “Your fiancé, Reg—did he have his own place or did he stay here?”

  Felicity blushed again. “Oh, no. He didn’t stay here. Father wouldn’t allow that. Not before marriage.”

  “Alright. So can you show us to his home?”

  “Well, I’ve never been there personally, but—”

  “Hold on,” I said. “You were to be married in a couple weeks, and you’ve never been to his place?”

  “Well, as I said, Daddy is very protective,” Felicity said. “He didn’t want me in a suitor’s company unattended, even after Reg and I became engaged.”

  Dear old Daddy Talent was sounding like a real hard ass. Then again, if I had a young daughter I’d probably chain her to the pipes in my bathroom while I was away at work. The city can be rough on young girls who lose their way.

  “But I do know his address,” Felicity said. “415 West 7th. Apartment 405.”

  I made a note in my pad. The information Red provided would act as a starting block for us to push off from. Now came the hard part of the interview—the part I always dreaded.

  “I don’t mean to be blunt,” I said. “But we’ll need you to head to the precinct to identify your fiancé’s body. We have to be sure it’s really him.”

  Red’s tear ducts had run themselves dry. She merely nodded as she stared off into oblivion. “Of course.”

  “One more thing before we leave. Do you mind if I ask you about your friend?”

  Shay gave me a sidelong look only women can give—a mixture of jealousy, disgust, and contempt all rolled into one piercing glance. All women have the ability to generate such a look, but most can only do so when in the temporal and spatial vicinity of a woman substantially more attractive than them.

  I shrugged it off. I’ve received my fair share of evil glares in my lifetime.

  Felicity looked confused. “What friend? You mean Gretchen?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh. What about her?”

  “Who is she? What’s her relation to you?”

  Felicity held a hand to her heart. “Oh. Well, her name is Gretchen Winters. She’s my best friend. We do everything together. Shopping, dinners at the country club, shows at Magister Hall. She was even helping me plan my wedding…” I was wrong about Felicity’s supply of tears. More of them rolled across her cheeks and splashed onto the increasingly sodden lap of her dress. “Why do you ask, Detective? Is this relevant to the case?”

  Shay raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Detective Daggers. Is it relevant to the case?”

  I loosened my collar. Suddenly the room felt warmer. Luckily, I could cover my tracks with the best of them.

  “Miss Talent, it’s our job to gather as much information as possible when we’re investigating a crime. You never know what may or may not turn out to be pertinent.”

  “Oh. Of course,” said Felicity. “I see.”

  I stood and tucked away my notepad. “Thanks for your assistance, Miss Talent. We’ll be sure to contact you if we have any more questions or find any leads. And don’t forget to visit the precinct when you get a chance.” I motioned to my partner that it was time to leave.

  As we approached the front door, Shay spoke in a mocking tone. “It’s our job to gather as much information as possible… Very convincing, Detective Daggers. I almost believed it. Or I would’ve, if I hadn’t seen your tongue lolling at
the sight of Chesty St. Clair.”

  Chesty St. Clair? I thought I was the only one who made up creative nicknames for nobodies. Apparently, young Miss Steele only needed a little external motivation to get her creative juices flowing.

  “Hey, as I said, you never know what information will be relevant. Besides, it’s not like I asked for a personal introduction or anything.”

  Shay rolled her eyes.

  “C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go check out the dead guy’s place.”

  16

  After another half hour of walking, our feet brought us to Reggie’s apartment building. It sat roughly four or five blocks west of the edge of the Pearl. Based on the affluence of his fiancé and her assertions of his deft financial acumen, I’d expected an extravagant residential tower, complete with gilded door handles, walls of glass, and a sharply dressed doorman who knew every resident’s name. Instead, an average four-story apartment building loomed over me.

  I glanced at Shay. She looked nonplussed.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Well, what?”

  “Doesn’t this seem a little odd to you?” I asked. “Is this really the place our wheeling and dealing, tuxedo wearing, cash-laden dead guy lived?”

  “It’s not that bad. I’ll bet it puts your apartment to shame.”

  “That’s not a fair comparison,” I said. “My apartment had a herd of stray cats squatting in it when I moved in. The lingering aroma was the only reason I was able to haggle the rent down to a reasonable level. Sometimes I swear I can still smell the funk.”

  Shay gave me a look that indicated I’d shared too much information.

  “Don’t judge me,” I said. “I’m divorced. I’ve had to make concessions. My point is, don’t you think this place is a little bland for a guy like Reggie Mortis?”

  “Reggie Mortis?”

  I sighed. Clearly that quip fell flat. “It was a joke. You know, like rigor mort—”

  “I got it,” Shay said, holding up a hand to get me to stop talking. “Look, you’re the one who brought up his dark elf background. Maybe the ritzy apartments wouldn’t rent to him because of his race?”

  It was a plausible theory, but the seasoned veteran within me suspected an ulterior motive.

  I led the way to the fourth floor and into a hallway lined with muted green paisley wallpaper. I found the apartment about a dozen paces from the end of the steps on the right.

  I stretched to limber up. “Too bad old Reggie Sweatervest didn’t have his keys on him. Guess I’ll have to do what I do best.”

  I backed up to the other side of the hallway and readied my trusty kicking foot.

  “Wait,” Shay said. “Aren’t you going to try the knob first? It might not be locked.”

  I lost my balance and nearly fell.

  Shay sniggered.

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “Never interrupt a man when he’s getting ready to show a lock who’s boss. And no, I wasn’t going to try the door. I mean, this isn’t what I’d call a rough neighborhood, but what kind of idiot would leave their apartment—”

  Shay turned the door knob and pushed on through.

  “—door unlocked.” I eyed the padlock in the doorframe. “You got off easy. Better hope I don’t have to come back here.”

  I followed my partner into the dead guy’s living quarters only to find her in the throes of another spiritual encounter. Her arms floated at her sides, fingers tickling the air as they had back at the Lawrence when we first found the stiff. Rather than standing still, she was rotating slowly in a circle. As she completed a rotation, I noticed her darting eyes had the same faraway, milky quality I’d seen the first time, as if she were peering far into the future or the past. Or simply studying the paint flecks on the walls.

  I didn’t want to risk a paranormal reprimand for interrupting her, but after a minute or so I got restless. Shay blocked the path further into the apartment, and I wanted to flex my deductive muscles.

  Just as I was about to say something, she lowered her arms and stopped spinning.

  “Get anything useful this time?” I ventured.

  She ignored the dig.

  “I found two threads,” she said. “One was from an older tapestry. I saw bad men. Troubled men. Short, with beards and tattoos. They were here to see Mr. Powers, but I don’t think he was here.”

  I pursed my lips. That piece of information was rather concrete. I’d been expecting another dubious insight along the lines of ‘it wasn’t magic,’ but perhaps Shay’s ability wasn’t quite as useless as non-alcoholic beer. Assuming it could be trusted, of course. I still had my doubts about her first thread. Reggie Sweatervest’s chest cavity still screamed ‘magic attack’ to me.

  “Alright,” I said. “What about the second thread?”

  “The second thread had an aura of freshness. It was recent. I felt someone. Alone. Here. Not Reginald, but someone else. They were on fire.”

  I wiggled a finger in my ear. “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘on fire?’”

  “Yes,” Shay said. “But you have to understand how the threads work. Just because the individual was on fire in my vision doesn’t mean it actually happened. It only means the fire and the individual are closely related.”

  My trust in Miss Steele’s supernatural abilities fell back down a precipice. A man on fire? Really?

  “Well, I’m sure that’s a very prescient insight. Now why don’t we see what a good old-fashioned pair of eyeballs can tell us.”

  I pushed past Shay into the apartment, a three-room affair. The entryway led straight into an all-purpose living room containing a wooden desk, a small dining table with two chairs, and a raggedy loveseat probably rescued from an errant street corner. A door on the right led to what I assumed would be the bedroom, and an alcove to the left contained either a kitchen or a washroom.

  Exploration would have to wait. The riches before me beckoned. A glimmer of something shiny sneaked out from within a long cardboard box at the edge of the moth-eaten loveseat. I stepped forward and peeked inside. Weapons stared back at me. A knife, two daggers, a pair of hatchets, a studded mace, and the pièce de résistance—a full length sword. All were military grade. As an officer, I wasn’t even allowed to own these sorts of weapons, much less a regular schmuck like Reginald.

  I turned my attention to the desk, which tried to hide from me from under a mountain of paper. Stacks of records and files littered it, but there were other types of printed documents, too. I noticed calligraphed designs on small placards. Some looked tribal in nature. Small boxes, stationary, and stencils added to the clutter.

  As I approached the desk to take a closer look, something triggered alarm bells in my head.

  I smelled smoke.

  17

  Mommy and Daddy Daggers didn’t raise a fool. Smoke comes from fires, and fires tend to treat people poorly. As dodgy as my profession can be, the dangers I faced on a regular basis paled in comparison to the sorts of things the city’s firefighters tackled headfirst.

  Instead of fleeing the building however, I stayed put. The smell of smoke was faint. Tired. The smell of a fire that had burned itself out.

  I followed my nose to a metal wastebasket at the side of the desk. Within it, wispy gray embers floated around lazily. Someone had burned a stack of papers—and recently, by the looks of it. I thought I spotted a faint ember that still held some color at its core. It faded from view as the charred piece caught a breeze and drifted out of the trashcan.

  A breeze? From where?

  I looked up. A window at the side of the room stood half open, letting in a trickle of fresh air. I ran over and pulled the window up the rest of the way. A rickety fire escape snaked its way down the apartment building’s side. I scanned the confines of the alley beneath but saw no trace of anyone—not even so much as a wine-soaked hobo.

  “I told you.”

  I turned around at the sound of Shay’s voice. “Huh?”

  “I told you. About the fire. You didn’t
believe me.”

  “I never said that.” But I did sound defensive. Why? I didn’t need to explain myself to her.

  “You didn’t have to say it. It’s plastered all over your face, Daggers.”

  I couldn’t argue. I had doubted her. But her predications hadn’t been particularly prophetic thus far, so I hadn’t put much stock in them. “Right now you’re batting one for three,” I said. “Don’t get cocky.”

  I walked back over to the wastebasket and kneeled. I sifted through the charred wisps, hoping to find a scrap that still contained script on it or anything that could offer a clue as to what had been burned. Unfortunately, whatever had been torched had given up its secrets. The paper could only serve as fertilizer now.

  Shay was busy searching through the items on the desk. I joined her. “Find anything interesting?”

  “Plenty,” she said. “Take a look at this.”

  She handed me a couple of the small boxes I’d noticed earlier. Inside one was a fine, cream-colored powder. Within the other was a block of a dark solid material. I rubbed my thumb against it. It gave easily under pressure, and my thumb came away black.

  “This is—”

  “Makeup,” Shay finished. She flourished a little appliqué brush she’d also found. “And check these out.”

  She handed me a small stack of cards. The first one was a government tax identification card. It listed the owner as Reginald Powers. Reggie’s elaborate signature sprawled across the bottom half of the card, and an official, embossed seal of the city engulfed the lower right corner.

  The second card was also an official identification card, as were the third and the fourth. Different names were listed on each card. Maxwell Fortnight. Henry Pool. Bradley Snood. A different signature embellished each one, and each gleamed with the same official seal.

  I scanned the desk for more identifying documents, and one in particular drew my eye—a small black leather billfold similar to the one I carried with me on the job. I opened it. A soaring eagle holding a pair of scales in its claws stared at me from the face of a shiny golden shield.