3 Time to Steele (27 page)

Authors: Alex P. Berg

BOOK: 3 Time to Steele

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The Captain shook his jowls in the negative.

“Ok. Great,” I said. “I have a few things to check out. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

I wandered back into the precinct just shy of midday. Luckily for me, Rodgers and Quinto were nowhere to be seen, nor was my partner—which was good, because I needed a few uninterrupted moments to think. I plopped into my chair, leaned back, and rested my feet on the edge of my desk.

During my impromptu morning jaunt, I’d hit the Grant Street Precinct, Public Records, and Taxation and Revenue. At the Grant Street station, I’d muscled my way into the office of the local captain, a surprisingly polite elven fellow by the name of Dean Flyleaf. I’d asked him about Detective Ledbetter, and much to my surprise, the captain told me he’d never arrived at the precinct last night, meaning Wyle hadn’t arrived either. Even more to my surprise, the captain told me Ledbetter wasn’t a detective. In fact, no one by that name or his description worked at the precinct.

After that discovery, I wasn’t particularly shocked when neither Public Records nor Taxation and Revenue had any records of a Marcellus Ledbetter. Nor did they have any records of a François Turtledove, Harold Drambuie, or any other alias of Wyle’s Ledbetter had mentioned. According to the city’s pencil pushers, neither Ledbetter nor Wyle, in any of their forms, existed, which of course meant one of two things: either they’d
both
lied to us, repeatedly, about their motives and identities, or the more chilling of the two possibilities—Ledbetter and Wyle simply…didn’t…exist.

In my mind, I kept revisiting the conversation I’d had with the young scientist, Sherman. How he planned on continuing Buford Gill’s research. How he might start his own business following his exit from the now doomed Bock Industries. And what Wyle had mentioned in passing. Sherman Industries.
Sherman Industries
dominated the future history texts.

Of course, there were plenty of logical scenarios that explained everything without my stooping to the sorts of wild, unfounded journeys on which my subconscious liked to take me. Ledbetter and Wyle were clearly conmen, and beyond that, partners. They’d worked together to steer our investigation in the direction they’d intended. To what purpose, I could only guess at, but my suspicions were the explanation Ledbetter had given was probably fairly close to the truth. Someone undoubtedly wanted Bock out of the picture, whether dead or because he’d been implicated in the sordid murder of his archnemesis, to help gain market share for their own industry. It all seemed convoluted, but plausible. I could convince myself of it—if not for one lingering bit of information.

I recalled Mitchell’s ramblings as we’d dragged him to the precinct late last night. ‘I was so close.
So
close,’ he’d said. And the other part. ‘It’s fine, take me—so long as you hold Bock in custody as well. At least for a few days.’ Mitchell had kidnapped Bock and held him at the warehouse, but he hadn’t tortured him or hurt him in any way. When we’d captured him, he’d pleaded with us to keep Bock in custody. What would’ve happened to Bock if he’d stayed at the station overnight instead of heading home?

It seemed impossible, but…
could Mitchell have known Bock was going to fall down the stairs?
What was it Wyle had said? About anti-event temporal reconstruction theory? That established events couldn’t be changed through direct action but instead had to be
prevented
from unfolding?

“Daggers! There you are.”

I practically jumped out of my seat at the sound of my partner’s voice. “Gods, Steele! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Shay hopped up onto the corner of my desk, a spot which apparently was becoming a second home for her posterior. “Where’d you head off to? I leave for twenty minutes to go chat with Cairny and you disappear for the whole morning—or at least what was left of it following your inherent tardiness.”

“I, uh…needed to run some errands, that’s all,” I said.

“On company time?” Shay tsk-tsked. “I can’t imagine the Captain’ll be happy about that.”

“He gave me the go ahead,” I said. “Or at least, he didn’t say I
couldn’t
go.”

“Well, anyway,” Shay continued, “you’ll be happy to know Cairny’s exam revealed Bock suffered two fractured cervical vertebrae resulting in a partial severing of his spinal cord. The guy slipped and broke his neck, just as all the witnesses claimed.”

“Oh.” I nodded and blinked a couple times. “Good. Great.”

Shay narrowed her eyes. “Are you ok, Daggers? You seem out of it. More so than usual, I mean.”

“Um…” My mind raced as I tried to sum up the implications of everything I’d gleaned over the course of the morning. How could I possibly substantiate the evidence in a way that would satisfy both Shay’s scientific sensibilities and my own deductive gut sense? What was the logical synopsis that explained all the facts? And then it hit me.

There wasn’t one.

“You know what,” I said. “It’s nothing. I’m just a bit off after yesterday, that’s all. Talk about a whirlwind case.”

“No kidding.” Shay glanced at the windows on the far side of the Captain’s office. “So…it’s almost lunch time. You want to go out together to get something to eat?”

All thoughts of the Gill and Bock case were swept out of my mind with a few choice words. “Wait…
what did you say?”

“I said, do you want to go out together to get some lunch?” One of Shay’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

I hadn’t imagined it.
Go out. Together.
Her exact words. With a swift verbal slice, our weeks of lunch and dinner non-date posturing had been stripped like so much chaff.

I pulled my feet off the desk and planted them firmly on the floor. “Yeah, I’m fine. More than fine. And lunch sounds good.”

“Great,” said Shay. “I was talking to Cairny earlier, and I thought you and me and her and Quinto might all go out together.”

“You mean…” The obvious metaphor popped into my mind. At any other point I would’ve been afraid to use it because of its awkward connotations, connotations I’d convinced myself weren’t founded in reality, but now? I figured what the heck. “…you mean like a double date?”

Shay smiled. “Yeah. Why not? I’ll even let you pay.”

“Wait. Hold the horses,” I said. “I saved you from having your skull beaten in by a murdering psychopath less than twenty-four hours ago, and as a reward, you’re going to allow me to pay for your meal?”

Shay’s smile didn’t dissipate. “What? I thought you might be amenable to that.”

It wasn’t an outright admission of her romantic interests, but it was probably the closest I’d get at the moment. I’d take it.

“Alright,” I said. “I guess I can do that.
Today
. But next time we’ll swap, and I’ll let you treat
me
to a meal.”

“Fair enough.” My sprightly half-elven partner hopped off my desk. “I’ll go snag Cairny from downstairs, and hopefully find Quinto—I haven’t seen him in a while. Meet you outside the front doors?”

“Sure,” I said.

Shay walked off, and call me crazy, but I think she had a little more pep in her step than usual. As I rose out of my chair and walked toward the exit, I realized—so did I.

I pushed open the precinct’s heavy double doors, and the streets of New Welwic welcomed me with open arms. As I stood on the station’s steps enjoying the breeze and the cool air, I couldn’t help but feel that to me, it felt a lot more like spring than fall, and even though the morning’s clouds hadn’t abated in the least, the day suddenly seemed a whole lot brighter than it had a minute earlier.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hi. I’m Alex P. Berg, a mystery, fantasy, and science fiction author with a Ph.D. in nuclear engineering and a taste for heavy metal music. If you enjoyed this Daggers & Steele mystery, be sure to check out the next novel in the series,
Fine Blue Steele
.

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