3 Time to Steele (8 page)

Thinking about my dad and brother made me realize how long it had been since I’d seen either of them. I told myself I should make a greater effort to mend the fences between us all, but I had enough trouble making time for the fruit of my own loins. I figured if anything, helping sculpt a well-rounded, mostly undamaged child was a better use of my time and energies than trying to glue the pieces of two broken relationships back together.

I heard footsteps and turned to face them. Rodgers walked in through the front door with a charge in tow—a square-faced guy wearing a flat cap and vest and with his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Rodgers and Quinto had lagged behind Shay and I in our silver coin-powered rickshaw, but when they did arrive they’d gone to work on the neighbors to see what they could tell us about the second crime in one day at Gill’s. If looks were any indication, Rodgers had found a longshoreman with information worth sharing.

“Hey, Daggers,” said Rodgers, stopping in front of me. “This is Yancey O’Brien. He’s the neighbor who called in the break-in.”

“Ah.” So his attire was cultural, not work-related. “Thanks for the notice, pal. We appreciate it.”

“No worries, mate,” the guy said in a rolling accent. “Gillsie was a decent bloke. It’s the least I could do.”

I thought about Passion Faust and the fact that Gill had been murdered, most likely, over some piece of clandestine information and thought maybe the man hadn’t been as decent as everyone thought. “So, Yancey, you witnessed the break-in. Did you by any chance get a look at who did it?”

“Blimey, but I did,” he said. “Won’t soon forget the lad, neither.”

I wondered what he meant by that. “Great. We’re going to send a sketch artist by in a bit to work with you. He’s a, uh…” I considered making a disparaging remark about Boatreng, but I felt the heat of Shay’s eyes on the back of my neck and thought better of it. Besides, the guy wasn’t really that bad. “He’s a short guy, bald, with a goatee. But while we wait for him, why don’t you tell us about this unforgettable character you saw.”

Yancey nodded. “Well, he was youthful chap, no older than his thirtieth, with wavy, shoulder length black hair like me nuncle’s. Seemed like he was in a hurry, which makes since ’cause he was knockin’ into Gill’s place. But the real kicker that caught my eye was the bloke’s nutty dressing gown.”

I glanced at Yancey’s wharf rat outfit and held my tongue. “Wait…so you’re saying the guy was wearing a dress?”

“No, mate,” said Yancey. “A
dressing gown
. As if he’d just taken a bath.”

I wracked my brain. “You mean a robe?”

“That’s what I said, ain’t it?” said Yancey. “Look, his gown was a deep violet, so dark it was almost black—but that’s not the half of it. The bloke’s gown was covered in astronomical symbols, moons and stars and whatnot, like he was some sort of storybook magician’s apprentice.”

“Really?” I glanced at Rodgers. He shrugged. “That sounds like something out of a P. D. Wentwick swords and sorcery pulp.”

Yancey shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

“Her,” I corrected. “The ‘P’ stands for Patricia, I think.”

“You’re proving my point,” said Yancey.

Shay sighed and joined me at my side. “Don’t worry, Mr. O’Brien. Detective Daggers’ fictional interests are pretty esoteric.”

I smirked. Shay could joke all she wanted, but my passionate love of old mystery novels had helped solve one of our more recent, high-profile cases—at least, that’s how I remembered it.

“Alright, I think that’s all we need, Yancey,” I said. “Are you on this floor?”

The wannabe wharfie nodded. “Flat 204.”

“Great. Thanks,” I said. “The sketch artist’ll be by soon.”

As Yancey left, Quinto entered, leading a team of lab techs that spread out and got to work dusting and cataloging.

“Did I miss anything?” asked Quinto.

“Depends,” I said. “How good are you with dialects?”

Quinto frowned and cast a glance at Rodgers.

“It’s a joke,” said his partner. “But not a very good one.”

“Hey, that’s unwarranted,” I said. “I’m doing the best I can with a limited arsenal. I don’t see you slinging around any one-liners, today.”

Rodgers smiled. “I’m saving my ammunition for a worthwhile occasion. Like when we catch the killer.”

“Let me know if you come up with anything good,” said Shay. “We could always collaborate to clobber Daggers with a one-two punch of zingers and withheld information.”

I glanced at Steele. “I thought you didn’t enjoy that.”

“I’m trying a new strategy. One with more snark.” She smiled. “So far it’s working better.”

I grumped and expended my negative energies on the lab techs, expounding upon the virtues of hard work and explaining how the prints wouldn’t document themselves. They didn’t care for my hovering, so I rounded up my fellow detectives and headed back to the precinct.

13

I sat at my desk in the pit with the two reports from the lab techs clutched in my mitts, the ones from both morning and afternoon sessions at Gill’s place. Apparently, berating the technicians regarding their timeliness was an effective strategy. They’d delivered their second report to me less than an hour after returning to the office. Of course, judging by the glare the tech had shot me as he handed me the file and the crude frowny face blowing a raspberry that had been inked onto the bottom of the folder, I guessed I might’ve made another enemy in the precinct besides Boatreng.

I scanned the results once again, to make sure I’d read them correctly. The prints collected from Gill’s place in the afternoon
weren’t
the same as those found in the morning. I’d anticipated the possibility, but I’d hoped the murderer would be the same person as the intruder. The case made more sense that way.

Shay’s left hand held the top of my chair back as she leaned over me and read the reports I held in my hands. Her fingers pressed lightly into the space between my shoulder blades, and her gentle, warm breath wafted past me as she scanned her eyes across the pages. I filled my lungs with the scents of the office, scents of staleness and ink and warm coffee, but also Shay’s subtle perfume. It was definitely lilac. I was sure of it now.

As she stood there reading, I wondered if she had any idea the effect she had on me—the way she sometimes made my heart flutter with a heartfelt smile, the way my stomach sank when I made a quip that went a little too far or hit in a spot I hadn’t intended, the way she could simultaneously make me feel strained and at ease, something no doctor equipped with a stethoscope and one of those arm wrap thingies would ever believe possible.

The way Shay stood behind me, relaxed and focused on the reports, made me think she had no clue how I felt—something that seemed at odds with her otherwise impeccable observational sense—but how
could
she know? I’d never explicitly told her how I felt about her. Instead, I’d gone to great lengths to bury the well of emotions she’d helped me uncover. I’d only recently come to grips with the feelings myself, and, moreover, admit I wanted those feelings of love and affection in my life again—along with everything that went with them. The painful feelings. The feelings of uncertainty and rejection and doubt.

A miasma of those latter feelings swirled around me as my eyes burned holes in the technicians’ reports. Maybe I shouldn’t share my emotions with her. After all, what would Shay want with someone like me? A good ten years her senior, jaded, divorced, with a kid. Someone her age should be having fun and getting into trouble. Not that Shay was the type for that—she was far too focused on her career for that sort of nonsense, just as I’d been a decade ago when I was in her exact position…

Her position?
That thought gave me hope. In many respects, we were so similar. At Shay’s age, I’d also been looking for companionship, hoping to fit it into my busy schedule. Maybe she wouldn’t reject my feelings out of hand if I shared them.

Of course, there
was
also the job angle. If Quinto and Cairny’s romance was a taboo subject, what chance did a detective partner pairing have of succeeding? None, I suspected. But then again…

Shay clapped me on the shoulder. “Well, I can’t say any of that helps us much, but it’s good to confirm it.”

I blinked away the fog. “Uh…you mean the fingerprint stuff?”

“That, and Cairny’s report.”

“Cairny gave us her report?” I asked.

“She wrote her notes at the bottom of that second page.” She flicked the reports with a fingertip. “Where it confirms Gill died between six and seven this morning? Honestly, Daggers, were you even reading these?”

“I…uh…”

Boatreng saved me from having to answer. He walked up to my desk, a couple of pages held in his small, stubby hands. How the man managed to wield a pencil with as much skill as he did with his sausage-like appendages, I’d never know.

“Got your sketches,” he said. “Took longer than expected, mostly because I couldn’t understand half of what the witness from the break-in at Gill’s apartment was saying. Anyway, here’s the sketch of the lurker outside the 9’s club, and here’s the intruder at Gill’s place.”

Boatreng handed me the two sketches. The first was of the guy the bouncer spotted. It showed the face of a guy maybe in his early forties, grizzled, with a four day beard and a faded scar trailing from underneath his left eye. A hood hid his hair, but it appeared to be close-cropped. The other sketch put some detail into the description we’d already received from Yancey the Deckhand. It featured a youthful face, clean-shaven, with a slim nose, thick eyebrows, and the aforementioned shoulder-length, wavy black hair.

“Thanks, Boatreng,” I said. “These are perfect.”

Our sketch artist nodded. “No problem.” He turned to walk away.

A thought hit me. “Hey, just a sec.”

Boatreng paused. “Yes?”

“You know,” I said, “it occurs to me I’ve never asked if you prefer to go by Boatreng or Davis.”

Boatreng shrugged. “Either’s fine. I don’t have the same aversion to given names you detectives do.”

“Ok,” I said. “Just checking.”

Boatreng retreated to the stairs, and I handed the sketches to Shay. As I did so she gave me a slight nod and smile, as if in approval of my civil interactions.

“Well, we’ve got two sets of prints, and two different sketches,” said Shay as she regarded the drawings. “The question is, what do these people have in common, and what’s their connection to Gill?”

“I’ve been wondering that as well,” I said, “but a more pressing concern is, now that we have these sketches, which one of us is going to grab the cork board?”

“Well,” said Shay, “seeing as Rodgers and Quinto aren’t within shouting distance at the moment, you could go get it.”

“Or, we could play a quick game of fire, water, magic wand.” I made my eyebrows dance.

“Really?”
Shay regarded me with disdain.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I haven’t played that since grade school,” she said.

“I guess that’ll make it all the easier for me to beat you then. Come on, stick out your hands.”

Shay sighed, but she complied.

“On three,” I said. “One…two…”

Fire, water, magic wand was mostly luck based, but it involved an element of psychology as well, and for that reason, I knew Shay would play along. Because of my personality, Shay would assume I’d choose fire, meaning she’d choose water. But she’d also know I’d suspect her of knowing that, which means I’d choose the magic wand to freeze her water, and she’d in turn choose fire to burn my wand. That meant if I wanted to win, I needed to choose water to douse her fire.

“Three.”

I held out a single finger for a magic wand. Shay steepled her fingers in imitation of a fire.

Shay snorted. “You’re too easy, Daggers. Cork board’s in the closet. Remember to grab the new spool of yarn.”

I suppressed a smile. “I’ll beat you next time.”

I trudged over to the closet, retrieved our trusty cork-faced crime fighting companion, and wheeled her over to the side of our desks. Using pins I’d liberated from the face of the board, I tacked the sketches up and made their acquaintance to a couple strips of paper on which I wrote ‘Murder Suspect’ and ‘Trespasser.’ With that done, I plopped down in my chair. The bolts that held the thing together squeaked in response.

Shay hadn’t retreated to the confines of her desk. Rather, she sat on the edge of mine. It gave her better access to the face of the board, and she liked being close to the action.

“Alright, let’s go over what we know,” she said. “The victim, Darryl Gill, was tortured and murdered in his apartment early this morning—between six and seven, by Cairny’s estimations—most likely by our scar-faced suspect. As far as we can tell, he didn’t take anything of value from the apartment. Then at around three thirty, a separate individual—do you want to give him a nickname, Daggers?”

I pursed my lips. “How about Bathed and Confused?”

Shay furrowed her brows. “Huh?”

“You know, because he was wearing a bath robe,” I said. “Oh, come on. That’s funny.”

“It’s a bit involved,” said Shay with a frown. “Do you have anything else?”

“Um…we could call him Sweet Cheeks, on account of his boyish face. Or just Cheeks for short.”

Shay rolled her eyes. “I shouldn’t have asked. Ok, so at three thirty, Cheeks—”

“Wait,” I said.

“What now?”

“The other guy,” I said. “The suspect. He needs a nickname, too.”

Shay rubbed a couple fingers against her brow. “Now I’m really regretting this. How about Scar Face?”

“That’s a little tired, don’t you think?”

“And you have better suggestions, I assume?” said Shay.

“How about The Bearded Wonder? Or The Eleven O’Clock Shadow? Or we could get fancy and pick something like Grizzles McFacescruff.”

“Scar Face it is,” said Shay.

I snorted, and my partner continued. “So at three thirty, Cheeks breaks into Gill’s place. He sifts through his things, paying special attention to his personal effects and his past correspondence, which we’ve gathered here.” Shay pointed to our work spaces, upon which a few bags of evidence sat. The letters had been split between Rodgers and Quinto’s desks.