Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) (22 page)

“Zeb,” I said. “Was there anyone else that knew about this writing group?”

“Well, yes, actually,” he said. “There was one other. Eustace. Eustace Manshwitz. He used to be in the group, but…”

I raised an eyebrow. “But what?”

Zeb clasped his hands together. “Well, he sort of had a…falling out with the rest of the group. His writing wasn’t particularly good, and he got jealous of Cynthia’s success. He became belligerent and the other members kicked him out. For what it’s worth, he claimed he’d show them all, but I’m fairly certain he meant it as a career aspiration, not a threat.”

I rubbed my forehead. “Zeb, seriously? How did you not think it was relevant to tell us this before now?”

The hairy guy shrugged. “I don’t know. You never asked.”

“When was this?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Two, three sessions ago, I think.”

“And is Eustace a werewolf?”

Zeb nodded. “Another cyclical one.”

“Good,” I said. “That’ll make it easier to pummel him into submission before we throw him in jail.”

37

The pummeling would have to wait. Eustace was nowhere to be found.

I stood in the middle of his apartment, poking a puffy sofa chair. It had probably been born a light caramel, but after years of spills, stains, and butts being repeatedly pressed into its surface, it had tanned to a dingy brown. Unlike Terry and Cynthia’s pads, the place hadn’t been trashed—at least, not by intruders. Dirty clothes mingled on the floor in loose piles, empty containers of takeout food littered the premises, and the entire place smelled of stale sweat, sour beef, and desperation.

I’d forced Coriander to sit at a pine table so covered in crap that I could only identify it based on the spindly legs sticking out from underneath. Quinto stood behind him cracking his knuckles, either as a reminder to Zeb not to cause any trouble or merely to relieve stress in his joints.

“So if he’s not here,” I said to Zeb, “then where could he be? You sure he doesn’t have a job?”

Shaggy shook his head. “I told you, Eustace lost his job weeks ago. It’s probably one of the reasons he blew up at the rest of the writing group. I think he banked on being able to support himself from his writing, but he’d yet to sell a single piece of fiction, let alone something that could bring in real money, like a novel. When he got laid off…well, he took it poorly. He didn’t know what else to do.”

“Maybe he took another job?” I offered.

“If so, I don’t know about it,” said Zeb.

After taking another look around the room, I realized my suggestion was ludicrous. The apartment looked as if its owner hadn’t left its hallowed halls in weeks, which made Eustace’s disappearance all the more surprising. Either he’d fled because he feared for his safety, or more likely, he knew we were after him.

Shay returned from the bedroom, eyes scanning the room’s corners intently. She’d skipped her traditional fingers in the air routine on arrival—she only suffered her ‘visions’ at crime scenes—but she still left no stone unturned in her search.

“Find anything?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said. “The place is a dump, but I didn’t find any of the incriminating elements we’d hoped to stumble across. No drugs or needles. No chemicals I could find, and certainly no ether. And I didn’t find any bladed or stabbing weapons—unless you count this fountain pen.” She held it up for emphasis. “I’d bet you could give someone a wicked scratch with it.”

“He must’ve made off with his contraband,” I said. “Chances are, we’ll find it on him when we locate him, although we should check trash bins near the apartment complex. He might’ve dumped the stuff. Any volunteers?” I eyed Quinto.

“Don’t look at me,” he said.

I grumped.

“I did find lots of books, writing materials, and unfinished manuscripts, though,” said Shay. “At the very least, it looks like getting kicked out of the group didn’t put a damper on his desire to write. Although some of the stuff is rather dark. I found a poem entitled
The Buried Bonds of Friendship
. It doesn’t exactly help his case for being innocent.”

She handed me a sheaf of papers. I took a quick look. “You’re right. He makes numerous references to stabbing people—people remarkably similar in physique to those in his writing group. But more importantly, this prose is
dreadful
. Seriously, he rhymed ‘eviscerate’ with ‘patty cake.’ I can see why the others kicked him out.”

Rodgers sauntered back in. I’d assigned him the unenviable task of interviewing Eustace’s neighbors to see if they had any useful insights about his whereabouts, employment status, or possible serial killer-like tendencies.

“Tell me you’ve got something, Rodgers,” I said.

He grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve always got something for
you
, Daggers.”

I gave him the old single eyebrow raise. “You know I care about you, pal, but…that sounded a little
too
homoerotic.”

“It did?”

Quinto and Shay both nodded. Even Zeb looked like he wanted to agree.

Rodgers frowned. “Whatever. Scratch it then. And no, I didn’t get anything useful from the neighbors, if you’re wondering. They all seem to think Eustace was an annoying, foul-smelling twerp. They don’t think he was employed, and last time anyone remembers seeing him was about mid-day yesterday.”

“Did anyone have any idea where he might be?” I asked.

“Yeah…no,” said Rodgers.

I balled my hand into a fist and tapped it against my chin. “Alright, let’s try to think this through. Zeb, did Eustace have any family?”

The bearded one shrugged. “Beats me. He never mentioned them, but werewolves tend to isolate themselves. If he did, I can’t imagine they were close.”

“Ok, let’s assume Eustace is on the run but hasn’t left the city,” I said. “If we also assume he doesn’t have any friends or family willing to take him in, then where would he go?”

I got a bunch of empty looks in response, but only one mattered to me at the moment.

“Come on, Zeb,” I said, slapping my hand on the table in front of him. “You’re the only one here who knows anything about werewolves. So think, man! Dig up some of that werewolf psychology you’ve pruned from countless books with long, complicated titles and give me some insight. Eustace is frightened, worried, and fearful. He needs a safe place to go, and he clearly didn’t come to
you
for help. So where else could he have gone? Are there other werewolf sanctuaries that you can think of?”

Zeb snapped his fingers. “A sanctuary! That’s a good idea.”

“Really? Those exist?” I said. “Because I just picked a random turn of phrase. But if you have some ideas, by all means share. What are we talking about? A church? A wildlife preserve? What?”

Zeb shook his head. “Sorry, that’s my fault. I didn’t mean a werewolf sanctuary. Those don’t exist. But knowing Eustace, he might’ve sought refuge in a different sort of sanctuary…”

I prodded Zeb for more, and he gave. As he did so, one of my eyebrows rose of its own accord. His idea was decidedly off-kilter, but it was worth a shot.

38

I sat on some worn concrete steps in the shadow of the main branch of the municipal library—a majestic building five stories high, faced with milky polished marble slabs embellished with friezes of angels and demons and ionic columns that resembled centenarian trees in height and girth. A pair of bronze griffin statues flanked us on either side of the broad steps, each polished to a gleaming, golden luster.

I sucked on my fingers. They tasted like barbeque sauce.

Despite it being one of Shay’s days to choose our lunch destination, I’d convinced her it was in all our best interests to make the stop as quick and painless as possible. Anything longer would increase the odds Eustace would get away, causing the Captain to blow a gasket upon our return to the precinct.

Shay may be a stickler for fancy food, but she does prioritize work over her stomach, a weakness I’ve exploited on more than one occasion. In this instance, I exploited it to the tune of a pulled pork sandwich slathered with smoky sauce and topped with macaroni and cheese.

Quinto noticed me making love to my fingers. “You know, if you’re that desperate for more, there’s some a bit farther south you missed.”

“What?” I glanced down at my shirt. A nice, round barbeque stain stared right back, thumbing its nose at me. “Gah! Again? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I licked my thumb and went to work on the spot. In addition to elderly ladies, brightly-colored sauces suffered an inexplicable attraction to me. Shay mocked me mercilessly for it. Rarely a day passed that we left a restaurant and my wardrobe didn’t sport more flair exiting than it did entering. Of course, things could be worse—Zeb had stored half of his brisket sandwich in his beard for later.

Rodgers knew all about my scientifically unfounded attractive sauce force. “You know, Daggers, you should probably bring a spare shirt to work if it bothers you so much.”

“I don’t need your guff,” I said as I scrubbed at the spot in vain. “Just because you’ve learned proper dinner etiquette under the tip of Allison’s whip doesn’t mean the rest of us are quite so refined.”

“I learned how to eat a sandwich without getting it all over me when I was still wearing diapers,” said Rodgers. “And besides, you were married, too, once upon a time. What’s your excuse for not learning how to avoid spilling food all over yourself?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but someone beat me to the punch.

“Perhaps it has something to do with the number of truncheon blows he’s taken to the skull,” said Steele.

“Gah!” I shouted.

Shay stood behind me. We’d sent her into the municipal library alone to do a little scouting, figuring her capris and flirty yellow top wouldn’t give her away as a police officer.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I said.

“And how am I supposed to do that?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You could start by not wearing flats all the time.”

Shay crossed her arms. “You’re the one who convinced me heels were a dumb idea due to how much walking we do, which turned out to be sage advice. Now you’re telling me I should risk blisters so you don’t look foolish?”

“It would make your calves look great, too,” I said.

Shay frowned.

“Excuse me,” said Zeb with a confused look, “but did you manage to locate Eustace?”

“Don’t worry,” said Quinto. “They’re always like this.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Steele, “I did. Found him in one of the stacks surrounded by books. Looked like he’d been reading for a while. I’m not sure he was even awake when I spotted him. And he’s got a backpack with him, so he’s probably thinking about running.”

“Fantastic.” I stood up and dusted my hands off on my pants, which were miraculously stain-free. “Now let’s figure out a plan of attack and go snag this little weasel.”

“Really?” said Shay. “You want to form a plan? You’re sure you don’t want to run in, swinging Daisy and cracking skulls?”

“Please,” I said. “This is a public library.”

Steele raised her brows at me.

“Fine,” I said. “That basically
was
going to be my plan.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want to confer with me?” said Steele. “You know, seeing as I’m the one who performed the recon?”

“Alright,” I said with a downward curl of my lip. “What do you suggest?”

“Honestly, it should be straightforward,” said Steele. “Eustace was on the second floor of the west wing, in the classics section smack dab in the center of one of the stacks. As long as we go in with a pair of officers and approach from both sides simultaneously, it should be a breeze.”

I eyed Zeb. “You’re sure this guy is one of the cyclical werewolves, right?”

“Well, certainty is relative, Detective,” he said. “Given that autonomous werewolves can transform at will, it’s possible Eustace is in control of his own metamorphoses and merely chose to transform in accordance with the lunar cycles so as to perpetrate a ruse—”

I scowled.

“—but that’s extremely unlikely.”

“Alright,” I said. “Quinto, bring Zeb and stay in the lobby. Steele, you lead the way. When we get close, we’ll split. Rodgers will stay with you on one side of the stacks, and I’ll take the opposite side. Sound good?”

Everyone nodded.

After a brief session of light calisthenics to loosen up, I dug my hand into my coat and wrapped my fingers around Daisy’s cold, hard midsection. For the first time in a while, she might see some action, and she was a girl who liked to get around.

39

I moseyed along the second-floor balcony on the left-hand side of the municipal library’s cavernous reading room, my arm sliding along the railing that ran around the entire room. Below me to my right, scores of studious individuals of all races and creeds sat and read, clustered among rows and rows of identical polished maple tables. Light streamed in through huge arched windows at the sides, making the lanterns that dotted the tables temporarily superfluous.

Rodgers and Steele made their way across the opposite side of the reading room, their legs moving in lockstep with mine. At the far side of the room, the classics stacks stood like immobile sentinels, their shelves packed to the brim with books that were impeccably written, highly-regarded, and as a general rule, mind-numbingly boring. Why anyone would willingly read literary pieces when genre fiction was available was beyond me.

Shay’s recon placed Eustace between the third and fourth racks. With my hand clutching Daisy, I turned the corner to the aisle in question. Shay and Rodgers appeared at the other end. In the middle of the stack sat a slight, young elf with close cropped black hair and a prominent mole on his left cheek. Stacks of books formed a castle around him, and a bulging backpack peeked out from among the walls like a brightly-tinted indigo groundhog.

Though my partner’s recon might’ve been perfectly accurate at the moment she gathered it, Eustace was no longer asleep.