Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) (3 page)

I almost choked on my kolache. “Argh… It’s worse than I thought.”

“What? How so?” said Shay.

Given the nature of the stiff’s apartment, I’d expected a rather horrific body—one covered in cuts, scrapes, and bruises—but the corpse on the mattress was surprisingly clean. His skin was unblemished, without any blood spatters to speak of. His physique was also far less imposing than I’d expected. The destruction throughout the apartment looked to have been caused by a hulking bruiser, but the guy on the bed was several inches shorter than my partner and rather doughy around the midsection.

In the middle of his chest, immediately over his heart on the left side, a thin, ornately-crafted stiletto protruded from his skin. A lone trail of blood snaked down his chest and onto the mattress underneath. It was the only wound I could spot upon first glance, but that didn’t prevent there from being one rather horrific aspect of the body.

“The guy’s naked,” I said.

“So?” said Shay. “If I recall correctly, there was a naked person involved in your last case with Griggs.”

“Yes,” I said. “But there was a crucial difference between that naked body and this one.”

“Being?” Shay prodded.

“The nature of the bits between the legs.” I waved at the dude’s junk. “Nobody wants to see that while they’re eating.”

“Doesn’t bother me any,” said Shay as she polished off the last of her honey doughnut and licked her fingers.

“His nakedness isn’t even close to the most interesting thing about him,” said Quinto as he circled the room. “Tell Daggers what you saw in your vision, Detective Steele.”

Whenever Detective Steele arrived at a crime scene, she enacted an elaborate performance in which her eyes glazed over, her hands floated out to her sides, and her fingers tickled the air—the physical ramifications of suffering one of her out-of-body, reputedly psychic episodes. Afterwards, she’d reveal what clues she’d seen etched in the fabric of time.

Shay smiled demurely. “I saw our dearly departed friend over here getting stabbed…”

I stuck out my lips and nodded in mock seriousness. “Really? Wow. We should tell the Captain. You’re in line for a raise with that kind of insight.”

“…with an icicle,” she finished.

I frowned. My partner’s visions weren’t intended to be strict recreations of the past. Instead, she provided representative images of what might’ve happened. But in this case, I was having a hard time figuring out what in the world she was getting at.

“I’m not sure I follow,” I said.

“Go on,” said Quinto. “Touch the dagger.”

“The one protruding from the stiff’s chest?” I asked.

Quinto nodded. I looked to Steele. She nodded, too.

I felt as if I were taking part in some silly children’s game, except there was no chance of getting surreptitiously kissed at the end of it all.

I shrugged. “All right. I’ll bite.”

I reached a hand out and pressed my fingers to the exposed portion of the blade.

5

The dagger was cold as ice. I pulled my fingers back into a fist.

“It’s cold,” I said astutely. “Why is it cold?”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out,” said Quinto.

“Maybe somebody stored this thing in an ice chest,” I mused.

Shay shook her head. “That was my first intuition, too. But it’s a reasonably warm day. Put a knife in a bucket of ice, even a solid steel stiletto like that one there, and it’ll only stay cool for maybe ten, fifteen minutes tops, at room temperature. This sucker was cold when we first got here, which was close to an hour ago, and it’s still chilly.”

I stuffed the last of my fried apricot pastry into my mouth and thought as I chewed. A murder weapon that was as cold as ice and remained that way, despite the best efforts of mother nature? “Dare I say perhaps we’re dealing with the ‘M’ word here?”

Steele knew exactly what I was referring to. In our first case together, we’d been confronted with a tuxedo-clad dead guy with a gaping hole burned clean through his chest. I’d been convinced he’d been murdered by magical means, but my partner had insisted otherwise. In the end, our coroner Cairny had proven Shay correct. Like a putz, I’d been forced to apologize to my new partner, and on the first day on the job no less.

In retrospect, I probably should’ve trusted Shay’s judgment. She’d studied for years at H. G. Morton’s, one of the most prestigious magical training institutions in the city. That alone made her our precinct’s premier authority on all things magical, both nefarious and otherwise.

Shay shrugged. “Honestly, Daggers, I’m not sure. Elemental manipulation is pretty basic stuff, but even if someone did use magic to cool that stiletto, it should’ve warmed up by now.”

“Maybe the dagger’s enchanted,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” said Steele. “Despite what you might’ve heard through old wives’ tales, enchantments are myths. Magical abilities are innate, meaning they exist only in the self. They can’t be transferred to inanimate objects. My instructors at H. G. Morton’s were very clear on that.”

“Maybe they lied,” I said. “Maybe your instructors had secrets that were too dark and dangerous to share with their students.”

Quinto snorted. “It’s a little early for conspiracy theories, don’t you think Daggers?”

“No, I don’t,” I said with a wag of my finger. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have spurned my kolaches.”

Quinto muttered something. I caught the lines ‘didn’t actually spurn’ and ‘wouldn’t mind one’ before my partner drowned him out.

“All I can tell you is what I’ve been taught,” said Steele. “I don’t think enchantments are real.”

I leaned in to take a closer look at the frigid dagger. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship. Floral, silver filigrees graced the stiletto’s hilt, and the arabesque designs continued on the steel of the blade. The frou-frou elements didn’t make the dagger any less deadly—or illegal—but they certainly added an element of flair. Tiny ice crystals stuck to the blade at its intersection with the cross guard, and a strange, shimmery wetness seemed to coat the steel when viewed from the right angle. My partner must’ve noticed those last two elements, as well.

I straightened and took a final glance around the room. “Alright, let’s recap. We’ve got a dead guy by the name of…do we know his name?”

Quinto shook his head.

“Ok. So we’ve got a yet-to-be-identified dead guy. He’s naked, and he has a mysteriously cold—and very ornate—dagger sticking out of his chest. His place is completely trashed, as if a barroom brawl erupted in his living room, but he looks like he just returned from a full service body cleanse at a high-priced day spa. Am I missing anything so far?”

“For what it’s worth, we don’t think it was a robbery,” said Steele. “We found some cash and miscellaneous valuables in the remains of his nightstand.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” I said. “Thieves are often dolts, but they tend to be efficient. Stripping a guy down to his birthday suit and stabbing him with an icy, possibly magical, blade doesn’t strike me as being a terribly good use of resources. I think we can safely surmise something wacky’s in the works here.

“Moving on—given the state of this apartment, I’m assuming whatever took place here made a lot of noise.”

Quinto nodded. “One of the tenants heard the commotion and called for the police early this morning.”

“Right,” I said. “Let’s start by canvassing the tenement. Quinto, take the apartment across the hall, and work your way down from there. Detective Steele and I will take this side of the hall. Let’s figure out who this guy is first and then see what we can come up with on him.”

“You got it,” said Quinto. He hoofed his way out of the bedroom. Shay moved to follow him, but I motioned for her to hold back until Quinto was out of earshot.

“So tell me,” I said. “The icicle bit. You noticed the frost on the cross guard of the blade?”

“That was the most obvious clue, yes,” she said. “I also noticed a little bluing of the skin tissue around the puncture wound. And there was the single stream of blood flowing from the incision. As fluids get cold, their viscosity increases, and they flow more slowly. Blood’s no different. All together, the evidence was conclusive.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “See, that’s why I keep you around. I never would’ve picked up on that last bit.”

My partner crossed her arms. “And since when do you have a say in whether I get to stick around or not?”

“I’ll have you know I have the Captain’s ear on personnel decisions. I’m a very important man.” I waggled a finger.

Shay rolled her eyes. “Right.”

We started to walk toward the apartment’s exit.

“So hey,” I said, “what can you tell me about firing bricks so they end up a banana-yellow color?”

“Huh?” Shay shot me a confused look. “What possessed you to think I’d know the answer to that?”

“You’re a sciencey type,” I said. “Plus, didn’t you say your father was a chemist?”

“Um, yeah. Chemist, not a mason. There’s a difference.”

“You don’t have to get testy,” I said. “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

Shay jerked a thumb back toward the bedroom. “So a dead guy with an icy dagger sticking out of his chest isn’t a good enough ice breaker for you, then?”

I narrowed my eyes. “That ice breaker bit. Intentional pun?”

Shay sighed. “Are you going to be like this all day?”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m far too cheerful. But I’m sure an hour or so of questioning surly apartment tenants will change that.”

6

I sat on an unrelentingly stiff provincial-style sofa with a faded mauve floral print, the stench of stale cat pee filling my nostrils. Needlework throws and lace doilies crept in from the edges of my vision like dainty, cream-colored spiders, merging with the garish wallpaper to create a fearsome hellscape. All the while, fluffy feline assassins circled my legs and contemplated turning my pants into an impromptu scratching post.

“How the hell did we let ourselves get roped into this?” I whispered to my partner.

Shay displayed an evil smile. “You should be ecstatic. For once your charms actually worked on someone.”

“I wasn’t trying to charm that eighty-year-old crone. She saw weakness in my eyes and pounced on me!”

“Hush, Daggers,” said Steele. “I won’t judge if your love transcends traditional societal norms.”

A soft, creaky voice worked its way to the couch from the confines of the kitchen. “I’ll be right there, dears. The tea’s nearly finished steeping.”

I wiped a hand across my face and groaned. One moment we’d been standing in front of the apartment neighboring our crime scene, knocking on the hardwood, and the next thing I knew I’d been kidnapped and bound to a lonely old lady’s couch with bonds of pity and what I can only assume was commiseration. It wasn’t an emotion I was particularly familiar with.

As if the invisible bonds weren’t enough, the old woman had strategically placed her cats around me and instructed them to attack in the event that I tried to leave. Oh, the command hadn’t been verbal, of course, but I could tell the furry monsters had an unspoken understanding with the liver-spotted one. Their beady little eyes betrayed their evil intentions.

“We could try to make a break for it,” I said to Shay. “I think I can make it to the door before they overwhelm me.”

My partner gave me a furrowed glance. “Huh? Are you talking about the cats?”

“Shh! Don’t refer to them by name. It might imbue them with mystical powers. Besides—oh, never mind. Here comes the old lady.”

The woman, who’d introduced herself as Gertrude Mallory, returned and placed a tray upon the wrought iron and glass coffee table in front of us. Three mugs of tea steamed merrily, emitting a sharp smell of cloves and cardamom, and a glazed porcelain platter held stacks of triangular, crustless white bread pressed around a firm, translucent vegetable. Cucumber sandwiches, perhaps? Did people actually eat those? I thought they were a figment of rich people’s imaginations.

“So, where was I?” said Mrs. Mallory as she retrieved one of the mugs from the platter. “Oh, yes. I was telling you about my son, Percival. You see, when he was young, he left for the war, and—”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mallory,” I said. “As interested as we are to hear about your family—all seven of your children and their sundry offspring—we really need to step back for a moment and focus on what we initially came here for. To ask about your neighbor.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said Mrs. Mallory. “I tend to get distracted easily these days. I have to admit, your kind eyes make me more chatty than usual.”

Shay smirked and poked me in the ribs. I had half a mind to toss one of the more hostile-looking cats in the general direction of her face, but with my luck, the rest of the feline’s brethren would’ve turned on me in retribution. Instead, I pulled out my trusty spiral-bound notepad from one of my interior coat pockets and flipped to an empty page.

“Well,” I said. “The first thing we really need to know is your neighbor’s name.”

“Yes, of course,” said the old woman, her hands clutching the steaming mug for warmth. “His name was Terrence, Terrence Mann. Seemed like a reasonably nice fellow, but I didn’t know him well, to be honest. He kept to himself. Was nice and quiet, which I appreciated. Until last night, of course.”

I scribbled a note in my pad. “So you heard a commotion?”

Mrs. Mallory gave me a disapproving glance, one only a seasoned matron with years of practice could master. I feared I might be deprived of milk and cookies at snack time. “I may be old, Detective, but I’m not deaf. Yes, I heard the racket. Shouts and crashes. I would’ve gone for help, but I feared for my own safety, you understand.”

“Did you hear anything specific during the commotion?” asked Shay. “Any names, for instance? Or what the argument might’ve been about?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Mrs. Mallory. “On the contrary, I didn’t hear any words at all. Just grunts and harsh yells, as if there was some sort of wrestling match taking place. Soon after that I heard crashing and thumping, but that was all.”