Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) (7 page)

Mrs. Mallory slipped her spectacles on and leaned forward to get a better look, drawing back once the image of the creepy guy worked its way to her brain.

“Ooh… No. I’m sorry, detectives, I can’t say that I do. And I’m sure I’d remember that face if I’d come across it. He certainly looks like a miscreant, doesn’t he? Do you think he’s the man who murdered Terrence?”

“It’s a possibility,” said Shay. “He was seen having a heated discussion with Mr. Mann a few days ago at his workplace.”

Mrs. Mallory nodded. “I see. Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more of a help. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come in for tea? I think I still have some cucumber sandwiches from earlier.”

I politely declined as I returned the sketch to my pocket. Not even deep-fried roast beef sandwiches could’ve tempted me to reenter that den of feline terrorists. “Sorry, Mrs. Mallory. Although I do have one more question, if you don’t mind. You said Terrence normally worked nights. Do you have any idea what he did the nights he had off?”

The old lady blinked and scrunched her lips. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I follow.”

“The night manager at the book bindery said Terrence took an evening off every two weeks, and last night was one of those nights.”

Mrs. Mallory shook her head. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I believe you’re mistaken. Terrence never took a night off. He always headed out like clockwork around eight in the evening. I can hear when his door opens and closes from my apartment, you see. Left last night, too—same time as always. Normally he’d get back around six, but he must’ve returned home early last night. That racket next door woke me up at half past five.”

I scratched my chin. “You’re sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“Alright, ma’am. Thanks for your time.”

Mrs. Mallory grudgingly started to close the door. I ushered Shay down the hallway to make sure the old lady wouldn’t think we’d changed our minds about leaving. Once I heard the click of her lock, I paused in front of Terrence’s pad.

“Well, that was interesting,” said Shay.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yates’ brain might’ve been addled from lack of sleep, but I’m sure he was telling the truth about Terry taking those nights off. Similarly, Gertrude over there might be pushing eighty-five, but she sounded pretty certain about her story. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s to trust nosy old people about loud noises their neighbors make.”

“That of course begs a question,” said Shay. “What was Terrence up to those nights he had off? And how does our long-haired mystery acquaintance fit in with this?”

I shrugged. “Beats me. But somebody in this building has to know. And if Creepy McGee’s ever set foot here, I’m sure someone’ll remember it. That’s not a face you easily forget. Rather, it’s the kind that gives you nightmares. Come on. Let’s start pounding on doors. Quinto should’ve warmed these neighbors up for us. Shouldn’t take long.”

13

I was wrong. Casing the remainder of the apartment building took us the better part of the afternoon. Nearly everyone we talked to had more questions for Shay and I than we had for them. What happened to that guy in two twelve? Is that creepy guy in the sketch a serial killer? Are my babies in danger?

That’s one of the problems with being a detective. People assume you have all the answers, even when you’re actively knocking on doors trying to get information. The lay person doesn’t understand how much footwork, guesswork, and head pounding goes into solving the average crime. They assume detectives operate on a different level—that they’re able to walk into a crime scene and, through some sixth sense, determine what happened and who did it from a few loose strands of hair and a boot scuff on the floor. Come to think of it, most people think we function exactly how Steele does. Perhaps common misconceptions played a part in how she developed her routine.

I slumped into my chair when we reached the precinct. “Ugh. I’m exhausted.”

Shay was as sprightly as ever. Perhaps it was due to her slight physique—I carried a little more weight around my middle than I needed to—or perhaps her light step had more to do with her age. I had about a decade on her in that category, which didn’t seem like much until you considered how many bumps and bruises I’d acquired in those ten years.

“It wasn’t that long of a day, Daggers,” she said.

“For you, maybe. I spent the morning running after a five-year-old.”

One of Shay’s eyebrows inched up slightly. “You…want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” I asked.

“Your morning,” said Shay. “Your son, specifically.”

“I…” How could I respond to that? My partner was exhibiting interest in my life—exactly the sort of outcome I’d hoped for after my cold, impersonal relationship with Griggs. Of course I wanted to be able to share my life stories with my partner, but there was more to it than that. The emotions I’d shoved down at lunch were starting to rear their lovely heads again, and I still wasn’t sure how to deal with them. “I’d…like that. But not right now. Maybe some other time, ok?”

Shay nodded, then settled into her own chair at her desk opposite mine. After a moment, she started to purse her lips.

“So, you know what’s on my mind,” I said. “What’s on yours?”

“Oh, nothing. I just thought someone from Terrence’s apartment complex would’ve recognized the guy from our sketch.”

So had I. We’d pounded on every door in the building, talking to every tenant we could find, and we hadn’t so much as sniffed a clue. Nobody had any idea as to the identity of Creepy McGee, though a few did have some choice words for us about the possibility of such a dangerous criminal lurking around their homes. My arguments about belt tightening due to civic budget cuts fell on deaf ears.

“Look, we know that guy’s got to be involved somehow,” I said. “We need to keep at it. Some of the people in that banana-colored apartment complex weren’t home. They might’ve seen something. We could also head back to Williams and Sons and show the sketch around there. Somebody else might know more about Terrence’s friend than Yates did.”

Shay shrugged, looking unconvinced. I couldn’t blame her. Given that nobody we’d talked to at Terry’s place had seen the thin man, I had my doubts about him as our murderer. My gut told me he was involved—I just had no idea how.

If we trusted Mrs. Mallory’s timeline, whoever murdered Terry had arrived very early in the morning, early enough that he might’ve been able to sneak into the apartment building unnoticed. Getting out of the place would’ve been much harder, especially considering the racket he caused, but Terrence lived on the second floor. His windows had been smashed, either during the fight or afterwards. The killer could’ve escaped through the windows and into a nearby alley after completing his knife work.

Of course, that was all speculation, and it didn’t address any of the more burning questions I had regarding the case, such as why Terrence was naked and what the hell was up with the frozen dagger we’d found in his chest.

The stiletto in question languished on my desk, silently resting upon the square of black cloth Quinto had designated as its resting place. I gingerly reached a hand out and picked it up. It felt normal, just as it had earlier in the afternoon. Without the threat of frostbite to dissuade me, I turned the blade over in my hands and inspected it.

“You know what’s interesting about this stiletto?” I said to Steele.

She cocked her head at me. “You mean apart from the inexplicable temperature aspect?”

“Yeah, besides that.” I reached across the desks to hand the blade to Shay. “It’s got no foundry marks.”

Knives of over four inches in length were illegal in New Welwic. In order to curb rampant crime of the sort that ended with people bleeding, the city council had summarily banned the weapons within city limits some fifty years ago. Not even cops could carry them, which stuck in some officers’ craws but didn’t bother me. I had a close personal relationship with my nightstick Daisy, an eighteen inch piece of steel I kept tucked inside my coat at all times—partially for protection and partially due to a lack of satisfying human contact with real women.

That said, foundries in the city could still forge weapons for sale to militaries around the globe, including our own. But all weapons forged since the council’s mandate were required by law to carry a foundry mark identifying where they’d come from. Over the past half century, our city’s valiant police forces had culled nearly all the old weapons from the streets, so the fact that the knife we’d found sticking out of Terry’s chest didn’t have such a mark was another curiosity in a pot already overflowing with them.

Shay looked at the knife. “Maybe it’s homebrewed.”

She meant it might be illegally forged. Despite the city’s best efforts, some homemade shivs and pigstickers inevitably cropped up.

“Uh-uh.” I shook my head. “Look at the craftsmanship on that thing—the heft and balance of the blade, the silver inlay. It’s pretty close to flawless. There’s no way some dude in a smoky basement slapped that together out of scraps of sheet metal and twine. Besides, look at the patina. That sucker’s old. I’d wager somebody’s been hiding that dagger in their home for decades.”

Shay continued to turn the knife over in her hands. She emitted a noncommittal grunt.

“What was that about?” I said.

She looked up. “You know, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but an ancient dagger of expert craftsmanship, one that’s been hidden from view for decades or even centuries, one that for some reason or another was able to cool itself to sub-zero temperatures? It does sound like the kind of thing a witch or wizard might own.”

I smiled. “See? I’m not crazy.”

Shay shot me another of those ‘only one corner of the lips’ sorts of grins. “Well…the jury’s still out on that.”

I let the dig slide. “That could be another avenue to pursue, though. Try to look for powerful mages with secret collections of ancient arms and armor.”

Shay tilted her head. “Um…and how would we know about those arms and armor if the collections are secret?”

“Good point,” I said. “Although that reminds me of something else we haven’t done yet.”

Rodgers was walking back to his desk, a steaming mug of joe cradled in his hands.

“Hey, Rodgers!” I said. “You hear anything from Cairny while we were gone?”

Cairny Moonshadow was our resident dead person poker, or coroner in plainspeak. She was a bit of an oddball. Part human and part fairy—the normal-sized kind, not the little ones with the wings and the dust—Cairny was a gangly drink of water with big round moon eyes and jet black hair that fell to the middle of her back. She was cute, in a way, as long as you could see past the ever-present look of bewilderment on her face.

My holler rerouted Rodgers toward Shay and I. His demeanor said he’d been stuck at his desk all day and wasn’t in any rush to get back. The coffee was another dead giveaway of his pro-procrastination bent.

“Actually, she did pop by earlier,” he said. “Said she wasn’t going to be able to get her report to you today—but you’ll never guess the reason why.”

He smiled a devious smile, the sort only those in possession of juicy gossip sported.

“Ooh,” I said. “Me first, me first. Let’s see…she’s having a séance with other members of her fairy clan in order to try and bring back the spirits of the dead?”

Rodgers gave me a look. “Try again. Something less ridiculous.”

“Ok. She’s having scantily clad fey creatures over for a late afternoon pillow fight?”

Steele crossed her arms and leaned over her desk. “He said
less
ridiculous, Daggers.”

“What?
You’re telling me girls don’t do that to relieve stress?”

Shay shook her head.

“You’re crushing my childhood dreams, you know,” I said.

Rodgers smiled over his coffee. “Come on. Either of you have an honest guess?”

I shrugged. “Apparently my ideas are all
unrealistic
, so no.”

“You clearly want to share,” said Shay. “Out with it, Rodgers.”

“Alright. She’s got…a date.”

The office erupted in a chorus of ‘ooh’s. Well, not quite—just me. But it seemed warranted.

“Now I understand your smile, Rodgers,” I said. “Juicy gossip, indeed. Any idea who the lucky guy is? And are you sure she’s not standing outside the precinct as we speak, staring at the wall and making light conversation?”

Shay took a swing at me, but the width of the desks made it easy to dodge.
“Daggers!
Be nice. She’s a sweet, young woman.”

“I know,” I said. “But that doesn’t make her any less batty.”

Rodgers shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea who she’s out with. Probably better that way, otherwise the scuttlebutt would die out faster.”

He had a point. The mystery of it all was the only part that made it exciting.

“Alright,” I said, pushing myself up from my chair. “Time for me to head home.”

“Already?” Shay glanced out the window. “I doubt it’s even five.”

“Let me clue you in on something,” I said with a point of my finger. “He who works the hardest doesn’t necessarily work the best. Sometimes it’s better to get up, stretch, and take a break. Go home early. Gets the creative juices flowing.”

“Is that a euphemism for drinking beer?” asked Steele.

Rodgers sniggered.

“It wasn’t intended to be, but now it is,” I said.

“You going to Jjade’s?” asked Rodgers.

I nodded. “Either of you want to join me?”

Rodgers shook his head. “I’ve got some paperwork I need to get in before the day’s done. Which reminds me—have you seen Quinto? I can’t find the big guy anywhere.”

“Nope. Sorry,” I said. “Steele, you in?”

She responded in the negative, probably because Jjade’s specialized in foamy brews and she preferred fermented grapes to the sweet nectar of the gods we mortals referred to as beer. Whatever. Her loss. With my tonsils shaking with excitement, I gave the two party-poopers a see-you-later salute and hit the road.

14