Coyle and Fang: Curse of Shadows (Coyle and Fang Adventure Series Book 1)

by Robert Adauto III

  The more obvious fact was that the Academy had piled obstacles in front of her progress. They didn’t want her to get the position of detective. They didn’t want her to succeed. Which was why they gave her the unsolvable crime. They wanted to prove a woman couldn’t do men’s work.

  I’ve got to prove them wrong.

  Every crime was solvable. One couldn’t rely on evidence found in the light. You had to look in the hidden to find the solution. This incident may have been unsolvable to them, but this was her chance to use her giftings. Her motivation wasn’t pride or womanhood—no, it was much simpler than that.

  She wanted to find her murderous fiancé, the Ripper, within the accordance of the law and bring him to justice.

  Just like he dared me to.

  “You have fifteen minutes, Constable!” Master Detective Meys called out.

  She ignored the warning and went back to the table, knelt, and peered underneath. Nothing unusual. No weapons. No wires. She circled the table and sniffed the glass of Scotch whisky. No poisons. Nothing useful. She examined the other glass. Vodka. It was mostly empty. She crossed her arms and studied the table before taking the dead man’s seat. Her eyes searched for answers. There had to be something. Some clue as to how this man had been decapitated with no visible means.

  I suppose a last prayer would be appropriate.

  For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.

  She paused and looked straight up.

  Do you hear me? Or am I—

  “Oh,” she whispered, turning her head sideways and squinting. She looked down at the table and spread her hands over the smooth surface. Then she traced a finger along the line of her jaw, staring at the mirror behind the bar. Her finger moved down to her neck and stopped.

  She pushed herself away from the table and knelt by the body. She mumbled to herself and spotted something interesting. Pulling back his pant leg, she studied the soles of the man’s shoes. Blood on his soles and at the edges of his pants. But not his blood. Interesting.

  She scooted over and examined the decapitated head, using her fingers to search his bushy hair. She knew what she would find and was thrilled when she found it.

  “Oh,” she said, examining a tiny hole at the crown of the head. The judges had left the gallery now and were standing a few yards away. They stood silent and studied with her as she used her fingers to run along the inside of the skin of the neck.

  Her finger moved slowly along the edge where the skin had been cut. She stopped and rubbed her finger and thumb together before raising them to her nose. She breathed out and paused before smelling the blood on her fingers again. Her eyebrows scrunched together. She wiped her fingers on her handkerchief and stood to inspect the blood-spattered wall.

  “Six and a half minutes, Constable,” said Meys. Some judges were mumbling in hurried, excited whispers while others scribbled on notepads.

  She studied the wall from different angles, training her eyes on each spray of blood, placing her finger on a few spots along the wall. And then she said, “Oh.”

  She held a spot on the wall and traced a single, straight line that raced away from the doorway. By now, the judges had filed inside the large room and stood directly behind her. All eyes followed her fingertip along the wall until it stopped. She picked at a spot on the wall until her fingertip caught something. She tugged carefully until she could pinch it between her thumb and forefinger and finally pulled out a curious object. It was as long as a threading needle, wide as a shoelace and flat as a razor. In fact, it was a razor. She inspected the object in the light when she heard the announcement.

  “Time’s up, Constable Coyle,” Meys said. He dismissed the actors and waited until they were outside the gates before proceeding, “Constable Coyle, you may present your findings and supporting evidence to the judges and myself. Usually, the gentlemen wait at the stands, but in your case, they have arrived for a more intimate view.”

  She turned to face the judges and a wash of ice water flooded her veins. Butterflies danced in the pit of her stomach. Someone cleared their throat.

  This was it.

  “I found...” she said. She waved the razor between her fingers, but the lump in her throat made it difficult to speak.

  Perhaps they can hear my heart pounding like a steam-powered train. My cheeks are redder than roses. Everyone’s looking at me. Say something!

  “Yes? What did you find?” Meys huffed, and she flinched.

  “Right,” she said. “The victim, Mr. Trevin, had just arrived from, ahem, a house of ill repute.”

  “I’m sorry, Constable,” said one of the older judges. “Could you explain how you know his whereabouts?” He tilted his head and frowned.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Two things. There were bits of wool-carpet fiber on the soles of his shoes and near the bottom of his trousers. The carpet fibers were different colors, including purple, the most expensive dye in wool carpets. He—or rather, his body—smelled of spiced citrus with floral accents. Being a constable, I have had my share of run-ins with prostitutes and am quite familiar with this perfume. Ergo, he most likely visited a house of ill repute.”

  She didn’t tell them everything, though. There were spots of darker, older blood on the inside of his left trouser leg, and the same blood was smeared across the soles of his boots. But she had learned to hold her cards close and only reveal essentials. This man, Trevin, had been involved in some other altercation earlier that evening. Over what? She couldn’t say for certain. Not yet, anyway.

  All of the judges turned and inspected the shoes and trousers of the victim. A rush of excitement burst through her chest and arms. Finding facts others had passed over filled her with the confidence she needed so desperately. It was a good feeling. Things were looking up. A tight smile crept across her lips, but she looked down and forced it away.

  “Thank you, Constable,” the older judge said. “You may continue.”

  “Yes, sir.” She swallowed. “He sat at the table for roughly seven minutes before—”

  “Seven minutes?” another judge asked.

  She walked over to the table and pointed at the glass of whiskey. “He ordered a double single-malt whiskey and took two sips.” She paused when she received confused looks before continuing. “The average gentleman will wait between two and a half and three and a half minutes between sips. The measured whiskey in the glass would be the same amount as a double serving, minus two sips. For now, we will ignore the other glass, which obviously belongs to a patron who is out of this storyline.”

  She did find strange fingerprints on this other glass. Though the imprints were most certainly produced by skin oils, there were no ridges and dips characteristic of human fingertips. She found this most curious. Trevin had apparently been involved in another possible death and then met with someone without fingerprints. But she didn’t have all the facts, just circumstantial evidence. And her excitement was overshadowed by the stress of passing the test.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “He had sat at the table for about seven minutes when he was shot.” She pointed at the ceiling. “From directly above into the apex of his skull.”

  The men stared up at the two-story ceiling. Mumbles peppered the air, and fingers pointed at the hole they had just discovered.

  “Yes, gentlemen, an assassin was at work,” Coyle said.

  “An assassin!”

  “Goodness gracious!

  “What on earth?”

  “Please.” She raised her finger at them, her neck bristling with heat. “Please allow me to continue, thank you.” She was in her element now, and she detested when people showered her with their inane questions. The mumbling faded to whispers until she shot the last two murmurers a look. Their mouths closed, and she continued.

  “I know this may seem confusing, but I will be thorough in my explanations and will be pleased to answer questions after I finish. Now.” She motioned to the hea
d, and they followed like obedient schoolchildren. She knelt and lifted tufts of hair. “Do you see this hole?”

  Some of the men reached for their glasses as she spread the victim’s hair to the side.

  “This is an entry wound, see?” She pointed at the crown before motioning to the neck. “And here.” She slid a finger along a portion of the torn skin and stood. “Who wants to smell?” She shoved the bloodied fingers into their faces.

  The judges recoiled and shook their heads. A few had their mouths agape in horror or shock that a woman would willfully stick her fingers inside a decapitated head.

  She lifted her finger to her nose. “Blood has its own organic scent, mostly of iron. But during my investigation, I discovered another altogether inorganic scent: hydraulic fluid.” She sniffed at her finger and offered it to the nearest judge. He glanced to his side before leaning in to smell. He inhaled and pursed his lips.

  “Hydraulic fluid,” he agreed, and leaned back. “Jeremy, have a whiff. This is remarkable.” The judge next to him leaned in and sniffed. His eyes went wide. Now all of them wanted to smell the fresh clue. Some nodded, but most were awash with confusion.

  “The hydraulic fluid,” she continued, “was found inside the victim’s neck, and it came from a tiny device which shot out these tiny blades.” She held up the object she’d pulled out of the wall.

  “Remarkable!”

  “This is quite something!”

  “I can’t wait to tell Peter.”

  “But who would assassinate him?”

  “Can a device that tiny be—”

  She cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, please, please!” The judges abruptly shut their mouths. Someone mouthed, “Beg your pardon.”

  “And so, dear gentlemen, judges of the Academy”—she nodded to Meys—“and Master Detective Meys, here is my synopsis: Mr. Trevin met with unknown persons at a, ahem, brothel and came here to discuss whatever it was they were discussing.” A trickle of sweat ran down her back, and her fingers twitched. She felt confident with her solutions, but would they really let her into their world?

  “He was shot by an assassin from above. The precisely engineered round penetrated his skull and sank into his neck. The device rested inside before it followed its design, which was to open and burst outward in a counterclockwise fashion. Two flechette razors were released from a tight coil, spinning with great speed. The resulting action cut his veins, muscle, tendons, and bone until all flesh was severed and his head was decapitated. The blades exited from the right and left sides of his neck and buried themselves deep into the walls here.” She pointed out where the blades had been buried. “Seemingly never to be found. The device used was a specific and professionally engineered item of which I have never seen the likes before.”

  “That’s quite extraordinary, Constable Coyle. Extraordinary, indeed,” Meys said. “But please provide the judges with proof of your evidence.”

  “Sir?” she asked.

  “Your synopsis is truly interesting,” he said. “But where are your recorded findings for submission of evidence?”

  “Well, I used my brain to deduce probabilities and collect the—”

  “Constable Coyle, are we to understand you do not have your pad of paper to record the evidence?”

  She cleared her throat, “Well, sir, I don’t actually have a pad of paper. It seems someone pickpocketed me earlier.”

  “Constable, are we to believe you allowed someone to pickpocket you? And do you suppose you could enter a court of law and offer a brief synopsis of the evidence you gathered... using your brain?”

  Someone chuckled. Her skin prickled. She was going to lose her only chance. All because they couldn’t stand to let her into their detectives club! But she had to remain professional no matter the circumstance. She cleared her throat and took a breath.

  “Sir, I understand the importance of gathering evidence for submission to a court, but we are standing in a facsimile of an unsolvable case, which I have almost certainly solved,” she said.

  “Watch your tone, Constable! I simply asked if you had a way of gathering evidence during the mock investigation. A simple pad of paper and pencil. Basic, rudimentary tools used by a detective to gather and provide evidence when necessary.”

  “Sir, I gathered evidence using my eyes, fingers, and mind.” She counted her trembling fingers in front of them. “I found the hole in the ceiling used by the assassin. I found—”

  Meys raised his hands. “Constable! You are turning down a path you don’t want any part of. Now, due to your lack of basic tools to collect evidence, I must disqualify—”

  “Disqualify?” Her hands clenched into fists. Heat rushed into her face, and this time she didn’t care who noticed. “What? How can I be disqualified when I solved your unsolvable riddle? Could you answer me, sir? Do you know how ridiculous this sounds?”

  “Please check your tone, young lady, or there will be stiff consequences.”

  “Oh! So this is what it’s all about! Time to disqualify the ‘young lady’ because she doesn’t belong with the men who didn’t have the common sense to solve this case. Is that it?” She tapped her finger into his bony chest, her Irish heritage threatening to make an appearance.

  “Constable Coyle, you are now under arrest for assault on a master detective and contempt of an official during the process of testing.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? Have you gone mad? An official of what, sir? An official of the collection of half-assed, pompous misogynists?”

  Meys pointed at her right hand. “You’re holding that razor in an aggressive fashion, and your feet have shifted into a fighting stance. Now drop the weapon.”

  Her fingers spread apart, dropping the flechette and raising her open hand.

  “I’ll show you an aggressive fashion.” Her open fingers tightened into a fist and she punched his face. He stumbled back. Blood spurted from his nose. She took a step forward, but they grabbed her arms and dragged her back. She cursed. Manacles wrapped around her wrists.

  It was over.

  They led her through the open square as tears streamed down her hot cheeks. The bright sun beat on her face. She heard the judges grumble behind her.

  “How on earth did that come about?”

  “It’s too bad. I thought she would have made a fine detective.”

  “Too much fighting spirit for her age. Older, but still pretty. She’d make a great wife.”

  “What time is bridge tonight?”

  “She probably never wanted this to happen.”

  ***

  Fang slid her fingers over her fake mustache and shook her head. She walked back to the judges’ stands with the others, disguised as one of the older men. She squinted up at the sunlight and took a deep breath.

  She had to kill Trevin from a distance, that’s why she shot him from above. Yet she wanted it to be clever, make sure to take his head off. And ever since then, she had been on the hunt for one very special person to uncover his death. Today, Fang watched with fascination as Sherlyn Coyle found evidence of her work, things she hadn’t even considered at the time. The hydraulic fluid from the razor-rotor?

  Brilliant.

  And Coyle was a fighter. What an impression the constable made. Fang shook her head and took her seat with the judges who had no idea there was an assassin vampire in their midst. It may have seemed cruel, but she was glad Coyle was disqualified. Fang smiled. She had finally found her detective.

  Chapter 4

  San Francisco City Hall

  Prisoner cell no. 18

  Fifteen days later

  Lord, humble me for not being as holy as I should be, or as holy as I might be through Christ. For thou art all, and to possess thee is to possess all.

  Amen.

  Another night in a jail cell. Coyle shook her head, certain God was not listening. Does He even listen to the black sheep? Those who turn away from His shepherd’s crook? Those who end up in a jail cell because they were stu
bborn and selfish and foolish and bad-tempered?

  She ran her fingers through her hair and rubbed her scalp, trying to fight back another round of pity tears.

  “Well, Mother,” she said. “Here’s your daughter. Alone in a jail cell. Finally, I suppose. I was never one to follow direction well, was I? I have to wonder if that was the reason you made me memorize passages when I was young. Maybe you believed I wouldn’t stray from the flock if I was filled with Scripture.

  “Well, I was wrong too. I believed if I memorized what you gave me, Father would pay more attention. Play with me. Hold my hand. Help with my lessons. I devoured everything you gave me: Bible pages and prayer journals and books devoted to God and His works. For all that, both of us were wrong. I fell in love with a murderer, and Father barely knew I existed.

  “And this is the fruit of my planting.” She spread her arms out and huffed. “I don’t live up to what the church implores: holiness and righteousness. I always find a way to act contrary to Scripture. And because of my stupidity, I’ll never find Ronan.”

  She slid down against a wall, buried her warm face in her cold hands and sobbed. She had been so close, so very close. She should have been working alongside men in the department, men who could help her find the Ripper.

  Instead, she stepped onto a frozen lake and plunged into its icy grasp. And now she was trapped. No escape. No second chance. She wiped her wet eyes and looked up before leaning her forehead against the iron bars.

  “My temper drove me here,” she said. “Not the imbeciles. Father, forgive me. The judges were only doing what men do. I should have expected all this. Mother, I should have listened to you, too. I should have let myself be courted by a rich, arrogant man who wants a quiet wife.” She laughed. “Who am I kidding? I’m not worthy of their ilk. What’s the point in even living now? It’s all gone. Everything’s gone.”