by Alex P. Berg
I let my gut lead me, and lead it did, treating me to a unique slice of after hours city life. I travelled down Monroe Street, then south through the Mercantile District, past cobblers and dressmakers and haberdasheries, all of them closed and shuttered, the lanterns on the streets outside lit for safety but none left burning in the windows. I stopped short of making it all the way to the sea, turning somewhere around Appleton before heading back. By the time I’d made it to Rucker Park, I’d started to feel almost human, the stars having ceased their constant meteor shower and coalesced back into distinct, stationary points.
I stopped in a clearing at the edge of a pond thick with reeds, frogs croaking a steady melody from within. The moon hung low in the sky, hovering over the tops of buildings to the south. I wasn’t much of an astronomer, but that meant it was late, didn’t it? Two or even three? I’d neglected to glance at the clock at Jjade’s before leaving. Fight or no, I needed to get to bed, otherwise I’d never make it to work in the morning, at a reasonable hour or otherwise.
I looked around me, trying to get a sense of my surroundings—and suddenly realized my gut was an asshole.
The two benches which straddled the splitting path across from the pond gave it away. I glanced at the body of water, remembering exactly where I’d knelt down. Where I’d reached into my pocket and produced the ring. Where I’d taken Nicole’s hand as she squeaked and covered her mouth with the other.
The vision didn’t last long. As quickly as it came to me it flew away, replaced with a new one. Nicole in our apartment, yelling and crying. Clenching her fists and pointing her fingers. Tommy, crying in the background. But I saw more than tonight’s events. Others, too. Me, leaving the apartment, slamming the door as Nicole’s angry shouts trailed behind me. Her shoulder, pulling away from my hand as I tried to cuddle after a long day at work. Coming home, time and again to a darkened home. Cold meals. Drink after drink after drink.
I was wrong. The beer hadn’t drowned the anger. It had only roiled it up, and now it came back, frothy and bubbling.
I leaned over and retched, vomit splashing to the ground with a wet splat. I heaved, twice, three times, the beer rushing from my stomach to soak the earth. Sadly, my anger and disappointment didn’t leave with it.
When I stood, I saw for a brief moment all the images overlaid, the happy and the sad, the good and the bad, but mostly the ones that infuriated me. Nicole was at the center of them all. But so was I.
In a rush of pure anger, I reached down to my hand, wrenched the wedding band from my finger, and gripped it tight. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what I intended to do—throw it into the pond, maybe—but the reckless rage faded as quickly as it came, much like my alcohol-induced malaise.
With a scowl on my face, I stuffed the ring deep into my pants pocket, turned, and stumbled off.
7
“Daggers!”
“Hzghrgh!” I flailed and lashed out, blinking furiously as I tried to ground myself in reality. Light seared my vision, my surroundings an indistinct blur that tilted and swayed. I shaded my eyes, and gritted my teeth, waiting for things to come into focus.
They did, eventually. Quinto stood over me, a concerned look on his face. “Daggers, are you okay? I told you not to get too sucked into those files last night.”
I blinked one last time, taking note of the desk in front of me, Griggs’ workstation on the other side, and the rest of the pit sprawling beyond. Light streamed in through the windows facing the Captain’s office. A rich, earthy fragrance wafted off the mug held in Quinto’s mitts.
I sat up in my chair and immediately regretted it. My back screamed in pain, stiff and knotted, but my head was even worse. A thousand goblin skirmishers pricked me with their pikes while the war drums of their colleagues pounded mercilessly inside my skull.
I groaned. “Urgh. I feel like death.”
“You don’t look much better,” said Quinto. “And I hate to mention it, but you don’t smell a ton better, either. On second thought, I’m guessing you didn’t stay here all night.”
I held my head, hoping the contact might make me feel better. It didn’t. “Figure that out all by yourself, did you?”
“As I always told everyone at the academy, I’m the best of the best of the best.”
“And we’re all glad you’re on our side.” I glanced around. “What time is it?”
“About seven thirty,” said Quinto. “Never thought I’d see the day when you beat me into work, but, well…I’m not sure this really counts, does it?”
“Save your wit for someone who cares.” Slowly, I leveraged myself out of my chair and held myself steady on the corner of my desk. I took a second glance toward the Captain’s office. “The bulldog in yet?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” said Quinto. “But I’m usually the first one in. Sometimes Griggs beats me.”
“Of course he does. He needs to stay miserable. I’m sure waking up at the crack of dawn helps keep his rage simmering.”
Quinto snorted. “I wake up early, and I’m not a sourpuss.”
“You’re exempt somehow. Genetics, I’d bet. You seem to be immune to anything from dog bites to stab wounds, so why wouldn’t you be?”
“I feel like you’re trying to make some sort of play on ‘thick-skinned,’ but it’s not coming though. I’ll give you a pass based on your plight.”
“My what?”
“The fact that you’re still drunk.”
“Don’t insult my good name. I’m merely hungover.”
Quinto raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “Well, whichever it is, you might want to freshen up a bit. I can’t imagine the Captain will be pleased to see you here in this state. And don’t forget to do something about your breath. It’s a dead giveaway.”
“That I tossed a few too many back last night?”
“That you tossed something back up, more like.”
I grunted and stumbled off toward the break room, moving slowly and occasionally steadying myself on someone else’s desk. Luckily, none of the other detectives who populated the floor had arrived, which limited my display of jackassery to the handful of beat cops who nodded and snickered from the direction of the front doors.
Upon arriving at the break room, I discovered one more reason never to wake up early. There wasn’t any coffee in the pot. Hell, there wasn’t even any warm water in the kettle. Quinto must’ve brought his tea with him from home.
Muttering angrily, I rummaged around in the cabinets for supplies, feeling like I was trying to birth a porcupine through my skull the whole time. Eventually, I found the beans and took them to the grinder, cranking on the handle only enough times to produce the coffee for a single pot. Let other, more sober officers take care of the rest of the bag. With the grounds packed into the press and set over the stove, I headed off in search of the restrooms.
I startled myself when I got to the mirror. I looked terrible. My eyes were bloodshot, with dark bags hanging underneath them. My hair looked as if it had been batted about by a kitten who’d gotten high on catnip and mistaken my head for a ball of yarn, and my clothes were in desperate need of a hot iron.
I filled the sink with water and splashed my face with the contents, sucking air through my teeth as the chill nipped my cheeks. Using the bar of soap in the dish to my right, I soaped my hands and used them to scrub what I could of the night’s events from my face. Unfortunately, most of the damage wasn’t physical in nature. The grime would wash away. The lingering anger and resentment was harder to dislodge.
I tamed my hair with wet fingers, toweled off, and headed back to the break room, where the coffee pot had started to whistle. I poured myself a mug and topped it off with cold water from the sink, not because I liked my coffee weak but because I needed some now. I could always come back for a second cup later.
By the time I made it back to my desk, Griggs had arrived. He sat in his chair, leaning back, with one eye on Fire Marshal Transom’s fil
e and the other on my notes from last night. He must’ve seen me in his peripheral vision, because he nodded as I sat down.
“Morning,” I said.
He grunted. “You’re in early.”
“Ask Quinto if you want the details.”
Apparently, he didn’t. He kept reading, and I was happy to sit there and drink my coffee in silence.
If we’d secretly entered into some sort of competition, I guess I lost. When I reached the bottom of my cup, I set it down and cleared my throat. “So…what do you think?”
Griggs looked up. “About what?”
“The murders,” I said. “Were they intentional or not? Were the fires set to hide the evidence of the killings or were the deaths incidental results of the arson?”
Griggs shrugged, his shoulders creaking as he did so. “Who the hell knows? We don’t have enough on our plates to guess. We don’t even have a suspect. Not like it matters. It’s a felony either way.”
“We might have a suspect,” I said.
Griggs flipped through the file. “Who? Guzmann’s maid?”
“I was thinking the lady at the VA.”
“On what grounds?”
“That she visited his house every now and then.”
“That it?”
“I like to make unfounded guesses. It’s what I do.”
Griggs grunted again. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, we can talk to the lady at the VA.”
I scrunched my face. Even that made my head hurt, but not as much as before. The coffee was helping. “Seriously?”
“Not because I think she’s a suspect,” said Griggs. “But we need to learn about Guzmann. Him and yesterday’s stiff, both. Gotta start somewhere. The VA’s as good as anyplace.”
“Alrighty, then. I didn’t expect you to agree with me. Ready to go when you are.”
Griggs pushed back from his desk. “Let’s go, then.”
“What, now?” I said. “It’s ten to eight. They’re probably not even open.”
“They will be by the time we arrive. And you just said—”
“Yeah, I know what I said.” I sighed. “Let me snag another cup of coffee and drain the lizard, first. Then I’ll be in business.”
8
We stopped outside a boxy brick building featuring rows upon rows of square windows, evenly spaced and in need of washing. Either the architect had been a big fan of cubism, or the building’s bankrollers had been big fans of not paying their architects well.
I pointed at the place with a half-eaten churro. “That’s the VA?”
“It houses a bunch of government offices, not just veteran’s affairs.” Griggs glanced at my breakfast. “You plan on bringing that in with you?”
“You think they’ll care about cinnamon sugar falling on their floor?”
Griggs scowled. “Why haven’t you finished it yet? You bought it right after leaving the station.”
I took another nibble. “I’m easing my stomach back into a groove. I had a rough night.”
Griggs grunted and headed on in. I followed him.
After consulting with a directory in the lobby, we headed up the stairs to the second floor. There, we followed the signs to the veteran’s affairs office, a broad expanse of weathered desks and ratty corkboard partitions that reminded me of our own pit, except without the same smells of must, old cigarettes, and sweaty, overweight guys who’d eaten one too many donuts. It did smell of stale coffee, however, unless that was my own lingering scent. I doubted it, though. Today, I smelled like fresh coffee.
A secretary at the front desk looked up. “Here to talk with Health or Benefits?”
“Neither,” I said, producing my badge. “NWPD. Got a few questions relating to an arson from a couple days ago. You familiar with a man by the name of Rufus Guzmann?”
The secretary lifted a practiced eyebrow, one that fully conveyed both her complete and total disinterest as well as her contempt. “Should I be?”
“He died in the fire we’re investigating,” I said. “He was a vet. Got regular visits from your social workers every few months.”
The secretary pointed down a corridor between the cubicles. “First right at the intersection. Ask Tannyth, Kieran, or Susan. They’ll be able to point you in the right direction.”
I followed the lady’s instructions, passing a dozen or so desks before taking a right and arriving at another cluster. A trio of females sat at their stations, a pair of slender elves with dark hair and a young blonde woman, all of them filing paperwork of various kinds.
“Pardon me, ladies,” I said, holding up my badge. “Detective Jake Daggers. NWPD. This is Griggs. Mind if I have a moment of your time?”
I felt like a big man, standing there with my shiny badge, but to the lovelies in front of me, I might as well have been a janitor. They regarded me with indifference that rivaled the secretary’s. Maybe the churro in my other hand deadened the effect of the badge.
“What do you need?” asked one of the elves.
I turned to her, her face dusky and angular. “I’m looking for someone who worked with one of your charges, specifically the person who worked with a man named Rufus Guzmann. Big guy, took a spear to the knee in the Jade Mountain Invasion?”
“Rufus. Yeah,” said the blonde woman. “I worked with him.”
“You’re Susan?” I said.
“Kieran,” she said. “That’s Susan.”
She pointed at the dusky elf. The elf pointed to a nameplate on her desk and affixed me with an evil glare, like she thought I was a racist or something. How should I know the elf’s name was Susan?
There was a chair in front of Kieran’s desk, so I pulled it out and sat in it. If Griggs wanted a place to sit, I’m sure he could find a spare seat somewhere.
“Is Rufus in some sort of trouble?” she asked.
I gave her the once over. She was pretty enough, with dirty blonde hair that hung to her shoulders and a small mouth that looked as it would be great for pouting. A pair of thin glasses perched over her nose, giving her a bookish air that didn’t prevent her from being cute at the same time. As far as a memorable rack, though, she wasn’t in possession of one. At least I couldn’t see it under the heavy sweater she wore. In her current attire, I doubt anyone could’ve confused her for a prostitute, but in a racy dress, without the glasses…maybe.
“Rufus isn’t in any trouble,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s okay. In fact, he’s dead.”
Kieran’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Burned to death in a fire two nights ago,” I said. “Griggs and I are investigating his possible murder.”
Kieran put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my goodness. That’s terrible.”
Behind me, I heard Griggs mutter something indistinct, probably about the lack of chairs. Not my fault if he was too lazy to find another.
“You worked with him?” I asked, taking a bite of my breakfast.
“He was one of the vets assigned to me, yes,” said Kieran, glancing at my churro. “I checked in on him every few months, just to make sure he was doing okay.”
“Is that normal behavior for your line of work? Checking in on veterans to make sure they’re getting by?”
“It is for me,” said Kieran. “I’m in skilled home care, specifically working with substance abuse patients.”
“Substance abuse?” I said. “Guzmann was a drug user?”
Kieran shook her head. “No, but I understand your confusion. The VA doesn’t have a specific department to cover guys like him, so he fell into my lap. To be fair, he was a substance abuser. It just so happened that substance was food, not narcotics.”
I blinked. I’d known he was fat, but I didn’t realize he was an addict. “So being overweight classifies as an addiction nowadays?”
“In his case, yes.”
I furrowed my brow. Behind me Griggs muttered once more. “Come again?”
Kieran looked at me over her glasses. “Addiction is extremely common among injured veterans, Detective. Most of them turn to drugs or alcohol, but it’s not rare for them to get addicted to any number of activities. Eating. Gambling. Sex, if they can get it. I could go into the psychological arguments for why if you’re interested.”
“I’m not.”
“I didn’t think you would be.”
Kieran didn’t let go of her judgmental look, keeping her eyes on me and my churro. I wasn’t getting any sort of sexpot vibe from her. She probably wasn’t the harlot, if indeed there was one.
“Guzmann’s neighbors described him as incredibly obese,” I said. “How big was he, exactly?”
Kieran shrugged. “I don’t know. Four, five hundred pounds, maybe? I don’t think he’d stepped on a scale since his time in the army.”
I would’ve whistled if I possessed the ability. It took real effort to put on that sort of weight. “What else can you tell me about him?”
“I…don’t know. I didn’t see him often. Once every two or three months. I spend my afternoons making house calls to the vets I’m assigned to. I get through a couple a day, usually. It takes me a few months to cycle through them all.”
“Surely you can tell me something,” I said. “Did he have any friends? Enemies? You realize we’re investigating a possible murder here, depending on how the fire department’s arson investigation goes.”
Kieran shook her head. “I don’t think he had many friends, if any. Possibly some guys from his time in service, but that was almost twenty years ago if I’m remembering correctly. You talked to his neighbors, right? Did they mention anyone?”
Griggs snorted. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was mirthful. I didn’t think he knew the meaning of the emotion.