by Alex P. Berg
Lucky for us, the fire hadn’t spread much beyond the victim’s flat, and given the building’s construction, it didn’t seem as if the structure was in any danger of coming down, not like yesterday’s complex. Still, our commitments to serve and protect took precedence over our duties as homicide detectives. Transom took the trio of residents outside to get them inspected and out of the way while Quinto, Rodgers, and I split up the duties of checking the remaining apartments for stragglers, Rodgers heading to the top floors, Quinto sticking in the middle ones, and me heading to the ones at the bottom.
I put my knuckles and lungs to good use, knocking on doors and calling for people to open up—in as warm and non-threatening a voice as I could muster, of course. Not that I really imagined anyone could’ve failed to notice the racket caused by the fire and the subsequent arrival of the firefighters, but you never knew. I’d been known to sleep though the occasional volcanic eruption myself, and clearly at least three people had been clueless enough not to leave the building at first warning.
Still, my initial suspicions proved correct. I knocked and knocked, calling out time and again, yet nobody answered my summons. On the one hand, that made me apprehensive. I hadn’t seen many individuals clustered around the building as I’d arrived, and if they weren’t hiding out in their apartments, that meant they weren’t home at all. Not that I found that fact surprising. The sumptuous nature of the building and its placement near the financial district made me suspect only working professionals lived here, and why would any of them be around at midday? That wouldn’t help my efforts to find out who might’ve set the fire on the third floor.
On the other hand, I appreciated the absence of the building’s residents because it let me mull over Transom’s musings. When I’d pressed him on what he meant by other things besides people being capable of setting fires, he’d responded with some indistinct suggestions. Fire sprites or hell hounds, maybe.
I hadn’t immediately dismissed them. I’d seen some crazy things in my near-decade on the force, and I couldn’t help but think about how we’d yet to have a single witness provide us a credible description of a potential suspect. It wasn’t exactly easy to get in and out of apartment complexes without notice, or at least to their higher floors. Fire sprites at least seemed plausible, as those suckers could fly right out a window after doing the deed. Not that I suspected a few sprites could have the power to immolate a body in ten minutes, but I really had no idea how anything magic-related worked, so what did I know?
Hell hounds, on the other hand? Now that was just silly.
I headed through the lobby and out the building after having finished my rounds, not having found any stragglers. I spotted a small contingent of residents chatting together across the street, many of them shaking their heads and looking concerned, but none of them looked devastated. Not like the folks at yesterday’s fire.
A man on my side of the street leaned against the adjacent building, his lips pressed together tightly and his brow creased with worry. He wore a knee-length gray coat with shiny buttons and trim embellished with silver thread. A matching cap perched atop his head.
I approached him. “Excuse me.”
He straightened, making sure his cap was in place. “Morning, sir. Or afternoon. I guess it’s the latter, now.”
I gestured to his outfit. “I don’t suppose you’re the doorman at this place.”
He nodded. “Yessir. Sure am. Fenrick’s the name.”
I didn’t ask if that was a given name or surname. “And you’ve been here all day?”
He looked a little green around the gills. “Ah…yessir.”
Finally. A stroke of luck. “Perfect. I’m Detective Jake Daggers, NWPD. I’m guessing you know most of the people who live in this unit, then?”
“Most of them, yeah.”
I’d also lucked out that the fire hadn’t spread enough to destroy the signage on the third floor. “Any chance you know who lives in apartment three-oh-eight?”
“Three-oh-eight?” The man’s brow furrowed. “Well, let’s see now… I think that would be Mr. Fletcher.”
“Does he have a first name?”
“Well, I imagine so,” said the doorman, “but I don’t recall it off the top of my head. Why? Is his the apartment that caught fire?”
I nodded. “Tell me about him.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What does he look like? Where does he work? Does he live alone, with a girlfriend, with a family?”
“He’s about your height, sir,” said Fenrick. “Black hair. Short. Well-maintained. Wears rich suits most of the time. Kind of a necessity in his line of work. Why are you asking? Was he…? I mean, when you went up there, was there a…?” He trailed off.
“We found a body,” I said. “I’m not sure whose yet. What exactly was Mr. Fletcher’s line of work?”
“Was?”
“Again, we found a body. I’m assuming it was his. You were saying?”
Fenrick gulped. “Right. Well, as far as I know, he was a financier, sir.”
“Like a banker?”
Fenrick shook his head. “Not exactly. He worked in private finance. Venture capitalism, I think.”
I lifted a brow. “You’re familiar with the difference?”
“Lots of residents here work in finance,” said Fenrick. “I’ve developed a working knowledge of some of the basic concepts through conversation.”
“And do you know where he worked, exactly?”
Fenrick shot a thumb up the road. “Had his own firm, or practice, or whatever you want to call it. A few blocks from here. I’m sure I can find the address if you need it.”
“In a minute,” I said. “What else can you tell me about him?”
“Um…not much, I don’t think,” said Fenrick with a grimace. “He was a workaholic. Some of the residents, they like to stop, chat, tell me about their lives. Mr. Fletcher was never rude, but he was always busy, too busy to tell me much of what was going on. I guess it was paying off for him, though. I heard he’d done quite well for himself lately. Made some good guesses on a number of big investments. Rumor had it he was building a nice home up in Brentford.”
“Was he married?”
“No, sir.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“So…any idea why he might not have gone into work this morning?”
Fenrick shook his head. “Oh. No, sir. He went in, or at least I assume he did. Saw him leave at just after seven, same as always.”
“Wait, so…” I blinked. Maybe I’d been right. Maybe it was someone else’s corpse in Fletcher’s room. “Did he come back? Like for lunch?”
“Ah…no. I don’t think so, sir.”
I peered at the doorman more closely. “You hesitated. Why?”
“Nothing, sir. No reason. It’s just that…” He grimaced again. When he spoke, it was in a low voice. “I ate something that didn’t agree with me last night, sir. Bad beef, perhaps. I’ve had to leave my post a good five, six times already this morning. To, you know—take care of urgent business.”
“So you don’t know for sure if Mr. Fletcher came back.”
Fenrick shook his head.
“And I’m going to take a wild guess that you didn’t see any other suspicious or otherwise unknown faces entering the building this morning, either.”
Fenrick looked guilty. At least I now understood why he’d seemed so uncomfortable. Either he was worried he’d screwed the pooch by leaving the front door unattended the day an arsonist decided to strike, or his stomach problems weren’t entirely resolved.
“Did you at least notice when the fire started?” I asked.
Fenrick perked. “I did, sir.”
“Anyone strange try to leave after the fact?”
He shook his head again. “But there’s a fire escape in back. Someone could’ve headed down that way. Might be worth checking to see
if the ladder is down.”
I sighed, feeling defeated once again. How ironic would it be if the escape only helped our criminal mastermind get away? “Sure. I’ll do that.”
I spotted a familiar face split off from the street traffic and head toward us.
“Griggs,” I said as the dustbag approached. “What took you so long?”
He grunted, looking even more dour than normal. “Couldn’t find a rickshaw. Had to walk.”
“Well, get ready to walk some more. We’re about to follow a lead on a new victim’s place of business.” I snapped at Fenrick for him to go get the address. He hopped off.
“The hell we are,” said Griggs. “I just walked all the way here from the station. I’m not going anywhere for a good forty-five minutes.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I said. “I know you’re old, but when did your legs stop functioning?”
“Wipe that damn smile off your face,” said Griggs. “Knowing you, when you get to be my age you’ll be bitching twice as hard as I am. Balky knees suck, and they suck hard.”
Fenrick returned, handing me a slip of paper.
“You realize I’m not going to wait for you,” I said. “This lead is hot and I don’t want it to cool off—no pun intended.”
Griggs scowled.
“Whatever. Rodgers and Quinto are still inside pounding on doors. Whenever they’re done and you’ve found a fountain of youth, come find me.” I flashed the note. “Four fifty east eleventh. See you there.”
12
The floorboards creaked under my weight as I reached the third floor landing. I looked around, wondering if I’d misread the sign at the bottom of the stairs, but then I saw it. Off to my right stood a door of frosted glass, and to its side, a placard that read ‘Fletcher Investments.’
The door opened at my touch, and I pushed into a small lobby, one furnished with a few glossy vases, a pair of leather sofa chairs, and a coffee table laden with books on architecture and contemporary art.
“Pardon me. Can I help you?”
I turned in the direction of the voice, and my jaw dropped. A woman stood behind the desk on the far side of the lobby, but not any woman. The perfect woman. Maybe five-feet ten inches tall, with olive skin and wavy, full-bodied brown hair that fell to her breasts. Her eyes were smoky, her lips rich and full and red. A white blouse with elbow-length sleeves hugged her seductively, as did a black skirt that ended several inches above her knees. She couldn’t have resembled an hourglass any more if she’d been filled with sand.
I stared for a while, eventually realizing I should talk. “Uh…hi. Is this Fletcher Investments?”
The woman arched an eyebrow. “It is… You are?”
“Detective Dake Jaggers. I mean, Jake Daggers. NWPD. Is Mr. Fletcher in?”
“He ran out about an hour and a half ago,” said the woman. “Said he’d be right back. Honestly, I’d started to wonder where he’d gone.”
“Uh huh.” I approached the desk. Try as I might, I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman. Actually, scratch that. I wasn’t trying very hard.
“Can I ask what this is about?” she said. “I assure you, Mr. Fletcher follows all the appropriate rules and regulations required of him by law in tending his investor’s finances. We have copies of all the certificates on file if you need them.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” I said. “In fact, you might want to have a seat.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
I waved halfheartedly toward her chair, but the secretary didn’t take the hint. Not that I was particularly upset about that. It kept more of her assets at eye level.
“There was a fire at Mr. Fletcher’s apartment,” I said. “His personal belongings were all lost, and there was a…body recovered at the scene.”
The secretary gasped a little, and her face lost some of its color. “A body?”
“That’s right,” I said. “The fire consumed it completely. Now, I can’t be sure if it was Mr. Fletcher or not. It—”
The secretary’s eyes started to roll, and she wobbled. I barely had time to mutter a curse and lunge forward before she crumpled.
I slammed my thigh into the corner of her desk in my haste, sending sharp pains shooting into my muscle, but I managed to get an arm around her before she hit the ground. Her momentum dragged me down, pushing her body into me, but at least I kept her from hitting her head on the floor.
I held her there, an arm wrapped around her midsection. I could feel her ribs through the thin weave of her blouse, and the swell of her bosom pressed against the side of my chest. “Gosh, darn it. I told you to sit down. Miss? Miss?” I snapped my fingers.
Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She looked at me, her lips slightly parted. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t feel so good.”
“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “Happens more often that you might think. You should lie down. Maybe get a drink of water. If you think you’re up to it, I could help you to one of those sofa chairs.”
She shook her head weakly, snaking an arm over my shoulders. “No. The meeting room. There’s a full couch there. It’s…it’s not far.”
“We’ll stand slowly, okay?”
She nodded. I counted to three and helped her up. She cut loose with a soft sigh, breathy and vulnerable. Her body pressed even further into mine.
“Uh…that’s it,” I said. “Just down this hall?”
“Yes. That’s right. It’s…oh, my.” She wobbled again. “I’m a little dizzy. And hot. Are you hot?”
“Don’t worry about me, Miss. Here we are.” I pushed through the door she’d indicated, into a room with numerous windows, an oval table with a dozen chairs underneath it, and a long, leather couch matching the sofa chairs in front pushed against the inside wall.
“There we go. Easy now.” I helped the woman down, laying her head upon the armrest at the end.
“I… I can’t believe it,” she said. “Mr. Fletcher? In a fire? Gods… I feel like I can’t breathe.”
“It’s okay. Try to relax.” I’d spotted a tray with a pitcher of water and some empty glasses on the conference table. I filled a tumbler and offered it to the woman. “Here.”
She batted my hand away. “I don’t want water. I need air. Gods…”
She ripped at her blouse, pulling open the top few buttons, and snaked a hand into the gap, massaging her breastbone. I got a healthy glimpse of far more than I should’ve and felt myself grow warmer. Goodness, was she even wearing a brassiere?
A sent a silent prayer for strength to my deities of choice, took a long draw from the water, and set the half-empty glass back on the table. I stripped off my jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair, wiped my forehead on my sleeve—gods, it was hot—and sat down on the edge of the couch next to the woman.
“Look, Miss,” I said. “You might be having a panic attack. It’s nothing to be concerned about. We just need to get your mind out of the dark place it’s in right now. What’s your name?”
She looked baffled. “My name?”
“Yes. You have one right?”
She gasped a little, taking a ragged breath. Her breasts swelled. “Magdalena.”
“Where are you from?”
“What?”
“This won’t work if you don’t play along. Answer the questions. Where are you from?”
“Here. New Welwic. Uptown.”
“Been working here long?”
“About a year. Ever since…since Mr. Fletcher started his own practice.” Magdalena gasped and clenched her teeth.
That had been a poorly posed question on my part, but I forged onward. “Tell me about yourself.”
This time I caught her off guard, in a good way. “What do you mean?”
“What do you like to do in your free time? You enjoy music?”
“Sure, I guess,” she said, her breathing quick. “Anything with a nice rhythm. Slower songs, with saxophone and guitar, piano and ba
ss. Soft drums.”
“That’s great. What about dancing?”
“Of course. Rumba, especially. It makes me feel…alive, in a way. It’s so fluid. So fiery.”
I nodded. “It’s a fantastic dance. One of my favorites.” Which was a lie, of course. I hated dancing, and I didn’t have the faintest idea what was involved in a rumba, but anything to keep her talking.
Magdalena locked eyes with me, and I felt my throat tighten. Gods, she was gorgeous. If not for Nicole and Tommy…
She sat up suddenly. “Thank you, Detective. I’m…feeling better. I think you were right. I just had to shift my thoughts a little.”
She trailed her hand across my leg as she stood. It was all I could do not to sigh. “Uh… Anything to help.”
With her back to me, Magdalena approached the table. She moved her hands to her blouse, presumably to button it back up. “My goodness, though, I still feel fuzzy. And warm. Are you warm, detective?”
“A little.” I stared at the curves revealed by her tight skirt, feeling sweat bead at the center of my chest. “But I’ll be fine. Now if perhaps we could move on to—”
Magdalena turned, and I just about had a heart attack. Her shirt hung open to her skirt, exposing her perfect breasts—the right shade of tan, big enough to fill the hand but not so ponderous as to sag.
Before I could so much as squeak, she was on top of me, pressing her mouth into mine. My lips parted, and her tongue darted in, confident and fierce. Her body pressed hard against mine, her breasts soft but firm, her legs straddling me.
I couldn’t help it. I kissed her back. Her scent filled my lungs, a mixture of cinnamon and spice and a raw, sexual musk. My hands gripped her hips, moving of their own accord to her round rump. My inner Daggers expressed itself enthusiastically, forcing my manhood tightly against the crotch of my pants. Magdalena moaned, her hands fumbling with my belt, and gods, I wanted it. I wanted it so bad. I couldn’t remember the last time Nicole had attacked me so, that she’d not just taken part but desired me. Craved me. It felt so good.