by Alex P. Berg
7
Shay and I exited the church and walked over to the restaurant in question, a shabby, mottled brick building with a weather-beaten sign above it labeling it the Delta Deli. A smaller sign hung underneath, with the words ‘& Brew Pub’ in a different type. A chimney puffed smoke out from the back, the same chimney I’d spotted from the confines of the alley.
“A ratty joint that serves sandwiches and beer?” said Shay as she gazed at the sign. “This place might be tailor made for you, Daggers.”
“Hey, don’t tempt me,” I said. “That scone I devoured is already a distant memory.”
I pulled the door open for my partner, and a shopkeeper’s bell mounted in the frame jingled. Inside the restaurant, two score seats, evenly distributed between tables and booths, languished, empty. A lone patron—a guy with a shaggy crop of light brown hair and glasses—occupied the last booth on the left, an elbow propped on the table and his face pressed into his hand. I couldn’t tell if the guy was despondent, drunk, or dead.
A dry, musty smell worked its way into my nostrils, giving me the impression the place would benefit greatly from a good sweeping and a day with its windows spread open. A rickety, wooden hostess stand at my right went ignored by any possible employees. I squinted as I peered into the back of the establishment in the direction of the kitchen, but the owners hadn’t bothered to light any lamps—or even purchase them. I couldn’t be sure which, given the gloom.
Steele reached out and rapped her index finger twice against the tip of a call bell on the edge of the hostess stand. A few seconds passed with no response. I tipped my head in Shay’s direction, but before she could ring the bell again, I spotted movement in the back. A hand grasped the edge of a bead curtain that separated the dining room from the kitchen, sweeping it to the side, and into the darkness stepped an individual wearing khakis and a puffy jacket.
His visage materialized as he stepped into the light, but he might’ve been better served staying in the gloom. Long, black hair spilled around the sides of his oval-shaped face and over his pointed orc ears, laying flat over grayish green skin that shimmered with a waxy sheen. A wide nose dominated his face, and a cleft in his upper lip hinted at yellow teeth underneath.
He stopped behind the hostess stand. “You, uh…want table?”
Shay took the decision out of my hands. “No thanks. We’re actually detectives with the NWPD. We’re investigating a death that occurred in the alley behind this building early this morning. Are you in charge here?”
The orc’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced at the door before looking back at us. “Sort of.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Me dayshift manager,” he said. “Not owner.”
“Have you got a name, dayshift manager?” I asked.
“Wheyiane Dekkar.”
I blinked. “Say what now?”
The orc slowed his speech. “Wheyiane. Dekkar.”
“Wayne?” I said.
“Close enough,” he said.
“So do you mind if we ask you some questions?” asked Shay.
Wayne shrugged. “Sure. Me guess.”
“What time do you guys open?” she asked.
“Six.”
“Was anyone here earlier?” said Shay. “Say, about five thirty?”
“Not sure,” said Wayne. “Cook maybe. Why?”
I stuffed my hands in my pockets—or at least I tried to. I’d forgotten about the thermos full of coffee. “Did you miss the part about us investigating a death in the alley?”
“Oh. Right,” said the orc. “Me forget.”
“We’re hoping someone nearby might’ve overheard something that could help us better understand what happened outside,” said Shay. “Perhaps you could check with your chef…?”
“Yeah. Me check.”
Wayne disappeared behind the bead curtain, only to reappear a few moments later. “He coming. Just sec.”
I crossed my arms and sucked on my lips as we waited. I thought about going after the rest of my coffee, but I figured it would be bad form to do so inside the restaurant, especially considering how sparse their clientele appeared to be.
“So,” I said, tapping my foot, “you guys shift much product in the morning hours?”
The orc gave me another squint eyed glance, but then he seemed to figure out what I meant. “Business ok.”
“How exactly does a breakfast deli work, anyway?” I asked.
“Easy,” said Wayne. “Same sandwich. Put egg on it. Serve with potatoes.”
The door chime rang behind us, and a pair of dwarves with waist-length beards and knee-high work boots stomped in. They moseyed around to the edge of the hostess stand, which was almost taller than they were. They glanced at Shay and me and then at each other before shifting their gaze to Wayne.
“Table?” offered the orc with raised eyebrows.
“Um, no,” said the dwarf in front. “Take out order. For Truevein. And Brewmantle.”
The second dwarf stared at me curiously. I offered a cheesy smile in return.
Wayne held up a finger, I think for Shay’s and my benefit. “Just sec.”
He disappeared again behind the curtain, this time to return with a small paper bag, its top folded over. He handed it to the dwarves. They muttered their thanks and left.
I blinked. Breakfast take out? From this place? Perhaps it made sense. Clearly, the restaurant wasn’t raking in the dough from its dine-in business.
A rain shower of a thousand tiny beads brought me to attention. A green-skinned goblin emerged from the back, a chef’s apron hanging haphazardly across his front.
“Ah,” said Wayne. “Here go. This Bok. He cook.”
The goblin forced a smile, showing off his double rows of pointed teeth. Something dark stained his fingertips, possibly ash from a cooking fire, but somehow it hadn’t marred his apron. The latter shone a pristine white.
“You like chicken, Bok?” I asked.
The goblin stared at me in confusion.
“Don’t mind him,” said Steele. “That’s his idea of a joke. I’m Detective Steele, and you’ve already met Detective Daggers. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
The goblin turned to Wayne and uttered a series of pops, clicks, and grunts, gesturing with his hands as he did so. Wayne responded in kind before addressing us.
“Bok only speak Goblin tongue. It ok. Me translocate.”
“Translate,” I said.
“What?” said Wayne.
I sighed and turned to Steele. “Seriously? It’s not even nine in the morning and already we’ve found two witnesses who either can’t or won’t speak.”
Shay patted me on the shoulder. “Why don’t you let me handle this?”
I held out my hand.
“Wheyiane,” said Steele, “can you ask Bok here if he was in the kitchen by five thirty?”
Wayne translated, and Bok nodded.
“Ask him if he heard anything transpire in the alley,” said Steele. “If he heard any yelling or arguing.”
Wayne and Bok held a conversation. Then Wayne spoke.
“He say you right. He hear yelling. Two, three people. Woman, he think. He not pay much attention.”
“Why not?” asked Shay.
Another discussion. Another response from Wayne. “He say we not pay him enough.”
I snorted. This Bok character was starting to grow on me.
“So I’m guessing he didn’t go out to investigate?” said Steele.
Wayne and Bok talked.
“Bok give same answer,” said Wayne.
“Does Bok have anything else to add that he thinks might be pertinent to our investigation?” asked Shay.
Wayne asked. Bok shrugged.
Shay sighed. “Very well. Let him know that if he thinks of anything, he can come talk to us at the 5th Street Precinct. Or, better yet, you take his message and bring it to us, for obvious linguistic reasons. Daggers, you ready to go?”
“Always.” I propped open the door and let the jingle of the bell wash over me. “Ladies first.”
8
Shay and I exited the restaurant and ducked into the alley, headed in the direction of the crime scene.
“I’m impressed, Daggers,” said Shay, as the Deli’s shadow enveloped us. “I was sure you’d walk out of that place with grub in hand.”
I smiled. “I know you’re yanking my chain, but believe it or not, I haven’t totally ruled them out yet.”
“Really?” she said.
“Really.”
Steele smirked. “So what transgression at a restaurant would be so egregious that it would actually make you consider eating elsewhere? Besides, of course, the obvious, like piles of trash that prevent you from walking through the front door, rumors of deadly flesh-eating bacteria growing in the kitchen, or a menu featuring unfamiliar horrors along the likes of cilantro and papaya?”
I smiled and shook my head. Despite growth on both of our parts, Shay’s and my culinary tastes still remained worlds apart. I liked my food simple, subdued, and familiar—and preferably served between two slices of bread. Or, as Shay would say, booorr-ing. She preferred her mouth to run the gamut of culinary extremes in every meal. She wanted to taste the sweet and the salty, have her lips pucker from acidity and the sides of her tongue tingle from bitterness. To feel the heat of hot peppers on her lips and cool them with a fruity cocktail or use the spice to cut through a bite of something unctuous and savory.
We’d made strides towards understanding each other’s tastes, of course. We traded off on lunch choices, and even when we went out together in the evenings, we tried our best to ensure the other’s culinary desires were met. Shay had found a number of enticing gastropubs and high-quality nosheries, just as I’d culled from my repertoire virtually all eateries that served their meals on butcher paper.
But as it did with Shay, the dining experience greatly impacted my overall satisfaction with the meal—just in a different way.
“I’m not sure you’ll ever understand my love affair with dives,” I said as I avoided a puddle of—I hoped—rain.
“Try me,” said Shay with a smile.
And she meant it. Her openness to new ideas was one of the many things I loved about her—not because I was the same way, but because it gave me hope that I could eventually convince her of the veracity of all my outlandish claims.
“Alright,” I said. “For me, it’s not just about the food. It’s about the thrill of the chase. Of finding a diamond in the culinary rough. A place that looks like it should’ve collapsed under its own weight a decade ago, but still pumps out delicious food by the basketful.”
“And why is that important to you?”
I glanced at Shay. She peered back at me without an ounce of jest or malice in her eyes. She really wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess it makes me feel…special. Like I know something others don’t. Something I can share with them and then we can all enjoy.”
Shay nodded. “I completely understand. I feel the exact same way about the places I share with you and Cairny and the guys.”
“Yeah, but my places are dirt cheap,” I said.
My partner smiled and rolled her eyes. “Fair enough.”
We stepped back out onto the main thoroughfare and into the throng of beat cops and onlookers. The crowd had thinned—the appeal of a mud-caked dead hobo wears off quickly—but other than that, everything was as we’d left it. Except for the fact that the buildings at the alley’s sides seemed lonelier than I remembered…
I ground my teeth and called for Phillips.
The young man came running. “Yes, sir, Detective Daggers, sir. At your service.”
“Phillips,” I said. “What the hell, man? Where are the suspects?”
“Suspects, sir?” he said.
“Don’t play dumb,” I said. “The witnesses! Our trio of servicemen and women.”
Phillips fidgeted with his hands and refused to meet my eyes. “Um…yes. Well, about that. There was this, uh, army officer. A high ranking guy. A sergeant major, I think. He demanded we release the witnesses—err, I mean, suspects—to his custody, and—”
“Phillips! Really?”
Shay put a hand on my arm. “Calm down, Daggers. Phillips, please. Go ahead.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” said Phillips. “But I didn’t know the proper protocol. The two of you were gone, as was Detective Quinto. I had nobody to go to for guidance. And the sergeant major—I forget his name—he said because of enlistees Holmes, Chavez, and Delvedeep’s military status, the investigation into the victim’s death was as much a military matter as a civilian one. He was very insistent.”
“But you gave our only leads away,” I said. “What if this major was an impostor? Did you think about that?”
“Daggers…really?” said Shay.
I recalled our last case. “Stranger things have happened.”
“If he was an impostor,” said Phillips, “then he was a really sharply-uniformed and well-armed impostor. And he had an entire troop, or brigade, or whatever of guys with him. A couple of them had swords. Honestly, there was nothing I could do.”
I adopted my best disapproving father face—something I’d been working on as my tike grew older—and sicced it on Phillips. “I’m disappointed in you.”
Phillips inspected his shoes. “Sorry, sir. But the sergeant major did say to tell you he was returning the recruits to the New Welwic Main base, and that if you had any further questions for them, you could inquire about securing a meeting with them at the military police offices.”
“Oh, I’ll inquire,” I said. “You can bet I’ll inquire.”
I meant it to sound tough, but ‘inquire’ was a difficult verb to put any gusto into.
Phillips slunk off, and Steele cast me a disapproving glance.
“You didn’t have to be so harsh with him,” she said.
“Didn’t I?” I said. “The kid needs to learn. You have to watch suspects with hawk eyes. It’s all too easy for people to disappear in this city.”
“Daggers, be real. I’m sure the major was who he said he was, and besides, our suspects clearly aren’t flight risks. If they were, they would’ve fled before the first bluecoats arrived. The fact that they stayed speaks volumes.”
“Yes,” I replied. “It means they think their story is solid enough to hold under scrutiny. And I know we’ll be able to find them at the base. But Phillips needs to be held to a higher standard. It’s a matter of principle.”
Steele frowned and shook her head as Quinto returned.
“Everything all right?” he rumbled.
“Peachy,” I said.
He blinked as he looked over my shoulder. “Hey, what happened to the—”
“Don’t ask,” I said. “Learn anything useful?”
“Well, yes and no,” he said. “I talked to a number of patrons who were here early this morning, as well as a couple of bar owners and waitresses who were nearby at the time. They all told me basically the same story. They heard screaming and yelling, including some distinct, high-pitched shrieking. Like serious, ‘I’m flipping out’ sorts of shrieks. But no one actually saw anything until after the fact. At that point, they describe seeing the three army folks here at the mouth of the alley, and the dead guy right where he is now. One waitress confirmed she saw Sergeant Holmes check the guy for a pulse, and another person said all three of them looked flustered. Other than that…” Quinto shrugged.
I rubbed my chin, which fought back against my hand with its untamed, day-old bristles. “So by your eyewitness accounts, the dead guy was right here in the street when people first saw him?”
Quinto nodded.
“And nobody saw Tim or Drake carrying him here?”
“Nope,” said Quinto.
I grunted.
“What’s on your mind?” asked Steele.
“Well, it’s strange, isn’t it?” I said. “If we’re right
about our theory, and our dead guy here—who really needs a nickname, by the way. I’m thinking Lanky—if he did assault Kelly in the alley, wouldn’t the fight have taken place in the alley, too? So why would Tim and Drake drag him here after the fact? Where everyone could see him? Why not leave him in the alley?”
“Because they needed the evidence to support their story, probably,” said Quinto.
“Well, sure. Right,” I said. “But why not leave him in the alley and come up with a different story? A more believable and less convoluted one?”
“Maybe Drake and Tim didn’t move the body,” said Steele. “Maybe the fight naturally carried into the street. Or maybe the victim—”
“Lanky,” I said.
Steele sighed. “Right. Lanky. Maybe Lanky tried to run away when he realized he wasn’t going to win the fight. And that’s when Tim or Drake ran him down and delivered the killing blow.”
I snorted. “Could be.”
My partner raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m never convinced,” I said. “Not until I have a preponderance of evidence to support my conclusions. It’s one of the reasons I’m so good at my job.”
“Don’t be modest,” said Quinto. “Tell us how you really feel.”
I took one last look around the crime scene. “Quinto, you think you can help Phillips clean this mess up? Get the body back to Cairny and whatnot? I think it would be best if the kid gets a break from me for the time being.”
Steele gave an approving nod, one I’m not entirely sure I was supposed to have noticed.
“Not a problem,” said the big guy. “What are you two going to tackle next?”
“Oh, now the real fun begins,” I said. “We get to unravel the tangled web of bureaucracy that holds together the armed forces. Should make a bout with the Captain feel like a walk in the park.”