by Alex P. Berg
I tried not to snort. Right. The manner in which he took your hand as he introduced himself was nothing if not professional.
“He’s going to be a pain in our backsides,” I said. “Mark my words. Lanky hadn’t even cooled to an acceptable temperature before he stuck his meddling fingers in our investigation.”
“It sounded like he had nothing to do with that,” said Steele. “The sergeant major acted on his own.”
“And you believed him?” I shook my head.
Shay rolled her eyes. “You know, I was mostly joking about you being cranky because of hunger pangs, but your attitude is convincing me otherwise.” She pointed across the street. “Want to try that place for lunch? I’ve heard good things. Inexpensive, high quality ingredients, and fast.”
I followed her finger to a sign that had an enormous steel frying pan attached to it, and to the right, the words ‘Speed Wok.’
“Stir fry?” I asked. “Really?”
“Why not?” said Steele. “And it’s not like you have any say in the matter. It’s my turn to choose.”
We crossed the road and stepped into the eatery, which had a different layout than any I’d seen before. The establishment contained no walls or partitions. It was just one big room filled with neatly arranged tables, and in the back, the kitchen, its hustle and bustle and noise and heat open for all to see and experience—not a bad idea in the cool winter months, but a questionable strategy come June.
Before us, a short line stretched to a counter manned by a gnome—of course it was a gnome—taking orders which he scribbled onto a notepad. As he finished each order, he yelled it to the kitchen staff, who repeated it three times in what I assumed was a ritual to help keep them from forgetting it. At the gnome’s side, a blackboard listed the menu in variegated colors of chalk.
I refused to let the restaurant’s flashy, new design deviate my stream of thought. “You see, the problem with stir fry is the name is so deceptive. I mean, it sounds great. The word ‘fry’ is right there in the title. But when you sit down to eat it, it’s just a bunch of noodles and vegetables and sauce.”
Shay narrowed her eyes as she peered at the chalkboard. “You’re confusing frying and deep-frying.”
“Well maybe next time we should try a deep stir fry joint,” I said. “Or would it be stir deep fry? Neither one sounds quite right…” I twisted my face in thought.
“Just get the tempura bowl…” said Steele.
I detected a hint of annoyance in her voice, so I closed my yapper and did as she suggested. After ordering, we shuffled along in the line toward the end of the kitchen, where after no more than a minute and a half, one of the apron-clad cooks set a couple bowls on the counter, rang a bell, and shouted out our order.
I gaped as I picked up my meal. Other than the noodles forming the entrée’s bed, everything in the tasteful blue and while filigreed bowl was coated in a crispy layer of fried batter.
“You’re welcome,” said Steele.
We found a table and shoveled food in our mouths, and as the fried meats and crunchy vegetables sent energy flowing through my stomach and into my extremities, I felt my mood improve. Perhaps Shay had been right and all I needed was a bite to eat. And perhaps I’d overreacted with regards to Elmo Blue. Not in the sense that he wouldn’t be a thorn in our sides—I was sure he’d be—but in the hidden meanings I’d uncovered in his behavior toward Shay. Perhaps he was simply being nice, and he hadn’t afforded me the same courtesy because I was an abrasive A-hole.
Steele made it clear through her devoted chewing efforts that she’d expended enough energy trying to engage me in discussion during our park foray, leaving the burden of conversation up to me. Hence, we ate in silence. After all, my mood hadn’t improved that much.
After lunch, we returned to the station. Clouds momentarily hid the sun, casting a shadow across the huge seal of justice that hung over the precinct’s iron-banded front double doors. I gazed at the soaring eagle holding a pair of scales in its claws and snorted.
Swords. Bah. Even without the sun’s bright rays sparkling its edges, the seal put Agent Blue’s pale imitation to shame.
I held the door open for Shay and plowed my way into the cluster of beat-to-hell desks, stale coffee smell, and gloom we detectives lovingly referred to as ‘the pit.’ I passed Rodgers and Quinto’s desks—both empty—as I waltzed to my own, situated across from Shay’s. Mine, of course, was the better of the pair, not only because it sat in a thin sliver of light that weaseled its way from outside, though the windows in the Captain’s office, and over to my patch of real estate, but also because it held my trusty chair. Over years of toil and sloth, I’d worn a perfectly-shaped Jake Daggers butt groove into the seat, which was no small feat given the thing’s oaken construction.
Barely had I swung my body about and positioned it above the groove before I heard the Captain’s harsh voice.
“Daggers. Steele. There you are!”
I straightened as the old bulldog approached. The years had softened some of his muscle into flab, but not much, and they hadn’t quenched the heat of his bark in the least. The old guy had honed his vocal abilities during his stint in the marines, and as far as I was aware, the only opponent that had ever silenced him was laryngitis. What remained of his hair had recently been buzzed, and his jowls—the only part of his face that didn’t look as if it was carved from granite—pulled as he frowned.
“I think this a new record, even for you, Daggers,” he said. “What is it? After noon?”
“Don’t give me that,” I said. “I’ve been on the job since I woke up. And no, before you ask, that was not fifteen minutes ago. It was early this morning, when Quinto and Steele brought the joys of this profession straight to my door.”
“I know,” said the Captain. “That was a joke.”
Really? The Captain’s lips didn’t show even the slightest hint of an upward curl. He could’ve fooled me—but maybe therein lay the joke.
“Do you have an update for us, sir?” asked Steele.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d have one for me,” he said. “Detective Quinto came back about half an hour ago and said you encountered some unexpected resistance in the form of one of our government’s other law enforcement agencies.”
I snorted. “You could say that.”
The Captain lifted an eyebrow in my direction. Apparently he’d finally learned that trick from either Steele or me, though it lessened his face’s illusion of immobility.
“The suspects in the case—or persons of interest, rather,” said Steele, “are all army servicemen and women. A team came and returned them to the New Welwic Main base. Now they’re in the care of the military police and under investigation by an Agent Elmorodil Blue, a member of the Army Criminal Investigative Command.”
While Steele explained the situation to the Captain, I dug my thermos—now empty—out of my pocket and placed it on my desk. The pocket flopped open, like the mouth of a dead fish. Hopefully I hadn’t stretched it beyond the limits of elasticity. I still planned on getting another twenty good years out of my jacket.
“Yeah,” I said, still eyeing the deformation in my coat. “And this Agent Blue is a real piece of work. It’s going to be a blast prying information out of him.”
Steele blinked and gave me a dissenting glance.
The Captain noticed. “Has he been like this all day?”
“How did you guess?” said Steele.
The bulldog groaned and rolled his eyes in the surliest way possible. “Listen up, Daggers, as I’m only going to say this once. I’ve no doubt you harbor a high level of distaste for this Blue individual, because you don’t like much of anyone. Guess what? I don’t care. Your job is to follow the rules, work with other government agencies where necessary, and to solve the crimes that are thrust in front of your crooked nose.”
“Crooked?”
“Shut up,” he said. “I’m not done. The point is, I expect you to get to the bottom of this, despi
te whatever hurdles are in your way, and I expect you to do it with a smile on your face. Detective Steele? Inform me if he becomes a problem—by which I mean a greater one than he normally is. Understood?”
The Captain waggled his finger between the two of us. Steele nodded. I grudgingly did the same.
“Good. Now, seeing as you’ve already eaten—” The bulldog indicated a spot of sauce on my jacket that had somehow eluded my attention. “—I’d suggest you get to work. From everything Quinto told me, this shouldn’t be that hard of a case to unravel.”
The Captain turned and headed back toward his office, but he paused halfway there. “Oh, and one more thing. I was informed late last night that Detective Rodgers suffered a death in his family.”
“What?” said Steele. “Who?”
“Not his wife or kids,” said the Captain. “Extended family. He’ll be out of town for a few days as he deals with the aftermath. But it means the two of you and Quinto will have to shoulder the load until he returns. I figured you should know. If nothing else, perhaps that knowledge will encourage you to strive for increased efficiency.”
Based on the bulldog’s smirk, I knew he directed that last bit toward me, but it was an unneeded jab. I was a master of efficiency—mostly because I delegated as much of the grunt work to others as I could. But I don’t think that’s what he meant…
12
Shay and I headed downstairs to the dungeon, which, despite persistent rumors to the contrary, wasn’t a real dungeon, populated with the emaciated remains of poor saps who’d never made bail and the Captain’s own staunchest adversaries. Not that I’d explored the underground portions of the precinct to their fullest, mind you, but if the rumors held even a shred of truth, surely I would’ve been one of the first to be shackled and imprisoned for my gross insubordination.
Rather, ‘the dungeon’ encompassed the precinct’s morgue, so named for its complete lack of natural light, musty smell, and overall cheery atmosphere. Oh, and the dead people. There were lots of dead people.
I shivered as we reached the bottom of the steps and gave my head a shake. “I don’t know how Cairny manages. Especially in the winter.”
“Well,” said Steele, “there are these things called sweaters…”
“Oh, come off it,” I said. “If it were you down here, you could throw on a half-dozen layers, and you’d still turn into a half-elf popsicle. Chances are they’d send me down with an ice pick to free you from the frost.”
We stepped into the morgue proper, a cavernous room sparsely filled with examination tables, surgical instruments, and coat racks pre-supplied with long, white coats. Cadaver vaults with shiny steel handles, stacked three high, lined the far wall—dozens of temporary homes for the recently living. The room smelled of lemon and industrial solvents, and the floors seemed shinier than I remembered. Either the janitor had just completed his bi-monthly visit, or Cairny had gotten bored and stooped to tasks far beneath her pay grade. Well…not that far. None of us public servants earned much.
Only one of the exam tables was currently in use, its occupant’s form shrouded by a pristine white sheet. I guessed it had to be Lanky, based on the size of the body. Of Cairny, however, I saw neither hide nor hair. I’d hoped to inquire if she’d had time to examine the corpse yet. Our leads were limited, but a confirmation of blunt force trauma as the method by which Lanky had been slain would go a long way toward confirming our theory involving Private Delvesdeep and Sergeant Timmy.
I glanced at Shay. “So…where’s Cairny, I wonder?”
“Why do you assume I know?” she said. “I came down with you, remember?”
“Well, you’re friends and all,” I offered. “Plus there’s that prescient insight of yours.”
“That’ll never get old, will it?”
I shook my head.
“Maybe she’s warming her hands by a roaring fire?” said Steele.
I grunted, doubtful. The Captain would never spring for firewood.
After a lengthy circuit of the precinct that had us visit the lonelier portions of the dungeon and the holding cells, not to mention the building’s second and third floors, Shay and I eventually returned to the pit, whereupon we spotted Cairny lounging on a couch in the break room, Quinto’s wide frame and smiling, brick-toothed mug at her side.
“There you are,” I said as I walked through the doorway.
“Hey Daggers,” she said, and then as she eyed Steele, “Looking good, bestie. I like the jacket.”
“Thanks,” said Shay. “The color’s kind of fun, isn’t it?”
Cairny nodded, which I found amusing given her own closet probably resembled a mortician’s. She rarely wore anything other than black, likely because the color paired so well with her long, jet-black hair and ivory skin, but today she’d decided to get crazy and wear a grey cowl neck sweater—points to Shay for calling that—which she’d matched with a pair of voluminous charcoal-colored pants that helped disguise her gangly legs. In the delicate fingers of her right hand she held a few thin cuts of deli meat sandwiched between slices of bread that appeared to have been trampled by a herd of large ruminating mammals.
“What in the world are you eating?” I asked.
Cairny stared at me with those large, vacant eyes of hers. “Roast beef. On white.”
“Yes, I can see that,” I said. “But what in the world happened to it? It looks so…sad.”
Shay pressed a hand against my arm and pointed at Cairny and Quinto. “Hold on. You guys heard that, right?”
“Heard what?” I asked.
“You,” she said, a look of triumph on her face. “You condemned a sandwich…for its simplicity.”
I felt the heat rise in my face. “No, no, no. That’s not—”
“It’s true,” said Quinto. “I heard it. Straight from the horse’s mouth.”
Was the big guy calling me horse-faced? “That’s not what I meant. I—”
“Oh, admit it,” said Shay with a smile. “Try as you might to fight it, your culinary tastes are changing. Soon enough you won’t even look twice at a sandwich unless it’s topped with melted cheese, crisp lettuce, and a housemade aioli.”
I wasn’t even sure what that last word meant, but I was too flustered to argue. Was Shay right? Were my tastes actually changing? And by her influence? By the gods, we weren’t even officially dating. What sorts of transformations could I expect if our relationship progressed to a more serious level?
I changed the subject. “Never you mind about that. The important question is, where have the two of you been?” I gestured at Cairny and Quinto and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, trying to make the action look risqué. “We looked all over for you.”
Cairny blinked. “And? You found us.”
I sighed and wiped a hand across my face. The subtleties of speech—and, in fact, regular humanoid interaction—were often lost on her. “Never mind. Have you had a chance to look at the body yet?”
“What body?” she asked.
I glanced at Quinto. “Didn’t you fill her in?”
The big guy nodded. “Yeah. It’s this case I was telling you about, Cairny. You remember, right? The one in the Delta district, with the dead hobo?”
“Oh. Right.” Cairny blinked. “Yes, well, I haven’t been around the crypt much today.”
“Too cold?” Shay gave me a sideways glance as she asked that.
Cairny shook her head. “I’ve simply had other things to attend to.”
“I’m sure you did.” I eyed Quinto and tried my eyebrow trick again, leaning in so that Cairny would be sure to notice.
She blinked and squinted at me, head slightly tilted to the side. “Pardon?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know why I try. Look, do you mind accompanying us to the morgue to take a look at Lanky? We’re not exactly overflowing with leads, and your expertise could help clear up who committed the murder.”
Cairny glanced at Steele. “Lanky?”
“You know Daggers’
proclivity for witty nicknames,” she said. “Admittedly, this one’s not as inspired as most, but I’m sure you can figure it out.”
Cairny gave Quinto a pat on the shoulder. “Well…duty calls.”
“Oh, I’ll come,” said Quinto. “Not like I have anything else to do. But don’t tell the Captain that.”
The awkward pair stood, Cairny with sandwich still in hand.
“Wait,” I said. “You’re bringing that?”
“Why not?” The pale-skinned, fae-blooded coroner waved the layers of meat and bread in my face before taking a bite. “Does it bother you that I’d eat while inspecting cadavers?”
“Me?” I said. “I was thinking more him.”
I gestured at Quinto. He peered back at me quizzically.
“You know, because she might get cadaver breath,” I said.
More quizzical looks, from all present.
“Like, it might waft off the corpse. Or the smell of the room maybe. Get caught in the bread…”
Steele crossed her arms. “You’re really off today. Is there something going on I should know about?”
Apparently my encounter with Blue had rattled me more than I’d realized. Even my quips were falling flat. One more reason to dislike the guy.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get to the exam room before I make an even bigger fool of myself.”
Nobody argued, and we headed down the stairs into the dungeon. As we reached Cairny’s workspace, I led the congregation toward the body.
“So, Cairny,” I said. “What we’re trying to confirm is whether our dead guy, Lanky, died of blunt force trauma or not. It seems pretty obvious he did, but that’s why we’ve got you around. Now, beyond that, the real question is, was there a murder weapon?”
Cairny stuck out the index finger of her sandwich-free hand. “Um, Daggers…”
“Now, now,” I said as I reached the side of the white sheet-draped body. “I know what you’re going to say. You need time to perform your investigation. I get it. But we don’t need a full report. If you could just tell us whether the guy was beaten to death by hand or with a murder weapon, that’ll do. If the latter, then better if you can give us some idea of the weapon, but you know.” I shrugged.