Fine Blue Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 4)

by Alex P. Berg

  “A honing steel?” I offered.

  The jet-haired coroner considered that before ultimately nodding. “Why…yes. Proper weight. Proper strength. That could work quite well.”

  Shay rose and eyed me suspiciously. “Daggers…where are you going with this?”

  I smiled, the melancholy induced by Shay’s revelations about her feelings for me momentarily relegated to my emotional ‘To-Do’ pile. “I’m thinking we need to get a warrant for the Delta Deli.”

  31

  After extracting a warrant from the folds in the Captain’s jowls, Quinto, Shay, and I headed back to the Delta district. We elected to walk—or rather, Shay did, despite the overabundance of rickshaws hanging around outside the station. I’d assumed she’d want to save her feet any possible undue stress, but maybe she opted for the walk for ulterior motives. Perhaps she hoped for a bit of quiet solace outside the forced intimacy of a rickshaw bench, or perhaps she wished for exactly what I most feared—the time and environment in which to brood.

  During our jaunt at the precinct, clouds had rolled in, obscuring the sun and hiding its warm rays from view, which had prompted Shay to return her cream-colored scarf to its rightful position around her neck. The donning of said woolen article, however, had been a joyless affair, lacking the sensuality and grace of the morning’s effort—or at least, it had been to my eyes, made dull by Shay’s sharp tongue. Even now, as she led the way down the streets of New Welwic, with tight pants hugging her lower half and begging to be ogled, I couldn’t bear to look at her.

  What was wrong with me? Why was it every time I exposed something to the general vicinity of my heart it withered and died like a flower under a steady stream of potent dog urine? I thought my relationship with Shay had been progressing naturally, and positively, if a little slowly. We’d shared laughs and smiles and tender moments, bites from meals and still life portraits of our personal histories. We’d grown and matured and bettered ourselves thanks to each other—or at least I had. I’d even lost weight and started treating random people with kindness and respect, for Pete’s sake! And yet all that growth and change and hard work had fallen to pieces in the last twenty-four hours. All because of that stupid, dapper, well-spoken Agent Blue.

  I clenched my teeth and shook my head. No. That wasn’t true. He wasn’t the problem. I was. Shay had made that abundantly clear. And even though she hadn’t gone into detail regarding which of my qualities were the problem, she didn’t have to.

  I knew. Insecurity. Jealousy. Depression. Doubt. I was a psychiatrist’s dream patient, except without the spare change needed to buy weekly doses of mood-altering drugs. It just so happened Agent Blue pushed several of my emotional buttons at the same time, all while also interfering with my investigation in a knee-to-the-groin-like tour de force. His appearance had merely been the inevitable needle to my balloon, proving my recent joy in Shay’s company as nothing more than a mirage.

  But then again…Shay had said she liked me. With qualifiers and exceptions, of course, but there was something about me she didn’t find repugnant. And that, at least, was a start. I just had to figure out what it was—and then cultivate it into something worthy of her attention.

  Quinto’s heavy hand clapped me on the shoulder. “I think we’ve made it, pal.”

  I looked up and realized we’d arrived at the Delta Deli. Shay stood outside its front door, her arms crossed as she looked at the sign. Like me, I don’t think she’d uttered a word during the entire walk.

  She sighed. “Daggers, I…”

  I waited on her with baited breath. “Yes?”

  “I know the Captain granted the warrant, but I don’t understand this at all. Why in the world would anyone at this Deli kill Lanky or Burly?”

  My shoulders slumped. I thought perhaps her silence had been an indicator of her own emotional turmoil, but apparently she’d spent the return trip to the deli thinking about the case.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not completely sure either. Maybe they really are killing hobos and selling them for parts. If so, we should steel ourselves—no pun intended—to what we might see in that kitchen. But regardless of the reason, I’m sure you agree something out of the ordinary is going on in there, and given Cairny’s diagnosis, we have enough evidence to merit a look-see.”

  “Or so you managed to convince the Captain,” said Steele. “To be honest, he must’ve been feeling extremely generous given the spread you laid out before him.”

  “Please,” I said. “The words ‘Captain’ and ‘feeling’ are incongruous. The man has the emotional capacity of a hunk of granite, and he’s roughly as easily persuaded. Now, let’s not waste any more time. Quinto, bring up the rear. Make sure nobody sneaks out, or takes a pot shot at our exposed backsides with a metal rod.”

  Quinto snorted. “One of these days you’ll have to stop giving me the easy jobs and force me to do the hard work of looking around and poking stuff.”

  “Very funny.”

  I pulled open the door and let myself in, taking a quick look around the establishment as I did so. The deli’s population had dwindled from two down to one. Only slack-jawed Mark remained. I found him sitting behind the hostess stand on a stool he must’ve liberated from somewhere in the back.

  He tried to engage me in witty conversation. “Uh…hey.”

  I flashed him the signed and sealed warrant as I walked past him. “Police investigation, Marky. Out of the way.”

  “Hey, wait,” he said. “You can’t go back there. That’th a private thpace.”

  I plunged through the bead curtain before the guy’s feet even hit the ground and found myself in the middle of an entirely unspectacular room—a commercial kitchen with four walls, a ceiling, the bead curtain behind me and a door to a pantry, adorned with pots, pans, knives, rolling pins, butcher’s blocks, and assorted piles of plates, silverware, and glasses. A wide, cast iron stove took up the majority of one wall, though based on the temperature in the kitchen, a fire didn’t burn in its belly. Crates had been stacked next to it—a fire hazard if ever I’d seen one—most of them staring at me from the pits of their planks with empty, knotted eyes.

  The one thing I’d expected to see and didn’t—other than dismembered burly men—was salable product. Only a few of the crates held any loaves of bread, and while the menu hadn’t exactly featured a vast array of choices, I did think I’d find at least one example of a fresh fruit or vegetable somewhere on the racks or prep stations. I knelt over a wide chest I assumed was an ice box and flipped open its lid, holding my breath as I did so.

  I exhaled. Again, no hobo body parts. Just cold cuts.

  A bead cascade made me turn. Shay stood inside the curtain, scanning the room. Manager Mark and Quinto followed her shortly, the former visibly agitated.

  “You’re not thuppothed to be in here,” he said, his mouth flapping awkwardly. “Thith ith thtrictly for employeeth only. There’th thanitary conthernth related to your prethenth.”

  I glanced at Quinto and he shrugged. “I don’t think he understands the legal system very well. Namely that police warrants trump the health department.”

  I stood and frowned. I’d been sure something unseemly was taking place back here, but the evidence indicated the restaurant was entirely on the up and up. Heck, the kitchen was even clean. Apparently my fears about joining in a fierce struggle with the porcelain god as a result of my lunch choice were overblown. However, I did find it odd the kitchen was so underpopulated. Where was yesterday’s goblin chef, or the orc guy who came in earlier? And what about the beer? I didn’t spot any brew kettles or barrels that looked as if they might contain that most delectable of fermented creations.

  I walked over to a wooden knife block containing an assortment of thirteen different knives. I selected the one with the largest handle and pulled it out. A chef’s knife, probably about eight inches long. It would be illegal if carried on the street, but luckily for restaurateurs everywhere, the city’s lawmakers hadn’t extended t
he ban on sharp, pointy things to commercial kitchens. I angled the blade in the light, admiring its clean edge. I didn’t think the thing had ever been used.

  “Thtop it,” said Mark. “That’th private property. Handth off.”

  “Shut it,” said Quinto.

  His tone, and perhaps his massive size, had the desired effect. Mark clamped his yapper.

  Shay joined me as I gingerly reached for the honing steel in the block, lifting it out by the ring on its end. If someone had gripped it recently, there might still be prints on it. Unfortunately, as I glanced at the finely-grooved steel rod, I couldn’t find any more evidence of wear on it than on the chef’s knife. Either the attacker thoroughly cleaned it to hide any evidence of malfeasance, or the thing was brand spanking new.

  “Are you seeing anything I’m not, Steele?” I asked.

  I trusted my partner’s observational prowess more than my own, although she may have been distracted by our emotionally-charged exchange in the interrogation room. Then again, so was I.

  Shay shook her head. “Can’t say I am. Everything seems clean, organized, and grossly underutilized—which is suspicious in and of itself. But I’m not seeing any dents or scratches or other signs of struggle. No scuff marks on the floor, and no blood splatters on the surfaces. Although it’s possible they could’ve been wiped down…”

  Mark made his presence known again. “Wait…blood thplatterth? What are you guyth talking about?”

  Normally I disapproved of letting sensitive information loose within earshot of potential suspects, but with the less mentally adept, it could be an effective strategy. I don’t think Mark had a whole lot going on upstairs, and based off his reaction, he truly was clueless as to the motives behind our search. Either he was a stooge, or I’d let my suspicions lead me into another judicially-unfounded blunder.

  Shay tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” I asked.

  “It was sort of a screeching sound.” Shay held up a finger. “There is was again.”

  This time I heard it, too. A screeching sound, indeed, but one not human in origin. More like metal scraping on metal, or the grinding of a rusty piece of machinery. Another sound followed it—an angry voice, if I wasn’t mistaken.

  I glanced at my feet. The noises came from underground.

  Mark bolted for the exit, but Quinto clotheslined him, knocking him to the ground with a painful thud.

  I heard another voice, and I shifted my eyes to the pantry door. Nightmare scenarios from the worst sorts of slasher novels flashed through my head, everything from torture dungeons to human rendering plants.

  I ripped Daisy from the interior of my coat, gripping her with white knuckles as I approached the pantry. I gulped, took a deep breath, and threw open the door.

  32

  I plunged into a dark space and blinked as I oriented myself. Walls encroached upon me in front and to my right, but a glimmer flickered below me to the left, so I descended the steps I found there toward the pale light. The wooden planks groaned underneath my weight, announcing my presence to whatever band of ruffians, deviants, and homicidal maniacs might be present within.

  In a bare twelve steps, I’d made it to the bottom. I paused as I gaped at the contents.

  Before me, a half-dozen pure bloods and half-breeds sat on a wide bench, twiddling their thumbs and looking bored—except for those who’d already turned their eyes onto me. Across from them, a diminutive goblin—the so-called ‘chef’ we’d met yesterday morning—sat behind a stately desk, elevated on a giant stool so he could see. At the moment, he leaned over the desk, helping a tall orc with a ruddy braid cascading down his back press his thumb into a square slip of paper. Beside the slip stood a number of rubber stamps and next to that, an open ink pad situated over a thick piece of blotting paper.

  Behind the desk, a hulking cast iron contraption full of wheels and clamps and heavy plates screeched as another goblin cranked on a lever at its side. Next to it, I spotted stacks of the square paper slips, all blank, as well as gold leaf, jars of multi-colored inks, and a compartmented box full of movable type.

  I blinked. A printing press? And fingerprints and stamps and gold embossed seals? What was going on?

  I suddenly noticed every eye in the place had shifted onto me, except for that of the far goblin, who’d gone from cranking on the lever to cursing up a storm as he furiously yanked on a strip of paper jammed between the rollers.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and I turned to find Shay standing behind me.

  She took in the sights quicker than I did. “A forging operation? For…immigration permits?”

  Perhaps my partner should’ve exercised more discretion, because as she expressed her suspicions, all hell broke loose. The two nearest bench warmers, an orc with a handlebar moustache and a wild-eyed dwarf, bolted toward us. Shay shrieked and jumped to the side as the former barreled into me. The orc knocked me to the side as I lashed out with Daisy, catching the guy across the back as the dwarf slipped into the stairwell.

  I stumbled and caught myself against the wall as the space erupted in a chorus of shouts and curses, most of them in languages I didn’t understand. The remainder of the bench mob took a step toward the stairs, but paused as the orc and his sidekick the angst-ridden dwarf flew back into the room as if they’d bounced off an invisible wall. Thankfully, the wall wasn’t invisible, and it had a name. Quinto moved in to block the stairwell exit, manager Mark gripped in a headlock under his left arm.

  The mustachioed orc snarled, showing his teeth as he balled his hands into fists. Sensing Daisy yearned for sexual liberation, I let her engage in a little three-way action with the floor-bound orc and his little brother from another mother. After a few lustful whacks, she satisfied their cravings, leaving them sprawled across the floor in a post-ménage state of unconscious bliss. After that, the rest of the unruly crowd settled down, not wanting to be subjected to Daisy’s sadistic tendencies.

  I took charge of the situation, using Daisy as a pointer as I issued demands. “All of you—back on the bench. Orc breath, with the red braid—you, too. Goblins—up against the wall. Steele, go get backup. ASAP. As many bluecoats as you can find. And tell someone we’re going to need a wagon.”

  Steele slipped past Quinto and disappeared up the stairs, which prompted the big guy to toss Mark to the ground and gesture for him to join the bench mob. Despite their compliance with my demands, the foreigners and half-breeds didn’t stop their yammering, asking questions and begging me for mercy—or so I assumed. Again, I didn’t understand half of what most of them were saying.

  “Quiet! All of you!” I waved my nightstick around in a threatening manner, hoping the whistle of steel cutting through the air would supplant their voices.

  It more or less worked. The shouts and cries degenerated into concerned mumbles and angry glares shot in my direction. I walked to the desk and grabbed the slip of paper with the orc’s fresh thumbprint on it. Shay’s eyes hadn’t deceived her. It was an immigration permit—or would be once it went through a few more printing and embossing steps.

  I’d never heard of anyone forging them, but it made sense. Even though the government didn’t charge to hand them to immigrants, it did, on occasion, refuse to issue them to those with mental health concerns or obvious criminal backgrounds. In addition, issuance of an immigration permit alerted the tax collectors to one’s presence, and I could see the allure of remaining off the books in that regard.

  I snapped a mental finger and shot a glance at the printing press. Once I knew what to look for, I spotted it right away. Behind the placards. A big stack of folded brown paper bags. Well, that explained the takeout orders.

  I squinted into the furthest reaches of the basement. Something I hadn’t noticed at first twinkled in the lantern light. Something rusty and metallic. A copper brew kettle. Three of them, to be precise.

  Imagine that. Apparently, the deli wasn’t purely a front
for illegal activity. If only the sandwiches had lived up to the level of the beer, perhaps my overactive imagination wouldn’t have led me here on an unfounded witch-hunt—of which, clearly, this had been, unless I miraculously found a tertiary hobo butchering business in another secret basement located underneath this one.

  My charges didn’t allow me much time to indulge in my disappointment, constantly testing the limits of my watchfulness and trying to wander off. If only I could’ve traded my nightstick for a crook and a border collie…

  Eventually, Shay returned with a cluster of beat cops, and we began the slog of tagging and processing everyone, loading them onto a paddy wagon, sweeping the deli for evidence that might help us locate previously issued forged permits, impounding equipment, and the myriad other mundane tasks that made me remember why I loved my job in homicide so much.

  After an hour or two of work, Steele, Quinto, and I trudged our way back to the precinct, no richer in knowledge regarding our case than when we’d left. I half expected Shay to razz me over my ridiculous black market beef theory as we walked, but instead she stayed silent. Perhaps she thought I’d suffered enough throughout the day already, or she simply didn’t want to engage me in idle chitchat unless absolutely necessary.

  As we pushed into the station’s interior, I eyed my desk and well worn chair with longing, but the Captain harbored no sympathy for my back or feet. He intercepted us before we’d made it even halfway through the pit.

  “Daggers. Steele. Quinto. What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “What do you mean, sir?” asked Steele. “We just finished a raid at—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know,” he barked. “I heard. But I sent a runner after you three about ten minutes ago. Didn’t he find you?”

  We shared blank looks among our detective triumvirate.

  “Figures,” said the Captain. “I don’t even know why I pay those urchins.”