Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5)

by Alex P. Berg

Steele nodded. “Were you close?”

  “Not especially,” said Droot. “But we’d see each other on occasion. Mostly at official functions. Since we won a championship, the NWU athletic program always invites us back to schmooze with potential donors—when they’re not begging us for funds directly, that is. I saw him at the last one. We chatted for a while.”

  “When was this?” Steele asked.

  “At the beginning of the scrummage season. About three months ago.” Droot played absentmindedly with a ring on his left hand as he talked, the same ring I’d seen gleaming in the light earlier, one with numerous gemstones embedded into it and with a golden sheen rather than a silver one.

  I nodded toward the man’s hand. “That your championship ring?”

  “Yes.” He removed it and held it between the tips of his fingers. “It’s a little ostentatious, but hey, you’ve seen my office.” He tried to force a smile but it didn’t take.

  “So what can you tell us about Barrett?” asked Steele.

  “Um…I don’t know,” said Droot as he rotated the ring between his fingertips. “Like I said, we didn’t talk often. But things seemed to be going well for him.”

  “What did he do for a living?” I asked.

  “He was in the security business. I want to say he worked for some sort of transport or shipping company.”

  I glanced at Steele. “That explains his presence at the docks.”

  She gave me a nod. “Mr. Droot, you said Randall seemed to be doing well. What did you mean by that?”

  “Just the usual,” he said. “He seemed happy, healthy. And financially stable, which hadn’t always been the case.”

  “How so?” asked Shay.

  Droot gestured to his surroundings. “After I finished playing scrummage, I went to law school, and obviously, I’ve done swimmingly. But many of the other guys on the team didn’t fare as well. Randall was one of those guys. He bounced around from job to job. Had some money problems.”

  He lifted his ring and stared at it. “I remember a reunion, probably a decade ago now. The rest of us wore our rings and he didn’t. Afterwards, I asked him why. He said he’d lost it, but I later heard from one of the other guys that he’d sold it make ends meet.”

  Droot frowned as he replaced the ring on his finger. “But anyway, that was a long time ago. Eventually, he found that security job, and it seemed like a perfect fit. I think he got promoted to the head position.” He snorted. “At this past scrummage reunion, he even told me he’d managed to buy a stake in the company. A small stake, but still. He was proud of that.”

  “Do you know the name of the company?” I asked.

  Droot furrowed his eyebrows and blinked before shaking his head. “Sorry. It escapes me at the moment.”

  “Anything else you could tell us about him?” asked Steele. “You say he was in a good place, but do you know if he had any enemies? Or maybe any outstanding debts?”

  Droot shrugged. “Look, Detective, I’d love to help. I really would. But we talked at most once a year, and then it was mostly scrummage stuff. You know…reliving the glory days. If he was into anything illegal or dangerous, he most certainly didn’t tell me about it. Although I wish he had. Maybe I could’ve helped…”

  I rapped my fingers on my chair’s armrest. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. There’s nothing you could’ve done. Trust me, I know.”

  Unwelcome thoughts of my mother’s death flashed through my mind, but I pushed them to the side with a practiced ease. No sense reliving that particular part of my past—especially when there was work to be done.

  6

  The 5th Street Precinct’s massive seal of justice, a bas-relief carving of a soaring eagle clutching a pair of scales between its razor-sharp claws, loomed over the lounging beat cops and runners and loitering street urchins underneath it, casting a persistent reminder of the steady hand of justice along with its shadow. I grasped the handle of one of the iron-banded doors beneath it and yanked, holding it open for Steele.

  In the heart of the pit, Rodgers and Quinto leaned back in their chairs, drumming their fingers on their desks as they shot the breeze.

  “Well, don’t you two look comfortable,” I said.

  “Give us a break,” said Rodgers. “We barely got back fifteen minutes ago. I think we’ve earned the right to cool our heels—not that we need to. It’s bloody cold down by those docks.”

  “Find anything?” asked Steele.

  “You mean other than a greater appreciation for the dockworkers who brave those biting sea gusts on a daily basis?” asked Quinto.

  “I was thinking something a bit more concrete,” said Steele. “And preferably related to the case.”

  “Unfortunately, no,” said Rodgers. “We went over the shipyard’s storage area with a fine-toothed comb. Didn’t find a thing, which isn’t particularly surprising. If Cairny’s right about a garrote being used to murder the victim, I can’t imagine the killers would’ve left that behind. They’re reusable, after all.”

  “Reduce, reuse, recycle,” I said. “If you think about it, so many fewer criminals would get caught if they adhered to basic sustainability guidelines in regards to their murder weapons.”

  Quinto eyed me curiously but ignored my banter. “While our search for evidence was a failure, we were able to round up some hobos—albeit only a few and after a fair bit of digging. Unfortunately, none of them recalled seeing anyone enter or exit the shipyard after dark. According to them, the district is mostly a ghost town after hours.”

  “Which I imagine the killers were well aware of when they murdered Randall,” said Steele.

  “Randall?” said Rodgers.

  Steele pulled a folder from beneath her arm and tossed it on the fair-haired detective’s desk. “Randall Barrett. A former scrummage player for NWU. He worked security for a company called West and Smith Transport, located not more than a few blocks from where we found his body.”

  Quinto peered at the file as Rodgers cracked it open. “You got all that from a ring?”

  “And a sketch,” I said. “And a bunch of legwork and questions. And a few winks and a smile, though those last two didn’t do much to sway the gorgon down at the NWU admissions and records office. That’s why we stopped by Taxation and Revenue on our way here to pick up those files Rodgers has in his mitts.”

  “A gorgon?” Quinto blinked and raised a brow.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ve got rare and fantastic creatures on the brain. Blame the property lawyer we talked to.”

  Shay gave me a pat on the shoulder. “You fill them in. I’ll be right back.”

  “And where are you headed?” I asked.

  Shay turned her head as she left. “You’re not the only one who downed a bunch of coffee this morning. Nature calls.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” While I’d grown comfortable in Shay’s presence, swapping tales of bodily functions was something I limited to the men folk.

  Shay disappeared, but Quinto retained his raised eyebrow and kept it firmly trained on me. “You turned Steele to the dark side?”

  “What?” It took me a moment to get it. “Oh, you mean the dark roast side. Hardly. It was cappuccino.”

  “And that is?”

  “Exactly what Shay said,” I replied.

  A swish of paper cut through the air as Rodgers’ fingers flipped a page in the file. “Well, it looks like you got everything we’ll need to move us in the right direction. Barrett’s work address. Home address. Even some income information. If nothing else, it looks like he was up to date on his taxes.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s amazing what you can uncover when you put in the effort to do real detective work as opposed to, you know—canoodling all morning.”

  Quinto frowned and squinted at me. “Are you suggesting Cairny’s presence compromised my deductive abilities?”

  “Oh, he suggested more than that this morning,” said Rodgers as he lay the file down
on his desk. “But while Quinto doesn’t have a leg to stand on regarding his oversight at the crime scene, neither do you Daggers. Perhaps you’ve already forgotten, but Steele pointed out Barrett’s ring, not you.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said as I leaned on Rodgers’ desk. “I would’ve noticed that in about two second if Shay hadn’t knelt at Barrett’s side.”

  “So how does that make you any different than Quinto?” asked Rodgers.

  “I didn’t not notice it because I was making goofy eyes at Steele,” I said. “I didn’t notice because I hadn’t moved to that side yet—which I would’ve done as a part of my investigation if Steele hadn’t take up the position.”

  “Right.” Quinto rolled his eyes. “The only reason you haven’t noticed how much your own observational skills have fallen is because you have your eagle-eyed partner there to back you up all the time.”

  I adopted my best thin-lipped, stern-faced look. “I smell something funky, and for once, it’s not your armpits. Could it perhaps be the scent of…a challenge?”

  Big and ugly and fair-haired and charming locked eyes.

  Rodgers spoke. “Depends. What are you proposing?”

  “A test of our abilities. Just the three of us,” I said. “A bit of a detective-off, if you will.”

  “And how would that work?” asked Quinto.

  “Simple,” I said. “We’re investigating a case right now, aren’t we? I figured we’d head to Barrett’s place to see what we can find—after lunch of course. I’m starving. But once there, the challenge begins. Whoever finds the most tempting clue, the most tantalizing piece of evidence, is declared the winner, and the other two have to buy him drinks the next time we go out.”

  “And how will we know what the best piece of evidence is?” asked Quinto. “There’s a good chance whatever we find won’t immediately be meaningful.”

  “We can wait until we’ve got someone behind bars to make that determination,” I said.

  “And what about Steele?” asked Rodgers. “Do you have a plan for keeping her nose out of the investigation while we take part in this?”

  “Not yet,” I said, “but I’ll think of something. Now can it. Here she comes.”

  Shay approached us from the far side of the pit. As she walked I couldn’t help but think what she might think of our little wager. Would she find it childish and immature? Would she be offended at her lack of inclusion? Flattered at our acknowledgement of her superior skills? Or would she laugh it off as one of those ‘boys will be boys’ moments?

  Shay fiddled with the top button on her jacket as she arrived. She glanced up only to be greeted by our blank faces.

  “You’re all strangely quiet,” she said. “Did I miss something?”

  “Only the lunch discourse,” I said. “So…what are you feeling?”

  7

  Lunch came in the form of a lightly toasted gouda, cheddar, muenster, and provolone sandwich and a cup of hearty tomato bisque, all from a place by the name of Soup’er Sandwich, which met my criteria for food-related puns if not for originality. The melted cheeses and tomato soup warmed my belly along with the cockles of my heart, reminding me of the most lovingly-crafted meals I’d had as a child with my dearly-departed nan. I could almost picture her apartment as I’d savored the morsels, feel the frost on the windows and smell the scented log crackling in her hearth.

  What could I say? Shay knew how to pick them, a fact I’d slowly come to accept as gospel. While her tongue outpaced my own in boldness—from a culinary standpoint, of course—even on those meals where we enjoyed rustic classics, she managed to find places that prepared them in delectably savory fashion. And I wasn’t the only one who knew it. When Quinto, Rodgers, or Cairny accompanied us for lunch, they invariably pushed for Shay to choose the eatery, even when it was ostensibly my turn to pick.

  Then again, even I’d started to defer to her on my days. There was more to it than the eventual quality of the meal, though. I could scarf down virtually any piece of meat served between two slices of bread and not be disappointed, but not Shay, and frankly, I wanted her to be happy. So we compromised—except it never felt like such. A good meal in my belly and a happy partner? What else could I want? While I could remember the day when I felt otherwise, it seemed like a distant memory.

  A pair of rickshaws dropped us off in front of Barrett’s apartment, a common building made uncommon only by its location—right at the edge of the dock district, not more than three blocks from his place of work and twice that from the site of his murder. Apparently, despite being a former athlete, Barrett didn’t care much for walking, although if Coach Phillister Choke’s tale of woe regarding his knees was in any way common, perhaps it was because of his former scrummage career that Barrett lived where he did.

  I paid the rickshaw drivers from my special department funds pocket—kept intentionally light by the Captain’s furor and threats of unemployment—before heading for the door. Quinto and Rodgers followed, but Shay hung back.

  “Hey, Daggers,” she said. “Why don’t we let Rodgers and Quinto case the place? We can hop over to West and Smith to talk to his co-workers. Might save time.”

  I exchanged furtive glances with my male compatriots before we all blurted out what first came to mind.

  “I mean, we’re already here…” I mumbled.

  “Shouldn’t take too long,” said Quinto.

  “Great idea,” said Rodgers. “But leave Daggers.”

  I turned to Rodgers. “Leave Daggers?”

  Shay peered at him curiously, too.

  Rodgers wet his lips. “I mean, you know, because you…love…talking to people. And, because…Daggers is annoying?”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Shay shook her head slowly. “Okay… Whatever. Let’s just go through Barrett’s apartment. And Quinto? Keep an eye on Rodgers. His grilled cheese might’ve been tainted.”

  Shay let herself in though the front door, and I gave Rodgers the fisheye. “Really?”

  Quinto sided with me with a nod.

  “What?” said Rodgers. “I thought it would be a good way to, you know—” He gestured his hands to the side.

  “Leave it to me,” I said. “I’ve got this.”

  I hustled inside and found Steele at the base of the stairs.

  “Hold on there partner,” I said. “We’ll need someone to let us into Barrett’s room. We don’t have a key, remember? You mind checking around back to see if you can find a building manager or someone of a similar ilk?”

  “Seriously?” Shay blinked. “Whatever happened to your everlasting love of kicking down doors?”

  “I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.”

  “Right. What’s really going on?”

  So much for plan A. I heard the clack of the door behind me as Rodgers and Quinto entered the lobby, and an idea struck.

  I leaned in close to Shay and spoke under my breath. “Look, I didn’t want to say anything out there, but I think Rodgers is having some…man problems. With Allison. I think that’s why he suggested you leave. Maybe you could give us a few ticks alone?”

  “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “Come on,” I said. “Five minutes?”

  Shay sighed. “Okay. Fine. I’ll see if I can locate a janitor or something.”

  Shay disappeared down the hallway, and I motioned for Rodgers and Quinto to follow me as I headed up the stairs.

  “Well, that was surprisingly easy,” said Rodgers as we tromped up the steps. “What did you tell her?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just that you were suffering from erectile dysfunction and needed to talk it over.”

  Rodgers slipped on a step and nearly coughed up a lung. “WHAT?”

  “Kidding,” I said. “I told her you were having ‘man problems,’ so it’s entirely up to her imagination to interpret that. But Shay has a surprisingly good imagination. Not as good as mine, but you know…”

&n
bsp; “And if she finds out you were lying?” asked Quinto.

  “Come on, big guy,” I said. “Man problems could be anything from relationship issues to gas. I was intentionally vague. Now hurry up. We’ve got a bet to settle and only about five minutes in which to do it.”

  We found the door to Barrett’s apartment. I readied my kicking foot, seeing as Shay had seen through that particular fib, but I stopped before I’d gathered any momentum. A ray of light shone through a seam between the door and the frame.

  “Uh, oh,” I said.

  Quinto pushed on the door as I grabbed my nightstick, Daisy, from the interior of my coat. Whatever mirth and jocularity had existed a moment before evaporated as our instincts and years of training took over. Quinto, Rodgers, and I moved as a team, entering the apartment swiftly and quietly.

  A short entryway fed into a square dining room, with walls open on two sides, leading to a similarly square living room and kitchen. Caddy-corner to the dining room, across from a load-bearing post, was a study of sorts. All four spaces were in a similar state of disarray, with household objects strewn across tables and chairs and the floor, the only difference being the articles themselves: papers and books in the study, dishes and pots and pans in the kitchen, crockery in the dining room, and pillows in the living room.

  I stepped through the chaos gingerly, looking left and right and into the rooms’ dark corners as I did so.

  I gravitated toward the far study. “Clear.”

  Off to the side of the living room, Quinto found what I assumed to be a bedroom, and Rodgers a washroom.

  “Clear.”

  “Clear.”

  As the calls came, we coalesced back in the living room next to a mauve, corduroy couch whose cushions had been thrown to the floor. We looked at each other silently, likely thinking some combination of the same questions. What happened? Who’d tossed the place? What were they looking for?

  It was Quinto, though, who got over the shock of the apartment’s state first. “The bet!”

  He darted into the bedroom, and I took the study. Unfortunately, so did Rodgers. We collided, and thanks to basic principles of physics, he took the worst of the blow. He fell into a pile of papers strewn across the floor, but on the bright side, it gave him stake to their claim.