by Alex P. Berg
I rushed to the desk against the far wall. Its drawers hung open, stationery pouring from them like spilt entrails. I grabbed the first thing within reach—a shipping manifest, by the looks of it—and scanned my eyes across the page. Not seeing anything interesting, I dropped it and reached for another, but as my fingers closed on the sheet of paper, I paused.
What was I doing? Bet or no bet, rushing headfirst into a pile of discarded pencils and paper, the latter of which I was only lending a few seconds of my time and attention to, wasn’t likely to lead me in any worthwhile direction. While the bet I’d made with Rodgers and Quinto drove me toward speed, what I really needed was to step back and reevaluate the situation.
I’d come to Barrett’s apartment expecting it to be as he’d left it the previous evening before leaving for the shipyard. Hence, upon arrival, I’d planned to look for clues of his intents. Either that or evidence of his past movements so that we might be able to track where he’d gone and who he might’ve met with. But his apartment’s violation changed things.
I stepped away from the desk and toward the living room, casting my gaze around the apartment. Two things immediately sprang to mind. First, while the apartment had been tossed, it hadn’t been destroyed. Cushions hadn’t been ripped open, nor had floorboards been torn up, which meant whatever the intruders had been after, it wasn’t something they thought Barrett had well and truly hidden.
The other thing I noticed was that everything was in disarray. That indicated to me one of two things. Either the object of the intruders’ desire was small, something Barrett could’ve squirreled away anywhere—which I thought unlikely given my first estimation—or the thugs who’d tossed the place weren’t sure what they were looking for.
If Cairny was right about Barrett’s death being mob related, then perhaps they’d simply gone through his things to make sure there wasn’t anything tying Barrett’s and their own dealings together. If so, I didn’t think we’d find much of anything, even once CSU arrived. Mob guys were smart. They wore gloves for this sort of thing.
Rodgers called out from behind me. “I think Daggers is giving up, Quinto. He’s got a glazed look in his eyes.”
I heard the clack of a boot heel and my partner’s warm voice. “Giving up on what?”
I looked up to see Shay standing at the entrance to the apartment.
“You lied,” I said. “That was three minutes at best.”
“I wasn’t exactly counting,” she said as she walked over. “Either way it looks like you’ve moved on from personal issues to detective work. Hopefully you found the place in this state?”
“No,” I said. “Quinto flew into a rage when he found out how much closer Rodgers’ and my relationship is than his own.”
“I heard that.” Quinto stepped from the bedroom and joined us in the living room.
I nodded at him. “Find anything?”
He glanced at Steele before giving me a knowing look. “Sadly…no. I don’t think so anyway. I’m not entirely sure what to be looking for.”
“Rodgers?” I said.
He frowned and shook his head.
As much as I’d have loved to lord my deductive superiority over the others, I hadn’t discovered anything yet, either, and given Steele’s reappearance, the settling of the bet would have to wait.
Steele took a slow look around her. If she spotted anything that shed light on the identity of the intruders or into Barrett’s past, that act might prove Quinto correct, regardless of the bet.
“See anything?” I asked.
Luckily for my ego, her response mirrored my own thoughts. “Not off the bat. This place is a mess. Better to let the crime scene unit go thought it piece by piece and see what they find.”
I nodded sagely. Crisis of confidence averted. For now.
8
After rounding up a couple beat cops to guard the crime scene and sending a runner for the CSU team, we headed toward Barrett’s place of business. Although walking there only took a few minutes, finding Barrett’s office was a far lengthier and more complicated proposal.
More or less as I’d expected, West and Smith Transport was situated on a large lot adjacent to the riverbank and packed with stacks upon stacks of junk—or ‘salable goods,’ as I’m sure the owners would’ve argued. While some of the more durable items—lumber, iron, and stone—sat in gigantic piles awaiting delivery, most of the premises was populated by shipping cubes, all crafted from thin sheets of corrugated steel and indistinguishable from one another except for the varying degrees of rust on their sides. Tall cranes laden with ropes and pulleys and winches cast their shadows over the crates, which in many cases had been stacked three high to conserve space.
The reason Barrett’s office was difficult to locate, however, wasn’t due to the density of shipping crates or limited lines of sight. It had more to do with the frustratingly vague signage, which consisted solely of letters paired with numbers. To be fair, I couldn’t imagine owners West and Smith gained much business from walk-in traffic, but there could’ve at least been a sign at the port’s entrance stating the central offices were located at E5, a piece of information we eventually liberated from a couple of burly longshoremen. As luck would have it, once there we discovered Barrett’s office was back closer to the entrance at C12.
Eventually we located the building in question, a squatty shack constructed from the same corrugated steel as the ubiquitous shipping containers. A single, rectangular window had been cut into the side, and next to that a door. I pushed on it and walked in, Quinto at my side with Shay and Rodgers bringing up the rear.
Inside, a young woman—perhaps my age or a few years shy of that—sat at a desk scribbling into a ledger. She wore brown canvas pants and a thick, hooded sweatshirt underneath a puffy vest. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, but loose strands stuck haphazardly to her forehead, likely as a result of a recent bout with the woolen cap she’d discarded a handbreadth away.
She took one glance at Quinto and me before going back to her efforts. “If you’re looking for work, try E5.”
I glanced at Quinto.
He shrugged. “We look the type, I suppose.”
“We’re not here for work,” I said as I turned back to the young lady. “You are?”
“Busy,” she said.
I knew what she meant, but I went with it anyway. “Alright, Busy. We understand these are the main security offices. Or office, rather? There’s really just the one. Anyway, mind showing us where Randall Barrett’s desk is?”
“He’s not in,” she said. “Which is why I’m in such a bind at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed. Now please leave me alone so I can finish these invoices and get to F1 within the next ten minutes.”
I calmly dug my badge out of my pocket and flipped it open. I set it down on her desk face up so she’d be sure to see it. “I realized I haven’t properly introduced myself. Detective Jake Daggers. Homicide. Randall Barrett is dead.”
Busy looked up, taking notice of Rodgers and Shay for the first time, before meeting my eyes. “What did you say?”
“Your co-worker. Randall. Dead.” I chopped a hand across my throat before I thought better of it. “Well, actually it was more of a—” I lifted a hand, thumbs down, next to my head as I stuck out my tongue, croaked, and gurgled.
“Daggers…” said Rodgers.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m patently insensitive when it comes to death. Comes with the career.”
“For him, anyway,” said Shay as she stepped forward. “I’m Detective Steele. These are Quinto and Rodgers.” They nodded. “Mind if we ask you a few questions about Barrett?”
Busy blinked and shook her head. “Wait. Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so.” Steele removed Boatreng’s sketch from her pocket. “We found him a few blocks from here this morning. Strangled to death. I’m assuming you worked with him?”
Busy leaned back in he
r chair and accepted the sketch. She blinked. “Um…yeah. I’m Sally, but I go by Sal. I’m the associate head of security. Randall’s second-in-command, more or less.”
“Really?” I said. “You?”
She narrowed an eye. “Why not me?”
“Well, because security’s a tough gig,” I said, “for hard, burly guys like Barrett. Guys with muscles and gumption and a good snarl. Guys with—”
“Daggers, chauvinism alert,” said Steele.
Busy Miss Sally eyed me with extreme distaste.
I brushed a hand through my hair and averted my gaze. “I mean…yeah, sure, why not you?”
“I can see you’re swamped,” said Steele, “but we need to ask you about Barrett. What can you tell us about him? How well did you know him?”
“I’m sorry, I’m still trying to process this,” said Busy as she put down the sketch. “Randall was strangled to death? Why?”
“Not sure,” I said as I wandered across the small room, “but we have reason to believe it may have been a professional hit. Organized crime. Is this Barrett’s desk?” I pointed to a chunk of pine slightly larger than Busy’s, located in the corner and with ample light from the window.
“Uh…yeah,” said Busy. “What would the mob want with Randall?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said Steele. “Which is why we’re asking you about him.”
“Right, right. Sorry,” said Busy. “I mean, I don’t know what to say. We worked together. Had lunch fairy often. He wasn’t particularly talkative, but he seemed like a stand-up guy. Never hit on me, which was a nice change of pace.”
“Do you know if he had any, how should we say, less than legal dealings going on?” asked Steele.
“Not that I know of,” said Busy.
I looked through Barrett’s effects as Shay asked questions. On the bright side, the desk was in perfect order, so clearly we’d beaten the mob goons here. Then again, if Barrett did have any business dealings with criminals, he likely wouldn’t have left such information out in the open at work. Not if he had half a brain.
Rodgers joined me at the desk as I picked up a calendar, one tightly packed with what I assumed to be Barrett’s script. He’d jotted down his entire daily schedule a month in advance, and while it featured irregularities, for the most part it was the same thing day after day. Security checks, inventory checks, meetings (on occasion), lunch, more inventory checks, visual inspections. I did notice his day ended at four thirty sharp every afternoon, with nothing listed in the evenings. Not that I expected him to take note of a clandestine midnight meeting off site, but still…
“How about his friends?” asked Steele. “Did he have anyone come visit him at work recently? Anyone out of the ordinary? Anyone who threatened him?”
“Not that I remember,” said Busy. “But you have to understand, we don’t spend that much time in here.” She gestured to the surrounding office. “We spend most of the day out in the yard. So if something like that happened, who knows if anyone else saw it.”
Steele chewed on her lip. “What about security breaches? It’s possible he was murdered because he caught onto something illegal that he wasn’t directly involved in.”
“Randall didn’t tell me about any,” said Busy, “but if there were, they’d be in his logbook. It’s that leather-bound tome on his desk.”
Rodgers picked it up and cracked it open. He flipped to the last entry and began to work his way backwards. “Let’s see here… I’m not familiar with the lingo, but I’m not seeing anything out of the ordinary.”
Busy gestured. “Give it here. I’ll take a look.”
I set the calendar down as Rodgers brought her the ledger. “So it looks like Barrett stuck to a strict schedule. There’s barely enough time left over here for him to use the john. You said you didn’t see him that much through the day, but do you recall him doing anything out of the ordinary yesterday?”
Busy paused as she accepted the logbook. “Wait. Now that you mention it, yeah. He skipped out on lunch.”
We all waited eagerly in silence, so she elaborated. “Like you said, Randall was meticulous about his schedule, and that included his food. Mondays and Thursdays he snagged burgers and shakes with Frank and Morley, who are part of our security team, over at Beef King. Tuesdays and Fridays it was sandwiches, usually at The Carving Station, with a couple of guys from the central office. Wednesdays it was lunch with me. We varied it up, but we usually got hearty fare. Stuff that sticks to your ribs. This job has a way of making you ravenous by four if you spring for anything else. But anyway, the point is he bailed yesterday. Dropped by and told me to tell Frank and Morley he wouldn’t be able to make it when they showed up.”
“And did he say why he was skipping lunch?” asked Shay.
Busy shook her head. “Just said something came up at the last minute and he couldn’t make it.”
Quinto cleared his throat, making himself known. “I don’t suppose he mentioned where he was headed? Or who he was having lunch with?”
Busy met that question with another taut shake of her head.
I glanced at the calendar again—yesterday’s entry in particular. Barrett had lunch blocked out from noon to one, but he didn’t have another scheduled activity for a half hour after that. An inventory check of bundles of copper wire, in F7.
“When did Barrett leave yesterday?” I asked.
“Right before noon, I think,” said Busy.
“And did he make his one-thirty?” I asked.
“I believe so,” said Busy.
“Which means you saw him after the fact,” I said.
The security specialist nodded. “Yeah. I think we were both in the office yesterday afternoon from…I want to say about three-thirty to four. Maybe four fifteen.”
“How did he seem?” I asked.
Busy pursed her lips as she stared at her desk. “Well, now that you mention it, he seemed a bit distracted. Almost scatter-brained. Which is odd for him. He’s always so focused. I mean, he was always so focused.” She glanced up at Steele. “You’re sure he’s the one?”
Shay gestured at the sketch, still on the woman’s desk. “Unless you think that’s not him. We should probably have you come in to identify his body, actually.”
“With my schedule? Great.” Busy’s eyebrows knit together momentarily, then loosened as her shoulders slumped. “I mean…yeah, sure. I’ll do that, of course. I’m just…a little overwhelmed, that’s all.”
Given the woman’s demeanor, I could tell she didn’t have much left to tell.
I rapped my fingers on the edge of Barrett’s desk as I thought. “So we know Barrett bailed on his regular lunch crew the day of his murder, but we don’t know where he went or why. As a human of the male persuasion, I know how important lunch is to productivity and overall sanity, so I think it’s safe to assume he ate somewhere, and if he was distracted upon his return, I’d also wager he met with someone and received news he didn’t expect. So the question becomes, who did he meet, and what did they talk about?”
My three detective companions all nodded in thought, but Shay was the only one to speak. “That seems to jive with the evidence we found at Barrett’s apartment.”
“Evidence?” said Rodgers. “What evidence? That place was a mess.”
Steele shot Rodgers a single raised eyebrow. “What? Don’t tell me you missed it?” She shared the look with Quinto and me. “You, too?”
I sighed. Crisis of confidence back on the stovetop. Hopefully my kettle of self-assurance wouldn’t start whistling soon.
9
Back at Barrett’s apartment, a pair of bluecoats had taken positions at the door, though I didn’t recognize either of the slack-jawed beat cops. We flashed our badges as we stepped between them and into the chaos within, Rodgers, Quinto, and I following Steele.
She led us through the entryway, taking a right into the kitchen, stopped, and pointed. “There.�
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I followed her finger. On the far counter, firmly amid the clutter but in no way hidden from view, was a white oyster pail takeout container.
I silently cursed myself—and not simply because Shay noticed the potential clue and I hadn’t. To be fair, neither Quinto nor Rodgers had seen it and noted its importance, and I’d more or less accepted that Shay’s observational prowess far outpaced my own. It was my deductive instincts that made me a top-notch investigator and arguably the most indispensible member of our team. But I was upset with myself for how I’d approached Barrett’s flat.
I recalled how I’d stood in the living room, thinking about how I should look for evidence of Barrett’s movements. Tracking his eating habits would’ve been a perfect way to do that, but I let myself get distracted by the state of the apartment. Because of the chaos, my mind shifted from investigating Barrett to investigating the intruder, and while it was surely a worthwhile avenue to follow, it was also a mistake.
Shay stepped around the dishes and silverware on the floor to reach the boxy, waxed paperboard container. She hefted it and brought it to the island in the center of the room, which was mostly free of debris.
She frowned as she looked it over. “Hmm. Plain white, no marks. I couldn’t remember it perfectly, but I was hoping it had a restaurant name on it or something.”
Quinto shuffled across the kitchen to the far side, where he found a wastebasket next to the cabinets. He bent over and stuck a mitt in it as he rummaged through its contents. After a moment, he straightened, a crumpled brown paper bag in hand.
“Might’ve been in this.” He brought it over and flattened it against the island. “But…it’s blank, too. So no help there.”
Rodgers nodded toward the waste bin. “Quinto, was there anything else in there? More food containers?”
“No oyster pails,” said the big guy. “But there were a few other old food cartons, and some scraps. Plus junk that fell in there during the break-in, I guess. Why?”