by Alex P. Berg
A pair of guards who could’ve given Quinto a run for his money stood outside the massive iron gate in front, each of them wearing black fatigues and standing arrow straight. The one on the right held up a hand. “State your names.”
“I’m Detective Jake Daggers.”
“Detective Gordon Rodgers.”
“Detective Folton Quinto.”
I could’ve introduced my pals, but I knew from experience the guards wouldn't have any of that. Rules were in place for a reason.
“Identification?” said the guard.
We produced our badges and held them forth. The guard and his partner took them and inspected them, thoroughly, before handing them back. “State your purpose.”
“We’re here to interrogate a prisoner.”
The guard rapped on the gate twice and called out, “Three officers coming through!”
“Three officers,” someone confirmed on the other side.
I heard a scrape and a heavy clang, followed by a rasping squeal as the right-hand gate swung in, but only a few feet. Quinto, Rodgers, and I walked in, single file through the narrow opening.
A man in the same black uniform as the guards outside met us on the gravel path between the wall and the prison’s front door. A patch with a bar across it adorned his shoulder. “Detectives? Sergeant Ezra Rios. What can I do for you today?”
“I need to speak with one of your prisoners,” I said. “An ogre by the name of Dugruk. We put him away eight months ago for grand theft, aggravated assault, kidnapping, and attempted murder of a police officer. Also goes by the name of Bonesaw.”
“Yeah, we get the best of the best here at the ‘Gate,” said Rios. “You trying to track down his associates?”
“Perhaps.”
Rios nodded. “Fair enough. Come with me. I’ll track him down.”
We followed the Sergeant inside, past another locked gate and through an inspection station for family members and non-police personnel. Light trickled in through small windows set at the periphery. The walls were too close, too smooth, and despite it being summer, too cold. Guards stood at every entrance, always in pairs.
Rios ushered us past them into an interrogation room, one dressed with a metal table, a quartet of metal chairs, and nothing else. An additional door graced the wall on our right hand side, probably leading toward the cells.
“Be right back,” said Rios.
He left, and we took our seats. They were cold, too. I’d hate to visit in the winter.
Rodgers cleared his throat. “Daggers…far be it from me to dismiss one of your hunches, but shouldn’t we be at the spill? Or talking to someone from the rickshaw driver’s guild?”
I plucked Boatreng’s sketch from my jacket and slid it across the table. “You’ve seen it. Tell me that’s not Bonesaw.”
Rodgers didn’t touch the paper. “I’m with you. It looks like him. But he’s incarcerated. You think the correctional officers gave him a day pass so he could get some fresh ink?”
“We’ll see.”
It was a few minutes before anyone arrived. When they did, they came through the same door we had. Another officer in a black uniform, a short, dark-skinned guy who was hairy as an ape and built like a bull—maybe a dwarf-orc hybrid, if I had to guess. Patches adorned his shoulders, too, ones that were wider and fancier than Sergeant Rios’.
“Detectives?” he said. “I’m Lieutenant Greyguard. I understand you’re looking for an inmate. Dugruk Gruerot.”
So that was his last name. I’d seen it on the sentencing paperwork but long since forgotten it. “That’s right. Called himself Bonesaw.”
“Indeed,” said the lieutenant. “I’d be happy to let you grill him about whatever it is you’re after, but I’m afraid I can’t. Dugruk isn’t at Coldgate anymore.”
I practically growled, even though I’d expected the answer. “Gods damn it. What did I tell you, Rodgers?” I glared at the lieutenant. “What happened? How did he escape?”
Greyguard snorted. “Nobody escapes Coldgate. He was transferred. Down south, out of the city to Stinking Baths.”
That caught me off guard. “Why?”
“Because he shanked another inmate and threatened several more,” said Greyguard. “The guy was a menace. He should’ve been sent to the labor camps from the start.”
“When was this?”
“A couple months ago. Why?”
“Who sent the order?”
“The warden, after we filed his assault report,” said Greyguard. “Again, why?”
I pointed at the piece of paper on the table. Greyguard picked it up. “Is this supposed to be him?”
“It looks like him, doesn’t it?” I said. “That man was last seen soliciting a tattoo parlor in the city a few weeks ago. He’s wanted for questioning in regards to an assault committed on me last night, as well as a kidnapping that took place today. You’ll remember Bonesaw was incarcerated under both assault and kidnapping charges.”
The Lieutenant put the sketch back down. “Well, whoever this is, it’s not Bonesaw. I’m telling you, he was transferred. We put the paperwork in through the proper channels. The transport team came and picked him up, and we received a certified letter from Stinking Baths confirming his admission.”
“Do you have this letter on file?”
“Of course we do.”
“I’m going to need to see it.”
Greyguard snorted. “Are you serious?”
I stood, feeling my anger seeping into my tense muscles. “What’s your standard operating procedure for when one inmate kills another?”
“They get sent to the camps,” said Greyguard. “Same as anyone else convicted of murder.”
“And I’m sure Bonesaw knew that. It’s not exactly classified information, is it? His buddies on the outside would’ve known that, too. They would’ve known how he would’ve been transferred. They probably even could’ve guessed where he’d be transferred.”
Greyguard stared at me. “There was never any report of an attack on the transport, and we received confirmation of his delivery by letter.”
I slammed my fist into the metal table, making it rattle and shake. “And I’m telling you I want to see that letter!”
A chair squeaked as Quinto stood. “Daggers…”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m stressed. That was uncalled for. But I need to see that letter.”
Greyguard stared at me, his jaw tense. “Fine. Come with me.”
He turned and left, leading us through another guard station into a less secure area of the prison. The walls remained as thick, the bars over the windows as solid, and the cold seeping through the stone as enervating, but there were fewer guards, and the occasional touch of color brightened a wall or two.
Greyguard unlocked a door using a keyring at his side and pushed forth into a room filled with filing cabinets, bookshelves, and desks whose surfaces had been beaten to hell. He snaked among the shelves, forcing me, Rodgers, and Quinto to follow in single file. He rapped his fingers along the sides of the filing cabinets, drumming out a metallic monotone, until he arrived at a cabinet at the end of the aisle.
He wrenched open the topmost drawer, flicked through the documents within, and eventually pulled one from the stack.
“There,” he said, holding it forth. “Straight from Stinking Baths. Official seal’s at the bottom right.”
I took it and pushed past him, weaving my way to the nearest window. I lifted the document into the light. On initial inspection, everything looked appropriate. The paper felt thick and durable between my fingers, the ink dark, the stamp in the lower corner elevated and embellished with a flowing signature.
I heard Greyguard’s voice behind me. “Satisfied?”
“You’ve sent other troublemakers to Stinking Baths before?” I asked. “Recently?”
“Last one before Bonesaw was a few months back,” said Greyguard. “A goblin by the name of Gwarkirk who
slit his bunkmate’s neck while he slept.”
“I’ll need to see his letter, too.”
I heard a snort. “You can’t seriously think—”
“I need to see it.” I didn’t even bother turning from the light.
Greyguard grunted. Another drawer slid open on squeaky wheels, and fingers flipped through paper. I heard the Lieutenant's voice again, more miffed this time. “Here. You take it.”
Rodgers joined me, followed closely by Quinto. He held the additional letter.
“Thanks.” I took the second sheet and held it next to the first. The pages looked identical, except for the contents. Even those only differed in the names of those transported, but the quality of the paper, the form of the seal, and the fluidity of the signature were a match. Actually…
“Guys.” I nodded at the pages.
Quinto lifted an eyebrow. “What?”
I placed the letters over each other, held the stack to the window, and adjusted until the signatures overlapped. “See?”
Rodgers snorted. “A perfect match.”
“We’ve signed our names a thousand times,” I said. “How often do you think you’ve reproduced the exact same signature over those instances?”
“Excuse me,” said Greyguard. “Are you suggesting Bonesaw broke into our records room, used that letter to forge his own, then slipped it back before making his escape?”
I eyed the lieutenant. “Better check your locks. Either that or the men who guard them.” I held up the letters. “I need to keep these, by the way.”
Greyguard shook his head. “I’ll have to clear it with the warden. If you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, we’re going to have to launch an investigation into how this happened. We’ll need those.”
I glared at him. “I wasn’t asking. Trust me, I’ll get these to internal affairs once my partner’s life isn’t in danger.” That shut him up. “Rodgers? Quinto? Time to go.”
Greyguard looked on, dumbfounded, while Rodgers nodded. “Where to?”
“To find Bonesaw. Where else?”
Quinto might’ve looked even more dumbfounded than Greyguard. “You’ve got a lead on him already? And here I thought Shay was supposed to be the psychic.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But if Bonesaw’s out, I know someone who might have a bead on him. Let’s go.”
18
I knocked on the door, the lacquered hardwood smooth under my knuckles. The corridor I stood in matched the barrier before me in style if not in substance. Wood paneling down low, pristine white paint up high, floors clean enough to eat off of. It wasn’t the sterile nature of the place that made it feel more like a hospital than an upscale apartment complex, though. It was the lack of discernible smells and sounds: no frying sausages or dried fish paste or concentrated garlic, no yelling or laughing or clumsy footfalls, no pattering feet or children’s giggles. The last wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t the kind of place that tailored to families.
I could feel Quinto and Rodgers’ gravitational pull at my back, a combined five hundred pounds of agitated police power. Despite the lengthy trek from the prison, they hadn’t asked me where we were going. Maybe they’d figured it out for themselves, or maybe they’d taken a good look at me and realized engaging me in conversation could spark yet another murder attempt against an officer. I don’t think I looked quite that dangerous, but I’d also failed to pass by any mirrors of late.
I heard the click and drag of a latch bar. The door opened slowly. Sensuously. The elf woman who opened it hung on the door’s edge, her body stretched like a bowstring with all the same flexibility and accompanying snap. A pair of brown leather pants hugged her lean legs, and a white spaghetti strap camisole left a smidgen of her midsection bare. She swept a lock of honey-amber hair out of her face as she took stock of me.
“Well, if it isn’t Drake Baggers.” She looked me up and down me again and bit her lip. “You’re looking good.”
“I started working out. You’re not looking too shabby yourself, Kyra.”
She shrugged. “In my line of work, it pays to stay fit. Literally. What’s it been? Seven months since our game of cat and mouse?”
“Eight,” I said. “Though I wouldn’t call our previous encounter a game, even if the guy in charge of putting it together treated it like one. Both of us almost died.”
Kyra glanced at her left hand, which happened to be missing its ring finger. She filled the gap with her thumb. “Oh, it was definitely a game, though not without consequence. And I was definitely the cat.”
“Can we dispense with the back and forth? We need to talk.”
I took a half step into her apartment, but she stopped me with a hand to my chest. “Hold on there, cowboy. You got a warrant?”
I was too angry to be offended. “Are you serious? I’m not here to bring you in. I don’t care what you’ve been up to, or who you might’ve robbed.”
Kyra tsked at my mention of the last part. “Why would you say something like that? And if so, why’d you bring your goons?”
“Goons?” said Quinto. “You do remember Rodgers and I are the ones who saved you from Bonesaw’s apartment before he made a snack of you, right?”
“On Detective Daggers’ hunch, if I recall. But don’t take it personally. You’re not as handsome as him.” Kyra glanced at Rodgers. “No offense.”
“None taken,” said Rodgers. “A lot of women tell me I’m too pretty for their tastes. Handsome yes, but not ruggedly so.”
I glared at my fellow detectives. “Guys…”
“Sorry.” Rodgers eyed Kyra. “He’s telling the truth. We didn’t even know where he was taking us. This is between you and him.”
Kyra regarded me with a narrowed eye. “Is it? Alright. You’ve piqued my interest. Come in. Watch the rugs. I just had them cleaned.”
Kyra stepped from her door and sauntered into her apartment. It said something about my mood that I barely noticed the seductive way she undulated as she walked. I did notice, though. I was furious, desperate, and as shaky as a guy with a central nervous system disorder who’d drunk too much coffee, but I wasn’t dead.
Quinto, or perhaps Rodgers, shut the door behind me as I reached the living room. Afternoon light streaming through the windows, which reached from floor to ceiling across two full walls. I suppose when you lived in a sixth story penthouse, it made sense to take advantage of the views. At least that way you got something for your stair-climbing troubles.
Kyra had decorated the room sparsely, with a ten by ten foot lambskin rug, a pair of sofas with low backs and no armrests, and pristine coffee table, free of any and all mug rings. Everything in the room was modern, lean, and expensive. Kyra was no exception.
She sat in the middle of one of the couches, a cool gray in color, and threw an arm across the back, inviting me to take a seat beside her. Almost. “Don’t get any ideas. Stick to the living room, Daggers.”
“Pardon?”
Kyra kicked her bare feet onto the coffee table. “I recognize that look. Studious. Far-off. Tense. You’re mentally cataloging everything you see. I invited you in in good faith. Don’t test my limits.”
I tried to soften my look. I failed. “It’s not you. I act this way every time I arrive somewhere new. Even more so lately. It’s a force of habit.”
“Aren’t we the cryptic one?” Kyra smiled, but just a hint. “But I’m not buying it.”
I inspected a narrow side table, one that had been placed in front of the only section of living room wall not lined with glass. A decanter sat there alongside a few glasses. “You’re not buying what?”
“That you always act this way. Last I saw you, you weren’t ready to chew rocks and spit gravel.”
“Ever think there might be a reason for that?”
Kyra’s smile expanded. “Believe it or not, I did. I’m smart like that.”
Rodgers and Quinto had stopped at the mouth of the room, out of respect I gu
ess.
Kyra flicked a hand toward the free couch space beside her. “Lighten up a little. Have a seat.”
“No thanks.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “That’s no way to treat your host. All I’m asking for is a little levity. I know you deal with grizzly murders on a daily basis, but—”
I slammed my fist against the side table, rattling the glasses and almost toppling the liquor. “Damn it, Kyra! They have her.”
Kyra drew her arm slowly off the back of the sofa. Her face lost its mirthful aura. “Your partner?”
“You are smart, aren’t you?”
Being angry didn’t give me the right to be an asshole, but she let it slide. “Who’s they?”
“Remember when we last parted?” I asked. “After Rodgers and Quinto saved you, after you got patched up, when you ran after me on the front steps of the precinct?”
“I remember. I gave you a kiss on the cheek. Said I owed you one.”
“Did you mean it?”
Kyra’s gaze hardened. She drew her feet off the coffee table and back onto the plush rug. “I keep my promises. What’s going on, Daggers?”
My teeth clenched. “Bonesaw’s out. I don’t know how. I just found out.”
Whatever mirth lingered in Kyra’s face vanished. Her eyes widened. She rubbed at her missing finger reflexively. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly. He seems to have engineered a prison escape. Stabbed a guy to force a transfer to Stinking Baths and managed to arrange for a fake transport to pick him up from Coldgate. But he had help from the outside. Whoever sprung him had the resources to make it look legit. Nobody at Coldgate had any idea anything about the transfer had gone amiss until I started sniffing, and even then I wouldn’t have known to look if not for a chance sighting at a tattoo parlor.”
Kyra looked me over again. “You’re working out and getting inked?”
“Give me a break, Kyra. I was canvassing shops looking for the guys who tried to kill me last night.”
“Your sour mood is starting to make more sense.”
My hand hovered over the tumbler on the side table. I wanted to pour myself a glass, maybe two or three, but at some point over the past year my self-resolve had hardened. I settled for clenching my fist as I skirted the sofa and took a seat on the couch opposite Kyra.