by Alex P. Berg
Steele kneeled down next to Sid and put a hand on his knee. We’d never questioned a kid during our few weeks together, but Shay seemed to have an intrinsic understanding of how it was done. “Can you tell us a little more about this man you saw in the stairway, Sid? What did he look like?”
Shay used another veteran move by asking Sid if he could provide us with more information rather than telling him to do so. That made kids more comfortable, and it worked with Sid. He perked up immediately. Of course, he was a young boy who had a smoking hot elf girl in her early twenties resting a hand on his leg. A certain part of me would’ve perked up, too.
“Well, I didn’t really get a good look at him,” said Sid. “Like I said, he had a dark cloak, and his hood was pulled up. He seemed tall, maybe as tall as you.” He pointed at me. “But he didn’t seem too big though. Just sort of average size.”
I made a mental note of his depiction, but added a footnote not to take too much stock in the kid’s description. Not only did he admit he didn’t get a good look at the suspect, but kids in general couldn’t be trusted upon for accurate judgments of height. Everyone seems tall when you come up to navel height. Seriously, ask a gnome.
“Did you notice any distinctive features on this man?” asked Shay. “Long hair, a big beard, strange clothes, anything like that?”
“Um, no, not really,” said Sid. “Sorry.”
“How about your uncle, Octavio?” I said. “Could you tell us more about him?”
“What do you want to know?” asked Sid.
“Did he have any friends? Enemies? Strange hobbies?”
“I’m not sure he really had any friends or enemies,” said Sid, “and everything he did was a little on the strange side. He didn’t talk to people much. Kept to himself. As far as I know, I’m the only person he spent time with.”
“Are you sure?” asked Shay. “We think there’s someone he may have known, a friend perhaps. Medium height, short curly brown hair, a little chubby. He might’ve dropped by your uncle’s place every two weeks or so.”
Sid shook his head. “No. Sorry, Miss Shay. I don’t remember him hanging out with anyone like that. Really, he just kept to himself.”
I started to deflate. Between the kid’s dubious description of the spooky, cloaked guy and Creepy’s total lack of a personal life, we were running through our leads quickly.
Shay continued to ask Sid questions regarding his uncle and possible connections to Terrence, and Sid continued to answer in the negative. Try as I might to avoid it, my mind started to wander. There had to be a connection between the slayings. Clearly there was in the murder weapon and style of the murders, but that didn’t give us much to go on. We needed connections between people or clues that could lead us in the direction of someone. Inanimate objects like fancy stilettos were useless unless we could match them to their owners.
My stomach gave the barest of grumbles, and I wondered if I’d made the wrong choice in skipping Tolek’s on my way into work. His kolaches were hard to beat. Then again, I seemed to remember a boulangerie a few blocks away that had delectable chocolate- and coffee-filled éclairs. I rarely frequented the New Respiro neighborhood—the last time was during a raid of some half-orcs suspected of crimes against humanity who’d turned out to be running a run-of-the-mill, unlicensed mystery meat butcher shop—but I possessed an uncanny ability to remember food items and where I bought them.
I gazed back down the street wistfully, thinking about éclairs, when I noticed something—a shock of honey blond hair bobbing around at the corner of my vision. It triggered a memory of someone, a chap we’d bumped into back near Terry’s place. I focused my eyes, but the honey blond apparition was gone. I had half a mind to bound off down the street and poke my head into some alleys when my partner rudely interrupted my self-prescribed solo time.
“Daggers? Are you paying attention?”
I cast Shay a glance. “Huh? Of course I am.”
I snuck a quick look back down the street. No mop of honey-colored hair met my gaze. I tuned back to Shay. She gave me a raised eyebrow, puckered lip sort of look.
I tried to act cool, as if I hadn’t been staring off into the distance, thinking of fatty, butter-filled pasties and seeing things that weren’t there. “So, uh, Sid…what about your uncle’s work? Do you know what he did for a job?”
“Yeah,” said Sid. “He was a janitor.”
“Do you remember where?” asked Shay.
“Yeah. Um…what was the name of it? Some publisher, I think. Chapman, maybe?”
“Wait a second.” I flipped up a finger as my brain kicked into gear. “Your uncle worked at Chapman Books?”
“I think so. Is that important?”
“Maybe.” I shared a look with Steele. “Look, Sid, thanks for your assistance. It may not seem like it, but the information you’ve shared with us could be a big help in solving this case. If you need us or think of anything else to tell us, you can always pop by the precinct and ask for Detective Daggers or Detective Steele. Ok?”
The kid nodded. I gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder before walking away.
“That was nice of you,” said Shay once we got out of earshot.
“What?” I asked. “The pat on the shoulder?”
“All of it. From the few stories you’ve told me about your son, I half-expected you to be terrible with kids, but you handled it really well back there. He warmed up to you.”
“Not as much as you,” I said.
Shay shrugged. “There are certain advantages to being a young female detective. I use what I’ve got.”
“No kidding, Chino McShortyshorts.”
Shay raised an eyebrow and frowned. I pressed forward. “Back to the case. No way it’s a coincidence Octavio worked at the same publisher that recently handed Terry’s company a big printing contract, right?”
“I think it’s too early to tell,” said Shay. “I mean, it’s possible they were just friends. Maybe they met through work.”
“And here I thought working with me would’ve crushed that childish naiveté out of you within mere hours.”
Shay crossed her arms. “I’m not saying I believe it, Daggers. I’m saying it’s a possibility. Clearly we need to go investigate. Should we head over to Chapman Books?”
“Of course,” I said. “And I know just how to find them, too.”
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my treasured pre-release copy of Rex Winters in Double Blind Danger, and flipped it open to the copyright page.
18
The address I pulled from the front of my Rex Winters novel led to a neighborhood just south of the Pearl district, the city’s premier destination for shopping, entertainment, and burning money for the sheer pleasure of it. As compared to the overt opulence that saturated even the alleyways in the Pearl, the mid-century gothic building that housed Chapman Books had a rich but reserved feel that screamed ‘we’re still a powerful corporate conglomerate, but we can only blow so much money on rent before we have to raise our book prices to unsustainable levels.’
As much as part of me itched to uncover the mysterious connection between Terrence and Creepy that might lead us to their murderer, my enthusiasm over visiting the publishing house responsible for the iconic Rex Winters series kept boiling over and soaking the more restrained elements of my mind in its frothy juices. I was driving Steele bananas with my jabbering.
“Do you think Frank Gregg will be there?” I said as we neared the building. “Man, I’d love to pick his brain.”
“Who’s Frank Gregg?” asked Steele.
“Hello? The award-winning and best-selling author of the Rex Winters novels. Haven’t you been paying any attention?”
Shay sighed. “Honestly, I stopped paying attention about ten blocks ago. Give it a rest, Daggers. They’re just books.”
“Just books? Ok, I’m going to let that slide. But seriously, you need to read these. You remember how I used to give you crap for pulling your intuitions from
an introductory How to Solve Crimes pamphlet? Well, these are like the advanced versions of that, except in full-length novel form and much funnier—and with more cleavage.”
“Nothing you tell me is going to make me interested in those books.”
“Oh, no?” I said. “Maybe I’ll have to chat with the Captain. Make them required reading for the entire squad.”
Shay stuck out her bottom lip. “Oh, yeah? If you had that much pull, you’d never have to sniff another stack of paperwork in your life, and I’d probably be stuck wearing a police-issue tube top at all times.”
“Don’t forget the matching boy shorts,” I said.
Shay rolled her eyes. I probably deserved that, to be fair, but I’m a gentleman at heart. I even held the door to Chapman Books open for her, which allowed her to get a view of the office interior before I did.
“Oh, this should be rich,” she said.
“What should?” I asked. Then I saw what she meant. In the office building’s foyer, to the left of a fancy hemispherical secretary’s station made of glass and polished steel, a larger-than-life cardboard cutout of a debonair detective with a sultry seductress draped across his arm drew my attention like a scantily-clad vamp with a bullhorn. Across the top of the cutout, the title of the latest Rex Winters novel was emblazoned in a bold print along with the words ‘Coming Soon!’.
I bunny hopped my way over to the giant promotional display.
“Oh my gosh!” I said. “It’s Rex Winters in the flesh—or in the cardboard, as the case may be.” I struck a steely-eyed pose and stared off into the distance. “What do you think? Do we look alike? He’s always been described as lithe and agile, but I think my lumbering power can be just as sexy when viewed in the right light.”
“And what light is that?” asked Shay. “The light of a new moon?”
The secretary at the desk looked up from her demanding job of apparently doing nothing at all. “Um…can I help you two?”
“Oh, right. Sorry,” I said. “Just got excited. I’m a big fan. I’m Detective Daggers, and this is Detective Steele.”
The secretary looked at me the way a sorority girl eyes an off-the-rack pair of shoes. “Riiiight. And I’m Police Chief Gimme Abreak. The fan convention’s not for another month, and it’ll be at the Wadsworth downtown. Now, if you don’t mind, I have more important things to do than be a part of your cosplay adventures.”
“I doubt that’s true,” I said. “But regardless, I wasn’t joking. We’re with homicide.” I flashed the unbeliever my badge.
It took a moment for the official seal of justice to sink in and give the hamster in her head a solid slap on the behind. “Wait, what?” she said. “Homicide?”
“That’s right,” I said. “The name Octavio Clapper ring a bell?”
I could tell from the confused expression on her face it didn’t.
“A janitor?” I said. “He works here, or used to as far as we can tell.”
Still nothing.
“Ok, let’s try another angle,” I said. “I’m assuming someone here knows something about personnel that work in this joint. How about you make yourself useful and secretary me up someone that sounds like they fit that description.”
“Um…I could take you to see Shannon in human resources.”
“Ahh, human resources,” I said. “You’ve got to love it when corporate double-speakers come up with ways to lump human beings into the same boxes as gold, lumber, and pig iron.”
The secretary continued to look at me blankly, but Shay smiled. At least my biting wit wasn’t completely falling on deaf ears.
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s get a move on before I grow a beard and start tripping over it. Lead the way, doll.”
19
“So, detectives, how can I be of help?”
The aforementioned HR manager, Shannon, sat at her desk, a broad smile plastered across her lips. Her hands were clasped before her in a warm, if not entirely sincere, gesture she’d probably spent her entire working life perfecting.
Her office was tight—I got the feeling she usually met with employees one at a time—but it faced the street and got a fair amount of sunlight. I imagine the reasoning behind that was twofold—it made Shannon’s disposition seem a little sunnier and made the employee being given a stern talking to marginally less depressed.
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out old spiral bound. I’d been neglecting him, but Sid hadn’t exactly provided a boatload of information that needed to be written down. “We were hoping you could answer a few questions for us about one of your employees, Miss…?”
“Shannon is fine,” she said. “We’re all on a first name basis here at Chapman Books. We like to think of our business as a family.”
Shannon continued to smile in an obviously forced fashion. Part of me wanted to punch her. I could only imagine how the rest of the employees in ‘the family’ felt.
“Right,” I said. “Do you know an Octavio Clapper? We understand he worked here as a janitor.”
“Custodial technician,” corrected the HR lady. “And yes, he does, in fact, work here. Although he didn’t show up for work this morning, which is very out of character for him.”
“Look, call it whatever you want,” I said. “It doesn’t change the fact that they clean up other people’s crap for a living. And I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but Octavio does not, in fact, work here any more.”
“What?” A slight inflection worked its way into one of Shannon’s eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”
I pointed my note-taking pencil at the door. “Ma’am, when we walked in your door your secretary introduced us as homicide detectives. Octavio Clapper is dead. Murdered. That’s why we’re here. I thought that would be obvious.”
Apparently Shannon’s smile wasn’t totally impervious to emotion. It faded as she leaned back in her chair. “Oh. Well… That’s unfortunate.”
“For him, especially,” I said, “but I’m sure you’ll be able to find a new janitor. Now, can you tell me about him?”
“Um, sure. He was a good employee. Quiet, diligent, hard-working. Didn’t have any problems with any of his coworkers, though he was rather antisocial. He didn’t talk to anyone else much, though to be fair, not many of our custodial technicians do. It’s a hierarchal thing, I suppose.”
This Shannon was sharp—like a pair of safety scissors.
“Did he ever exhibit any symptoms of severe mood disorders?” I asked. “Manic depression, violent outbursts, uncontrollable cursing?”
Miss Resource Management puckered. “Uncontrollable cursing?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a diagnosable psychiatric problem. People with the disease will randomly start shouting curses into thin air. Stuff like crap, son-of-a-biscuit, mother—”
“I think she understands, Daggers,” said Steele. “And I’m guessing by her shocked expression the answer is no.”
Shannon nodded primly. She didn’t seem like the type to enjoy a good old-fashioned sailor mouthed standoff.
Steele leaned in, taking the initiative. “Shannon, is there any chance Octavio worked an irregular schedule? Did he work nights, for instance?”
It was a good question, one I would’ve eventually asked if Shay hadn’t unceremoniously stolen my place in line.
Shannon shook her head. “No, he worked normal hours like everyone else. We don’t put in nights at Chapman Books. Even though we think of ourselves as a family, we want our employees to be able to spend quality time with their immediate families as well.”
The smile had returned. I wanted to barf.
“But,” she said, “he did take days off. Every two weeks, actually. He was very regular about it. He worked weekends to compensate for the missed time.”
“Hold on a moment,” I said as I put my notepad down. “Octavio took a day off every two weeks, without fail?”
Miss Resources nodded. “That’s right.”
“Was yesterday his day off by any cha
nce?” I asked.
“Why, yes, it was,” she said. “Is that important?”
I ignored her as I turned to Steele. “That’s an interesting coincidence, don’t you think? Creepy and Terrence both structured their schedules to take a day off every two weeks, and it just so happens Creepy’s day off followed Terry’s night off. I wonder what they could’ve been up to during that period of time? Something illegal? Something they wouldn’t have told anyone else about for fear of retribution?”
“Like what?” said Shay.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they were drug mules. Or bank thieves. Or serial arsonists.”
“You realize we found nothing at either of their places that would indicate any of those things you said are true, right?”
I frowned. “I hate it when facts get in the way of my wild unfounded speculations.”
“Besides,” said Shay, “none of those things would account for the bizarre manner in which either of them were killed.”
“Right,” I said. “The whole serial killeresque modus operandi.”
Shannon nearly flipped her lid. “Wait, what? There’s a serial killer on the loose?”
“Oh relax.” I waved her down with a flap of my hand. “You have nothing to worry about…I think. We haven’t totally figured this out yet.”
That last bit might keep her up at night for a few days, but I felt only a devilish impudence rather than any guilt. She really did rub me the wrong way, specifically in that I didn’t want her to rub me in any way at all.
While I would’ve been perfectly content to sit in the office and stew over the tidbits we’d learned, letting them simmer in their juices until a decent flavor developed, I quickly learned that sharing an enclosed space with an agitated human resources manager can be bad for your sanity. I gave Shannon our insincere thanks and reacquainted myself with the door.
20
Shay and I hitched a ride on a rickshaw back to the precinct. My partner insisted she was fine to walk, but I wasn’t having any of that nonsense under my watch. I informed her fatigue wasn’t the motivating factor in choosing whether or not to press her bottom into a rickshaw seat. The Captain had authorized a larger transportation budget primarily in response to her hiring, and if we didn’t use it, he’d snatch it away and reapportion those funds to pay for something wholly unnecessary—stuff like gold-plated paperclips or raises for rookies.