Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2)

by Alex P. Berg

  “Oh, and send Cairny up once you get him situated, can you, Quinto?” I called.

  The big man paused, a concerned look on his face. “What? Why me?”

  “Why not you?” I asked.

  He tested out some shifty eyes while standing there with his mouth agape before waving me off and walking away.

  I put my hands on my hips. “Something’s up with that guy. You have any idea what his deal is?”

  Steele nodded.

  “Care to share?” I said.

  “Not really,” she said. “It’s more fun watching you try to figure it out.”

  Captain eyed the both of us. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on with you, and I don’t care. All I care about is that whoever’s been inserting ice-encrusted daggers into my populace is off the streets. Can you assure me that’s the case, detectives?”

  “We’re pretty sure we got our guy, Captain,” I said.

  “Well, get extra sure,” he said. “Get me a confession, or at the very least some ironclad evidence. Today. Got it?”

  We nodded. The Captain stormed off to his office, and we returned to our desks, whereupon I plopped into my throne and deposited Eustace’s backpack before me. I stared at the indigo blue sack for a minute before my partner interrupted me.

  “Well? Are you going to open it?”

  “I’m letting the suspense build,” I said.

  She shared some of her raised eyebrows with me.

  “Want to wager on what we’ll find inside?” I asked.

  “You go first.”

  “Alright. I think we’ll find a couple of intricately wrought daggers, a container of refrigerated liquid, a bottle of ether, some syringes, and an extra-large tub of werewolf fur styling cream.”

  Shay scrunched her lips. “You do know how heavy refrigerated liquids and ether are, don’t you?”

  “My wager was more my hopes and dreams than anything realistic,” I said. “Give me your take.”

  “I expect it has some clothing, personal effects, and maybe some cash, but probably no weapons. If Eustace is our guy, I’m going to assume he was smart enough to ditch anything incriminating before we found him.”

  I waved my hands over the backpack before digging in. We were both wrong, but Shay was closer to the truth than I was.

  I shook my head. “Two changes of clothes, a stack of journals filled with poorly written gibberish, and a few baggies packed with nuts and dried fruit. What a disappointment.”

  “I told you not to get your hopes up,” said Shay.

  I gave her a look. “No you didn’t.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you just forgave and forgot?” Shay smiled. “It’s what you always preach, after all.”

  I grinned. “Touché, young pupil, touché. But regardless of who said what, it would’ve been nice to find one of those stilettos in Eustace’s backpack. Possession is half the crime—or all of it, depending on how corrupt the cops involved are.”

  “I guess we’ll have to squeeze Eustace during the interrogation and hope something pops out,” said Steele.

  I gave my partner a look. “Did you mean that to sound as dirty as it did?”

  Shay blushed. “Not really.”

  Cairny appeared out of nowhere. I nearly batted her out of the sky with my sloth-like reflexes. As I flailed, I noticed the flats on her feet. Those silent shoes would be the death of me yet.

  “Hey, bestie,” said Cairny.

  “Hey, Cairns,” said Shay.

  I scratched my head.

  “We bonded last night,” Cairny told me.

  “Metaphorically, I hope.” With Cairny I never knew what kind of freaky stuff she engaged in behind closed doors.

  Cairny blinked. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I wanted to know if you’d had a chance to look at the body that came in today. A woman. Cynthia Gladwell.”

  Cairny nodded. “Cause of death is the same as the other two victims—massive trauma to the heart. As with the other two, her bleeding was minimal, and I found an injection site at her left anticubital fossa.”

  “The elbow pit, yeah,” I said, nodding. “We saw that.”

  “I did notice some unusual bruising at that same location, though—reminiscent of tissue that’s been frostbitten,” said Cairny. “It was present on the skin and in the muscle underneath. If this particular victim was injected with a blood thickener, I suspect it might’ve been refrigerated prior to injection.”

  “Interesting,” I said, sharing a look with Shay. “But we have a new theory about why the victims didn’t bleed so much. One that doesn’t involve blood thickeners.”

  “Oh?” said Cairny.

  “Did you by any chance notice anything strange about the bodies, Cairny?”

  “Besides the manner in which they died?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She tapped her fingers on my desk. “You know, Daggers, I always provide a written report of my findings after every inspection. If something’s unclear—”

  “No, no. That’s not it,” I said. “I’m just wondering if you found anything odd about the victims, like in their musculature. Maybe dense muscles, or evidence of abnormal bone growth?”

  Cairny looked at me blankly.

  “Daggers thinks the victims might’ve been werewolves,” said Steele.

  I sighed. “Way to be subtle…”

  Cairny’s eyes widened. “Ohh. Well that does make some sense, now doesn’t it?”

  “Really?” said Shay. “You agree with him?”

  “Well, I don’t immediately disagree,” she said. “To be honest, my own blood thickener theory has been bothering me. Even when injected with copious amounts of such chemicals, a direct knife wound to the heart should’ve produced more bleeding than we’ve seen in any of the victims thus far.”

  Shay frowned.

  “You seem upset,” said Cairny. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No,” said Shay. “I was hoping you’d have something to share that would put a stop to this nonsense, but everything we’ve uncovered thus far actually points in that direction, too.”

  “Sorry,” said Cairny. “Unfortunately, I’ve never had the chance to do an autopsy on a werewolf before, so I don’t have any idea if their bodies would exhibit specific markers related to their transformational abilities. Well, until now. Come to think of it, I should go perform a more thorough investigation of the cadavers. Oh, my! This is exciting!” She clapped her hands and ran off.

  I looked at Steele. “Bestie?”

  “What?” she said. “I don’t have a problem with it. I like her. She’s nice.”

  And teetering dangerously on the edge of sanity, I left unsaid. “She didn’t give us much more to go on, though.”

  Shay shrugged.

  “I guess that leaves us with the same option we had moments ago,” I said.

  “Which is?”

  “For me to frighten and beat on people until information spills out,” I said. “Come on. Let’s grab a few things from the evidence locker and go talk to Eustace.”

  41

  “So tell me, Eustace,” I said, “do you enjoy running for its health benefits? Because if not, I’m interested in why you led several officers of the law on a wild goose chase through the municipal library building that resulted in—” I checked my notepad and gave my best attempt at a whistle. “Well, let’s just say it resulted in more damages than you’re likely to be able to pay in your lifetime, even if you do find gainful employment.”

  Eustace squinted in the light of the interrogation room. The lanterns burned at full blast, and we’d set up a bay of mirrors focusing the light directly onto his face. I’d considered storing Eustace in the dark, dingy, depressing interrogation room in the basement, but then I realized he was a brooding writer and probably loved dark, dingy, depressing spaces. Instead, he got the lights and mirrors.

  “What?” said Eustace. “I didn’t cause those damages. That was you, dude!
You’re the one who sent that table flying and knocked over the rack full of books. If anything, you should—”

  “Answer the question, doofus!” I said, slamming my fist down on the flimsy metal interrogation table. “Why’d you run?”

  Steele put up a hand between me and Eustace. “Relax, Daggers. Eustace, we want to help you. Really, we do. But you’re going to have to help us, too. This process involves some give and take.”

  Prior to entering the interrogation room, Shay had suggested we try the old good cop, bad cop routine. I’d argued against it, mainly on the grounds that it’s one of the oldest, most hackneyed approaches in the playbook, but Shay made some good points in its favor. For one, I’d already scared the crap out of the poor kid, running him down, dumping an entire library’s worth of books on his head, and slapping him in the chin with my nightstick for no apparent reason. That firmly entrenched me in the bad cop role. And given the kid’s age, his elven ancestry, and Shay’s good looks, Eustace should be predisposed to liking her. I was sold.

  “This guy is crazy, lady,” said Eustace. “He’s got it out for me. He already attacked me once, he’ll do it again!”

  “Please, call me Shay,” said Steele. “And I’ll make sure Detective Daggers stays in line. Now, if we could revisit the question—why did you run?”

  Eustace sat back. “Well, it’s not because I did anything illegal, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

  Shay leaned in, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. “If not that, then why, Eustace?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” the kid said. “I feared for my life! You’ve been investigating the murders, right? Don’t think I didn’t hear about them. First Terrence, then Octavio, and now Cynthia? I mean, if you’ve found out about our writing group then I assume you know everything else, especially if you’ve been talking to that psycho, Zeb. I figured whoever was killing the others had some crazy vendetta against werewolves, and I was next. I thought the library would be safe until I figured out where I could hide, but when I saw you guys, I panicked, ok? That’s why I ran. I mean, how was I supposed to know you were cops? You looked scary. Well not you, but him for sure.” He gave me the pointy finger treatment.

  I sniffed the air. “Smell that, Eustace?”

  “Huh? What?”

  “That’s the smell of bullshit, and you know it,” I said. “You had an obvious motive to murder each and every one of those people.”

  “Are you talking about the writing group?” he asked.

  “Of course I am, genius,” I said. “Admit it. You were angry when they kicked you out. Hell, more than angry. You were consumed with rage. You threatened them with violence.”

  Eustace sputtered. “What? No…no, I didn’t. And I wasn’t. I mean, sure, I was angry, and maybe I said some things I shouldn’t have, but those guys were a bunch of pretentious pricks, dude! Thinking they were better than me. Like being a janitor who’s only publication is in a circular with a reach of fifty people is something to be proud of. Please. And don’t get me started on Cynthia. I have some theories about how she got that ghostwriting gig, and it has nothing to do with her writing ability, believe me.”

  I wanted to argue with the little punk that I’d read all the most recent Rex Winters novels she’d ghostwritten and that all were exceptionally entertaining, but I didn’t feel it would help our case. Instead, I pulled out the miserable piece of poetry he’d written slandering the other members of his writing group.

  “So you’re telling me this isn’t a threat?” I asked, pointing at the page.

  “That?” said Eustace. “Dude, that’s not a threat. That’s art.”

  “Really? Because it sure involves a lot of stabbing—and some weird fetishy stuff at the end.”

  “That poem doesn’t prove anything, man,” said Eustace. “Free expression and all that.”

  “You don’t really understand how the justice system works, do you?” I said.

  “Look, Eustace,” said Steele, interrupting. “You have to admit the poem doesn’t look good. And besides, you knew the other victims. You knew where they lived, and—if this whole werewolf business can be believed—then you’re one of the only people around who could’ve stood toe to toe with them in a fight.”

  Eustace snorted. “Shows how much you know. Cynthia was the strongest. She could’ve torn any of us to shreds if she’d wanted. Besides, she’s the only one among us who was free.”

  Shay raised an eyebrow.

  “She could transform anytime she wanted,” he said. “Some people call it autonomy. I call it being free.”

  I scowled. “I’m not buying it, Eustace. Even if it’s true she was the strongest among you, it’s immaterial. She didn’t die in a fur flying, claws-bared werewolf fight, and I think you know that. You knew her. You could’ve gotten close to her, gotten the drop on her. The element of surprise is far more important in a fight than raw power. And you had an advantage no other person we know of has. You knew how to kill her because you’re a werewolf yourself.”

  “No, no, you’ve got it wrong!” Eustace blinked in the bright light. I could tell the pressure was getting to him. “I mean, yes, I am a werewolf. But just because I am one doesn’t mean I know jack crap about them. I mean, if you caught malaria would that make you an expert on it?”

  The kid had a point—not that I was going to admit it. “You transform into one every month. You live in that body, experience what it feels like, know your abilities. You’re telling me you don’t know more about werewolves than most?”

  “Most, maybe,” said Eustace, “but not all. That crackpot Zeb knows way more about werewolves than I do.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve spoken of him in a negative light,” said Steele. “I thought you guys were friends.”

  “Are you kidding?” Eustace looked like we’d insulted his mother. “That dude is crazy. Straight mental. None of us liked him—or trusted him farther than we could throw him.”

  I shared a look with Shay.

  “Zeb seems pretty passionate about werewolves,” my partner said.

  “Oh, he loves werewolves, alright,” said Eustace. “In the same way a dude with a sex doll loves women.”

  “Why would Zeb want to kill any of your writing group pals?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Eustace. “Maybe he wanted to put our taxidermied bodies up on display in that freaky museum of his. Or maybe he wanted to get it on with Cynthia while she was in wolf form, and she told him to get lost. Nothing would surprise me with that creep.”

  I gave my partner a glance, and I could tell from the look she returned she was thinking roughly the same thing I was. The interrogation hadn’t produced the results we’d hoped for, and I while I didn’t inherently believe anything Zeb had told us, I hadn’t really detected a murderer vibe from him, either. Eustace had been a little loopy on the walk back from the library, but he’d clearly noticed Zeb’s company. Was his accusation of the shaggy guy honest, or did he view him as a convenient and plausible fall guy?

  I’d kept one piece of information quarantined from Eustace throughout the questioning. I finally released it. “How were the victims killed, Eustace?”

  “How would I know?” he said. “I’m telling you guys, I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “Take a guess,” I said. “Surely you heard rumors.”

  “Something freaky, probably,” he said. “Maybe a beheading?”

  I extracted the stiletto used to murder Terrence from one of my interior coat pockets. As I did so, I kept my eyes trained on Eustace’s. A decade plus of experience had polished me into a keen lie detector, and I prided myself on my ability to notice minor facial tics. Therefore, it was with no small measure of satisfaction that I noticed the widening of Eustace’s eyes. It was more obvious than I’d expected, though.

  “You ever seen this before, Eustace?” I asked.

  “Um…yeah,” he said. “I have.”

  That threw me for a loop. “Are you finally admi
tting to the murders, then?”

  “What? No. Stop trying to entrap me, dude.”

  “That word doesn’t mean what you think it means,” I said. “Now tell me where you’ve seen this weapon before I have to pry it out of your mouth with a crowbar.”

  “Relax, dude,” said Eustace. “I’ll tell you. It was in Zeb’s secret stash with all the other ones.”

  I shared yet another look with Steele.

  “You know, the secret stash?” said Eustace. “In the basement? It’s where he keeps all the freaky stuff.”

  I did not know. And I wasn’t happy about it.

  42

  “You lied to us, Zeb!” I said as I slammed the stiletto down on the interrogation table. “Not only have you seen these weapons before, but you do, in fact, know someone who collects them. You!”

  Steele and I hadn’t agreed to extend the good cop, bad cop routine to Zeb. I yelled because I was pissed.

  Zeb wrung his hands in the dingy darkness of the subterranean interrogation room. He’d been shackled to his chair to ensure he couldn’t make any trouble.

  “I know, I know,” he said, his face showing signs of strain. “And I’m sorry I lied, Detective. But look at it from my perspective. If I’d told you I collected those weapons, you would’ve immediately assumed I’d been involved in the murders.”

  “You’re damned right,” I said. “And I certainly would’ve assumed you were involved if it so happened that the specific weapons you collected were the exact same weapons used in the three murders thus far!”

  Zeb shook his head. “I swear, Detective, I didn’t kill anyone, and I never intended for those weapons to be used for evil. That’s precisely why I collected them—so they wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands. I didn’t display them in my public collection, either. Despite the fact that I use sensationalism to sell tickets, I’d never showcase an exhibit that would educate people about or in any way encourage werewolf murder. You have to believe that!”

  “Why would I?” I said, staring him down. “It seems as if everything you’ve told us has been either a carefully fabricated lie or a partial truth intended to deceive.”