by Alex P. Berg
“From our precinct?” asked Shay. “How did that happen?”
“Not from the precinct, specifically,” said the officer. “The man was being transferred to the courthouse. Thugs hit the transport. Broke him free. Managed to get away.”
“What was the man suspected of?”
“A number of things,” said the officer. “Drug trafficking. Racketeering. Intimidation.”
“So, non-violent crimes, ostensibly,” said Steele. “Daggers? A little help?”
I lounged by the door, taking it all in. At her summons, I stood straighter and quickly engaged my gray matter. “Well…first thing is to put out an APB, but that’s obvious. Then gather the patrol officers from the beat where the bust took place. Have them canvas the surrounding neighborhoods. Also notify the detective team who brought the suspect here in the first place. They should know his haunts. Might make the manhunt easier.”
My partner turned captain pointed at me. “What he said. Good enough for now?”
The officer nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
He about-faced and exited the office. I stayed at my post by the door, listening as his footsteps faded into the muted hum of the pit. Steele similarly kept guard at her desk, though her shoulders sagged and some of the tension drained from her face.
I waited until Shay made eye contact and gave her a nod. “Nicely done.”
“Thanks,” said Shay. “I was trying to channel my inner Captain Armstrong. Did it work?”
“Well, you didn’t curse enough, and some of those folks left the office with a glimmer of hope that you might actually care about people at a personal level, but other than that? You bet.”
Shay snorted, the corner of her lip lifting. “I’ll work on that. It’s draining though, keeping up that façade. I don’t know how the Captain did it.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a façade. Or perhaps he had a bit of medusa blood somewhere in his lineage, and after so many years on the job, the squishy bits had all turned to stone. You know—except for his jowls.”
Shay’s smile grew. “You never quit, do you Daggers?”
“Seriously, though,” I said, approaching the desk. “You handled that exceptionally. I didn’t have to step in at all—mostly because you asked me to step in, but that’s what delegation is all about. I’d bet you could do this full time if you wanted.”
“Please,” said Shay. “We both know that’s not happening. Not that I’d want to be a captain full time after today. I’m not sure what you saw in this position, to be honest.”
“I admired it from afar,” I said. “Now that I’m closer, I have to admit I’m rethinking my career aspiration.”
A knock sounded at the door. We turned to find a twelve-year old runner standing outside the frame.
He looked confused. “Uh…is the captain in?”
“That’s me,” said Shay.
The kid lifted an eyebrow.
“Don’t look so surprised,” I said. “The city’s making quick strides in gender equality. What’s the message?”
“Right. Sorry.” The youth popped over and produced a slip of paper from his pocket. “This is from a guy over at Club Midnight. Name of Vance Ichabod Mortensen.”
“Ichabod Mortensen?” I said. “How did we never think to ask for his full name? I’ve never heard a more stereotypical name for a vampire.”
“Vampire?” said the kid.
“Don’t mind him. He’s got an overactive imagination.” Shay grabbed the slip of paper and opened it. She followed that with snap of her fingers. “Bingo! We’ve got an address for Jefferson Torment. Come on, Daggers. Time to move.”
27
I knocked on the door and waited. After a moment, I heard a rustle, followed by the clack of a latch. The door opened about an inch, a chain connecting it and the door frame at face height. From through the crack, an eye stared at us, pale amber in color. Though I assumed the eye belonged to a face, I couldn’t be sure. New Welwic is a strange town.
“Yeah?”
“Are you Jefferson Torment?” I asked.
“Who’s asking?”
Steele stood at my right shoulder. The eye shifted from me to her and back.
“We’re with the police department,” said Shay. “Mind opening the door?”
“What? Huh-uh,” said the voice. “No way. I didn’t do anything. Wrong guy.”
“We’re not here to arrest you,” I said. “We’re here to talk about a friend of yours. Chaz Willy Wilson. Name ring a bell?”
The eye narrowed. “Yes… What about him?”
Torment didn’t have to talk to us without a warrant on our parts. I figured the truth might set his lips free. “He’s dead.”
“What?” said the voice. “Hold on.”
The door closed, I heard the clink of the door chain, and it reopened. In its wake stood a tall man, dark of skin and with dreadlocks that reached almost to his navel. He wore a black leather vest without a shirt underneath it, showcasing an assortment of tattoos across his arms and chest. He even sported some on his hands, neck, and one at the corner of his right eye, that of a miniature skull. Baggy black pants hung from his hips, studded with silver rivets and with an assortment of thin chains hanging from the pockets.
“Did you say Chaz Willy Wilson is dead?”
“You’re Jefferson Torment, correct?” I said.
The man nodded. “Yeah. Seriously, what happened to Chaz?”
“We were hoping you might be able to help us figure that out,” said Shay. “Mind letting us in?”
“Uh…yeah, sure,” said Jefferson. “Just watch out for the kittens.”
“Kittens?” Based on Jefferson’s black leather vest, chains, and body art, cat breeding seemed an unlikely hobby for him. Still, some of the toughest looking dudes on the planet turned out to be softies inside. One need look no further than Quinto.
Torment waved us in. “Here, uh…follow me. We can talk over here.”
By ‘over here,’ Jefferson meant his living room, but given that his apartment wasn’t very large, it served multiple purposes: living room based on the couch—a carbon copy of the stuffed, knobby-kneed ones we’d seen at Club Midnight, dining room based on the circular table and chairs, library based on the bookshelves, and combined cat sanctuary and sheer hell based on the dozens of furry puffballs that roamed the premises. Well, maybe not dozens—but at least ten.
I gagged a little as I entered the room, but honestly, I was surprised the smell wasn’t worse. Given my own apartment’s history of feline intrusion, my nose was more than attuned to the animals’ distinctive aroma. Jefferson must’ve meticulously refreshed his litter box, which I found at odds with his apparent bachelorhood. Perhaps a secret live-in girlfriend hid in the back hallways.
Shay and I took a seat on the couch, which was about as comfortable as a moss-covered rock. Mewling white, black, and brown hellions circled my ankles as Jefferson pulled up a chair. “So…you’re serious, then? Chaz is dead? What happened?”
“We’re not entirely sure,” said Shay. “We found him in Rucker Park this morning tied to a tree. We’re tracking his movements from last night. We understand you guys met at Club Midnight?”
“That’s right,” said Jefferson. “I’m pretty much a regular. Chaz visited more infrequently, but I’d say he popped by a couple times a month. Maybe more.”
I glanced around the room as Shay and Jefferson talked. Though on first glance it seemed cheerier and sunnier than anywhere in Club Midnight’s shadow-soaked depths, on closer inspection Jefferson had outfitted it in similar ways. It went beyond the couch, which clearly he’d chosen for aesthetic purposes. I noticed a number of interesting trinkets on the bookshelves, from finely-spun glass spider webs to antique inkwells and elaborate candelabras. A collection of small animal skulls had been scattered among the knickknacks—hopefully not those of his deceased feline friends—and though my eyes weren’t quite hawkish enough to read all the spines
of the books, a few titles caught my eye, Death of the Succubus and Daemonologie among them.
“Vance said he saw you and Chaz talking last night,” I said. “You mind if I ask about what?”
“Oh, the usual,” said Jefferson. “Life, death, the hereafter. Love and pain. Chaz seemed pretty bent out of shape in that department, but then again he was really screwed up. Not sure what drugs he’d taken before he popped by the club, but they’d messed with him something fierce. Oh, and we talked about the supernatural. You know. Vampires.”
I glanced at Shay. “Vampires?”
“Yeah,” said Torment, not getting that I hadn’t directed that particular comment at him. “We talked about vampires all the time. Myths and legends. Their habits and haunts. Whether vampirism is a disease or a curse or something else entirely. He was really into vampire lore. That’s how we met. The first time I saw him at Club Midnight, he was hanging out in the corner by himself—which isn’t particularly odd, but he didn’t look much like the Midnight type, if you catch my drift. But the book he was reading—The Revenant, I think?—a super hardcore vampire text. We got to talking. Hit it off right away.”
I shooed a cat that considering turning my leg into either an impromptu scratching post or a urine sponge. “And this interest of yours in vampires. Is it more theoretical in nature, or is there an experimental component?”
Jefferson’s brow furrowed. “I don’t follow.”
“Do you or did Chaz know any vampires?” I asked. “Real ones. Living ones—or undead ones, however you want to define them.”
“Uh…you serious?” said Jefferson. “I’m not sure how to answer that. I mean, I’ve never had one come up to me and flash me their teeth. Chicks have told me they’re vampires at Club Midnight before, but that’s a come on. The real deal, though? There might be some, even regulars at the club, but if so, they keep a tight lid on their operations. As I would if I were one. Seriously, read some vampire history. Their ilk hasn’t been treated well over the centuries.”
To her credit, Steele didn’t dismiss our current supernatural tangent. “Vance said he saw you leave the club last night with Chaz’s band mates Sammy and Ritchie. Was anyone else with you? Did you meet anyone along the way?”
Torment’s eyes widened. “Wait. Back up a few steps. Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Was Chaz murdered…by a vampire?”
His tone of voice would’ve been more ominous if it hadn’t been punctuated at the tail end by a pathetic mewl.
“I’m certainly not saying that,” said Shay, glancing toward a kitten napping on her shoe. “It’s an unlikely possibility, but one we’re entertaining. Please answer the question.”
Jefferson shook his head. “No. It was just us.”
“And where did you go?”
“Dragon Tattoo. It’s a parlor fifteen minutes down the street from the club. Chaz had always admired my ink and figured he’d finally take the plunge.” Torment showed off his arm as some sort of evidence of the statement’s veracity.
I lost some of the air from my sails. “Let me guess. An ankh? On his chest?”
“That’s the one,” said Torment, flicking a finger my way. “Kind of basic if you ask me, but hey, for a tattoo virgin? Not a terrible first piece. It was something to work around. I mean, you know…before he died.”
“So to confirm,” said Shay. “You travelled to the tattoo parlor alongside Chaz, Ritchie, and Sammy. Somewhere around two o’clock. Is that correct?”
“Spot on,” said Torment.
“And then?”
The heavily-inked one shrugged. “Beats me. I hooked Chaz up with my artist, helped him figure out what he was getting and where, and headed back to the club. I’ve gotten a hundred tats. I don’t need to sit around and watch someone else get one.”
“So you don’t know what Chaz and his band mates did afterwards?” asked Shay.
“Nope,” said Jefferson. “Sorry.”
Shay sighed. “Figures. Thanks for taking the time to talk to us. If nothing else, it puts us a step closer to figuring out what happened to Chaz.”
Steele gave me a nod and stood. I followed suit, as did Jefferson.
“So…Chaz,” said Torment. “Killed by a vampire? Really? He didn’t turn?”
Shay rolled her eyes. “I’m not dealing with this. Daggers, you take it. I’ll hail a rickshaw downstairs.”
Shay clopped away on her high heels. Jefferson waited for my answer with bated breath. I couldn’t let him down.
“Let’s put it this way,” I said. “I’ve put werewolves behind bars, tussled with zombies, and avoided getting killed by more kinds of mages than there are colors in a rainbow. I don’t know who or what killed Chaz yet…but the supernatural explanation is looking increasingly likely.”
28
Shay and I trudged back inside the precinct, marched into the captain’s office, and collapsed in the chairs in front of the desk. Thankfully, no officers had set up picket lines in the hall this time, so we were able to put our weary posteriors to rest. Good thing, too, because neither Shay nor I were in any sort of mood to deal with additional bureaucratic incompetence.
“Well, that was useless,” I said.
Shay nodded. “You’d think one of Chaz, Ritchie, or Sammy would’ve mentioned something to the artist at Dragon Tattoo about their plans for after leaving the shop, but no. Apparently they were even less chatty last night than they were after we found them this morning—unless the tattoo artist intentionally misled us. Think we should bring him in?”
I shook my head. “Don’t get me wrong, I got an off vibe from him too, but my impression was that he was living in his own world. It’s possible Chaz or one of the others mentioned something and he didn’t process it. It’s an artist thing, I think.”
“Unfortunately, it leaves us back up the proverbial foul-smelling creek with no paddle,” said Shay. “We still have no idea what happened to Chaz after about two thirty, we don’t know how he got separated from the others or when, and we have no idea how the lion fits into the picture.”
“Speaking of which, we’ll have to track down Quinto,” I said. “He was supposed to look into the circus angle on that camel. The lion probably came from the same place.”
Shay tapped her fingers on her armrest and stared at the wall, pursing her lips the whole time. The way she sank into the chair, the way her shoulders sagged, and the vacant look in her eyes gave proof to her exhaustion. She’d said she’d barely slept last night. What time was it now? Three in the afternoon? Four?
“You doing okay?” I asked.
She looked up. “Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. I just wish we had more concrete leads.” She tapped her fingers on the armrest some more and glanced at my jacket. “Have you been taking detailed notes?”
“Sure,” I said. “Want to see them?”
“Yes, but not page by page. Rather all together.”
“You want me to grab the cork board?”
Shay smiled. “You read my mind.”
“Give me a sec.”
I stood and exited the office, walking over to the storage closet in the corner. There, I pulled out our trusty board. I made sure to snag some loose sheets of paper, push pins, and red yarn before I wheeled the contraption into Steele’s office.
I positioned it in front of the chairs and dumped the supplies on her desk. “You want to read out notes from my journal or put stuff on the board?”
Shay shrugged. “I’d rather melt into this chair, but your handwriting isn’t the cleanest. You should probably read.”
I held a hand in her way as she started to rise. “It’s not that bad. You stay seated. I’ll work the pins and yarn.”
I extracted my notepad, cracked it to the start of the case notes, and handed it to Shay. “Let’s start with the timeline. I remember the first entry. The Cobras leave the Moxy at ten o’clock and head to the lavish home of the four-hundred year old Billy Charles.” I wrote out the t
imes and locations and pinned them on the board. “What’s next?”
Shay peered into my book, squinting. She flipped back and forth, making sure to get the notes from our various stops. “Let’s see. The boys take an unhealthy concoction of drugs at Charles’ and head to Leopard Jane’s. Time is about ten forty-five. They get to Jane’s, drink and party, being served by Crystal until their departure at around a quarter to twelve.”
I scribbled on slips of paper quickly. “Go ahead. I’ll keep up and pin them all at the end.”
“Alright,” said Shay. “After that, the entire Yellow Cobra crew heads to The Raccoon Ranch. Arrival time about a quarter after midnight. They only stayed for half an hour before they were kicked out due to B. B.’s impotence and antics. He’s taken into custody, escorted to the lockup, and the rest of the band members escape. From there, they head to Heather’s apartment, and since they arrived at one fifteen or so, they probably couldn’t have gotten into much trouble in the meantime.”
Shay paused. My pencil hand flew. “Go on.”
“Oh, it’s not you,” she said. “Just making sure I had this right. Chaz assaults Heather, Sammy and Ritchie pry him off her, and the trio head to Club Midnight, where I presume Chaz moped about his romantic situation. They arrive at two in the morning, give or take a few minutes, and meet up with Jefferson Torment. He leads them to Dragon Tattoo at maybe a quarter after two. Chaz gets a simple piece of ink, and they all leave the shop together in the two forty-five to three o’clock range. And…that’s all we’ve got.”
My right hand ached from so much speedy writing, but I pushed through. “That’s not everything. We pick back up with Sammy and Ritchie at the Green Jackets’ lockup at four.”
“Well, right,” said Shay. “They pop by, unleash a lion, somehow manage to free B. B. from his cell—maybe using the keys that guard Blanchard claims to have lost—and hightail it out of there. All told that doesn’t take more than a few minutes.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled as I released the pencil. I gathered the slips of paper and arranged them in order on the board using the pins. “Okay. Here’s our timeline, including the places our cast of characters visited. We’ve got a gap between three and four and, unfortunately, a big one right in our time of death window from four until the point we found Chaz in the park. Now for the next part. Suspects. Who’ve you got?”