by Alex P. Berg
I stuck my fat mouth into the fray before the Captain could get involved. “Did we get a sighting on the APB?”
The beat cop shook his head. “No. Sorry. This is from the World’s Wonders Fair. You know that wealthy businessman? Bock? He’s gone missing.”
“Linwood Bock?” My conversation with Mel Crestwick popped into the forefront of my mind. “This can’t be a coincidence. Stay here. I’m going to get Detective Steele.”
35
The sun had just set when Steele and I arrived at the home of Linwood Bock, a palatial estate smack dab in the center of the ultra-swanky Brentford neighborhood. Centenarian oaks and pines lined the property, set inside an eight-foot perimeter wall constructed of pale gray granite slabs that each must’ve weighted as much as one of Mr. Bock’s patented reciprocating engines. The towering wrought iron gates at the front of the property stood open, admitting us to a curved cobblestone path leading to the house proper—a mansion in every sense of the word. Four stories of polished stone and beaten copper roofing, with rooms enough to house, feed, and pamper a small army, surrounded by grounds so meticulously manicured they’d make the curator at the municipal botanical gardens blush with envy—or suffer a more orgasmic response.
A throng of officers milled outside the mansion’s front doors, including a handful standing at a table set between a pair of tall braziers that burned fiercely in the cool evening air. A mobile command center, if looks were any indication. A man, tall and lean, with a straight back and precisely trimmed black hair, leaned over the middle of the table staring at a map and giving orders. I headed for him and waved for Shay to follow.
“Excuse me,” I said, pushing through the crowd to reach Tall and Slim. I flashed my badge. “You in charge?”
“Sort of,” said the man. “Chief Investigator Reynolds is inside, talking to Bock’s wife, Sophia. I’m Lieutenant Drake. Who are you?”
“I’m Daggers,” I said. “She’s Steele. Homicide.” Shay nodded in acknowledgement.
Drake stood, straight as a rod, and his face lengthened. “Don’t tell me…”
“No,” I said. “Bock’s not dead. Not that we know of, anyway.”
“Oh.” Drake sighed. “Thank the gods. Then why are you here?”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “But suffice it to say we have an active investigation that may tie into Bock’s disappearance. You mind filling us in on what you know?”
“Sure,” said Drake, “but forgive me if I’m brief. We’re scrambling to stay ahead of this before the news spreads. Essentially, Bock was last seen at the World’s Wonders Fair, behind the main stage an hour, hour and a half ago. They were prepping for the evening exhibition of his…apparatuses, or whatever you want to call them. Apparently, Bock visited the facilities and never returned. One of his protégés went to the bathroom to look for him and found signs of a struggle. A busted window, scuff marks on the tiles, and Bock’s pocket watch, broken and discarded on the floor. We’re treating it as a kidnapping, but that’s all we know right now. No one’s contacted the family. Yet, anyway.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And you mentioned the CI—what was his name, Reynolds?—is inside?”
Drake nodded. “Yeah. You going to tell me how this ties into your investigation?”
“I will,” I said. “But I need to talk to Reynolds first. Time may be tight.”
I pushed into the house proper and paused inside the broad front doors, momentarily awed by the foyer’s opulence. I don’t think I’d ever seen so much marble, which covered not only the floors but the ceilings—the ceilings!—although it was the sheer quantity of gilt that made me feel inadequate. It graced the walls in ornate filigrees, enrobed the banisters of the dual, sweeping staircases that curved around the sides of the three-story chamber, and glinted off the fierce light of a crystal chandelier, one with so many candles the Bocks probably employed a manservant whose entire job it was to light, extinguish, and replace the waxy cylinders.
A burly bluecoat standing guard in the center of the room gave us a fish-eyed look, but I flashed my badge again and told him I needed to see Reynolds. He grunted and pointed to his left.
Shay and I entered the hallway his finger had indicated and soon heard voices, one male and one female.
“But I don’t understand how this could’ve happened,” said the woman. “Weren’t there guards or watchmen at the fair? At the very least there were crowds. How is it no one noticed my husband’s disappearance? What sorts of lawless rabble do they allow into these damned things?”
“Look, Mrs. Bock, you have my sincerest condolences,” said the man, “but know we’re doing everything in our power to find your husband. We’re throwing the full weight of our department behind this effort. Every man we have has been called in, and all of them have been placed on this case. We have dozens of officers canvassing the festival grounds and interviewing fairgoers. Someone will have seen something. We’ll find your husband.”
I turned the corner into a sitting room furnished with a quartet of old world provincial-style sofas, except no couch in the old world would’ve likely been built out of such fine leather or fur trim. Seated on one sofa was a woman wearing a violet gown and a cream-colored pashmina over her shoulders. An excessive amount of makeup caked her faced, partially obscuring the lines in her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, and her hair, held in a bun at the base of her neck, looked a little too dark given her age. She’d be Sophia Bock.
Across from her sat a square-shouldered man with a crew cut and a thick, graying moustache. He wore a police-issue jacket that looked as if it had been pulled right off the steaming rack. He’d be Investigator Reynolds, if I was anywhere close to being worth my salt as a detective.
I knocked on the door frame. “Excuse me. Detective Reynolds?”
The man turned. “Yes? Who the hell are you?”
“Detective Daggers,” I said. “Homicide. This is my partner Steele. We heard about Bock and got here as quickly as we could. As it turns out, we’re working a case that may be related to his kidnapping.”
Reynolds and Sophia Bock glanced at each other, the former with a look of confusion and the latter with a look of concern, before turning their gazes onto Steele and me.
Reynolds scowled and stroked his moustache. “Homicide, eh? Brief me.”
“We’re after a man—someone we’ve been calling Scar Face due to his appearance—who we believe has committed three murders over the past two days,” I said. “We tried to apprehend him a few hours ago at an abandoned building, but he escaped our capture. Based on knowledge we’ve gathered in our case and the timing of his evasion of us, we believe he may be involved in Bock’s disappearance.”
I dug into my jacket pocket and produced a sketch of Scar Face—an alternate Boatreng had drawn for us on request. I handed it to Reynolds. “This is the man. You can distribute that sketch to your men at the fair grounds if you’d like. We have a spare. Mrs. Bock, does this man by any chance look familiar?”
Sophia Bock took one look and the sketch and shook her head. “No. Certainly not. I wouldn’t associate with anyone like that, and I doubt my husband would either.”
Reynolds pocketed the sketch. “I’ll get this to my men immediately, but you’re going to have to explain the situation further. How does this man connect to Mr. Bock?”
Steele piped up from my side. “The three murder victims are all related. They include Darryl Gill, his sister Anya Crestwick, and their father, Buford Gill, a physicist. We understand he was a professional colleague of your husband, Mrs. Bock.”
Sophia Bock snorted. “You must be joking. Buford Gill was murdered?”
“Yes,” I said.
Sophia laughed a bitter laugh. “Hah. Well good riddance.”
I glanced at Steele. She peered back at me, eyes narrowed and mouth slightly open.
“Excuse me?” I said.
Sophia Bock stared at me coldly. “I don’t know where you get your information, detectives,
but my husband and Mr. Gill are not and were never professional colleagues. They despised one another. I’m not entirely sure what that blowhard Gill had against Linwood—likely he couldn’t accept his immeasurable success—but it’s no secret why my husband hated the man.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That being…?”
“Well, Gill constantly derided him,” said Sophia, “at every opportunity, public and private, in speeches and in publications, constantly ripping his work to shreds because his interests were more commercial than scientific. It all came to a head years ago after that man Gill all but assaulted my husband at a charity function. Apparently he’d just been fired and was half drunk, and my husband’s never been the sort of man to stand for that. He threatened Gill with his life, and thankfully that put an end to it. Gill went and hid under some rock, though he still lambasted my husband on occasion in publications. I thought his firing was karmic justice enough, but I certainly won’t shed any tears over his murder.”
Silence filled the room in Sophia’s wake. Reynolds stared at her, as did Steele and I. I recalled Dr. French’s words earlier about how Gill had been combative in defense of his theories, but I hadn’t quite envisioned this.
Sophia Bock flushed. “What? Why are you all looking at me like that? We’re the victims here. My husband’s the one who’s been kidnapped.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Mrs. Bock,” said Reynolds, assuring her. “It’s just that it’s an interesting…coincidence, that’s all.”
“Very interesting.” I turned to Steele, rubbing my chin. “Interesting enough that I’m wondering if there are any other coincidences we haven’t uncovered yet.”
My partner tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting that look again. The one where you’re forming a theory.”
“Starting to,” I said. “But it’s not fully cooked yet. It needs time to simmer. In the meantime, let’s get back to the precinct. There’s someone I want to talk to.”
36
The 5th Street Precinct buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Lanterns blazed above the wide front doors, illuminating the faces of a dozen beat cops chatting and shuffling their feet in the soft evening breeze. Runners shuttled memos back and forth between mobile street teams and the head brass, their bare feet slapping the concrete as they flew up and down the precinct steps two at a time. An air of tension hung over the street corner like a dense fog.
Despite the cool weather outside, the interior of the station steamed like a sauna. Bluecoats massed together, clutching mugs of coffee that trailed hot vapors as they carried them to and fro, clenched in fists alongside witness affidavits and report forms. The break room overflowed with guys I’d never even seen, much less whose names I remembered.
Amid the bustle, the Captain sat alone in his office, chewing his cud and looking as if he might set his teeth into anyone dumb enough to enter his bubble of thought. I spotted him looking my way and gave him a determined nod, trying to convey my commitment to the case without risking the bulldog’s physical presence. I didn’t want to get any spittle on my coat.
Like everyone else on the police payroll, Rodgers and Quinto were still at work, but instead of hovering around, buzzing and stinging people and being huge annoyances, the pair sat at their desks, manuscripts grasped tightly between their fingers.
“You guys find some interesting new reading materials?” I asked.
Each half of the mismatched detective pair startled. Perhaps amidst the elevated activity in the pit, they hadn’t heard us approach.
“Oh, hey Steele. Daggers,” said Rodgers.
I glanced at Shay and raised an eyebrow. “Look at that. He mentioned you first. Have you been slipping these guys bribes while I’m not looking?”
Shay smiled seductively. “Oh, I have more effective ways of changing minds than bribes.”
I gulped. I knew she did, but I hoped she wasn’t wasting those skills on Rodgers and Quinto when I was so readily available.
“I was just trying it out,” said Rodgers. “You know, for kicks. Although, I have to admit, I think I like Daggers followed by Steele better. Sorry, Steele.” He shrugged.
“It’s ok,” said Shay. “I’m the rookie. I understand. But enjoy it while you can. Some day you’ll be referring to me as Captain Steele.”
Rodgers smiled. “I’ll look forward to it, if for no other reason than to see what new, horrid partner you stuff Daggers with.”
“Hah,” I said. “Not likely. I’ll be long retired at that point, living it up in a tiny shack surrounded by empty whisky bottles, weather-beaten paperbacks, and my own faded memories of the past.”
Quinto chuckled and shook his head.
“So,” I said, “did you guys learn anything while Steele and I made our excursion to the Bock estate?”
Before leaving, I’d tasked Rodgers and Quinto with digging up whatever back story they could on Gill and Bock to see if any shiny bits stuck out.
“Interesting you should ask,” said Quinto. “You know how you’d mentioned during your interview with Mel, Mel said Bock had paid him to track down Buford Gill? And Mel thought Bock wanted to hire the man to work for his company?”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Not so much?”
“Probably not,” said Rodgers. “Let me read you a passage from one of Gill’s manuscripts, a review paper entitled An Analysis of Disparate Theories regarding Phase Changes in Closed Systems. Let’s see, where was it…” Rodgers flipped through one of the many journals we’d brought back from the library, drawing his finger down a page. “Ah, here we are. Bock’s suggestions on the nature of gaseous processes in closed systems are so laughably inadequate as to border on scientific slander. While he and his teams have produced impressive results under controlled conditions, Bock’s explanations regarding the phase changes in his prototypical ‘engines’ are completely unsubstantiated by traditional theories, showing conclusively that his many exploits are due to the coercion of other’s minds for profit and not to any production of his own intellect.”
“His papers are littered with these sorts of insults,” said Quinto. “But…based on the looks on your faces, you already knew that.”
I shrugged. “Bock’s wife spilled the beans.”
“Apparently, the animosity between the pair goes beyond verbal insults,” said Steele. “Sophia Bock told us Gill accosted Bock at a party some years back, and, tired of his insults, Bock threatened Gill with physical force. We didn’t get many details into precisely how it occurred, but the really curious part? That was right before Gill went into hiding.”
Quinto tapped his chin. “Are you implying that incident was the impetus for Gill’s disappearance?”
“It’s a possibility,” I said.
“Daggers is working on a theory,” said Steele.
“Ooh, a theory.” Rodgers rubbed his hands together. “Well, don’t be shy. Let’s hear it.”
“Not yet,” I said. “I haven’t figured out all the details. There’s still an important piece of the puzzle I can’t fit into place yet.”
“Which is?” said Quinto.
I shook a finger at the big guy. “Not so fast, Quickdraw. I’ll share when I’m ready.”
Quinto rolled his eyes. “Ok. Well, regardless of your theory, we still have a major problem. None of the teams the Captain sent out have seen hide nor hair of Scar Face, and as interesting as these papers of Gill’s are—” Rodgers snorted at that part. “—we’re no closer to finding our bearded murderer than we were when we left the abandoned Physics and Chemistry building. So I hope you learned something other than Gill and Bock’s ten year history while out and about.”
Shay grimaced.
Quinto leaned forward in his chair and his eyes widened. “You didn’t?”
“Daggers said he has a plan,” said Steele.
“And are you willing to share that?” asked Quinto.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m going to ask the final piece of the puzzle to take us to Scar Face.�
�
37
My instructions to Wyle, who’d been placed back into one of the overnight holding cells, were simple: take me somewhere. He’d asked what I’d meant and I’d reiterated my statement: take me anywhere you think we should go.
I hadn’t pushed the whole Gill/Bock angle. I hadn’t even mentioned it. But I had played along with Wyle’s worldview, emphasizing his own statements from earlier in the day about the time streams ebbing and flowing like tides. Surely, I told him, the ebbing had abated. Surely, I told him, someone with his abilities could detect disturbances in the flow of time, no matter how minor. Surely, I told him, you can feel something. So close your eyes, find your inner quiet spot, do whatever it is you need to do—but take us wherever it is your magics draw you.
I’d expected resistance from my compatriots, and I got some in the form of snorts and rolled eyes from Quinto and Rodgers, but surprisingly enough, I didn’t get any pushback from Steele. Not a word. That caught me off guard. She merely stood at my shoulder and smiled, and when I’d asked what she thought of my strategy, she’d said she thought it was worth a shot. I couldn’t tell if she was yanking my chain, letting me hang myself in my own noose, but I doubted she’d do that, not at this point in the investigation with a serial killer on the loose and lives at stake. She wouldn’t risk the wellbeing of others to teach me a lesson, which could only mean…she trusted me. She might not agree with my methods or my strategies, which perhaps explained her silence when I’d asked her for her opinion, but she trusted me enough to follow along with whatever wild plan I concocted, because even if she didn’t believe in my methodology, she believed in me as a detective.
It was a sobering thought. Shay trusted me. In a sense, I think she always had—or least she had after our first painful couple days together—but she’d done so as a natural course of action. I was her partner. I’d have her back, and she knew that. But now she trusted me implicitly. So what changed? Was it our encounter with Scar Face, where rather than chase after the lunatic, I’d stayed to make sure she was safe? Could that have affected her so strongly?