by Alex P. Berg
LIQUID STEELE
A Daggers & Steele Mystery
ALEX P. BERG
Copyright © 2017 by Alex P. Berg
All rights reserved. Published by Batdog Press.
ISBN 978-1-942274-26-1
No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer or with written permission from the author. For permission requests, please visit: www.alexpberg.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are a product of the author’s imagination.
Cover Art by: Damon Za (www.damonza.com)
Book Layout: www.bookdesigntemplates.com
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Table Of Contents:
Chapters:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40
About the Author
1
I stood in front of the door to apartment three fifteen, feeling like anyone but myself in a tailored gray suit, a white shirt, and even a tie, for gods’ sakes. My stomach felt like it might turn and run for the hills if only it could battle its way past my other internal organs and through my suddenly narrow windpipe, and the slab of gray matter between my ears briefly weighed whether that was the best choice. But neither my brain nor my gut nor my most masculine of organs won control of the rest of me. That honor, at least for now, belonged to my heart.
I reached out and knocked on the hardwood.
I shifted my weight as I waited for an answer. The painted wood stared me in the face, questioning my commitment. Had I remembered the apartment number correctly? Or worse, had I arrived at the wrong building? That was just the sort of stupid mistake I’d make, taking the second left turn instead of the third right, or arriving at Gustafson Street thinking it was Gustavsson Street. All the old New Welwic apartment complexes looked the same anyway, having been constructed by some unscrupulous builder who spent the lion’s share of his profits greasing the palms of city council members, most likely. Maybe I mistook the building for the one across the avenue. Maybe…
I heard footsteps, and the door creaked open. A smiling face greeted me. “Jake. You made it.”
My half-elven partner in crime, Shay Steele, stood in the doorway, tall and elegant and as breathtaking as ever. A hair clip kept her long chocolate locks bunched at the back of her head, though a few strands had escaped and now floated lazily over her shoulders like mischievous will-o-wisps. She wore a diaphanous blouse, almost identical in color to her azure eyes, over a white undershirt, all of which she’d paired with a checkered knee-length skirt and—gasp!—strappy heels. That wasn’t the accessory that really surprised me, though.
“An apron?” I said. “You’re not going all domestic on me, are you?”
“I’m helping in the kitchen. You know I like to cook.”
“You like to eat. There’s a difference.”
“I’m learning. It’s a valuable life skill, something I’d think you’d be ecstatic about.” She nodded toward my hands. “What’s that?”
Unless she was going blind, it was a perfunctory question. “A bottle of wine. I’ve been told it’s not polite to visit without a gift, although I can’t vouch for the quality. You know me and fermented grapes have a longstanding feud.”
“Is that what you’re calling it these days?”
“Today, anyway. The word that appropriately describes my distaste for the drink hasn’t been invented yet.”
Something flashed in my peripheral vision, a bicolored blur near the floor. It emitted a banshee-like wail as it slunk toward my shoes, or maybe it was more of a mewl. Same difference.
I looked down. A tabby had escaped the apartment and begun rubbing its musk over the hems of my expensive pants.
I glanced at Shay. “You neglected to mention the feline terrorist.”
She shrugged. “Barnabus, though we call him Barney. Would you have come if I’d said anything?”
I hesitated. “Of course.”
A dainty snort. “Liar. Come on in.”
She took the bottle of wine and stepped aside, waving me in. I took a deep breath and crossed the threshold into the apartment, but nothing crackled through the heavens, breaking through the stories above me to strike me down. Even the butterflies in my stomach had all found places to roost.
Shay closed the door, but not before allowing the demon-possessed sack of claws and fur back inside. The tabby purred as he meandered through the entry hall past me.
“There’s a coat rack on the left, at the entry to the living room,” said Shay.
“You know me all too well.” I stripped off my jacket while Shay continued to talk.
“I’ll set the wine on the table, then I’ll need to get back to the kitchen. I’m in charge of the yams, and they’re close to done. Make yourself at home. Nobody bites, not even Barney. Oh. Speaking of which. Jake? This is my dad. Stephen Steele.”
I looked up as I hung my jacket on a hook, the butterflies momentarily fluttering. A tall middle-aged elven gentleman had joined Steele where the hallway flared into the living room, dressed in a checkered shirt, a vest, and khakis. He held two fingers of brandy in his left hand.
“Jake Daggers,” he said in a welcoming voice. “I’ve heard so much about you. Nice to finally meet you.” He extended a hand.
Shay wasn’t exactly his spitting image—the man’s hair was lighter in color and salted with grey, and his eyes couldn’t decide if they were green or more of a bluish-gray—but the fundamental structure of the face was all there. A sharp nose, arched eyebrows, and ears only slightly more pointed than Shay’s.
I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Steele. Stephen. Steve?”
“Mr. Steele is fine.”
“Right. Of course.”
Shay motioned toward an open doorway, one through which delectable smells wafted. The aforementioned yams, and something of the more meaty variety. Maybe a ham. “Kitchen. I’ll be back.”
She skedaddled, leaving me alone with her father. He clapped me on the back. “Come on in, Jake. Did you have a nice walk over?”
“It didn’t rain or snow, and I wasn’t mugged, so as nice as can be expected, I guess.”
“Good, good.”
He led me into the living room to a set of couches and a matching club chair already inhabited by a pair of young men who looked more familiar than not. They stood as we approached.
“Jake,” said Mr. Steele. “This is my oldest, Samuel.”
“Sam,” he said.
“And his younger brother, Shawn.”
The young men extended their hands. The elder, who according to Shay was a year or two shy of my age, sported a crop of wavy, chestnut colored hair, while the younger had a shorter, more traditional cut, the kind you’d see on well-dressed kids who went to fancy colleges and took debate. They were both tall like their father, about my height, although more slender than me and with more angular features. Inescapable carryovers of their father’s elven blood, no doubt—not that anyone had every complained about inheriting either of those traits.
I shook my way through the extended limbs. “Samuel. And Shawn? Good to meet you. And Stephen?”
“Mr. Steele,” said Shay’s father again. “Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer a bit of formality now and again.”
“Right. Sorry. That’s a lot of s’s.”
“That’s my fault
,” said Mr. Steele. “My wife, Melody, isn’t as fond of alliteration as I am. I think she prefers assonance.”
“I’m a bit of an assonance man, myself.” I grimaced, regretting the joke the instant it left my lips.
Mr. Steele gave me an odd sort of look. “Of course. Please, have a seat.”
I did as indicated, as did the cohort of Steeles around me.
Mr. Steele took a sip of his drink. “So, Jake. Tell us about yourself.”
It wasn’t a request. “Oh. Well, ah…I’m sure Shay has already related most of what there is to tell.”
“Of course she has,” said Mr. Steele. “But I’d like to hear it from you. Besides, Samuel and Shawn don’t have my daughter’s ear quite the same way I do.”
I glanced at Shay’s brothers. They sat on opposite sides of the couch, eyeing me, legs crossed, leaning back, engaged but not welcoming. “Well, where should I start? I’m a homicide detective, obviously. Shay’s partner at the precinct. Been doing that for, oh…what? Twelve years now, give or take. Hard to believe it’s been that long, or that the Captain was willing to put me on homicide at such a tender age.”
“It sounds like thrilling work, if Shay’s stories are accurate,” said Shawn, his voice not quite conveying the sense of thrill he spoke of.
“Well, it can be. Some of the time, anyway. Obviously, there’s a learning curve, not just with the investigative aspects but the emotional ones. Even with the physiological responses. Training yourself not to get queasy when you see some of the victims. That’s more experience than anything else. Dulls the senses.”
“So you’ve been a detective for twelve years?” said Samuel.
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“And how old are you exactly?”
“Ah…thirty-three. Ish.”
“Ish?” Samuel lifted an eyebrow. Apparently Shay’s whole family was as good at that trick as she was.
“Well, it’s hard to remember sometimes. Not because I’m getting prematurely old, I assure you. One of the perils of the job. You take a lot of beatings from ogres and the like. I’ve been telling the department they need to take concussions more seriously, but nobody listens.”
I smiled, but nobody else did, so I packed my grin away and saved it for later.
Samuel cocked his eyebrow again. “And I assume you’re taking steps to protect Shay from these vicious ogres?”
I snorted. “As if she needed my help. I’m sure you’re all aware, Shay’s quite capable of handling herself, both mentally and physically. She’s not afraid of anyone. Liars, thieves, crazed criminals—”
Samuel’s facial expression hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had hardened.
“But…yeah. To answer your question, I’m taking most of the lumps myself. I’m taking good care of her. Very good.”
That last bit hadn’t come across as sexual, had it? I sure hoped not.
“Hey, Jake?” Shay’s voice rang across the living room, mercifully providing me an exit. She waved from the mouth of the kitchen.
“Just a moment.” I rose and joined her.
She glanced at me curiously and spoke in a low voice. “Everything okay?”
“What? Sure. Why not?”
“You seem tense.”
“It’s nothing. Jitters. I don’t think your older brother likes me very much.”
“Sam? Nonsense. You’re overreacting, same as always. He’s protective of me, nothing else.”
I glanced back at the trio, still sitting on the couch. It wasn’t just Samuel. Shawn’s body language hadn’t been any warmer, and Steele’s father, while superficially pleasant, seemed as if he was playing a role.
I kept that to myself. “I’m sure you’re right.”
I heard another meow. Looking down, I discovered Barnabus was back. Apparently, he’d taken a liking to my pants. My expensive, virgin to cat pee and claws pants.
A new figure came around the corner from the direction of the kitchen: a middle-aged woman, a good five inches shorter than Shay with hair the same color as hers that fell to the shoulders, dressed in an immaculate white dress that reached to just below her knees. Her azure eyes sparkled almost as brightly as her daughter’s. All told, she was quite attractive for a woman of her age, which I took as a good sign for Shay—and me.
“Mrs. Steele,” I said. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Yes. Welcome.”
I’d expected a “Please, Jake, call me Melody,” or something of that nature, but nope. Like husband, like wife, I supposed.
“I must say, dear, you have good timing,” continued Mrs. Steele. “The food is about ready.”
“Johnny on the spot, that’s me. It’s why I waited ten minutes at the door before knocking.”
“Pardon?”
Another joke, fallen flatter than a pancake trampled by a herd of stampeding buffalo. “Never mind.”
“Well, don’t bother yourself over it. Shay? Could you show Jake to the dining table? Stephen? Boys? Dinner’s ready.”
Shay touched me on the elbow and gave me a nod, leading me through the kitchen to the dining table beyond. There, I found a spread worthy of kings. Not just the ham and yams my nose had alerted me to, but fresh baked buttered rolls, peas sautéed with bacon, some sort of braised greens, maybe beet or collard, and a mysterious gelatinous mass with pieces of fruit suspended in it—probably something that would be passed off as a desert despite its distinct lack of chocolate, whipped cream, or fried dough. Dishes large and small choked the white lace table cloth underneath, joined as they were by pitchers of water, highball glasses, wine glasses, neatly folded napkins, and more pieces of silverware than you could shake an oyster fork at.
Shay showed me toward a seat in the middle while everyone else filed in, making remarks about how delectable the dinner smelled and giving thanks.
“Jake? Perhaps you could serve everyone the wine you brought?” Shay’s mother gestured toward the bottle, which Shay had placed at the center of the table.
And make a buffoon of myself in the process, showing everyone that I didn’t know the foggiest thing about wine or how to pour it? “Of course. I’d love to.”
Shay took her seat. “Everyone here partakes, except you of course.”
Mr. Steele looked up as he scooted his chair in at the head of the table. “You don’t drink, Jake?”
I removed the wax from the top of the bottle and fumbled with the corkscrew. “Well, not wine.”
“Ah.”
One word, two letters, and yet the man managed to make it sound judgmental. Was he disappointed I didn’t drink wine, or that I drank anything but?
The cork came loose with a loud pop. Rather than shred it attempting to loosen it from the screw, I handed the whole kit and caboodle to Shay. I poured her glass first, hoping her family might start portioning the food, but they all sat there, waiting patiently and staring at me.
“So, Jake,” said Mrs. Steele. “Shay’s told us quite a bit about your adventures. Kept us abreast of the cases you’ve solved. From what she tells us, it seems the two of you get yourselves into the oddest of situations.”
“It’s not by choice, Mom,” said Shay. “We investigate every murder that comes across our desks. Sometimes they’re mundane, a stabbing or a bar fight gone wrong. Other times they’re convoluted webs of felonies and deceits.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I said, moving the wine bottle to the next glass in line, Shay’s father’s. “We’ve solved cases where the impossible turned out to be possible, and others where the impossible was, in fact, impossible, just a ruse to throw us off. Technology masquerading as magic, magic used to cover deceits, fantastical creatures. We’ve just about seen it all, and in less than a year working together, amazingly enough. I think that says something about the city we live in…”
I thought Mrs. Steele might inquire about the cases, but she seemed more focused on the latter part of my reply. “Well, regardless, we’re very proud of our little Shay. To have achieved w
hat she has in so little time. It’s remarkable. How long have you been a detective, Jake?”
I finished with Mr. Steele’s glass and moved on, grabbing Samuel’s. “Well, as I told Samuel here—”
“Sam,” he said.
“Right. Sam. As I told him, about twelve years. I was a young pup when I started.”
“About the age of our Shay,” said Mr. Steele. He eyed me, swirling his glass of wine. Somewhere under the table, Barnabus meowed.
“She’s a little older than I was when I started. A few years, at least.” I set Samuel’s glass down and moved to Shawn’s.
“Shay’s told us precious little about your family, though,” said Mrs. Steele.
“Well, it’s, ah…not something I talk about much. If I’m being honest, I’m not particularly close to my folks.”
Shay’s father’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a shame.”
I felt something rub against my leg. Barney, no doubt. What in the world did the cat think he was going to get out of me? Couldn’t he sense I’d as soon pet him as throw him off a cliff? I shook my leg to clear him away, but not so much as to slosh the wine.
“It’s probably not what you think. My mother was murdered when I was young. It was difficult. Like it or not, it drove a wedge between my brother, my father, and me. It was one of the motivating factors behind my career choice.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” said Mrs. Steele. “We had no idea.”
Finally, a little sympathy. I set Shawn’s glass down and moved to Melody’s.
“But I wasn’t asking about your parents,” she continued. “We understand you have a son. From a previous marriage?”
I hesitated as I reached for her stemware. I felt my cheeks warm. Deep inside, the butterflies had fled, replaced instead with a wasp’s nest—which Shay’s mother had apparently decided to poke with a stick. The damn cat kept purring and rubbing against my leg.
“Mother…” said Shay.
“No, it’s alright,” I said, lifting her glass. “Yes, I do. His name is Tommy. He’s about five and a half. A wonderful age.”
