by Alex P. Berg
7
Our rickshaw driver panted heavily under Quinto’s and my combined weight, though should the poor sap keel over under the mid-day sun’s bright rays, I’d know who to blame. While I’d slimmed down to a svelte one-ninety under Shay’s watchful eye, I don’t think Quinto had shed a single pound since starting to date Cairny. Perhaps she preferred him that way. Some ladies liked their men large and in charge, accepting the fat along with the muscle, although despite Quinto’s relative lack of activity, he certainly seemed to carry more of the former than the latter. Darn unfair genetics…
A cool sea breeze whistled past our rickshaw as we veered back into a section of prime, oceanside real estate. We’d left the dock district in the dust of our handcart’s wheels and kept on going, heading toward the address of Norman Family Charters, which according to the minimal information Quinto had on hand was the ‘premier destination for family cruises and sea adventures in and around New Welwic.’ Though some might find a certain appeal in the sales pitch, I found it dull, and life had taught me that rarely did situations which initially presented themselves as dull actually hide more interesting layers, like gangs of trident-wielding murderers who dumped bodies into the bay by the light of the moon.
Still, it wasn’t as if I would’ve been able to focus on our destination even if it sported a more salacious tagline. I couldn’t stop thinking about what the captain wanted with my partner. Surely they were going to talk about me, which I didn’t say out of sheer egotism. Knox tended to let us work problems out on our own, at least work related ones, asking only for updates as she had today and providing the occasional kick in the pants or vote of confidence. Rarely did she pull either of us aside—even more rarely once I’d learned her ways and stopped acting in a manner that annoyed her.
Quinto’s low rumble sounded beside me. “You okay?”
I blinked and focused. Apparently, I’d been staring into the distance. If I’d had long hair, I’m sure it would’ve slapped Quinto in the face as had happened to me twice already. “More or less.”
“That’s not very convincing,” said Quinto, his brow ever so slightly creased.
“Well, I’m a terrible liar. What do you expect?”
Quinto snorted.
I shifted in my seat, turning inward. “You mind if I ask you something? About you and Cairny?”
Quinto shrugged as best he could in the confines of the rickshaw. “Shoot.”
“How do you deal with fights?”
“We don’t.”
“Seriously?” I lifted a brow. “You ignore them, as if nothing ever happened?”
“No, I mean we don’t have them.”
I snorted. “Come on.”
“I’m serious,” said Quinto. “I mean, we have disagreements, don’t get me wrong. No two people are going to agree on everything all the time. But the stuff we butt heads over is largely immaterial. Where to eat or whether we agreed to hang out on Tuesday or on Wednesday or if a laceration was caused by a piece of old, hardened steel or a blade that had more recently been sharpened.”
I scrunched my face.
“She uses me as a sounding board. She doesn’t actually care about my answer most of the time. Don’t tell me Steele doesn’t talk shop with you when you’re off duty?”
I didn’t deny it. “Admittedly, Cairny’s a special case. She doesn’t exhibit many of the same foibles other females do.”
Quinto smiled. “Don’t I know it. I’m a lucky man, Daggers.”
As long as you don’t mind playing second fiddle to a rotting corpse on occasion, I thought. “Still, you have to have had at least a few disagreements that turned into something more. Say…when meeting her family?”
“Sorry, Daggers. I wish I could commiserate, but the fact of the matter is, her mother was lovely when I met her. We got along swimmingly. She was very impressed with my body of work.”
The way he said it made it sound as if he’d handed the woman a resume. “But only her mother was nice? Not her father?”
“Well, Cairny’s dad wasn’t in the picture,” said Quinto. “She doesn’t talk about him much. I’m not sure if there’s some love lost or it’s more of a cultural fairy thing. I’m hoping not, for my own sake. I met her sister though. She was pleasant.”
Our rickshaw slowed and our driver skidded to a halt. He called out to us between gulps of air. “Here we are… Norman Family…Charters.”
I looked up to see a wooden structure, painted a bright blue with pristine white trim and about twice as wide as it was tall, sitting along the elevated portion of the shore and with a brilliant backdrop of deep blue stretching behind it. A signpost planted in the soil near the road confirmed the business’s identity. Behind the structure, a wooden pier led to a pair of ships moored there, wide, slow-looking vessels that were in much better condition than the fishing dinghies we’d chanced across all morning. A pair of workers in navy slacks and white, collared shirts toiled on each one, swabbing hatches or belaying the mainstays or doing whatever it is sailors did.
I hopped off and dug some coins out of my pocket to pay the driver. “Look, Quinto, help me out. You overheard enough to get the gist of what went down between me, Shay, and her folks last night. Shay and I are at opposite ends of the spectrum on this one, and to be honest, I don’t have a lot of successful personal experience to draw from when it comes to resolving family conflicts. I haven’t talked to my little brother in years, and my relationship with my dad isn’t much better. Honestly the person I get along with best is my ex-wife, and as the title suggests, we’re divorced.”
Quinto shrugged as we headed along the gravel path toward the charter shop’s door. “What do you want me to tell you, Daggers? I don’t have many experiences to draw from either. You know I didn’t date much before I hit it off with Cairny.”
Much was an exaggeration. I pulled on the front door, which responded with a cheerful shopkeeper’s bell as I did so. “Well, what about experiences with your own folks. Surely you’ve had fights with them?”
Quinto shot me a sideways glance as we entered the shop. “My family?”
“Yeah. You’ve got one, right?”
The interior of the shop resembled the exterior, with the same blue paint tinting the walls and white covering everything else, from the wainscoting to the counters to the displays. The latter were the only thing occupying the shop floor, two person-wide displays filled with glossy brochures hawking weekend fishing excursions for businessmen, summer pleasure cruises, and trips to New Welwic’s famed Isla de Pajarose, which I’m pretty sure was just an enormous granite outcropping covered in bird crap.
“Well, yeah, sure, I have a family,” said Quinto. “But if you’re hoping I can give you advice on how to solve interpersonal problems based on my experiences in that realm, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“How so?” We walked toward the sales counter.
“Well…how much have I told you about my folks?”
“In all the years we’ve been together? Honestly, I’m not sure you’re mentioned your family once. That’s why I asked.”
“Well, don’t you think there might’ve been a reason for that?”
“Look, Quinto, if it’s about your heritage, it doesn’t matter to me what you are. You’re my friend. One of the best detectives in the precinct. And beyond that, you’re thoughtful, intelligent, and observant.”
Quinto pshawed. “Come off it. Look, I’m a half-troll. I admit it. I don’t talk about it because there’s no reason to. But that’s not why I kept my family history to myself.”
“So why then?”
A latch clacked. A door in the back opened, and a middle-aged gentleman with a thick moustache wearing dark blue pants and a crisp white shirt emerged. He gave us a friendly wave. “Hullo there! Welcome to Norman Family Charters. Looking to hire a crew for a private jaunt, or schedule something for a business get-together, maybe?”
I held up a finger in Quinto’s direction. “Hold onto that thought
. Norman, I presume?”
“In the flesh,” said the owner, approaching. “How can I help you?”
“I’ll make this quick. I’m Daggers, this is Quinto. We’re detectives with the NWPD. I don’t suppose you’ve had an employee go missing, probably within the last week or two?”
“Uh…no,” said the man. “Can’t say I have. Everyone’s been coming to work, same as always.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s all we needed to know.”
I clapped Quinto on the shoulder and headed for the door, leaving the dumbfounded Norman in our wake.
“So, where were we?” The front door chimed as I let myself and Quinto out. “You were about to tell me about your folks?”
Quinto glanced at the door. “Well, ah…here’s the truth, Daggers. You know I had a rough upbringing. That I spent time on goon squads of questionable legality before ending up on the right side of the law. What I don’t think I ever told you was why.”
“Well. I’m here now.”
“Daggers…I ran away from home when I was fourteen. I haven’t seen my mom or brother in almost two decades.”
I felt my jaw plummet. “Seriously?”
Quinto nodded. “Yeah. I had my reasons. Mostly it was typical teenage angst. But I was big enough to get by on my own. It wasn’t until much later, when I’d started working for the boys in blue, that I fully regretted my decision. I went back, looking for them, but they were long gone. Cleared out of the slum. I talked with folks in those parts who might remember them, but I found nothing but shadows and vapor. Someone thought they’d gotten fed up with the slum life and skipped town, but I never heard anything concrete.”
“Did you check with Public Records?” I asked.
“Of course I did,” said Quinto. “But you’ve got to understand, Daggers, I was never listed in Public Records myself until I started working for the government. Most of the folks in the slums aren’t. The public assessors are too scared to go in there. Taxation and Revenue is another story, but that was another dead end. Mom always was talented when it came to avoiding the tax man.”
“So that’s it? You really haven’t had any interaction with your family for twenty years?”
“Almost, yeah.”
“Wow. I envy you.”
“Don’t say that, Daggers. You don’t know what you’re missing until you’ve lost it. Sure, you might have some beefs with your brother and old man, but you’ve still got time to fix those relationships. I’ll never have that option.”
I swallowed back my snarkiness. “You’re right. That was inconsiderate of me. I’m sorry, Quinto.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” He shot a thumb in the direction of the charter shop as we walked along the path toward the street. “Hey, don’t you think we should’ve grilled that guy more about his business? It’s not like you to take someone at their word so freely.”
I shook my head. “He’s wearing the same outfit as the guys on his boats in back. It doesn’t match Fishy’s attire. He’s telling the truth.”
Quinto shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I do. Come on. Let’s head back to the precinct—after we pick up lunch on the way, of course. I’m starving.”
8
Quinto and I accepted the station’s loving embrace, stepping through her front doors and returning to our desks. Shay sat at hers, leaning back in her chair and reading the contents of a file. She must’ve heard us as we approached, as she suddenly pulled her head back.
She sniffed the air. “Something smells good.”
Apparently, I picked the wrong sense to give us away.
I deposited a paper bag at the edge of her desk. “Butter chicken, which as far as I can tell is a misnomer. My palate isn’t as polished as yours, but I tasted cream, yogurt, and a host of spices, among them pepper, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, cumin, coriander, and turmeric. Oh, and there’s chicken in the dish, too.”
Shay raised an eyebrow. “No way you picked out all of those spices on your own.”
“He asked the vendor what was in it before buying,” said Quinto. “But he didn’t write any of them down, so he deserves some credit.”
“I’m guessing you ate without me.” Shay shot me a wounded look, but a facetious one. I think…
“I was hungry,” I said. “Sorry. But it’s still warm. Have at it.”
Shay grabbed the bag. “Did you snag naan to go with it?”
“Never you worry. They’re in there.”
Steele opened the bag and breathed deeply, a smile spreading across her face. “This’ll do nicely. You forgot chili, though.”
“What, like, as a side?” I said. “Come to think of it, the vendor had been hawking roasted peppers, but you’ve never gone for those before.”
“Not chilies. Chili,” said Shay. “I can smell it in the butter chicken. You left it out of your list of spices.”
I snorted and took a seat. “Now you’re just showing off.”
Shay carefully lifted the meal out of the bag, the flatbreads stacked atop the bowl to keep them warm. She fished a spoon out of her desk and went to work, but not before sharing her smile with me. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Quinto grabbed a chair from his desk, pulled it over, and deposited his bulk in it, eliciting a groan of displeasure from the wooden throne—none of which made him seem like any less of a third wheel, but at least he acknowledged that standing over my partner while she ate was unnecessarily creepy.
He waited until she’d slowed before giving her a nod. “So. Care to share what the Captain drew you aside for?”
To the casual observer, it might’ve seemed as if I’d pressured Quinto into asking the question for me, but I swear upon the might of the gods, I had nothing to do with it. We hadn’t even discussed the matter on the ride back from the ethnic food cart. Still, that didn’t stop me from leaning forward in my chair and perking my ears at the mention of it.
Shay looked up from her bowl. “If that’s a roundabout way of asking whether what she had to tell me pertained to the case, then no, it didn’t. And if you’re simply being nosy and prying into my personal conversations, then maybe I’ll bring that up the next time the captain pulls me aside.”
Quinto’s cheeks colored. It wasn’t a particularly good look for him—not so much because of his otherwise manly appearance, but because the rouge mixed terribly with his skin tone.
Shay shot me another glance, almost daring me to ask a follow up, but I didn’t. She’d already let the butter chicken out of the bag, so to speak.
Obviously, the captain had talked to her about me, though about which aspect, I couldn’t be certain. Probably something related to our morning spat, though I couldn’t envision Captain Knox delivering life advice. Then again, I’d only known her for a few months, and the entirety of my interactions with her had been in the work environment as opposed to the old Captain with whom I’d occasionally drank and socialized with, against any number of regulations, probably.
Regardless, I’m not sure the particulars of the advice mattered that much. Hopefully whatever it was had helped set Shay’s mind at ease, but from my point of view, she could’ve delivered a platitude along the lines of ‘boys will be boys’ or shared a heartfelt experience about a quarrel from her own life and it wouldn’t have made any difference in my attempts at reconciliation. I’d already developed the initial inklings of a plan. Based on the look of pleasure on Shay’s face and the speed with which she devoured her sauce-lathered chicken and bread, step one had gone over quite well.
Step two might prove to be more difficult. Though I’d long since abandoned my irrational, masculine fear of asking for forgiveness, I found my inherent sense of right and wrong made it harder for me to make the same plea when I knew I was in the right. Then again, maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe some things were worth the moral sacrifice. White lies and all that.
Yet despite my newly concocted plan and a willingness to come to the negotiating ta
ble, a lingering fear sat in the pit of my stomach, poking me, niggling me, flashing me its sharp teeth and honing its claws. It was a fear that had surfaced in the company of Shay’s family, a fear I thought I’d banished long ago but had apparently only been in hibernation. I wanted no part of it, but there it was, making itself a nice home despite my best efforts to shoo it back into oblivion.
“So did you guys discover anything at the charters place?” asked Shay between a mouthful of food.
“Only that they’re not involved,” said Quinto. “Their owner and ship crews wore the same outfits, ones decidedly different from Fishy’s.”
Shay made a face like she’d smelled the guy in question. “You’re sticking with that nickname, too?”
“You know better than to fight it,” said Quinto. “You might as well take on a Taxation and Revenue auditor.”
I smiled. “Thanks. I think…”
Shay swallowed the last of her chicken and started to mop up the sauce with the remaining naan. “Well, that’s not particularly surprising. Knox suspected it wouldn’t prove to be a fruitful trip.”
“So you did talk shop,” said Quinto.
“Some.”
I looked through the captain’s windows into her office. She sat at her desk, sifting through a pile of paperwork. “Hold on. If she didn’t think heading to Norman’s Charters would prove useful, why did she send us?”
Shay’s smile revealed the real answer before she could dispute it with a fake one. “You know we have to check every lead. Besides, she didn’t become convinced it wouldn’t be fruitless until I related the fisherman’s comment about the ocean currents.”
“That they travel west to east,” I said. “Which means, what? That she wants us to travel to Aragosto to check out the next likely business?”
“You hit the nail on the head.” Shay popped the last bit of bread in her mouth.
“Knox really wants us to head all the way there?” said Quinto. “That’s a two hour rickshaw ride away, easy. My driver might die, never mind the cost.”
