by Alex P. Berg
“Yes…” Mateo seemed to regret having to respond in the affirmative.
“We were hoping to talk to the Abano brothers about it, but they don’t appear to be home,” said Shay. “Since we were in the neighborhood, we thought it might be worth seeing if Mr. Fowler would mind spending a moment of his time with us. We hear he’s quite knowledgeable of events in the city.”
Mateo knew when he was having smoke blown up his hindquarters, but to his credit, he did his job anyway. “If you’ll wait a moment please…”
He closed the door. Thirty seconds stretched into a minute.
“You still sure about this?” I asked.
“Worst case, he comes back with a broom,” said Shay.
“Or something pointier.”
The door opened again. Mateo waved us in. “If you’ll come with me, please.”
The manservant led us into the home, which opened dramatically as we walked into it. Before us stretched a spacious, circular living room the floor of which was almost completely covered in thick, white rugs. A wall of windows curved around the back of the room, looking upon a neat garden of white roses. A black grand piano with the lid propped open drew my attention, as did a freestanding bar whose lacquered wood had been stained a deep, deep brown. To the side, a quartet of pristine, white leather couches had been arranged into a square, separated in the middle by a steel and glass coffee table. Beyond that I spotted a massive roulette wheel and a felt topped table.
Mateo shot a hand out as we approached the rugs. He pointed to a set of cubbies built into the wall. “Shoes.”
We removed the articles in question and stored them before continuing onto the carpeting. Mateo showed us to the couches, where we found an old man flanked by cushions sitting in the middle of one.
I hadn’t even noticed him at first. Even if he’d been standing he couldn’t have measured more than five feet, three inches, and I probably could’ve thrown him across the room if I’d been worked up. A shock of white hair stood upon his head, thin in spots but voluminous nonetheless, and his wrinkles could’ve swallowed unsuspecting houseflies.
“Welcome,” he said as we approached, his voice aged but not weak. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t stand. My knees aren’t what they used to be.”
“You must be Doc Fowler,” said Shay.
“Yannis Phalonopoulos, actually,” said the old man. “But by all means, yes, call me Doc. I made the bed, and I’ve been lying in it my whole life. Please.” He waved at the couches.
We sat. Mateo left and stood at the side of the room, by the bar.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” asked Yannis. “Well, not me personally, of course. But Mateo would be more than happy to.”
He didn’t look happy to do much of anything. I waved Yannis off. “No thank you, Mr. Fowler. We’re fine.”
The old man nodded. “Very well. I understand you’re with the police, but not from our delightful town. New Welwic, then.”
“That’s right,” said Shay. “We’re investigating the disappearance of Johnny Nicchi, one of the local fishermen.”
“Yes, Mateo told me that as well,” said Yannis. “And of course I’m familiar with the situation. News travels fast. In fact, I was aware of your presence, too, which is why I had Mateo let you in. But I don’t know what you expect to learn from me about Mr. Nicchi’s disappearance. If I’d met the man, it was only in passing.”
“I understand that, Mr. Fowler,” said Shay. “But clearly you’re a man with his finger on the pulse of the city. You knew we’d arrived. Perhaps you know something that can provide insight into Nicchi’s disappearance. His frame of mind, his finances, anything.”
Yannis smiled. “You flatter me, and even at my age, I can appreciate flattery from a lovely young lady such as yourself. If I could help you, I would, but I simply don’t have any knowledge to share. Mateo mentioned you came to speak with Orlando or Carmine next door. I can leave a note, if you wish.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t help,” said Shay. “What we require is a conversation, not delivery of a message. But thank you.”
Yannis nodded in understanding.
“Are they good neighbors?” I asked. “Orlando and Carmine?”
“The best,” said Yannis. “A more sophisticated, nuanced pair of young men, I’ve never met. Excellent business owners, and quite respectful of my property.”
“Do you ever have them over?”
“On occasion. For parties and social gatherings, though I host fewer of those than I used to.”
I glanced toward the roulette wheel, a thought building in the back of my mind. “Are you, by any chance, a gambling man?”
Yannis smiled. “Mateo said your name was Daggers, is that correct? You’re…what? A detective?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Detective, I’ll have you know those are purely decorative. Conversation pieces. But if your question was about my personality, then yes. I enjoy taking risks. Making the occasional wager. I wouldn’t have gotten where I am with a more passive attitude. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said. “You simply struck me as the sort of man who would be. In either case, thank you for taking the time to meet with us despite the circumstances. You’d be surprised how often we gain useful information from unlikely encounters.”
“You stopped by my home,” said Yannis. “I’d hardly say this encounter qualifies as unlikely.”
“My mistake. Steele?”
“One moment,” she said. “Mr. Fowler. Do you mind if I ask you one last question?”
“By all means,” he said.
“How does a foal fly, exactly?”
Yannis laughed. “Magic and arm power, my dear. You’ll have to come to the show some time, in a few weeks when we open it to the public. It’s down at the moment, I’m afraid.”
And yet Émile still worked there.
I motioned for Steele to rise. “We’ll be sure to do that. In the meantime, best of luck with your other business ventures.”
It might’ve been my imagination, but I think the old man’s eyes glinted when I said that.
He nodded anyway. “Thank you. And best of luck to you in your investigation.”
Mateo separated himself from the wall, and Shay and I went to get our shoes.
28
I sat on the bed in my hotel room, my feet up and once again freed of their shoes. After leaving Doc Fowler’s mansion, Shay and I had returned to town, but at that point we’d butted heads on how to proceed. We’d both agreed we needed to find one or both of Bianca and Carmine Abano. I suggested we try Bianca’s place again, but Shay contended that, like it or not, we needed Silverbrook’s assistance, as well as that of the local PD as a whole. After all, Bronmuth had gone out in search of the same information we sought, though who knew if he’d keyed in on Carmine the way we had.
As was so often the case, Shay won the fight. We returned to the station, and though we found Mines—seriously, did she ever leave?—she didn’t have any updates on Silverbrook’s whereabouts. With frustration undoubtedly showing on our faces, we left a message with Mines telling Silverbrook to look for us at the hotel, grabbed a quick bite at a place on the way, and returned to our rooms.
As we reached the third floor of our hotel, I paused at the door to my room, my key in hand. I glanced at Shay, who pulled her own key and stared back at me. We both stood there, Shay’s face hopeful.
The metaphor wasn’t lost on me. Both of us, standing there, holding the keys to our problems and yet choosing not to use them. Or me choosing not to use mine, more like.
Shay only waited a moment. She unlocked her door and let herself in, leaving me in the hallway by myself. With a sigh, I’d let myself in, taken my shoes off, and flopped onto the bed, where I still found myself, and in a similar state of mind to when I’d entered.
I couldn’t understand it. A beautiful, smart, compassionate, fascinating woman cared about me, had told me she cared about me, maybe even love
d me, though neither of us had ever broached that particular thorny subject. I cared as much about her in return, desired her deeply, and thought she was perfect in just about every way. If I behaved logically, I would’ve moved heaven and earth to make sure I maintained that mutual level of affection and care, yet I couldn’t stop sabotaging myself periodically. I might go a month or two without incident, but then, like clockwork, my foot would come flying in, knocking a handful of teeth out of my mouth with the force of its impact.
Why couldn’t I believe I was worthy of her? Why wouldn’t I let myself accept her love? Was it because I’d lost my mother, or let my relationships with my father and brother fall into disrepair? Perhaps it had more to do with my failed marriage, though I actually felt I’d been making progress on that front. My relationship with Nicole was better now than ever before, and I was making regular efforts to spend quality time with Tommy. His face lit up every time he saw me now instead of flattening out like it used to, with him knowing my presence was a mere speck in an otherwise desolate morass.
Maybe my issues of self-confidence were a result of all of the above, a consequence of roughly two-thirds of my life spent angry and upset and feeling unloved. If so, perhaps I was being too hard on myself. I wouldn’t be able to reverse twenty years of bad habits in a few months with Shay, even with her support and affection as motivating factors. Debilitating injuries to muscles or ligaments could take years to repair, and the brain was a few hundred times more complicated than any of those fleshy parts. It only made sense.
Of course, it was also foolish on my part to assume whatever problems ailed me would simply go away. Sure, I’d been polishing my exterior with diet and exercise and regular shaving, but what about the interior rot that had taken hold of me during my baser moments? I thought I’d dug it out it, but perhaps I’d merely tiled over it, hidden it behind a fresh coat of paint. If so, I might have to really work to get myself on the right path, and like any good reconstruction project, major elements might come crashing down before my structure returned to its former glory.
I heard a noise in the hall, and I shook my head. Here I was, daydreaming about my problems again when I should’ve been focusing on the case, a case in which the pieces involved finally were falling into place. Johnny’s financial troubles. His deteriorating relationship with his wife. Bianca’s paramour, whoever he might be. They all painted a believable picture.
Except for the part where Johnny got murdered with a trident. I still couldn’t make heads or tails of that. Sure, any object could be turned into a murder weapon in a moment of passion. Any port in a storm and all that. But that didn’t answer the question of where it came from. Who would’ve had access to a weapon of that sort? I still liked my mermaid theory, but Shay was right. Even I had to admit the thought of illegal mermaid trafficking was ludicrous. The point of having a mermaid in captivity would be to showcase her, and no one would be able to do that and keep it secret for long. Even one held privately would cause rumors to swirl. And there’s no way Nicchi could’ve financed himself off just one. He would’ve had to capture several, making the secrecy of the operation even less viable.
I heard more of a commotion in the hallway. Voices that sounded like Steele and Bronmuth, actually. I hopped off the bed and headed toward my shoes. Before I’d managed to slip on the second one, I heard a knock at my door. A forceful one.
“Daggers? You there?” called Silverbrook, his voice muffled by the wood. “We need to move.”
I quickly finished the knot on my second shoe and tossed open the door. Shay stood there alongside Bronmuth, the latter looking haggard and flustered.
“Yeah?” I said. “What’s going on? You find out who Bianca was seeing?”
“Not now,” he said. “I just got reports of an incident near the dock warehouses. Carmine Abano got stabbed.”
I shared a look with Steele. We hadn’t shared our suspicions with Silverbrook. At least I hadn’t.
He didn’t give us time to sort it out. “There’s no time to waste. He’s at the local medical clinic, supposedly in critical condition. We’ve got to go.”
I nodded. It sounded like things were about to come to a head. Especially if Carmine had been stabbed with a trident.
29
I appreciated the fact that Silverbrook referred to our destination as a clinic, because a hospital it certainly wasn’t. The place we arrived at was a collection of a half-dozen doctor’s offices, but in a town the size of Aragosto, I supposed I couldn’t expect much else. The secretary in the lobby waved us through as soon as she saw Silverbrook, pointing down the hallway to the left of her desk. There wasn’t as much of a commotion as I might’ve expected, but I was used to New Welwic hospitals, full of the hustle and bustle of doctors and nurses, the clatter of moving carts, orderlies shouting commands, adults screaming out in pain, loved ones screaming in grief, and small children screaming for no good reason.
Aragosto’s clinic had none of that. We passed a pair of rooms empty of both patrons and staff before arriving at a third. A window at the front provided a view inside, but a white sheet had been drawn all the way across it. As we approached, a doctor backed his way out of the door leading in, his hands covered in blood.
“Excuse me,” said Bronmuth as the door shut behind the man. “Is this Carmine Abano’s room?”
The doctor looked at Silverbrook, his eyes more on the dwarf’s uniform than his face. “You’re police?”
Apparently, Bronmuth didn’t know everyone in town. He nodded. “Officer Silverbrook. You are?”
“Doctor Pryor,” he said, heading to a sink on the far wall. “And yes, that’s Mr. Abano’s room. Though I don’t suggest you enter at the moment. He’s in a bad way.”
The white sheet might’ve obscured the view through the window, but a small porthole in the door remained unobstructed. Inside the room, I spotted a man lying prone on a hospital bed, his torso wrapped in thick bandages, many of which had soaked through to a dark red. His eyes lay closed, and his skin looked as pale as ivory against the midnight black of his hair. It didn’t appear as if his chest rose or fell, but perhaps I couldn’t see it from my vantage point.
In the corner of the room, another man sat in a chair, his head held between his hands. I couldn’t see any of his face, but his glossy black hair was identical to that of the man on the hospital bed, and their builds appeared to be similar, as well. Stocky, but not fat. A faint wail drifted through the walls, choked sobs of grief coming from the corner chair.
I turned from the porthole. “Is that Carmine’s brother?”
The doctor nodded as he began to wash his hands. “Yes. Arrived a few moments ago. He’s in a…fragile position, I think.”
“What happened to Carmine?” asked Silverbrook.
“Well, if you’re asking me what occurred to land him in my clinic, I couldn’t tell you,” said the doctor. “He wasn’t in any condition to speak when he arrived. But I can tell you everything I’ve seen since he was carried through the front doors, and I can tell you what I know about his injuries. Given what seems to have transpired, patient doctor confidentiality doesn’t apply to you.”
“Well,” said Bronmuth. “Go on.”
The doctor glanced at Silverbrook as he soaped his arms, the look on his face indicating he thought he should be addressed with a little more respect. “Mr. Abano arrived perhaps twenty-five minutes ago, carried here by a couple of citizens who said they found him among the warehouses by the docks. It’s a good thing I was on call—I have the most surgical expertise of any of the members of our practice—and Mr. Abano was in dire need of immediate attention. I wasn’t even sure he was alive when I first saw him.”
“Is he now?” I asked.
The doctor glanced at me, his arms covered in suds to the elbows. “For the time being, yes. I had the citizens bring Mr. Abano in and lay him down. His shirt was soaked in blood, as were a good portion of the rest of his garments, so I cut them off and immediately got to work. I onl
y found a single injury, but it was a bad one. A puncture wound over the right side of his chest cavity—not a cut mind you. The wound wasn’t nearly clean enough, nor was whatever injured him particularly sharp. Based on the way it expanded and tore at the flesh, I’m guessing he was stabbed with a pointed object that grew thicker along the axis. Maybe a pickaxe or something similar.
“Either way, Mr. Abano was reasonably lucky. The weapon scraped across his ribcage and angled right, into his lung. Obviously that’s bad, but if the attack had come from a different angle, it could’ve gone the other way, into his heart or any of the pulmonary arteries that surround it. If that were the case, he certainly wouldn’t have made it here alive.
“Even so, he was on the brink of death when I started to operate. His right lung had suffered a minor pneumothorax—what you’d normally call a collapsed lung—and I had to aspirate a pint of blood from it as I worked. Given the severity, I think aspirating the fluid will be enough for his body to recover from it over time. If it doesn’t, I might have to try something more drastic like an intercostal drain, but I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“An inter-what?” said Bronmuth.
“A small rubber tube leading from his lung to an exterior water seal. It has a small chance of success, and risks infection, but it’s a possibility.”
“So you think he’ll survive, then?” asked Steele.
The doctor rinsed the last of the soap off and reached for a towel. “Well, that’s still very much in doubt, I’m afraid. Despite the ragged nature of the wound, I was able to stitch Mr. Abano up to my satisfaction, but the state of his lung is very concerning, as is the amount of blood he lost. His blood pressure is alarmingly low, and he’s at risk for circulatory shock. And as I already mentioned, the entry wound was anything but clean. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t come down with an infection, and if he does, all bets are off.”
Bronmuth wiped a hand across his face. “And you said Orlando was in there with him?”
