Fine Blue Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 4)

by Alex P. Berg

  I knelt at the side of the conglomeration, eyeing the non-plant based parts. While I wasn’t particularly well-versed in marine biology, I was pretty sure those weren’t whale bones. They looked far too small and femur-y for that.

  “And what is it, exactly?” I asked.

  “Again, I can only relate what I’ve read,” said Chester. “But the lore says they’re ceremonial sites. People built them to celebrate the passing of a soul and its inevitable rebirth as a new being. Hence their construction from bones and wood—reminders, plant and animal, of life’s erections.”

  I thought of a joke, but it wasn’t the time for it. “This doesn’t creep you out at all? I’m pretty sure these remains are human.”

  “That…is a little disturbing,” said Chester. “But not so much to me as it is to you, I imagine. You must understand, to me, a person is defined by the soul that inhabits it. Once gone, that soul is reincarnated as a different being. A person’s remains are something neither to be feared nor celebrated. They’re merely the remnants of a soul’s current incarnation.”

  “You might want to rethink your legal strategy,” said Quinto. “Normally, claiming to be unfazed by ritualistic bone altars doesn’t bode well for defendants.”

  Chester opened his mouth to argue, but Steele hopped in before he had a chance. “Daggers. Quinto. Look at this.”

  She approached, holding the thurible stand with a handkerchief. She tilted the steel pole, letting the candlelight play over it, and I noticed a spot near the tip that didn’t reflect light well.

  “Is that blood?” I asked.

  Steele nodded. “And the pole is dented. This has to be the murder weapon.”

  “Ok,” I said as I passed a hand through my hair. “Let’s try to figure this out. Bellamy lures people here, transients who’ve visited the church in search of food or shelter, then conks them on the head with that metal stand. He did it to Burly and smothered him with one of the pillows. He tried to do it with Lanky, but maybe he hit him with a glancing blow and couldn’t finish the job. Lanky escapes and crashes the party between Tim, Kelly, and Drake—which fleshes out the story of what happened but doesn’t even come close to shedding any light on the why.”

  “But that only gets us through yesterday morning,” said Shay. “Who stole Lanky’s body? Was it Vo? If so, why? And who dumped Burly in the alley? Did Bellamy murder Cornelius Vo?”

  “And,” added Quinto, “who, if anyone, murdered Tabitha Vo?”

  “Exactly,” said Steele. “And what in the world ties all this stuff together?”

  I turned to Chester with a questioning look in my eye. I hated relying on a suspect for critical information, especially a suspect who might be lying to me through his teeth and waiting for an opportune moment to envelop my neck in the tender embrace of his paddle hands, but he was the only one who might have some idea of what any of this meant.

  “Come on, Chester,” I said. “Surely Bellamy mentioned something about what he was up to. Or let it slip accidentally. With your self-imposed mutism, I’ll bet he didn’t worry about you giving his plans away.”

  Chester shook his head. “No. He was eminently pious. Spoke and cared only about the Divine Rebirth.”

  “So you have no idea where he could be?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Then what about this thing?” I indicated the jumbled mass of sticks and bones. “And don’t tell me it’s a ceremonial altar. No way was sweet, innocent Pastor Bellamy just helping hobos speed along their path to the spirit realm for no other reason than to restock the well of souls, or whatever similar crackpot idea you all believe in. So what is it?”

  “I…I don’t know,” stammered Chester. “I’ve told you what I know.”

  “Damnit, man!” I slammed Daisy into a nightstand, sending splinters flying and knocking candles to the ground. I wanted nothing so much as to trample the pile of bones and bleached wood into dust under my boots, but I thought the CSU teams might have some choice words for me if I did that.

  Chester sank to his bottom and pressed his hands to his face. I heard sobs as he shook his head. “I…I don’t…I’m sorry, I just don’t…”

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said Steele.

  I held up a hand for silence. I knew very well what she’d say. That he was only a teenager, and that I didn’t need to lose control of my emotions like that. But I’d met boys younger than him who’d committed murder, and he could still be involved. And besides, if now wasn’t the time to get frustrated and emotional about the state of the case, then when was it? We’d finally managed to inject some facts into the investigation only to have our prime suspect disappear into the vast unknown, and unless an angel lounging on the surface of the sun decided to cast a few rays of brilliance our way, we’d be stuck with our thumbs up our butts as we tried to explain to the DA what Bellamy’s murder of the hobos had to do with Vo’s death.

  It had to come back to Tabitha. It had to. She was the only link between Bellamy and Cornelius Vo, and her murder/death/suicide/whatever had to somehow explain the rest of the pastor’s actions. But how? I could understand Bellamy’s desire to kill Deacon Vo and extract some measure of vengeance in the process, but how did Lanky and Burly fit in? And what was Vo’s interest in the two vagrants? Why did Vo steal Lanky’s body?

  I stared at Chester, sobbing into his gigantic hands, and I couldn’t help but think about Vo, how he’d died, and Cairny’s analysis.

  I rubbed my chin. Then I rubbed it some more. Then I squinted and chewed on my lip.

  Shay noticed my routine. “Are you doing ok, Daggers?”

  “Do you remember our talk earlier about crazy theories?” I asked.

  “You’re working on one?” asked Quinto.

  “Yeah,” I said. “One that’s crazy and creepy and disturbing—and did I mention crazy? But it makes some sense.”

  “And let me guess,” said Steele. “You’re about to dazzle us with its brilliance.”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. This particular idea is too crazy to share, the type of idea that might get me sent home by the Captain for a much needed rest. But I’ll share it soon, if the evidence supports it. In the meantime, Chester?”

  The traumatized youth looked at me.

  “I need to know something,” I said. “Where is Julian’s ex-wife buried?”

  40

  I stood in front of the entrance to Lowgate Cemetery, the worn stone and crumbling mortar of its pillars contrasting starkly against the finely wrought iron of the gate. A wall, five feet high and covered in leafy creeper vines, stretched out to the sides, disappearing into fog that had thickened since our departure from the Church of the Divine Rebirth. Heavy trees stretched their boughs over the edges of the wall, shadowing us with their gangly limbs—or they would’ve if there’d been even a scrap of moonlight to speak of. Enveloped as we were by the heavy mist, our sole source of light was a flickering lantern liberated from the halls of the church. It hung from one of Chester’s hands, the fire within thrashing desperately as it fought a losing battle against the encroaching gloom.

  “This is it,” said Chester. “Master Bellamy’s ex-wife’s grave is inside, down the path, to the left of the pond, and up the hillock.”

  “We’re following you,” I said.

  The youth reached out with his free hand and pushed against the wrought iron gate. It screeched in protest as it gave way, emitting a rusted metallic wail piercing enough to wake the souls of the damned.

  I followed Chester along the dirt path, bringing Shay with me as Quinto brought up the rear. Dry leaves crunched underfoot as I walked, and somewhere in the distance, a bird called out with a warbling, undulating cry. Barren branches formed an arch overhead, their leafless tendrils looking like hands of bone. At my sides, gravestones peeked through the gloom, their faces covered with dark green moss and pale lichens and smooth, ropy protrusions that I couldn’t identify as either vines or roots. Monoliths, obelisks, and mausoleums peppered the more tradi
tional gravestones, each of them similarly attired as the smaller arched slabs of limestone and granite.

  Goose bumps crept up my arm, and for once I didn’t think it was the chill.

  I tried to tear my mind from its thoughts of all the horrible things that go bump in the night by engaging my companions in conversation. “I’ve got to admit, Chester, this seems like the perfect place to bury one of your own.”

  “Yes,” said Steele. “The dichotomy of death and nature is very unique. It might be nice to wander around this place, just for the experience. You know…in the daylight.”

  “You could bring Cairny,” said Quinto. “I bet she’d love it. On second thought, though, she might never come back to work.”

  “Please,” I said. “You can take the morgue out of the girl, but you can’t take the girl out of the morgue.”

  Quinto shot me a quizzical look. “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes. It’s not even in the right order.”

  Chester ignored our banter, seemingly focused only on my initial statement. “You must remember, Detective, Master Bellamy’s wife was not one of our own. She converted. To my knowledge, however, she did list in her will the desire to be buried here. Perhaps, in her heart, she didn’t fully abandon the teachings of the Divine Rebirth.”

  “Or, she never bothered updating her will,” I said.

  Shay stepped on an acorn, cracking it with a pop, as we rounded the edge of the pond Chester had mentioned. “So, Daggers. When do you plan on filling Quinto and me in on our reasons for being here?”

  “I told you,” I said. “I want to see if I’m right first. No point setting you atwitter with my theories if they’re unfounded.” Although I didn’t think that would be the response I’d generate. Incredulity and horror were much more plausible.

  “We’ve talked about your irrational fear of criticism and ridicule before,” said Steele, “but this isn’t about that. This is about the rest of us walking into a situation blind, without any idea of what to expect. If you have a credible theory for who and what we’ll find when we reach Tabitha Vo’s grave then tell us. And trust us to act appropriately with the information you provide.”

  Her words sunk in slowly, especially that last part. Trust her. I did trust her, just as I also cared for her, although…perhaps I didn’t show it often enough. Was that why she’d gotten so frustrated with me earlier? I always thought she’d enjoyed my witty banter and gruff charm, and while those things undoubtedly brought a smile to her lips, apparently those weren’t the qualities of mine she found most attractive. Maybe she wanted to see more of what I harbored on the inside—the icky, complicated stuff under my layers of skin and muscle and bone. But why would she have any interest in that? Most of the things I nurtured there were dark and lonely and broken. Then again, sometimes the most tender shoots sprouted from the bleakest places. The graveyard was a testament to that.

  I stored that bit of cud to chew on later. In the meantime, Shay’s first talking point had been the most pertinent. If I was right in my suspicions, things could get hairy, and she and Quinto had a right to know.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Back in Bellamy’s private basement, I got to thinking. Through what we found at his church, Bellamy is implicated in, if not outright responsible for, Lanky’s and Burly’s murders. Burly is connected to Vo via the token we found in his coat pocket, as is Lanky by the fact that we found his body at the scene of Vo’s death. So there’s an indirect connection between those two. But Tabitha is the key. She’s the only direct connection between Bellamy and Vo. She’s Bellamy’s motivation. The rest is noise.”

  “I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” said Steele. “Are you saying you think Tabitha introduced Bellamy to Vo, and they were working together in some capacity? And that Bellamy betrayed Vo, and now he’s come to confess his actions to Tabitha’s grave?”

  I felt the ground at my feet slope up. “No, no. That’s not what I’m getting at.”

  “So what are you getting at?” asked Steele with a raise of her eyebrow.

  “How do I say this without sounding completely insane?” I sighed and passed a hand through my hair. “Ok, ignore Tabitha for a moment. Let’s consider Lanky and Burly. I know you cut out from work early yesterday for, well…reasons. But while we were separated, I spent the majority of my time interviewing everyone I could over Lanky’s disappearance. He’s a big guy. To move his body would’ve taken at least two people. Two outsiders carrying a stiff would be a sight hard to miss, and yet nobody—Cairny, Phillips, the beat cops outside, even the station’s janitor—saw a thing. How is that possible? Unless it wasn’t two people. Unless the only person who snuck in and out was the kind of person who’s used to being ignored and shoed away.

  “And then there’s Burly. How did he get outside that embroidery shop? What possible reason could someone have for depositing his corpse there, of all places? And remember Gary’s testimony, about Burly’s grunt? Yes, I know Norma contradicted him, and I recall Cairny’s theory, but still.”

  Shay narrowed her eyes. “Again I’ll ask…what are you getting at?”

  “What if nobody moved either of their bodies?” I said.

  “Wait…what?” said Quinto.

  “Think about it,” I said. “Julian Bellamy is the head pastor at the Church of the Divine Rebirth.”

  Shay’s mouth opened and closed a couple times before any sound came out. “You’re not suggesting—”

  “Yes,” I said, catching the look in her eyes. “What if Lanky and Burly moved themselves?”

  41

  Steele hadn’t yet formulated her response as we crested the hillock, and because I’d kept my eyes trained on her to see how she’d react to my theory, I ran straight into Chester’s back.

  I grunted as the tall youth stumbled forward. “Chester, what are you—”

  I stopped in mid sentence as I lay eyes on what had frozen Chester’s feet. Off to the left of the path, a soft, orange glow radiated from within the fog, reminiscent of the light emitted from between a jack-o-lantern’s teeth.

  Chester recovered himself—at least physically—as he pointed toward the glow. “That’s where the grave… Master Bellamy’s ex-wife…”

  I pieced together the rest as I retrieved Daisy from my coat interior. Though she’d felt the fresh, late autumn air on her face more than once today, she hadn’t seen much action, and for once, I hoped it stayed that way.

  “Come on,” I said in a hushed voice to Steele and Quinto. “Stay close. You too, Chester. Don’t get any ideas.”

  The fog at my feet thinned as I approached the glow, and after a few more steps around wayward graves and over thick patches of underbrush, the mist fully lifted to reveal the scene underneath.

  Julian Bellamy stood at the side of a gravestone that rose to his hip, one free of vines and moss and with a certain roughness to it that spoke of its recent construction. He held his hands in the air, his eyes shut tight as he chanted in a low voice. I couldn’t tell if he spoke in a different language or merely without the intent to be heard. At his feet, a hole six or seven feet long plunged into the earth, and next to it, a trio of shovels stuck out from a pile of fresh soil teetering dangerously at the excavation’s edge.

  The orange glow radiated out of the newly opened grave. The color fluctuated between a pale red and a bold yellow, but unlike the lashing tongue of a flame, the glow produced no traces of smoke. I did, however, smell something of an earthy, sulfurous quality—a cross between bad eggs and a wet dog’s coat—and underneath that, a familiar scent of rot and decay.

  Around the grave, Bellamy had erected a perimeter of scrap wood and bones, as he had in the basement of his church. The eerie light played off the remains of the living, giving them a horrifying, bloodied appearance, and while the construction appeared rushed and incomplete—especially the portions planted into the loose pile of earth at the grave’s side—it appeared to be serving its purpose…whatever that might be.

  A
snap of a branch, probably from Quinto’s heavy foot, jolted me to alertness. I took a measured step toward Bellamy and called out to him. “Step away from the grave, Bellamy. It’s over.”

  The salt-and-pepper haired pastor ignored me, continuing his barely audible chant that he paired with a delicate dance of his hands.

  I thought perhaps the man hadn’t heard me, so I reasserted myself, louder this time. “Bellamy! Step away from the grave!”

  Bellamy’s eyelids cracked, though he didn’t bother to look at me. When he spoke, his voice lacked any of the warmth and congeniality I remembered. “Leave, Detective.”

  “What?” I said. I wasn’t accustomed to murder suspects speaking to me in such a brazen manner.

  “I said leave,” repeated Bellamy. “You might think you know what’s going on here, but trust me you don’t. You don’t have even the slightest inkling of what you’ve stepped into. There are powers at work here beyond your comprehension, beyond even your desire to comprehend. Now leave, and let the will of the Divine Rebirth settle a debate whose resolution is long overdue.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what the pastor was talking about, but the distraction I’d caused by my presence seemed to have affected his ritual. A cold tendril of mist draped across my neck, and the grave’s variegated glow dimmed as he spoke.

  I took another step forward. “I’m not going to warn you again, Bellamy. Put your hands down and step away from the grave.”

  Bellamy’s eyes snapped to me, and the earth groaned under my feet. “You’re not going to warn me? Detective, it is I whose patience is reaching its end.”

  The groan I heard could’ve emanated from Quinto’s lips—he was notoriously ornery as it approached his bedtime—and the shifting I’d felt under my feet could’ve been the hill’s reaction to having Tabitha’s grave dug up. Miners had found themselves trapped under mountains of fallen rock for less egregious excavations. I kept telling myself these things as the mist at the edge of my vision began to swirl, churn, and roil, and as an increasing chorus of moans and groans sounded not from behind me in Quinto’s recognizable bass but from all around.