Hank Mossberg, Private Ogre: Murder in the Boughs

by Jamie Sedgwick

  Butch’s engagement came as a surprise to everyone, especially me. My deputy-dwarf had been dating Talia –the half-elven leader of the SWAT team- for a few weeks, but I had no idea things had become that serious. Nobody saw it coming. Talia was a beautiful and ambitious young wood-elf and Butch was… well Butch. Not only was he not the marrying type, but most of us couldn’t even imagine a woman crazy enough to want to marry him.

  Imagine my surprise when my deeply inebriated deputy stood up in the middle of Fitzpatrick’s tavern halfway through our poker game one Friday night and announced to the entire world that he was getting married. I dismissed him with a roll of my eyes at first, attributing his boasts to drunkenness, but Butch was insistent. He even showed us the ring. Naturally, we took turns buying him drinks and offering our congratulations. Eventually, he worked up the courage to ask me to be his groomsman. I accepted, of course. Then he told me the wedding was in one week. I suddenly found myself scrambling to make last minute reservations for a bachelor party.

  It didn’t take long to find out that I was under strict orders from both Butch’s fiancé and my girlfriend Annie that there would be no strippers, which left me in a fairly difficult situation. How do you keep a crowd of unruly dwarves occupied for an entire evening with no girls, without fighting, and without it costing an arm and a leg in liquor fees? I was leaning towards a sporting event, maybe boxing… but then I had another idea.

  I learned that The Lounge, a topside nightclub in the San Francisco’s Business District, had a private casino with an open bar. It immediately clicked. Once Butch and his pals saw the card tables and slot machines, they’d forget entirely about the absence of strippers… and maybe even take it easy on the booze.

  It wasn’t until the night of the party that I learned the casino came with its own live dancing girls in the form of an old-fashioned burlesque show. I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering what the place had cost. I just hoped the guys would be tight-lipped about it and keep Talia from finding out.

  Throughout the evening, I tried to keep Butch’s attention on the poker tables and not on the dancers or the beautiful serving girls that seemed to be everywhere. For most of the night, I think I did a good job. Then, shortly before midnight, I got a phone call and had to step outside. I glanced at the screen and it flashed out the name Flick Hunter. Flick was a young half-elf, half-human who worked as a reporter for the local fae newspaper, The Sentinel. I was surprised because I hadn’t seen Flick in two, maybe three years. I headed out into the lobby where it would be quiet.

  “Mossberg,” I said, answering the phone.

  “Hank! I need to talk to you.”

  I frowned. He sounded worried. “It’s been a while, Flick.”

  “I know, I know. Always running to keep up with the news, you know how it is.”

  “I suppose so. What seems to be the problem?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. I need to meet with you, Hank. It’s important.”

  “Sure, how about tomorrow morning?”

  “No, that won’t work. I need to see you tonight. Midnight. Down at the lake.”

  “Midnight?” I checked my watch. “That’s twenty minutes.”

  “Yeah, I know. Just be there. Meet me on the docks at the north end of the Hallows.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  His voice fell to a whisper: “I can’t explain now, I’ve got to go! Just be there.” With that, the line went dead.

  Reluctantly, I went to tell Butch that I had to leave. I caught him chatting it up with one of the burlesque girls. She had her arm around him and he had a drink in his hand, and I saw trouble coming like a freight train bearing down on a stalled car. I smacked my hand down on his shoulder to get his attention and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “Ay, heavens Boss, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “What’s the matter?” I said slyly. “Did you think I was your fiancé?”

  “Uh, err, no,” he said awkwardly. He turned, stepping out of the girl’s arm and said, “Hank, this is Kinya Fairweather. We went to the same school.”

  I shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you Kinya… Butch, can I have a word with you? In private?”

  “Sure, Boss.” He said goodbye to Kinya and I led him out to the lobby.

  “I hate to do this to you, but I just got an important phone call. An old friend needs my help.”

  Butch reached up to pat my shoulder. “Work never ends for the Steward,” he said. “It’s okay, Hank. Thanks for everything. It’s a great party, really.”

  “The casino’s rented for another hour. Don’t let me ruin your evening.”

  “Not a chance!” he said loudly, throwing back a long swig of his dark, bitter ale.

  “Right… behave yourself,” I said chidingly. “Remember, Talia’s gonna hear about everything that goes on tonight.”

  His eyes widened. “She will? How? Not you, Hank!”

  “No, not me, but trust me they have spies. They have eyes and ears everywhere.”

  I left him with that, standing in the lobby, eyes bugging out of his head, the half-full tankard in his hand all but forgotten. I hated to do that to him but as his groomsman, it was my duty to make sure the wedding went off without a hitch. That included making sure the wedding didn’t get canceled because of Butch doing something stupid the night before.

  I hated leaving him like that, but I could tell Flick needed my help - and not just as a friend. In the human world I’m a six-foot-six private eye with a skin problem, but among the fae I’m the Steward. I’m the law; more or less like a sheriff or a marshal in the old west. I’m not the only law among the fae, but I hold a position of considerable authority.

  As the last of the ogres, it falls on me to live up to my ancestor’s expectations. I take that tradition very seriously. It’s my job to keep the peace and look out for the well-being of fae kind, even though the forests are now concrete jungles and the once-mischievous fae are now just as likely to be drug dealers or crime bosses. Judging by the sound of Flick’s voice, he hadn’t called me as an old friend, but as the Steward. That meant this was business and it took priority, even over my best friend’s wedding.

  There was no way I could make it to the Hallows in twenty minutes. I had to get down to the undercity, get all the way across town, and then take a long hike down to the docks. Still, I did my best. Flick was a good friend and he had sounded like he was in some sort of trouble on the phone. I left the lounge and located a nearby undercity access point. It was disguised to look like an ominous stairwell at the back of an alley, but after a short flight of stairs it opened into an escalator that took me right to the nearest undercity tram depot. I swiped my pass card at the gate and stepped up to the platform, waiting anxiously for the next tram.

  The undercity is located inside a huge cavern underneath San Francisco. It isn’t exactly a secret, considering the number of fae and kindred that live in the bay area, but it’s guarded by spells to keep unwanted humans out. The undercity is a real city, but it’s not like human cities. Parts of it were transported across the ocean magically from old Europe. Other sections were carved out of stone by the dwarves and their smaller cousins, the delvers. Some parts of the undercity, like the Downtown District, are built of concrete and steel just like the skyscrapers made by humans.

  Just like San Francisco, the undercity is made up of different neighborhoods that are divided as much by social structure and economic class as geographic location. San Francisco has Pacific Heights, the Marina, the Tenderloin, the Castro and Chinatown to name a few. Likewise, the undercity has Portside, the Well, the Heights and the Hallows. The Hallows District is a strange place, even for the undercity. It’s a place full of old traditions, high crime, and forbidden practices; it’s the kind of place people go to buy an enchantment that they wouldn’t want their friends to know about.

  Every weekend, a huge black market bazaar fills up half the neighborhood. Everything is f
or sale in the Hallows, from illegally pirated movies to drugs like pixie dust and illicit potions and elixirs. Nymphs and satyrs, the faes’ most common purveyors of the world’s oldest profession, frequent the area in search of a quick buck or a taste of some other nefarious addiction. Prostitution, crime, and violence in the neighborhood are major problems for the undercity police force. It’s a bad neighborhood made even worse by bad magic. It seems the fae are always racing to outdo humanity, though when it comes to depravity and decadence, humans always seem one step ahead.

  I waited a few minutes at the undercity substation until the next brightly colored tram pulled up to the platform. I climbed aboard with the usual reluctance. Undercity trams are a lot like the ones in a normal subway, minus the windows and the walls. They’re really just a rolling platform with a roof and several rows of bench seats. They’re nice for enjoying the scenery, but they’re not particularly safe if you happen to crash. Fae engineering is usually considered very reliable, but I had already survived one tram crash. I knew I might not be so fortunate the next time.

  I got across town in decent time, but it was a long hike from the platform down to the docks. There were no cabs. Conventional motor vehicles are rare in some parts of the undercity. In the Hallows, where the narrow cobbled streets wind back and forth unpredictably and the hills are steep and abrupt, cars just aren’t practical. Mopeds and bicycles are common, but only if they have good suspension. For the most part the fae just walk or fly. For me, flying’s not an option. I walked.

  The sound of my boots against the cobblestones echoed up and down the shadowy streets of the Hallows as I made my way through that curious old neighborhood. Here and there, ancient gas lamps rose up to cast flickering pools of light against the darkness. I noticed the lingering scent of perfumed smoke in the air and wondered who had been burning incense. Then, as I approached the lake at the north end of the district, the acrid scent of chemicals filled my nostrils and I understood. The lake water had become so polluted in recent years that it stank. It was even worse than I remembered. The locals must have started burning incense to conceal the smell.

  Most of the boats tethered to the docks looked like they hadn’t been used in years. I shook my head, wondering why the undercity officials hadn’t done anything about it. Maybe there was nothing they could do. I thought of the Salton Sea, the giant lake in southern California that was once a popular resort until it became so polluted that the fish vanished in a massive die-off and then all the people left. That’s the kind of thing humans do. They suck up the resources, pollute the environment, and then move on to the next place. The fae don’t usually behave like that. We didn’t use to anyway. The fae seem more human all the time.

  I wandered along the docks for about ten minutes, scanning the area for Flick, occasionally calling out his name. He didn’t answer. I walked up and down the piers between the boats, catching glimpses into their darkened cabins. By twelve-forty, I was ready to give up. I couldn’t understand why Flick would have summoned me down there for nothing. If something else had come up, at least he could have called me.

  I decided to give him a piece of my mind. I pulled out my cell phone and my dialing pencil (my fingers are too large to push the buttons) and scrolled through the menu until I located his number. I put the phone to my ear. It rang twice and then I heard the telltale chirping of a cell phone in the distance. I followed the noise to the end of the docks and then lost the call. I dialed him up again. This time, the ringing sound drew my attention to a shadowy mass a dozen yards down the rocky beach.

  “Flick?” I called out. “Is that you?”

  A dark feeling crept over me as I stared at the unmoving shape in the distance. I leapt the guardrail and raced along the polluted shoreline, the stench of chemicals burning my nostrils, my shoes crushing the gravel as I ran. I pulled up short as I recognized Flick’s body draped backwards over a large rock. His arms dangled limply at his sides, and his eyes were locked in a death gaze, staring into the darkness overhead. A doubled-edged sword cast a shadow over his face, the blade impaling his chest nearly to the hilt. It had been driven clear through him and deep into the stone beneath.

  The scene looked like the cover of a book I’d once read, only this time there was no King Arthur and the sword was not a symbol of strength and liberation, but of cold-blooded murder. Someone had killed Flick using a copy of Excalibur. They had run it right through his chest, pinning his body to the stone below. I couldn’t tell if this was some sort of sick joke on the part of the murderer or if it was the M.O. of an ominous new serial killer. Or maybe it was a message of some sort, a statement that the killer wanted to make. But what, and to whom?

  Bile churned up in my gut and I clenched my teeth. I hadn’t seen Flick in a few years, but I still considered him a good friend. We’d worked together more than once, utilizing each other’s skills to solve difficult crimes. We’d spent more than a few nights drinking and swapping old stories. Flick had always been someone I could rely on. He had been one of the good guys.

  I pulled myself together and checked his body temperature. Still warm, of course. It had only been thirty minutes since I’d talked to him. He couldn’t have been dead long. I was worried though, because Fae creatures decompose quite quickly after death. The process is usually complete within an hour or so. It was possible that his body would remain intact for longer than an hour because of his human DNA, but I knew from experience that it wouldn’t be too much longer. Fae blood looks out for itself. It doesn’t leave evidence lying around. I hoped we’d have enough time to pull some clues from the scene before his body collapsed into a pile of dust.

  I should have called the undercity police right away, but I knew that once they got there they might shut me out. Instead, I started looking for clues. Footprints covered the gravel, moving back and forth along the beach. Some trails stretched back to the docks, others off into the foggy distance. I couldn’t tell one from another in that terrain. Flick’s killer had chosen a good spot to commit the murder.

  I didn’t see any other signs of injury on Flick’s body, so I doubted there had been a struggle leading up to the stabbing. I checked his pockets and found only Flick’s wallet, his cell phone, and a pocket watch. That was unusual. Every time I’d worked with Flick in the past, he’d always kept a notebook handy. Being a journalist, he was constantly taking notes to refer back to later. It wasn’t like Flick to be caught without it. That told me something. Whoever had killed Flick had taken his notebook, but had left his personal belongings and his wallet. That could only mean that the killer had something to do with a case Flick had been working on.

  It wasn’t a clue in so many words, but sometimes the lack of a clue is almost as good. If nothing else, I knew I could contact Flick’s boss and find out what he had been investigating. Hopefully, that would be enough to point me in the right direction. I heard a whimper and glanced back in the direction of the docks. My eyes scanned the shadows, looking for a hint at the origin of the sound. I found it near the rafters of an old boathouse. A flicker of movement caught my eye and I stepped forward, squinting into the darkness. A fairy rested up near the roof of the building, tucked in between two heavy wooden beams. She had pale skin, dark eyes, and dark feathered wings, resembling the color and texture of a raven’s wings. She was bent over, weeping softly.

  Grim fairy, I thought. They’re the morose ones, the somber ones; the black sheep of the fairy family. There are hundreds of kinds of fairies and pixies, ranging from the brightly colored spring fairies that are so often portrayed in movies and books to the grim fairies who live in a state of perpetual gloom. Everything is autumn to them. The plants are dying, the sun is dying, the world is dying… it’s all depression and darkness with the grim fae.

  “Are you okay?” I said in a low voice. Fairies and pixies frighten easily and I knew there was small chance I’d get the creature to talk to me, but I had to give it a shot.

  She raised her head and fixed me with a dark sta
re. “Weeping, moaning sadness,” she said in a tiny, whimpering voice. “Black, black, the night and the day.”

  “Did you see what happened?” I said. My voice was little more than a whisper. “Did you see who killed my friend?”

  “Friend dead, death and dread,” she muttered.

  I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to climb the side of the building and strangle her. Fairies are notoriously difficult to communicate with and grim fairies are probably the worst. “Who was here?” I said. “Who brought the sword?”

  “Doom, gloom,” she whimpered. She heaved a great sigh and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Despair and decay.”

  I pulled my hat off and stared at it, trying to think of a clever way to get through to the creature. I didn’t come up with much. “Do you want a snack?” I said. “I think I might have some nuts in my pocket…”

  “Doom!” she said suddenly, pointing at me. “Doom gloom, gloom doom. Doom on you!”

  With that, she leapt into the air and whirled up into the sky like a dead leaf on the wind. She was gone in a flash, but her tiny voice echoed in the darkness around me. Gloom, doom. Doom on you!

  I grunted. I put my hat back on and pulled out my cell phone to dial up the undercity police department. I described the scene and then hung up, staring at Flick’s corpse as I waited for the cops to arrive. Seeing him like that infuriated me. It made me want to hunt down his murderer and strangle the bastard with my bare hands. I didn’t know what kind of trouble Flick had gotten himself into, but whatever it was, he didn’t deserve this.

  Three minutes later, the police arrived. Two burly uniformed hobgoblins arrived first, riding on two shiny black mountain bikes with police lights mounted on the handle bars. They started taping off the scene. While they were working, two tall, narrow, black vans drove out onto the beach and parked. Half a dozen cops crawled out of one, and the city’s crime scene investigation unit came out of the other.

  CSU went to work on Flick and the detectives went to work on me. Being cops, they took it as their duty to implicate me in the crime even though I was obviously not the killer. The lead detective, a bearded satyr in a trench coat named Chaz Malone, led the interrogation.