by Alex P. Berg
CRUCIBLE STEELE
A Daggers & Steele Mystery
ALEX P. BERG
Copyright © 2016 by Alex P. Berg
All rights reserved. Published by Batdog Press.
ISBN 978-1-942274-14-8
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
If you’d like to be notified when the next Daggers & Steele novel is released, please sign up for the author’s mailing list at: www.alexpberg.com/mailing-list/.
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 | 41 | 42
About the Author
1
A seething black mass boiled between my fingers, amorphous and rich and full of life—or at least caffeine, which for me translated to roughly the same thing. I brought the coffee up to test it against my lips, but the vapor steaming from the surface warned me off before I incurred any third-degree burns.
“Too hot for your liking?”
I looked up at the sound of my partner, Shay Steele, her voice half-muted by chatter and laughter, the call of orders, and the frothy gurgle of steam bubbling through milk. She stood at my side in the heart of the café, orbited by patrons clad in heavy coats, making their way from the line to the pickup counter to the wicker chairs and tables and back for more in a never-ending cycle that spoke to the addictive nature of the beverage being served.
I smirked. “While I am starting to become more open to new food experiences, including exotic tastes and textures, having the interior lining of my mouth and throat removed by scalding hot coffee doesn’t mesh with my idea of a good time.”
“Well, aren’t you the culinary philistine?”
Shay smiled and tucked her hands into the pockets of her formfitting shearling jacket. Her long, chocolate brown hair, which contained the barest hint of a wave, tumbled around her shoulders and into the creamy wool of her lapel. Her smile lifted her cheeks and brought to them a rosy glow—although the latter could’ve been an aftereffect of the nippy weather outside.
“I hope I’m detecting sarcasm,” I said, “because as far as I can tell, you’re the one whose gastrointestinal system is being narrow-minded, for once. Or would it be narrow-stomached? Narrow-coloned? Eh, I’ll stick with narrow-minded. It paints the least disturbing mental picture.”
“I’m as gastronomically adventurous as they come, Daggers,” said Steele, “but the thing is, I’ve already tried coffee. Multiple times. I don’t like it.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Which is why you’ll love cappuccino.”
Shay lifted an eyebrow. “So it’s not coffee?”
“Barely,” I said. “It’s mostly milk and foam and spices. It’s perfect for someone of your culinary sensibilities. Heck, they’ll even put a heart in it if you want. Figuratively, I mean. As a decoration. That would be creepy otherwise.”
Steele’s eyebrows drew together in response to my bumbling explanation, but I’d long since become accustomed to her facial tics. Given our familiarity with one another, it was hard to believe we’d only met a bare half year ago. Following the retirement of my taciturn, liver-spotted former mentor, Griggs, the Captain had hired Steele and promptly assigned her as my partner, which I thought of as a massive promotion for a new recruit, but I’m not sure if Shay or anyone else at the police station saw it the same way.
Of course, Shay did bring with her a resume worthy of promotion. She’d graduated at the top of her class from the prestigious H. G. Morton’s School for the Pretentious and Paranormally Inclined—although I’m fairly sure the school’s real name was something boring like ‘for the Gifted and Talented.’ Shay’s particular talents lay in clairvoyance—except they didn’t. Her degree in paranatural ocular postsensitivity would be more accurate if it included a minor in bald-faced lying. Luckily for her, the Captain had yet to find out about her minor exaggeration—and everyone, myself included, planned on keeping it that way.
Frankly, everybody at the precinct loved Shay. Despite the fact that her veins coursed with roughly the same amount of psychic energy as found in an empty paper bag, she was a surprisingly effective homicide detective and by far the most observant member of the force. She picked up on details at crime scenes even those of us with an additional decade of experience often missed, and while her abilities were of a decidedly normal variety, they were still uncommon enough to make her a valuable addition to our team. Plus she was chatty, amiable, and she instantly doubled the gender diversity of our division upon arrival.
Then, of course, there was the matter of her appearance. Tall and slender, with piercing azure eyes and elfin features—thanks to her mixed human and elven ancestry—she could draw stares with the ease of a gold lamé-clad circus troupe. It would be disingenuous of me to say her looks hadn’t influenced my acceptance of her as a partner, but then again, those same baser instincts of mine probably slowed my acknowledgement of her other amazing traits—her deductive instincts, her wit, her charm, and her nurturing demeanor, to name a few. As I came to understand the full depth of those qualities, my childlike infatuation with her turned into something more. Genuine feelings, with all the icky mind-bending, self-doubting, minor heart attack-inducing stuff that came with them.
Luckily for me, Shay liked me, too. Honest! She’d said it out loud and everything. When it happened, I’d considered having her write it down and getting the document notarized, but a voice in the back of mind told me that might’ve come across as desperate. And just as well. Despite mutual interest, Shay’s and my emotions hadn’t quite found common ground yet. We were getting closer, though. Much closer. We’d worked through some of our communication problems, and I’d made progress on my irrational jealousy. Overall, things were looking up. And that simple fact put a pep in my step that even the strongest of caffeinated brews couldn’t replicate.
I brought my mind back to the present and Steele’s dubious look. “So, let’s see… I’m guessing those furrowed eyebrows of yours are an indication you don’t think your culinary sensibilities are anything out of the ordinary.”
“Close, but not quite,” said Steele with a flick of her finger.
“So…what is it?” I asked.
“Do I look like the kind of girl who wants a foam heart in her coffee? I mean, really?”
“They could probably do a tulip instead,” I said. “Seriously, these guys are good. Regular coffee artists.”
Shay smiled despite herself, but she tried to look serious. “Oh, well. In that case…”
A bell rang, and a squawky, teenaged voice called out, “Steele! Tall cap, extra foam!”
Shay lifted a hand and approached the counter. The aproned youth who’d belted out her order lifted a porcelain cup and saucer, the former filled to the brim with beige coffee and white foam. Steele accepted the concoction and carried it to a free table, where I joined her with my own brew that was finally cooling to a reasonable level.
Shay eyed her cup with distrust. “Think mine’s as hot as yours was when you picked it up?”
“Probably not,” I said. “The milk and foam cool it down. But there’s
no rush. Let the aroma tickle your nostrils. Fill your lungs with warm steam, and bask in the drink’s radiant glow.”
Shay gave me a sideways look.
“Alright, I’ll admit I’m pushing it a little hard,” I said, “but to be fair that’s how you sound to me any time you’re trying to get me to take a bite of kale or sea urchins. Just go ahead and give it a try. I promise even if you don’t like it, it won’t remind you much of coffee.”
My partner sighed. “Alright. Fair enough. Here goes.”
She lifted the cup. The white foam clung to her pink lips as she took a sip. After a moment, she pulled away, clearing the milky residue with a swipe of her tongue. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she stared into the cup’s recently frothed depths.
“Well?” I asked.
Shay met my eyes. “It’s good. Really good.”
I spread my arms out wide, coffee cup still in hand. “Hey, was I right, or was I right? Go on. Shower me with praise.”
Shay sucked air in through her teeth and wrinkled her nose. “Ooh. Sorry. Can’t do that. New policy at work.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Say what?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Didn’t you get the memo? It was very explicit. ‘No acknowledgement of Detective Jake Daggers’ correctness in any matter, work related or otherwise, will henceforth be allowed due to the dangerous precedent set forth by such action.’ So, you know, I would say you were right, but—” She shrugged. “Captain’s orders.”
I snorted. “Seems harsh, even coming from the head bulldog himself. But then again he did once threaten me with physical disfigurement if I didn’t step away from the office coffee pot. And he’s been known to engage in mind games that toe the line between cruel and disallowed by international law. So…sounds plausible.”
The corner of Shay’s lip curled up as she took another long sip from her cup. “Glad to hear it. Now why don’t you grab some scones to go? Rodgers and Quinto will be bent out of shape if we show up to the crime scene with nothing but our gleaming smiles.”
I glanced at the pastry counter. I’d never tried the scones at this establishment, primarily because I was of the opinion that a warm kolache or succulent fritter beat a dry breakfast puck any day of the week, but then again, Quinto would eat just about anything that wasn’t actively squawking, and I was bigger than Rodgers, so I wasn’t terribly worried about his bellyaching.
“I suppose I could do that,” I said. “But what about your cappuccino?”
“Have you seen the line?” asked Steele. “I’ll be down to my dregs before you make your way through.”
I took another glance and realized the truth of her words. “Hmm. Yes. How kind of you to allow me to buy food for our co-workers while you relax and indulge yourself in the delectable beverage I introduced you to.”
“You’re welcome.”
Shay smiled again as she waved me off. Early on in our partnership, I might’ve improperly interpreted her jovial demands, but that was before I’d realized her cheek and charm comprised the perfect complement to my own brand of dry wit and sarcasm. Now, I smiled and accepted it, knowing full well her humor fed off my own. If she was grinning and acting snarky, that meant I was doing something right, and I’d be perfectly happy to wage a war with hungry patrons over a bag of brick-like scones to keep my feet on the right path.
I rapped my fingers on the table and shot my partner a smile as I headed to the back of the line.
2
After securing some cinnamon chip-infused pastries and gulping the last of our beverages, Shay and I hailed a rickshaw and rolled off. On my direction, the driver hauled us over the river Earl by way of the Bridge, the city planners’ one and only tip of the hat to New Welwic’s combination of land- and sea-based traffic problems. A chill ocean breeze heavy with salt filled our hair as the rickshaw wheels clattered off the Bridge’s wooden planks, after which we turned south into the city’s dock district.
Within minutes, our destination rose up before us—a dockyard fronted by a massive, elevated metal sign, one painted in bright blue and with blocky lettering that read ‘Cornwall Heavy Industries.’ Behind the sign, warehouses four and five stories tall blocked much of the view of the Earl, each of them painted in different solid colors that undoubtedly meant something to the workers employed in the industry.
Detective Gordon Rodgers waited for us under the huge sign, looking like a gnome who’d stumbled into a giant’s abode. The sea breeze whistled through the alleys between warehouses, rippling the hem of Rodgers’ heavy wool coat and pressing his short sandy blonde hair against the side of his head.
Steele secured her own hair in a ponytail as we exited the rickshaw and approached him. “Howdy Rodgers.”
“Hey,” he replied, and then with a snap, “Where the heck have you guys been?”
I sensed a bit of cold weather-induced frustration, so I held forth the white paper bag I’d brought from the café. “Could I answer that question with a hot scone?”
Rodgers glanced at the bag. “Are you trying to butter me up?”
“Yes,” I said. “Literally. These scones are artery clogging nightmares, although to get the full metaphorical effect, I probably should’ve sprung for the croissants.”
Rodgers scowled—or at least he tried. His white-toothed smile was too perfect to pull off the desired effect, and paired with his bright blue eyes and boyish good looks, his contorted lips made him look more petulant than angry.
“What kind did you get?” he asked. “Chocolate chip?”
“Cinnamon,” said Steele.
“Cinnamon?” He tsked. “What about coffee?”
“I forgot my thermos at home,” I said.
Rodgers’ eyes narrowed before he broke into a smile. “Oh, alright. You’ve won me over—for now. But let’s get out of the wind before you hand one of those babies over. After standing in this drafty wasteland for the past half hour, it’s a small wonder I haven’t turned into a policeicle.” His smile widened.
I lifted a brow. “Have you been working on that for the whole thirty minutes?”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “Policeicle? That’s funny. Back me up, Steele.”
Shay replied with a forced nod and an a-ok hand signal.
“You guys suck,” he said. “Hopefully you brought lots of scones.”
I wasn’t sure why consuming more of the chalky bricks would improve anyone’s mood, but perhaps I was an outlier when it came to that particular family of baked goods.
Rodgers traversed the sign’s shadow and headed behind the nearest warehouse, one painted a bright red reminiscent of candied apples. Streams of dockworkers and craftsmen, all of them clad in layers of thick wool and cotton and with varying forms of weatherproofed coats, walked back and forth with lunch pails and tools in hand, while others lounged and passed smoking pipes between them.
“So,” I said. “Tell us about today’s unlucky winner.”
Rodgers shook his head and held out a paw.
I cracked open the white paper bag, extracted one of the scones, and placed it on my pal’s outstretched hand. He took a bite of it as he walked and made some subtle moans of pleasure—further proof I lacked whatever hereditary trait was responsible for scone enjoyment.
Rodgers swallowed as he led us out of the warehouse’s shadow and into a maze of lumber, rebar, and half-manufactured ship parts. “The victim’s male. Human. Probably in his late fifties to mid sixties, but still in good shape. A few of the dockworkers found him this morning at sunup. I’m not sure about his manner of death, though. It wasn’t anything obvious.”
“Is that it?” I asked.
“It’s all you get for a single scone without coffee,” said Rodgers with a grin. “But honestly, I don’t know much more myself. Quinto and Cairny shooed me toward the front to wait for you guys shortly after we arrived.”
I whistled. “And I wonder why? Can anyone say early morning romp?”
“
In the presence of a dead body?” said Steele. “Gross, Daggers.”
Rodgers nodded his agreement. “Yeah, to be fair, pretty much any thought of what goes on between Cairny and Quinto behind closed doors sends a chill up my spine, but I doubt they were up to anything lascivious. Poundstone and Gorman are there, too.”
On cue, I spotted the two bluecoats up ahead, trying to look imposing standing next to a pile of reinforced steel bars. Under normal circumstances, they’d need those scowls to keep gawkers at bay, but none were present at the moment in this particular corner of the storage yard.
“Well, I stand by my conjecture,” I said. “You guys are familiar with Cairny’s fascination with the dead. Tell me she wouldn’t get a kick out of that.”
“A kick out of what?”
I startled as our coroner, Cairny Moonshadow, stepped out from behind a stack of treated lumber, a clipboard in hand. A pair of hair sticks held her jet black locks in a bun at the back of her head, though the wind still whipped loose strands against the ivory skin of her face with its intermittent gusts. Over her thin frame hung a surprisingly fashionable coat, a deep navy double-breasted, knee-length affair with dual columns of shiny brass buttons and a flare over her negligible hips. She’d paired the ensemble with a set of black leggings and mid-calf suede boots.
Though I’d never understood the appeal of Cairny’s monochromatic look, I had to admit, she looked good. But being me, I couldn’t compliment her in anything but a backhanded manner.
“Hey, Cairny,” I said. “Nice coat. Vampire couture, or military surplus?”
Cairny blinked her big doe eyes at me and tilted her head in confusion. “Neither. I picked it up last week at Beale’s.”
“Don’t mind him,” said Steele. “You look great.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m just pulling your leg. It’s a haute look.”
“That’s one of the reasons I bought it,” said Cairny. “With winter here, I needed something warm.”
