Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5)

by Alex P. Berg

  Rodgers pointed to the pail. “Well, tracking Barrett by his food is a good idea, but how do we know this is from yesterday? It could be a week old, for all we know.”

  I shook my head, still miffed at myself. “Not likely. Busy said Barrett was a meat and potatoes kind of guy. Last time I checked, leftover burgers, fries, and sandwiches don’t get stuffed into those kinds of boxes.”

  “Busy?” Shay gave me a narrowed-eye glance. “Wait, is that what you’re still calling Sal in your head?”

  “Come on,” I said. “You know how I think. Are you that surprised?”

  Shay shrugged. “Not really, I guess. But there’s an easy way to solve the riddle of this food’s age.”

  She snagged a plate from a nearby cabinet and set it on the island. Then she flipped open the oyster pail’s top and dumped the contents. Sesame chicken tumbled out, with an assortment of julienned vegetables and a congealed sauce.

  Shay took a sniff. “Smells okay, as far as I can tell. Quinto?”

  The big guy peered at the dish curiously. He snorted and grabbed a fork from a nearby countertop. “Alright. Back it up. Let me see what secrets my taste buds can divulge.”

  “Whoa,” said Steele, holding up a hand. “I was asking for a second opinion on a sniff test, not for you to go into pie eating contest mode.”

  “You were going to put your stomach on the line with day old chicken?” I asked. “That’s quite the commitment to the job, pal.”

  Quinto ran his tongue across his teeth as he stared at the meal, the fork still gripped tightly in his enormous hands. “Um…yeah. Commitment to the job. That’s it.”

  A crunch from the direction of the entrance turned all our heads. One of the members of the CSU team, clad in a heavy wool coat over her thin white one, pulled her foot up from the floor, a collection of glass shards revealing where she’d stepped.

  “Um…sorry about that,” she said, and then as she noticed Quinto hunched over the plate with fork in hand, “Are you eating the victim’s leftovers?”

  “Of course not,” said Quinto. “We’re employing cutting edge culinary tracking techniques. Consuming a dead man’s food would otherwise be highly unethical, not to mention weird…or so this crowd would have me believe.”

  The CSU gal shook her head and stepped gingerly in the direction of the bedroom. Quinto put down the fork.

  Shay patted the walking brick wall on the arm. “While your willing sacrifice is admirable, Quinto, I don’t think anyone needs to taste Barrett’s day-old stir fry—mostly because I don’t see how doing so would help us track Barrett’s movements. But that isn’t to say this dish can’t tell us where he ate.”

  “Or didn’t.” There was quite a lot of food on the plate. Either the restaurant our ex-scrummage star had dined at served mammoth portions, or more likely, he hadn’t enjoyed the cuisine.

  Steele ignored me and pointed at the dish. “My point is, every restaurant makes their dishes differently. If we can figure out what makes this one unique, we might be able to find out where Barrett went.”

  She grabbed Quinto’s discarded fork and went to work dissecting the meal’s components. “Let’s see. There’s chicken, of course. Lightly breaded, and with black sesame seeds, not white. Julienned carrots, shaved cabbage. And…” She poked a green semicircle with the fork’s tines. It put up resistance.

  “Celery?” offered Rodgers.

  “Leek.” Steele leaned in and took another sniff. “The sauce seems par for the course. Sweet and sour, with elements of orange and ginger. But there’s a mystery spice I can’t put my finger on.”

  “Or tongue, rather,” said Rodgers.

  He chuckled. No one else did.

  “I could still take a bite, you know…” said Quinto.

  Steele snapped her fingers. “That’s it! It’s not a spice, per se. I’d wager it’s spiced wine. That would explain the elements of citrus I’m smelling.”

  Quinto hung his head, crushed that his discerning tastes hadn’t been called up from the bench and allowed to enter the game.

  I gave my partner a nod. “Well…color me surprised.”

  She smirked. “You didn’t think I could isolate ingredients by smell alone?”

  “Please,” I said. “I’m shocked you don’t already know where we’re going. Sesame chicken fusion, with black sesames and leeks? Leeks? How have you not dragged me to this place yet?”

  Shay gave me a piqued look, but the smile didn’t disappear. “We’re on the east side, Daggers. I don’t often stray this far for lunch.”

  “And thankfully, you’re much like Barrett in that sense,” I said. “According to Busy—and yes, I’m going to continue to call her that—Barrett left work yesterday around noon. She doesn’t know when he came back, but it couldn’t have been any later than one-thirty. That gives him an hour and a half to make it to a restaurant, eat, come back here to drop off leftovers, and still make it back to his job, all of which means the restaurant he bought this food from can’t be that far away—unless he took a rickshaw, of course.”

  “Which he didn’t,” said Steele.

  “And you’re sure of this because?” said Rodgers.

  “He dropped off food,” said Steele. “Trust me, he walked. And this apartment was on his way from the restaurant to work.”

  Quinto checked the elements off on his thick fingers. “So…sesame chicken. Black sesames. Leeks. Within walking distance. Not too out of his way.”

  “I think that about sums it up,” I said. “Which sounds to me as if it’s time to split into pairs and start canvassing joints. Care to bet who finds the place first?”

  My word choice elicited a groan from Rodgers, which in turn caused Shay to raise a brow. I expected something similar from Quinto, but he was still too engrossed with the dish to take the bait.

  “I think finding the restaurant will be its own reward,” he said, sucking on his lips as he did so.

  I scratched my head as I glanced at the cold chicken and congealed sauce. I wasn’t sure I understood the appeal, but then again, Quinto had been known to enjoy fermented fish treated with lye. The man’s stomach knew no bounds.

  10

  My feet hurt.

  Steele and I’d been at it for an hour and a half, hopping from restaurant to restaurant. We’d only hit five places so far, in part because there weren’t quite as many eateries close to the docks as I’d expected but also because we lingered in each one a little longer than absolutely necessary. Rodgers hadn’t been kidding about the cold wind.

  With Shay at my side, I headed down a narrow side street and past a cooper’s repair shop. The sign read, and I quote, ‘Servicing your Staves, Hoops, and Bungholes for over 25 years!’ I snickered. The barrel-making lingo I could forgive, but really? Servicing?

  Hidden behind the place sat spot number six, an unobtrusive joint with lacquered wood paneling and faded red drapes hanging in the windows. I tugged on the door and waved Steele in before me.

  A subdued din greeted my ears as I followed her: the banging of metal spoons on pans, the hiss of steam, the pop of hot oil, all muted as it traveled through a series of rice paper and wood dividers separating the kitchen from the front. Though the dividers—an obvious fire code violation if ever I’d seen one—kept some of the noise out of the dining room, they couldn’t slow the smells. Scents of fried beef, lemon, and spices tickled my nose, not to mention a savory note, perhaps from some mirepoix of sautéed vegetables.

  It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, and the hole in the wall had the patrons to prove it. Despite the early hour, roughly half the tables in the joint were filled, as was the greeting stand to my right.

  The hostess behind said stand, a thin, olive-skinned elf breed, held up a pair of fingers as we approached her. “Table for two?”

  I held up a hand as she reached for the menus. “Let me stop you right there. We’re detectives with the NWPD, and I apologize in advance, but I’ve already gone thr
ough this a few times today. Let me explain what’s about to happen. I’m going to ask if you serve sesame chicken with black sesames and leeks and you’re going to look at me with a confused glance—good, just like that—and ask me why? And I’m going to give you a spiel about how we’re looking for someone who ate the dish I described and do you serve it? And you’re going to respond with…?”

  The poor girl blinked and looked to Steele for guidance.

  Shay showed her badge. “Sorry. My partner gets bored and apparently thought he’d try a more direct approach.”

  “Total fail, by the way,” I muttered.

  “The point is,” said Steele, “do you serve sesame chicken, and what’s in it?”

  That question was more up the hostess’s alley. She cracked open the menu and showed us an entry. “Ah, yes we do. Lightly breaded, with carrots, cabbage, and leeks.”

  “And black sesames?” I asked.

  “I think it depends,” said the girl. “If that’s what we have in stock, probably.”

  “It’s okay, Daggers. This is the place.” Steele tapped her nose. “I can tell.”

  The girl glanced between the two of us, her eyes wary. “Are we in trouble?”

  Steele shook her head as she put away her badge. “Not at all. We’re conducting an investigation into a patron we think might’ve eaten here yesterday. Perhaps you remember him? Tall human, muscular but starting to get into his golden years, with gray hair?”

  I noticed how Shay neglected to mention our investigation was into a murder, but then again, my introductory word vomit seemed to have thrown the hostess off guard. No point in making her any more uncertain than she already was.

  The girl shrugged. “Actually, I wasn’t in yesterday.”

  I gave her a second or two as a benefit of the doubt before pulling out the verbal prodding iron. “Perhaps someone else here was? Waiters or waitresses?”

  The girl winced in self-admonishment. “Oh. Right. Sorry. Come with me.”

  She scooted back, leading us around the highly flammable rice paper and wood dividers and into the kitchen, such as it was. All the fundamental elements were there: pots, pans, ovens, carving tables, even a ventilation shaft for smoke, although its jagged edges made it look as if it had been hacked out by a drunken dwarven carpenter in exchange for a handful of coppers and a bowl of sweet and sour soup. A trio of sweaty, white aproned cooks worked the flames, while a quartet of young ladies, at least two of whom appeared related to the hostess, waited for orders to come in.

  Steele drew everyone’s attention with a sharp whistle. “Excuse me, everyone? New Welwic police. No one’s in trouble, but I need a moment of your time.”

  The waitresses walked over, and the cooks spared an eye, which in the restaurant business was about the best we could hope for. Steele reached into her jacket and produced the sketch of our victim.

  “We believe this man came to eat here yesterday for lunch,” said Steele. “First things first, does anyone recognize him?”

  Skinny, olive-skinned waitress number two lifted a hand. “Um, yeah. That was me. I served him. And his friend.”

  Bingo.

  “So someone met him here?” I asked.

  “The other way around,” said the waitress. “His friend arrived first. Then that guy in the sketch got here.”

  “And how well do you remember him?” I asked. “The first guy, I mean.”

  “Pretty well, I guess,” said the waitress. “It was yesterday, after all. He was old, like the man in the sketch. Older, actually, and grizzled. Grumpy, too. And not a good tipper.”

  “We don’t need a full rundown at the moment,” said Steele. “But we will be sending a sketch artist over after we leave. We’ll need you to work with him to produce an image of this second individual. However, anything you could tell us about their conversation or their overall interactions could be useful.”

  The young lady shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really pay much attention to what the customers are saying.”

  Her sister, cousin, or what have you chimed in. “It’s true. She barely remembers their orders half the time.”

  “Hey, shut up, Alanis,” she said.

  Alanis got smacked on the arm. The cooks eyed each other silently as they tossed vegetables and poured dark sauce into their pans. I got the feeling they weren’t unfamiliar with family squabbles in the kitchen, and they all wanted nothing more than to remain employed.

  I wasn’t feeling confident, but I figured I’d try one last volley. “What about their mannerisms? Were they cordial? Angry with one another? Did any money or packages exchange hands?”

  The young waitress contorted her face into a manner that made her look confused and apologetic at the same time—no small feat. She shrugged and put her hands in the air.

  I gave Steele a glance. “I think our work here is done. You concur?”

  “Work? Yes. But…we could stay for a bite.” She smiled.

  I was tempted, but ultimately I declined. I’d never been a fan of stir fry.

  11

  I leaned back in my chair, my feet propped on the edge of my desk, and stretched my toes. Light trickled through the Captain’s windows and wormed its way my direction before crashing into the back of the corkboard, which cast a shadow across Steele’s desk that had doubled in length in the past fifteen minutes.

  Shay’s shearling coat draped the back of her chair, but the woman herself perched on the edge of her desk, one foot tucked underneath her knee and the other dangling, the tip of her boot inches from the ground. Her right hand cupped her chin, her index finger occasionally stroking the firm line of her jaw as she thought.

  We’d collected the grand sum of our collected evidence onto the pockmarked face of the board, but it could only showcase what we’d uncovered. A red pin affixed Barrett’s sketch to the cork, and while we’d pieced together a crude timeline of his activities during the past day, a huge patch of nothing still stretched from after the end of his workday to the point at which we found him, with only his window of death there to break the monotony.

  I sighed. “You know, for as much legwork as we put in today, we sure didn’t discover a whole lot.”

  Shay kept her eyes on the board. “We discovered Barrett’s identity, which was no small feat. And we’ll have a lead on his associate—or perhaps his killer—once Boatreng returns.”

  “Which will undoubtedly mean more walking,” I said. “Lots and lots of walking, and the showing of pictures, and hoping that someone recognizes a sketch pulled from the mind of a flighty young waitress.”

  “It might not be that bad. One of Barrett’s acquaintances or co-workers might recognize who it is.”

  I grunted in response.

  Steele gave me an over the shoulder glance. “It’s funny. You claim to love this job, and yet to the unbiased observer…”

  “I know,” I said. “And I do love it, for the most part. But I love it more when we catch the perps and less when my feet ache. And even less on payday. My checks are often stained with my tears.”

  Steele chuckled and turned back to the board.

  A thought hit me. “Speaking of acquaintances…surely Barrett had someone of at least moderate specialness in his life? A girlfriend or a wife, most likely. If we could track her down, I’m sure that would go a long way towards finding his killer.”

  “Not likely,” said Steele. “You saw his apartment, right?”

  “Through my own dull, jaded eyes, yes,” I said with a frown. “Why? What did you notice?”

  Shay shrugged. “Nothing specific. But even through the chaos, I could tell that was a bachelor pad. Still, I suppose he could’ve divorced. Did you check the T and R files?”

  She meant Taxation and Revenue. I looked for the folder, then recalled I’d left it on Rodgers’ desk. With an exaggerated groan, I lifted myself up, retrieved the file, and brought it back.

  I stuck my nose in it. “Well, no record
of a marriage here. Nor any deductions for dependants, so I’m guessing he doesn’t have any kids. Maybe we could track down his next of kin.”

  “Given his age, though,” said Steele, “his parents are probably dead. So we’d have to try to find a sibling, if he has any. We’ll stop by Public Records in the morning. It’s probably a little late to head there now.”

  Heavy footsteps drew my attention out of the file. Quinto and Rodgers approached, their noses pink and their hands stuffed deep in their pockets.

  “There you are,” I said.

  “Let me guess,” said Rodgers. “You found the restaurant?”

  Shay shifted so she could get a better look at the guys. “Didn’t the runner find you?”

  “A runner?” Quinto locked eyes with Rodgers and shook his head.

  “And he seemed like such a trustworthy kid,” I said. “He had shoes and everything.”

  Rodgers pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together. “You know, I’m not even sure why we try. Anytime Quinto and I split up to investigate the same thing you do, you invariably wrap it up first. We should just send you out and put our efforts somewhere else entirely.”

  “I’m not going to lie, the taste of success is sweet,” I said. “It’s like a delectable golden beverage, with dancing bubbles on the tip of my tongue, all provided free of charge.”

  Quinto snorted. “Well, I think that success is a little less sweet and a lot less free when your partner is involved.”

  Rodger nodded his agreement, and I shook my head.

  Steele lifted a brow. “Am I missing something?”

  “Just that we’re boys, and we’re weird,” I said.

  “Boys with graying hair?” Shay asked with a smirk.

  “It’s mostly still umber, thank you very much,” I said. “And I don’t see you giving Quinto any guff for losing the majority of his.”

  “Hey, I’m not balding,” said Quinto. “I like my buzz cut, that’s all. It’s easy to maintain.”

  I thought about challenging that notion, but I spotted Boatreng and his shiny dome enter through the precinct’s wide double doors. While baldness jokes would roll of the big guy’s shoulders like gnat spit, the same remarks around our sketch artist wouldn’t come across as quite so jocular.