Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5)

by Alex P. Berg

  Nicole smiled. “That’s sweet, Jake.” The smile faded. “I mean, it would be sweeter if you could carve time out for him when you weren’t prohibited from working. You know, like on weekends. Or holidays, or—”

  “Nicole, please,” I said. “I’m trying now. And I’m going to do a better job trying in the future. I promise. Now…?”

  Nicole pressed her lips together and nodded. “You’re right. Sorry. I’d…love for you to spend more time with him. Including right now. But he’s not here.”

  I blinked, confused. “Not here? Where is he?”

  “Jake… He’s at school.”

  “School?”

  “Yes. He started in the fall. He won’t be home until three.” Nicole’s shoulders slumped. “And you have no idea how saddened I am that you didn’t know that.”

  I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut, kneed me in the groin, and stomped on my chest all at the same time, but unlike my turmoil surrounding Griggs’ demise, this particular combustive emotional cocktail was entirely of my own creation.

  “Sunday,” I said. “Ten sharp. I’ll be here. And every Sunday going forth unless I tell you otherwise. Or you tell me otherwise. That’s okay, I hope?”

  “It would be great,” said Nicole. “I just hope you mean it this time.”

  This time… That last part stung almost as much as all the rest.

  16

  My plan completely backfired. Not only did I not get to burn off pent up energy chasing after my five year old, but I’d added a whole extra trunk’s worth of emotional baggage to my mental pile. If I added any more, my conscience might have to stop loafing around on my shoulder and get a new job as a porter. So, having been barred from the most worthwhile form of physical escape and needing something to occupy my mind, I did what I always did.

  I headed to the precinct.

  I stood across the street from the wide double doors, staring at the seal of justice and mulling over the Captain’s words. If I took him at the literal, then he’d only said I was off the case. He’d mentioned nothing about staying away from the station entirely, though he had suggested I take a few days off, meaning he didn’t want me working any case due to the fragile nature of my psyche. But I could still stop by, right? Have a cup of joe with Rodgers, clap Quinto on the back, and share some light-hearted ribbing with Shay? That wouldn’t be against the rules, would it?

  The more I stared and the more I thought, the better I realized how silly my plan sounded. For one thing, the Captain wouldn’t hesitate to ream me for disobeying his orders—especially if I tried to skirt the gist of them by invoking the exact wording he’d used. For another, none of Steele, Quinto, or Rodgers would stand for my presence, mostly because they didn’t want the Captain’s spittle directed toward their faces any more than I did. And lastly, it wouldn’t work because it wasn’t in any way, shape, or form accurate.

  How could I convince the Captain of my motives when I couldn’t even fool myself? I wanted back on the case. I knew my worth, and I was more motivated to solve the murders than perhaps I’d ever been in my twelve years on the force. Not to mention I felt emotionally stable enough to take on the job—not that the Captain would believe me.

  That last part surprised me, and it wasn’t a lie I told myself, either. As much as I’d expected Griggs’ death to haunt me, the pain and shock from his passing had already begun to fade. What was left was a longing desire to do right by him, which largely meant solving—and avenging—his murder. That, and one additional thing I hadn’t been afforded the opportunity to do the night before.

  I took a chance, hoping the Captain hadn’t informed the entire precinct of my exile. I skirted around the side of the old granite building, tipping my nonexistent fedora to a cluster of bluecoats taking part in a smoke, and headed for the side door. From there, I slipped in and slithered down the stairs, making sure to keep my two hundred pounds and change in as low a profile as possible.

  For once, the morgue didn’t feel like an icebox, but that probably had more to do with the chill air outside than the temperature within. If I’d asked Cairny about it, I’m sure she would’ve provided a perfectly reasonable explanation. Something along the lines of, ‘Mumble mumble temperature gradients something heat capacity murmur murmur SCIENCE!,’ but I didn’t plan on asking her. I hoped to avoid her entirely.

  I high-fived lady luck as I stepped into the morgue’s exam room, for the moment completely devoid of anyone living. Steel cadaver vaults—stacked three high along the far wall—gleamed in the room’s dim light, their polished faces and convex handles having been recently cleaned. Exam tables stacked with surgical instruments, clean sheets, and metal bowls shared the sterile floor with coat racks, each of them holding white smocks of the same design but of different sizes.

  Two adjacent lab tables on the far side of the room held something besides supplies. Sheets draped both of them, one of them completely and the other only halfway. Barrett’s still form, stripped naked but only visible to the waist thanks to the sheet, took up the other half.

  I walked past his table to the other. I took a deep breath, pinched the corner of the sheet between thumb and forefinger, and flipped it up.

  Griggs’ head appeared from underneath the thin, cotton barrier. I pulled it up a little further, folding the sheet over and laying it across his chest. No need to see more than that. Someone—most likely Cairny—had brushed his hair to the side and closed his eyelids. He seemed peaceful, which was thoroughly unlike him, although he remained as talkative as ever.

  “Hey, old pal,” I said. “How are you doing?”

  He didn’t respond—thankfully—but I still felt odd talking to him. Maybe I should avoid questions, even ones that were little more than pleasantries.

  I lay my hand on the sheet over his chest. “Look, I, uh…wanted to say I’m sorry for not keeping in touch. I should’ve, but I never had the time. No, that’s not true. I never made the time. But to be fair I didn’t make the time for my own family, either. Well, that’s changing. Starting today. Sunday, really. You’d be happy to know that. I think it hurt you to see my relationship with Nicole fall apart, like you and your wife’s did so many years before. I don’t know when last you saw her. If nothing else, I hope you managed to see your daughter and grandkids before you passed. They’ll miss you, no matter how lousy a father or grandfather you might’ve been. Trust me, I know. That’s how family works.”

  I tapped my fingers on his sternum lightly. “I also wanted to let you know that…you made an impact on me. For better or worse—I’m still trying to figure out which. Both, probably. But you taught me the ropes, kept your cool in the face of whatever the fates threw at us, and showed by example that fairness, justice, and the rule of law trumps all—even if some of those lessons came in the surliest, least compassionate way possible. I just wish I’d learned from your mistakes as well as your lessons. I think I’m finally starting to. If only I’d been able to share that knowledge, and the results, with you.”

  I sighed. “I’ll miss you, partner. And we’ll find whoever did this to you. I’m sure that would’ve been your biggest concern.”

  I grasped the folded edge of the sheet and paused. On Griggs’ far side, tucked under the blanket near his arm, I spotted a glimpse of shiny steel and loose pages over wood.

  I suffered a crisis of confidence for all of two seconds before snagging the clipboard. Yes, I knew the Captain had removed me from the case, but I couldn’t help myself. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was going to find out about my indiscretion.

  I scanned the cover page and moved on to the meat within, smiling as I reached Cairny’s report. She’d made substantial progress in the few hours she’d had alone with Griggs’ body, which probably meant the top brass had leaned on her to start extra early. Good news for me, bad news for Quinto.

  I’m sure Cairny would’ve been the first to tell me the report was incomplete—and I could tell it was—but that didn�
�t disqualify the observations she’d already made. I scanned the contents, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

  No extraneous hairs or fibers found in his clothes. No blood splatters noted, which made sense given the manner of his death. Cairny did find traces of ash on Griggs’ shoes, which I found odd. Had the old man been sweeping chimneys to supplement his retirement income? If so, I’m sure she would’ve also found evidence of smoke inhalation in his lungs.

  I moved on to the next page where the fleshy bits tended to reside. Unfortunately, Cairny hadn’t opened Griggs up yet to look into his chest cavity. She’d merely done an external exam, but that revealed another interesting tidbit: lacerations. A trio of them, on Griggs’ right leg. Recent but healing. What had Griggs been up to? Then I reached a note that caught my eye, written clearly in Cairny’s elaborate cursive script:

  Initial observations indicate victim’s windpipe not sufficiently compressed to result in death by hypoxia free of additional external stimuli.

  “Windpipe not sufficiently compressed to result in death?” I said. “What the hell is she talking about?”

  “Excuse me. What are you doing?”

  I nearly dropped the clipboard at the sound of Cairny’s voice. Apparently, I’d let myself become so engrossed in her report that I missed the sounds of her approaching feet. Given the moccasin-like flats she wore under her billowing black pants and knee-length knit sweater, I supposed that was excusable. Tuning out the clack of Steele’s boots, however, was anything but.

  Steele, dressed in a stylish black leather jacket and tight denim pants, stood at Cairny’s right elbow. She crossed her arms and frowned. “You’re on administrative leave. That means you’re supposed to be anywhere but here, doing anything but investigating your ex-partner’s murder.”

  “What? Me? Investigating?” I waved my hand and cycled through some furrowed brow, narrowed eye, and curled lip combinations. “No, I’m… You know. This isn’t… It’s just light reading.”

  Cairny stomped over and snatched the clipboard from my hands. “Get out.”

  “Look, I came to say goodbye to the old guy,” I said. “I swear. But as I was pulling the blanket back over his head I saw the notes, and—”

  “OUT!” said Cairny.

  I backed away from the body, my hands lifted in supplication. “Okay, okay. I’m leaving.”

  Steele’s voice dogged me as I headed for the door. “You get one free pass, Daggers, and this was it. Next time I’m telling the Captain.”

  I grumbled under my breath, something about the popularity of snitches. I think Shay overheard me, given the cold glare she shot me as I left. I really needed to commit to memory that her hearing was far better than mine.

  17

  The jingle of the shopkeeper’s bell announced my presence as I pushed on the door. An old smell worked its way into my nostrils, a heady, musty mixture with the richness of fresh cut grass, an acidic tang, and hints of vanilla. It hung in the air, omnipresent, not from any lingering aroma of food or due to a lack of cleanliness, but radiating from the shop’s belly.

  Books, thousands of them, from new to old to ancient packed the shelves, eating what little light crept through the heavy drapes at the storefront’s face. From deep within the stacks, I heard the swipe of paper on paper interspersed with the occasional racking cough.

  And old man with a thin comb-over looked up from behind his desk at the sound of my entrance. A pair of bifocals hung low on his hook nose, and he had to tilt his head upward to get a glimpse of me.

  “Jake,” he said as the recognition hit him. “Gosh, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “Hey, Carl,” I said. “How’s business?”

  He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he shrugged. “Well, I sell books in a city full of illiterate slobs and immigrants who speak a hundred different tongues, and roughly half my stock is crumbling into dust faster than I can replace it.”

  “So…same old, same old?”

  He nodded. “Pretty much. But it’s been worse of late because one of my two dozen or so regulars hasn’t shown his face in a blue moon.”

  “Yeah, tell it to my bartender,” I said. “You and her could share a drink in misery. But only if you pay her, for reasons I’ve hinted at.”

  Carl tapped his fingers on the counter. He dipped his head and his glasses began to slide. “You know, there’s usually only two reasons people stop coming here. They either find someone special to help occupy the time in their life or they die.”

  “You make reading sound like such a healthy hobby,” I said.

  “Hey, I’m pushing seventy and I’m as hearty as a horse.”

  “A seventy year old one, maybe,” I said. “But you’re not wrong. And I’m not dead, so do the math.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” said Carl with a smile. “For you, anyway. It’s a tragedy for me. But there’s still hope if you’re here. What brings you in today?”

  “A little of that second reason. The part where people die.”

  Carl scratched his head. “I think you’re confused. You want the florist down the street.”

  “No, no,” I said. “It’s complicated, so don’t ask. The point is, they kicked me out of the office, I’m bored, and I need something to read.”

  Carl threw up his hands. “Hey, who am I to judge when it bolsters my bottom line? Now, let’s see here…mysteries, right?” He gestured to a display at his side. “How about the new Frank Gregg title? Rex Winters in Castles and Castigation.”

  I grimaced. A greater Rex Winters fan than me would be hard to find, but after meeting Mr. Gregg himself during one of Shay’s and my cases and getting to see how the sausage was made, I’d begun to lost my taste for the series. Plus, the man had lost his go-to ghostwriter.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Have you read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how is it?”

  “Dreadful,” said Carl. “But it’s a new release and I make a good margin off it.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I said. “How about something a bit more retro and a little less bombastic? I’m in the mood for one of those old gritty, noir thrillers. You know the kind. The ones featuring a tough as nails, hard-drinking, womanizing cop with a heart of steel, a barrelful of inner demons, and a vendetta against society.”

  “Feeling introspective, are we?” asked Carl.

  I paused, but I realized that rather than myself, I’d been describing Griggs—all except for the womanizing part. I don’t think either of us fit that particular bill. I shrugged.

  “Alright, well, follow me,” said Carl. “I’ve got some ideas.”

  He led me into the nearest stack, and after some back and forth, I eventually emerged with a dog-eared, yellow-paged novel thick enough to crush mice, the appropriately dark-sounding Six Feet Under.

  I paid Carl and headed home, the tome stuffed under the crook of my arm. It was an uneventful walk, other than a strange, unsettling feeling I suffered about three blocks from my building, one entirely unrelated to Griggs and his passing. I logged it but ignored it as best I could. Upon arrival, I whipped myself up a simple lunch of grilled meat and roasted tubers to satisfy my rumbling belly, then kicked off my shoes and settled into my favorite easy chair with the new (to me) novel clenched between my fingers.

  I hadn’t really expected to be drawn into it, not with thoughts of Griggs and the case hovering at the edge of my mind like fruit flies, but boy was I wrong. Three hours into Detective Colt Strongbow’s sordid tale of squinty-eyed sadists, dope pushers, and dead hookers, I came up for air—and a quick bathroom break.

  When I returned, I dove right back in only to slam my head into a metaphorical wall: the meditative portion. Every mystery had them. The part where the main character putters around, whines, thinks about himself a lot, and drinks. Despite of, or perhaps because of, the parallels between Strongbow’s and my own life, it bored me to tears, and qu
ite frankly, I fell asleep.

  When I stirred, the room around me had settled into a dark miasma. The sun had set without notifying me. The cad… Whatever the opposite of a rooster was, I apparently needed one.

  I fumbled my way to the nearest floor lamp, lit it, and turned it up, bathing my well-loved living room in a warm glow. Then I took advantage of my freshly stocked pantry and brewed myself a cup of coffee. With a mug of dark, rich nocturnal nectar warming my hands, I headed back toward my sofa chair, contemplating my dinner options.

  I stopped halfway and turned toward my front door. Not more than a foot from the bottom was a slip of paper, folded in half.

  I walked over, plucked it from the floor, and unfolded it. It read, in a script that wasn’t unfamiliar but which I nonetheless couldn’t place:

  Meet me at The Spice Grinder. 4035 W. 19th. 10:30 sharp. I’ll be in the back left corner. Come alone.

  I folded and pocketed the note, then returned to the living room. I checked my floor clock, which read about a quarter to eight. That left me plenty of time to finish my coffee, find somewhere to eat, and meet my mystery date. The only question was, who left the note…and what did they want?

  18

  I stared at the sign hanging over the coffee shop across the street from me. Based on the name, I wouldn’t have expected The Spice Grinder to be a café, but there was the sign, depicting a cascade of beans pouring into a burr-mill grinder and a steaming mug of the dark stuff pouring out the other side. I think they took some artistic liberties by skipping a few steps, but the overall gist of the place and its offerings came through.

  While I could let the sign slide, the name was another matter. Sure, in the technical sense, coffee could be used as a spice, but brewing a drink out of it wasn’t one of the applications that fit the bill. Then again, in a city in which name recognition was king and each restaurant tried to out-clever the other, a swing and a miss was often more effective than a bunt. After all, how much foot traffic would ‘Bubba’s Coffee Place’ attract, and then what would you put on the sign?