Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2)

by Alex P. Berg

  “Oh, what fresh hell is this?” I gasped. “And I thought the cats were bad! What happened here? Did a lactose intolerant giant accidentally ingest a massive bowl of blue cheese-flavored ice cream?”

  Shay muttered something that sounded like ‘gaper dill stemicles’ and pointed into the distance. I followed her finger toward an overgrown mill wheel and a number of smokestacks spewing foul-looking clouds into the sky. Suddenly I understood.

  Though Williams and Sons was a book bindery, they’d set up shop only a few blocks away from one of the city’s largest pulp and paper mills. It made economic sense, of course. Proximity to the mill meant lower paper costs. Lower paper costs meant they could print cheaper books, and that in turn meant they could offer better contracts to the book publishers, undercutting competitors and receiving more contracts. I’d do the same if I were Mr. Williams or his unknown number of sons. Of course, they were probably off living it up in a lavish mansion somewhere far to the northwest where the air smelled of roses and freshly bathed puppies and sunshine.

  Our haggard-looking rickshaw driver dropped us off in front of a large factory building a few blocks down from the mill. The coppers I handed him had barely hit his palm before he took off like a banshee. I couldn’t blame him. The mill’s odious vapors had me reconsidering my need to question any of Terrence’s co-workers regarding his mysterious death—or my need to even solve the case at all. I was pretty sure I had an eighty-year-old sugar momma who would take care of me if push came to shove. Then again, I’d still have to deal with the cats.

  Steele and I hustled through the factory’s doors and shut them tight behind us. I feared the stench might be just as bad indoors, but for once I was pleasantly surprised—mostly because a different, slightly less offensive smell permeated the warehouse, one that reminded me of alcohol and art projects. The air was thick and heavy, laying over me like a warm blanket.

  “Is that…glue?” Shay contorted her nose in odd directions.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “It’s pretty potent. This can’t be healthy.”

  “Long term, I’d agree with you,” I said. “But for now, I’m willing to accept a little glue-induced brain fuzziness if it means banishing that horrid pulp smell.”

  In front of us, dozens of printing presses stretched back into the cavernous building, their ink-soaked printing cylinders whirring and spinning as they ate paper and spat printed sheets out the other end. A balding guy holding a clipboard stood nearby. Ink blackened his hands, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, though that meager attempt at self-cooling hadn’t prevented large sweat stains from spreading out into his pits and onto his back. He looked at us as we stepped forward.

  “Um…can I help you?”

  I flashed the guy my badge. “I’m Daggers. This is Steele. We’re with homicide. Are you in charge here?”

  The guy gave me a look somewhere around the intersection of Dumbfounded Street and Consternation Avenue. “Uhh…what’s this about?”

  “Do you know a guy by the name of Terrence Mann?”

  The blank look stare-off continued.

  I put a hand up to around my clavicle. “About yea high. Curly brown hair. Kind of on the soft side.”

  Something clicked in Clippy’s head. “Oh, yeah, that guy. You’ll want to talk to Yates. He’s the night manager. I think he’s still around, actually. We’ve been swamped lately.”

  I waited for a moment, but Clippy just stood there.

  “You want to point me in a general direction, there, sport?” I asked.

  The pit-stained one pointed into the whirring machinery.

  I gave a nod of thanks as we ventured into the cloud of ink and sound.

  9

  We found Yates laying on a wheeled creeper, half-hidden under a malfunctioning printing press, machine grease smeared across his hands and forearms. After poking him with my toe, he grudgingly rolled out from underneath the contraption and stood up.

  Giant bags under his eyes made it appear as if he hadn’t slept in a week, much less one night. He wiped his face with a filthy rag before using it to slick back his hair, which, based on the way it undulated, I could only assume contained copious amounts of the same grease that lubricated his presses. I hoped his hair was naturally black and not that way due to a total disregard for personal hygiene.

  “Well? What do you want?” he snapped. “I’m busy.”

  I had to shout to make myself heard over the whirr of the presses. “I’m Daggers. This is Steele. Homicide.” I showed him my badge. “We need to ask you a few questions about Terrence Mann.”

  Yates’ eyes darted between me and my partner. “What about him? Is he dead?”

  “In a word—yes,” I said.

  Yates flipped his rag over his shoulder. “Great. Fan-fricking-tastic. That’s all I need right now.”

  “Um…is everything ok?” asked Steele.

  “Do I look ok to you?” he asked. “I’m tired, stressed, overworked, and I’ve just found out I’ve lost one of my best guys. This happens every time we have a big order come in. Well, not the guy keeling over part. I meant the workload. But does upper management care? No. You’d think they’d see we’re dying down here on the floor—no pun intended—and hire some more guys, but I swear those fat cats in charge don’t give a damn. They’re just in it to line their own pockets with as much cash as they can carry. Honestly, if I had any other option I’d run for the door. I’m sick of this crap.”

  I pumped the brakes. “Whoa there, guy. I can understand your frustration. We’ve put in our fair share of time in the trenches. Well, I have anyway. Steele only recently had the silver spoon removed from her mouth.” I got an evil glare for that comment. “But we really don’t need your life story. If you can answer a few questions, we’ll let you get back to work.”

  Yates crossed his arms and scowled. “Fine. What do you need?”

  “Tell us about Mann.”

  Yates shrugged. “He was a model employee. Came in to work on time, did his job, and kept his mouth shut. It’s one of the reasons I’m so upset. He’s going to be hard to replace.”

  “Anything else?” asked Shay.

  “What else is there?” said Yates. “Look, I liked the guy. Really, I did. But he was a loner. Didn’t socialize at all. Not that we have any time to do so even if we wanted. I mean—”

  “Did he come in to work last night?” I interrupted.

  “Nope.”

  “You have any idea why?”

  “Sure do,” said Yates. “It was his night off.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling a little deflated. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but looking at you I’d never have guessed you guys get nights off.”

  “We don’t,” Yates spat. “Look, those of us who work the graveyard shift earn a premium over day folks, but Mann opted out of that. Instead, he arranged to get a night off every two weeks, and he took those evenings off religiously. Smart guy, Terrence. If I could rearrange my deal I’d do the same thing, but given how deep in the weeds we are, upper management isn’t letting anyone work less than they’re contractually obligated to.”

  “Do you have any idea what Terrence did on those nights off?” asked Shay.

  “He probably stayed home and slept. That’s what I’d do.”

  “What about here at work?” said Shay. “Did he have any disagreements or issues with people?”

  Yates shook his head. “Nah, none of that. Like I said, he was a good guy. Even keel. Although…”

  “Although, what?” I asked.

  Yates rubbed a couple fingers along his greasy forehead. “Well, now that you mention it, a few nights ago some guy stopped by the factory to talk to Terrence. I assumed he was a friend or relative or something, but the guy was agitated. Nervous. I didn’t make anything of it because Terrence didn’t seem to either. He just brushed him off and went back to work.”

  “Did you hear what they were talking about?” I asked.

  “Are you
kidding?” Yates pointed at the presses. “I can barely hear you right now. I saw them talking from thirty or forty feet away.”

  “Had you seen the guy who came by before?” asked Shay.

  “No. This was a one-time thing. No one had ever stopped by looking for Terrence before.”

  “Did you get a look at the guy’s face?” I asked.

  Yates nodded. “More or less.”

  “Alright,” I said. “We’ll send a sketch artist over—have you work with him to give us a picture of this guy you saw with Mann. You got any runners around here?”

  At the precinct, we always had a herd of urchins loitering near the front waiting to carry messages around town in exchange for a few coppers. Most businesses tended to have at least one or two lying around in case some work materialized.

  “Yeah,” said Yates. “Check the loading dock.”

  “Remind me to send one to HQ before we leave, Steele,” I said. “You going to be here this afternoon, Yates?”

  The night manager sighed the sigh of a tired, beaten man. “Yeah. Probably.”

  I felt for the guy. Captain could be a hard-ass when he wanted to be, but at the same time, he let me come in to work late on a consistent basis. The worst I’d ever shown for my sloth was the occasional spittle burn. As much as I bemoaned my salary and benefits as a public servant, my job did have its perks. Unlimited coffee, for one, and increased job security due to all the bureaucratic red tape that had to be cut to fire someone, even with cause.

  I took a final glance around the factory. Laborers hustled back and forth between the presses, some feeding paper into machines, others carting numbered sheets to binding stations. A guy in the aisle next to us wheeled a dolly stacked with boxes of books from the binding stations up toward the front of the building to be loaded onto carts for transport.

  “So, what’s got you guys in such a bind, anyway?” I asked. “Somebody write one of those crazy popular vampire erotica novels again?”

  Yates shook his head. “Nah. It’s just another of those damned Rex Winters novels.”

  I nearly choked on my spit. Before anyone had a chance to raise any objections, I’d run down the poor sap working the handcart and nearly ripped his shoulder from his socket in my desperation to stop him. He started yelling for Yates as soon as I tore into the box of books and pulled out a shiny, pristine copy of the latest literary masterpiece, Rex Winters in Double Blind Danger.

  I turned to face Steele and Yates as they arrived, the Rex Winters novel clutched in my hands and on display as if I’d won the presidential medal for investigative excellence.

  “Oh my gosh,” I squealed. “It’s the new Rex Winters novel! Can you believe it?”

  “Daggers,” said Steele. “Focus—”

  “I knew it was coming out soon, but I had no idea it was this week! Double Blind Danger, eh? I wonder what it’s about? A mischievous crime ring of poker players? Or perhaps a crew of thieves who pretend to be blind to avoid suspicion? Oh, I know, maybe—”

  “Focus,” said Steele.

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “Is he always like this?” asked Yates.

  “More often than either of us would like to admit,” said Shay. “He constantly waffles between being an insincere jackass and an affable dolt.”

  “‘Waffles’ implies a measure of indecision,” I said. “When I act like a jerk, I do so intentionally. And since you brought it up, do you want to get some?”

  Shay furrowed her brows. “Some what?”

  “Waffles. Or a meal of any kind, really. Doesn’t have to be brunch. That kolache didn’t stick to my ribs like I’d hoped it would.”

  Yates stared at us, mouth half open. “Um…are we done here?”

  “Depends. Can I take this with me?” I flourished the Rex Winters novel.

  “Do you need it for your investigation?” asked Yates.

  “No. Possibly. Yes. I’m not sure.”

  Yates threw his hands in the air. “Whatever. Not like one book is going to make a lick of difference in when I fall asleep tonight. Knock yourself out.”

  I did a subtle, silent fist pump. I think Shay noticed. She smiled. I’m pretty sure she considered this one of my affable dolt moments. It’s ok. I’m confident enough in my own masculinity to let my inner nerd out every once in a while.

  Yates turned to go.

  “Oh, wait,” I said. “One more thing.”

  Yates sighed. “Dear gods…what now?”

  “Terrence,” I said. “Do you know if he had any involvement in magical stuff? Like, say, enchanted daggers?”

  Yates eyeballed me for a moment before turning to my partner. “You really need to get him to stop reading those pulps. They’re addling his brain.”

  Shay’s devious smile would’ve normally evoked a snappy comeuppance, but I let it slide. After becoming the proud owner of a pre-release copy of the newest Rex Winters novel, my spirits were doing backflips in the clouds. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep from wondering what luscious adventures and juicy mysteries might be hiding within the paperback’s floppy covers.

  I forced my mind back to the issue at hand. “So then…is that a no?”

  “I don’t know anything about any enchanted daggers, or magical swords, or fairy dust-encrusted cheese graters, for that matter,” said Yates. “Can I go?”

  I nodded. “Have fun.”

  The glare he gave me indicated he wouldn’t. I motioned Shay toward the exit.

  10

  The funk cloud hadn’t gone anywhere during our stint in the bindery. It latched onto my nostrils as soon we stepped foot out the door.

  Unfortunately for us, not a single rickshaw driver was in sight. We had to hoof it several blocks away from the riverfront until we found one, and I’ll be darned if the first one we encountered wasn’t the same garbage and paperboard carpenter from before. I gave him the evil eye for abandoning us in the pulp mill stench without transportation, but he shrugged it off with the uncaring indifference of a seasoned panhandler.

  “Where to?” he asked as we piled into the rickshaw.

  “Good question,” I said. “I was thinking—”

  “Uh-uh,” said Shay with a wag of her finger. “It’s my turn.”

  I squinted my eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Driver, take us to Marcello’s on west 12th.”

  I groaned. With my old partner Griggs, I’d routinely taken the responsibility of choosing where we’d dine for lunch, but after a few days with Steele in tow, my plucky half-elf partner had quickly put an end to my domineering lunch autocracy. She’d insisted we take turns choosing where to eat. The nerve of her!

  My initial fear had been she’d funnel us toward joints that only served edibles that grew in place as opposed to those that walked on four legs. Thankfully, those fears had been unfounded. The svelte girl could enjoy a butter-soaked slab of roast beast as easily as I could, but the problem with Shay was that she demanded two things: variety and finesse.

  Steele lusted after intricately designed plates featuring exotic fusions of meats and sauces and strange herbs grown on the tops of remote windswept mountaintops. I, on the other hand, was perfectly content to scarf down the same melted cheese-slathered sandwich day after day. Luckily for my wallet, Shay usually tried to balance her gustatory desires with costs. Marcello’s hovered right at the border of my comfort zone, but it was still too sophisticated for my tastes.

  After bouncing our way back over the Bridge from the east side, our driver deposited us at the foot of the restaurant, a quaint cube of a building with coffee-colored drapes over the windows and a white door that had been artificially scraped to make it appear aged.

  “Ugh,” I said. “You know how I feel about this place.”

  “Yes,” said Shay, “but you also think any restaurant with tables and chairs for you to sit at is too fancy.”

  I shrugged. “They’re an unnecessary expense. I’m perfectly capable of eating while I stand.”

 
“Stop moaning and come inside with me.”

  A hostess at the front showed us to our seats. Normally, I would’ve complained about her as another needless expense that would show up on my bill, but all was not wrong with the world. The hostess wore tight black pants, and being the gentleman I was, I allowed her and Shay to lead the way.

  My eyes might’ve lingered a little too long on her derrière.

  “I noticed that,” said Shay as we sat.

  I played it cool. “Noticed what?”

  “Never mind. Any idea what you’re going to get?”

  I leafed through the menu. The choices all sounded too involved. “I don’t know. Maybe the rabbit. It’s benign enough.”

  “Ohh!” said Shay. “They’ve got a pan-seared barramundi with a mushroom velouté.”

  “A what?” I said.

  Shay looked at me. “I’m sorry—are you confused about the barramundi or the velouté?”

  “Both, to be honest.”

  “It’s fish with a mushroom butter sauce.”

  “See, this is what I dislike about these places,” I said. “If it’s fish with a butter sauce, why don’t they just say that?”

  My partner put down her menu. “Daggers, there’s more to food than just how many calories it has or how quickly you can cram it down your maw. It’s an experience. The techniques chefs use in their cooking enhance that experience, strengthen it, and turn the ingredients into more than the sum of their parts.”

  I gave her a dubious look.

  “Ok. Think of it this way,” said Shay. “You like those Rex Winters books, right?”

  “Better believe it,” I said.

  “Well, what is it about them you love?”

  “Everything,” I said. “The fast-paced stories, the action, the adventure. Not to mention Rex Winters himself, who’s a total stud. Kind of like me.”