Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2)

by Alex P. Berg

  “It wasn’t that long of a day, Daggers,” she said.

  “For you, maybe. I spent the morning running after a five-year-old.”

  One of Shay’s eyebrows inched up slightly. “You…want to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what?” I asked.

  “Your morning,” said Shay. “Your son, specifically.”

  “I…” How could I respond to that? My partner was exhibiting interest in my life—exactly the sort of outcome I’d hoped for after my cold, impersonal relationship with Griggs. Of course I wanted to be able to share my life stories with my partner, but there was more to it than that. The emotions I’d shoved down at lunch were starting to rear their lovely heads again, and I still wasn’t sure how to deal with them. “I’d…like that. But not right now. Maybe some other time, ok?”

  Shay nodded, then settled into her own chair at her desk opposite mine. After a moment, she started to purse her lips.

  “So, you know what’s on my mind,” I said. “What’s on yours?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just thought someone from Terrence’s apartment complex would’ve recognized the guy from our sketch.”

  So had I. We’d pounded on every door in the building, talking to every tenant we could find, and we hadn’t so much as sniffed a clue. Nobody had any idea as to the identity of Creepy McGee, though a few did have some choice words for us about the possibility of such a dangerous criminal lurking around their homes. My arguments about belt tightening due to civic budget cuts fell on deaf ears.

  “Look, we know that guy’s got to be involved somehow,” I said. “We need to keep at it. Some of the people in that banana-colored apartment complex weren’t home. They might’ve seen something. We could also head back to Williams and Sons and show the sketch around there. Somebody else might know more about Terrence’s friend than Yates did.”

  Shay shrugged, looking unconvinced. I couldn’t blame her. Given that nobody we’d talked to at Terry’s place had seen the thin man, I had my doubts about him as our murderer. My gut told me he was involved—I just had no idea how.

  If we trusted Mrs. Mallory’s timeline, whoever murdered Terry had arrived very early in the morning, early enough that he might’ve been able to sneak into the apartment building unnoticed. Getting out of the place would’ve been much harder, especially considering the racket he caused, but Terrence lived on the second floor. His windows had been smashed, either during the fight or afterwards. The killer could’ve escaped through the windows and into a nearby alley after completing his knife work.

  Of course, that was all speculation, and it didn’t address any of the more burning questions I had regarding the case, such as why Terrence was naked and what the hell was up with the frozen dagger we’d found in his chest.

  The stiletto in question languished on my desk, silently resting upon the square of black cloth Quinto had designated as its resting place. I gingerly reached a hand out and picked it up. It felt normal, just as it had earlier in the afternoon. Without the threat of frostbite to dissuade me, I turned the blade over in my hands and inspected it.

  “You know what’s interesting about this stiletto?” I said to Steele.

  She cocked her head at me. “You mean apart from the inexplicable temperature aspect?”

  “Yeah, besides that.” I reached across the desks to hand the blade to Shay. “It’s got no foundry marks.”

  Knives of over four inches in length were illegal in New Welwic. In order to curb rampant crime of the sort that ended with people bleeding, the city council had summarily banned the weapons within city limits some fifty years ago. Not even cops could carry them, which stuck in some officers’ craws but didn’t bother me. I had a close personal relationship with my nightstick Daisy, an eighteen inch piece of steel I kept tucked inside my coat at all times—partially for protection and partially due to a lack of satisfying human contact with real women.

  That said, foundries in the city could still forge weapons for sale to militaries around the globe, including our own. But all weapons forged since the council’s mandate were required by law to carry a foundry mark identifying where they’d come from. Over the past half century, our city’s valiant police forces had culled nearly all the old weapons from the streets, so the fact that the knife we’d found sticking out of Terry’s chest didn’t have such a mark was another curiosity in a pot already overflowing with them.

  Shay looked at the knife. “Maybe it’s homebrewed.”

  She meant it might be illegally forged. Despite the city’s best efforts, some homemade shivs and pigstickers inevitably cropped up.

  “Uh-uh.” I shook my head. “Look at the craftsmanship on that thing—the heft and balance of the blade, the silver inlay. It’s pretty close to flawless. There’s no way some dude in a smoky basement slapped that together out of scraps of sheet metal and twine. Besides, look at the patina. That sucker’s old. I’d wager somebody’s been hiding that dagger in their home for decades.”

  Shay continued to turn the knife over in her hands. She emitted a noncommittal grunt.

  “What was that about?” I said.

  She looked up. “You know, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but an ancient dagger of expert craftsmanship, one that’s been hidden from view for decades or even centuries, one that for some reason or another was able to cool itself to sub-zero temperatures? It does sound like the kind of thing a witch or wizard might own.”

  I smiled. “See? I’m not crazy.”

  Shay shot me another of those ‘only one corner of the lips’ sorts of grins. “Well…the jury’s still out on that.”

  I let the dig slide. “That could be another avenue to pursue, though. Try to look for powerful mages with secret collections of ancient arms and armor.”

  Shay tilted her head. “Um…and how would we know about those arms and armor if the collections are secret?”

  “Good point,” I said. “Although that reminds me of something else we haven’t done yet.”

  Rodgers was walking back to his desk, a steaming mug of joe cradled in his hands.

  “Hey, Rodgers!” I said. “You hear anything from Cairny while we were gone?”

  Cairny Moonshadow was our resident dead person poker, or coroner in plainspeak. She was a bit of an oddball. Part human and part fairy—the normal-sized kind, not the little ones with the wings and the dust—Cairny was a gangly drink of water with big round moon eyes and jet black hair that fell to the middle of her back. She was cute, in a way, as long as you could see past the ever-present look of bewilderment on her face.

  My holler rerouted Rodgers toward Shay and I. His demeanor said he’d been stuck at his desk all day and wasn’t in any rush to get back. The coffee was another dead giveaway of his pro-procrastination bent.

  “Actually, she did pop by earlier,” he said. “Said she wasn’t going to be able to get her report to you today—but you’ll never guess the reason why.”

  He smiled a devious smile, the sort only those in possession of juicy gossip sported.

  “Ooh,” I said. “Me first, me first. Let’s see…she’s having a séance with other members of her fairy clan in order to try and bring back the spirits of the dead?”

  Rodgers gave me a look. “Try again. Something less ridiculous.”

  “Ok. She’s having scantily clad fey creatures over for a late afternoon pillow fight?”

  Steele crossed her arms and leaned over her desk. “He said less ridiculous, Daggers.”

  “What? You’re telling me girls don’t do that to relieve stress?”

  Shay shook her head.

  “You’re crushing my childhood dreams, you know,” I said.

  Rodgers smiled over his coffee. “Come on. Either of you have an honest guess?”

  I shrugged. “Apparently my ideas are all unrealistic, so no.”

  “You clearly want to share,” said Shay. “Out with it, Rodgers.”

  “Alright. She’s got…a date.”

  The office erupted in
a chorus of ‘ooh’s. Well, not quite—just me. But it seemed warranted.

  “Now I understand your smile, Rodgers,” I said. “Juicy gossip, indeed. Any idea who the lucky guy is? And are you sure she’s not standing outside the precinct as we speak, staring at the wall and making light conversation?”

  Shay took a swing at me, but the width of the desks made it easy to dodge. “Daggers! Be nice. She’s a sweet, young woman.”

  “I know,” I said. “But that doesn’t make her any less batty.”

  Rodgers shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea who she’s out with. Probably better that way, otherwise the scuttlebutt would die out faster.”

  He had a point. The mystery of it all was the only part that made it exciting.

  “Alright,” I said, pushing myself up from my chair. “Time for me to head home.”

  “Already?” Shay glanced out the window. “I doubt it’s even five.”

  “Let me clue you in on something,” I said with a point of my finger. “He who works the hardest doesn’t necessarily work the best. Sometimes it’s better to get up, stretch, and take a break. Go home early. Gets the creative juices flowing.”

  “Is that a euphemism for drinking beer?” asked Steele.

  Rodgers sniggered.

  “It wasn’t intended to be, but now it is,” I said.

  “You going to Jjade’s?” asked Rodgers.

  I nodded. “Either of you want to join me?”

  Rodgers shook his head. “I’ve got some paperwork I need to get in before the day’s done. Which reminds me—have you seen Quinto? I can’t find the big guy anywhere.”

  “Nope. Sorry,” I said. “Steele, you in?”

  She responded in the negative, probably because Jjade’s specialized in foamy brews and she preferred fermented grapes to the sweet nectar of the gods we mortals referred to as beer. Whatever. Her loss. With my tonsils shaking with excitement, I gave the two party-poopers a see-you-later salute and hit the road.

  14

  Jolliet Jjade’s, the bar near my apartment, was my own personal watering hole, but calling it a ‘hole’ was a bit of a disservice. It was far nicer than any place catering to gents like me had any right to be. Instead of flimsy tables and chairs that threatened to implant a disease-laden splinter into your flesh at any moment, the bar was filled with booths—padded bench and polished countertops units—each positioned far enough from each other that conversation wouldn’t carry. Frosted lamps filled the place with a diffuse light, and the few windows in the joint were covered with thick velour drapes in a dark violet.

  As I walked into the establishment, notes from a saxophone and soft drumbeats tickled my ears. A jazz band had commandeered the corner, serenading the patrons with their avant-garde melodic riffing.

  I sauntered over to the bar. Jjade stood behind it, but much to my dismay, she—or he, I’m still not really sure—wasn’t drying mugs, wiping down the counter, or doing any of the sundry stereotypical things you’d expect a barkeep to be up to. Instead, she just stood there listening to the music.

  “What’s up with the band?” I asked as I sat down.

  “I’m trying something new,” said Jjade. “Seeing if it’ll trump up more business.”

  “You seem to be doing fine, as far as I can tell.”

  “Yes, but you can never get too complacent. Adapt or die, they say.”

  “Who’s they?” I asked.

  Jolliet Jjade gave me a reproachful look. Today she wore a zebra print blazer buttoned up to the top with a puffy bowtie roughly the same size and color as a pumpkin spilling out from her neckline. Her long brown hair, parted flawlessly down the middle of her scalp, fell on either side of her shoulders with all the flow of a starched sheet.

  “Are you going to order something, or are you just going to sit there and drive away my more affluent clientele?” Jjade asked.

  “Give me a beer,” I said. “Something with a lot of hops and a thick head.”

  Jjade smiled as she grabbed a pint glass from underneath the counter. “So, you want a beer that’s a lot like you but less jumpy, is that it?”

  I pressed my lips together. “I walked into that, didn’t I?”

  Jjade slapped a coaster on the counter and set the beer on top of it. “It’s a little early for beer, even for you, don’t you think?”

  “Why does everyone insist on telling me it’s too early?” I said. “It’s too early to leave work. It’s too early to drink. Maybe I’m just getting old and plan to fall asleep at seven-thirty.”

  Jjade raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning on falling asleep at seven-thirty?”

  “No.”

  Jjade peered at me curiously, but I didn’t elaborate. She shrugged and went back to her music. I dove into my beer, coating my throat and innards with its frothy glory, swiveling back and forth on my stool as I drank.

  Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I found myself getting sucked into the progression of the tunes emanating from the corner. The musicians were talented, I had to admit. That didn’t change my opinion that they were wasting their lives, spending countless hours perfecting their craft only to draw crowds of a couple dozen beatniks interspersed with a few indifferent sourpusses like me—but hey, to each his own, right?

  “You’re not going to start having guys like these on a regular basis, are you?” I asked Jjade.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”

  “I already stick out here enough as it is. I don’t want to become an eyesore. Besides, if you start attracting musicians people actually want to see, I might get squeezed out. Then I’d have to find a new bar at which I could depress people with my presence.”

  Jjade patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll keep a seat open for you, Daggers.”

  I took another gulp of my beer. “Do you mind if I ask you an odd question?”

  “I think most of the questions you ask are odd.”

  I paused. That was neither an affirmation nor a denial of my request.

  Jjade seemed to notice my confusion. “Shoot.”

  “Do you know anything about ancient, custom weaponry?”

  “Wow. You weren’t kidding,” she said. “You really came out of left field with that one.”

  “Told you,” I said.

  “I’m assuming this has to do with work.”

  “You’re very astute.”

  “Ok,” Jjade said, tapping her fingers on the counter. “Well, strictly speaking, no, I don’t know anything about that. But you could inquire at that shop over on Marlowe. The replica weapons place. I don’t remember the name, but it’s got a sign. Should be pretty obvious.”

  I lifted a brow. “A replica weapons shop? That sounds kind of illegal.”

  Jjade shrugged. “Beats me. You’re the cop. But the owners are pretty blatant about what their business is. I can’t imagine they wouldn’t have been shut down by now if they were gaming the system.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Alright. Might be worth looking into. Thanks.”

  I took a last draught of beer, tossed some coins on the counter, and made to get up.

  Jjade squinted her eyes at me. “Wait—you’re only having one brew? And nothing fried to eat? What’s going on? Are you feeling ok?”

  “What? I’m fine. I just want to get home, that’s all.”

  Jjade’s eyes widened. “Dear gods…you really are going to bed at seven-thirty, aren’t you?”

  I chuckled. “It’s not that. It’s this.” I reached into my coat and produced the book I’d poached from Williams and Sons. “It’s the latest Rex Winters novel. Pinched it earlier today from a book binder. Claimed it was evidence. One of the perks of the job.”

  Jjade looked at me blankly.

  “Seriously? Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Rex Winters, either? Honestly, am I the only one who recognizes great literature when I see it?”

  My barkeeper friend shrugged.

  I sighed. “Whatever. You man the gates and make sure these jazz-addled beat
niks don’t rob you blind. I’m going home to delve into the secrets of this untapped literary gem.”

  15

  I stifled a yawn as I padded down Schumacher Avenue. As I neared the station, my buddy Tolek spotted me and tried to engage me in polite conversation—as well as sell me a bag full of kolaches—but I turned him down. I was running late enough as it was. I hoped no one at the precinct would notice, but they’re observant chaps. They’re detectives for a reason.

  “Daggers,” said Steele as I reached my desk. “Where’ve you been? It’s like a quarter till ten.”

  Today my partner wore a sleek black V-neck top, and her hair shot out from a tight ponytail that sat high on the back of her head. It was her choice of leggings that caught me by surprise.

  “You’re wearing shorts?” I said.

  “Just because you insist on wearing that coat every day regardless of the weather doesn’t mean we should all suffer the same fate,” said Shay. “Besides, they’re chinos. They’re knee length. They’re work appropriate.”

  “What if it gets chilly?” I asked. “What if we have to visit a machine shop, or a laboratory?”

  My partner shot me a sideways look. “Who are you, my dad? If we visit a lab, I’ll throw on a lab coat, and in the highly unlikely event a cold front blows in today, I’ll suck it up and deal with it. But that’s beside the point. Don’t try to change the subject on me. Why are you so late?”

  “I, uhh…was busy,” I said.

  Shay crossed her arms.

  “I mean, my shoes…broke. I had to get new ones.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Ok, fine. I stayed up late and overslept, if you must know. But I had a good reason.” I reached into my coat and pulled out Rex Winters in Double Blind Danger.

  “Seriously?” said Steele. “You’re late because you stayed up reading some dopey crime novel?”

  I settled into my chair. “Look, I’ll let that comment slide because you’re one of the uninitiated, but I thought I made it clear to you yesterday. These aren’t some dopey crime novels. They’re the dopey crime novels. And this one in particular is awesome! It starts out with Rex yachting in the bay with a sultry seductress, when all of a sudden they hear a thump. Rex looks overboard, and who does he see? None other than the mayor of the city! Well, his lifeless corpse, anyway. He tries to wrestle the body on board, but a storm’s coming in and he can’t get a handle on it. But then, Rex heads back to shore and—”