by Alex P. Berg
I don’t think Shay shared my definition of the word ‘unnecessary.’ Smoke swirled around her head for a good part of the ride.
When we arrived at the station, we found my associates at their desks. Rodgers sat on the edge of Quinto’s chunk of pine and was in the process of jawing the big guy’s ear off. From the goofy grin plastered across Quinto’s face, I assumed Rodgers was regaling him with stories of the glory days or performing an exaggerated impersonation of the Captain, but as I closed into eavesdropping range, I realized his soliloquy was more of a bitch fest.
“—and then she dropped her dinner all over the floor! So I told her, tough. Next meal’s breakfast. But I probably raised my voice more than I needed to, and she started to cry. And of course Allison’s a softie, so she tried to calm her down and told her that if she really didn’t want the casserole she’d make her something else. Can you believe that? It’s not like food grows on trees!”
“Actually, it does. It’s called fruit,” I said as we walked up. I gave Quinto a nod. “What’s he yapping about today?”
Quinto turned his goofy grin onto me. “Ehh, problems with the kids. What else?”
“And you find this predicament funny?” I asked. “You think that since you’ve thus far avoided being roped into the rigged carny game us parents call child rearing you can lord it over the rest of us?”
Quinto lost the smile. “What? No.”
“Then what’s with that dopey smile of yours?”
“Dopey smile?” Quinto blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I furrowed my brows at Quinto. He did the same to me. I tilted my head, and he responded in kind. I grunted. He squinted. Luckily Rodgers interrupted our spontaneous eruption of pantomime mimicry, otherwise who knows how long we would’ve kept going.
“Don’t worry about him, Daggers,” said the sandy-haired detective. “He’s been in la-la land all morning. I think he ate a bad burrito or something.”
Quinto lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, you’d know if I’d eaten a bad burrito.”
“You’re right,” said Rodgers. “Nevermind. Maybe you’ve come down with a case of the vapors—no pun intended. So, what’s up with you guys? What’d you find at the crime scene?”
“You heard?” I asked.
Rodgers gave me an incredulous look. “Where do you think we work, the Ministry of State Secrets? Of course I’ve heard. And even if I hadn’t, that beat cop Phillips arrived with the body almost an hour ago.”
“Oh. Right,” I said. “Well, it was more or less what you might expect given yesterday’s murder. Victim had a dagger through the chest, and the sucker was cold as ice. Colder, really. The curious part lies in the identity of the victim. It was Creepy McGee. You know, the guy from the sketch.”
“As pertinent as that is,” said Steele, “I think the detectives might be more interested in what was different about this crime as compared to yesterday’s. For example, the apartment was untouched. No broken furniture, windows, or anything like that. And we found a rag that had been doused with some sort of knockout agent, most likely ether. Not to mention the victim was fully clothed.”
“Thank the gods for that,” I said.
“Yes,” said Steele. “Let’s be thankful your tender man eyes weren’t exposed to some bare genitalia, specifically those belonging to anyone other than a beautiful woman.”
“It doesn’t have to be a woman,” I said. “I’m open to gazing upon the flesh of naked females of nearly any species.”
Rodgers ignored our playful banter. “Knockout juice, huh? So the killer knew his victim, then?”
“That’s what we surmised,” I said. “It’d be a useful piece of information if either of our victims had engaged in any sort of social interactions whatsoever. However, it seems they’d both transformed into curmudgeonly old hermits about fifty years too early. According to Creepy’s nephew—”
“His name is Octavio, you know,” said Steele.
“Is that for the benefit of Rodgers and Quinto?” I asked. “Because I already gave him a nickname and I’m sticking to it. Anyway, according to Creepy’s nephew, he didn’t have any friends or enemies. Our stiff from yesterday seemed to be a similar sort. So that leaves us without a whole lot of avenues to race down. That said, I see two potential investigative paths going forward, one staked with frozen knives and the other lined with dead bodies.”
All my fellow detectives looked at me with furrowed brows and frowns. Maybe I needed to beat around the bush a little less. “We need to look into the origins of the knives and get the coroner’s reports for Terry and Creepy. Is Cairny in today?”
Quinto perked up. “Um, yeah. Should be. I saw her earlier today. Said she’d have her analysis of Terrence done by early afternoon. If I had to guess, she’ll probably be able to take a look at the new stiff, too.”
I nodded. “What about the stiletto?”
Rodgers gestured toward my desk. “Over there. Same place we left yesterday’s implement of murder.”
“Seriously?” I mumbled some choice curse words. “I told that kid Phillips to keep a close eye on the dagger to see if it warmed up, and instead he leaves the things sitting on my desk. I’m going to have to talk to the Captain about that guy. He’s got ambition to spare, but he’s lacking in the common sense department.”
“Relax,” said Quinto. “He related your spiel to us. We’ve been checking that dagger every quarter hour or so. I touched it ten minutes ago.”
“Really?” I asked. “With your own hand?”
“I once spent an entire week outdoors in subzero temperatures. I’m fine.”
I gave Quinto the old eyebrow raise but didn’t pry further. His skin resembled tanned leather in consistency. Perhaps the cold didn’t bother him.
“Alright, fair enough,” I said. “And?”
“Just started to warm up,” said Quinto.
I snapped my fingers as I turned to Shay. “Aha! See?”
“See what?” she said. “I don’t recall you making any predictions about the murder weapon. I certainly don’t remember you saying it would warm up like the last one did.”
I scratched my chin. “You’re right, but if I had, it would’ve been very dramatic just now when I snapped my fingers. Perhaps you could pretend I’d made a great prediction and look amazed?”
Shay rolled her eyes.
“Hmm. Not quite the look I was hoping for,” I said. “No matter. We can work on it later. Just remember to pull it out the next time I say ‘Aha!’”
I took a look around the office. It was mostly empty except for the four of us. A stream of sunshine wormed its way through the Captain’s office windows to illuminate the top of my desk. That meant something I’d grown used to seeing during my jaunt with Shay was missing.
“Hey,” I said, “anyone seen the corkboard lately? I think it’s time we organize some of our thoughts.”
“I think it got put back into storage,” said Rodgers.
“Well…do you mind going to get it?” I asked.
Rodgers shot me a dubious look.
“Oh, what,” I said, “like you’re way too busy at the moment? You were sitting here boring Quinto with your kids’ dinner misadventures when we arrived and all you’ve done since is pester Steele and I about our case.”
Rodgers looked to Quinto. The big guy shrugged. Rodgers sighed, hopped off the edge of the desk, and headed after the pin board. After a few minutes, he returned, fist full of red yarn and a squeaky-wheeled corkboard in tow. He deposited it in front of my desk, smack dab in front of the sunlight.
My partner took ownership of the yarn and the pins. Manning the board had become one of her duties, although this one she’d volunteered for—unlike my continued foisting of all our mind-numbing paperwork upon her. She got a kick out of maneuvering pieces on the flat expanse of the cork. Whenever she stood in front of it, sketches and slips of paper flew as if caught in a dust devil. This made the red yarn more of a nuisance than a benefit, t
hough it did add a nice splash of color to the otherwise muted brown of the board.
Knowing she’d want it, I pulled the sketch of Creepy from my coat pocket, but my partner was too busy with a pencil and paper to accept it right away. I figured she was writing down the names of our victims and suspects—she’d probably insist on using Creepy’s real name—but after a few moments, I got antsy.
“What’s the holdup?” I asked. “You forget how to spell Terrence’s name? It was Mann with two ‘n’s. Or at least I think it was. That crone Mallory always pronounced his name with a long ‘n’ sound. ‘Maaannnn.’ Though to be fair she’s really old. She might suffer from a speech impediment.”
Steele looked up from her paper. “That’s not what’s taking so long.” She pulled her pencil back and held up the page. “See?”
In a few short moments, she’d scribbled together a sketch of our first dead guy, Terrence. It wasn’t quite up to the same level of detail our sketch artist had produced, but it wasn’t far off either.
I whistled—or at least I tried. I’ve never been very good at it. Mostly I sprayed spittle over the other detectives in my line of fire.
“Nice,” I said as I wiped my chin. “So what other talents have you been hiding from us? Needlework? Fencing? Necromancy?”
“You said it yourself,” Shay said as she started on a new page. “We all need to do something in our free time. You read. I draw.”
“You draw any pictures of me?” I tilted my head and wiggled my eyebrows seductively.
“Some. Mostly shirtless, riding a horse, and with long, silvery-blond hair flowing out behind you in an undulating wave.”
Rodgers and Quinto chuckled. I frowned. Shay, meanwhile, straightened up, a second sketch in hand. This one bore the image of a mysterious shadowed individual in a hooded cloak. She pinned it and her first drawing to the board and reached a hand toward me.
“Sketch?” she said.
I handed over Creepy’s likeness. My partner pinned that up, too, then added tags identifying each individual. Underneath the hooded figure she wrote ‘Mystery Suspect.’ It was straight and to the point, but it lacked a little panache—Johnny Stabbington would’ve been better. Steele then sketched the two murder weapons we’d collected and penciled the names of our dead guys’ apartment buildings and Chapman Books onto more slips of paper. She arranged everything on the board as it made the most sense.
My partner turned back to me when she was finished. “I think that’s about it. Can you think of anything I’ve missed?”
I curled my lip. As usual, Shay had done a stand-up job. It made me wonder why I bothered with my notepad when she remembered all the relevant clues. But something was missing—the mysterious head of honey blond hair I’d noticed dancing around Creepy’s neighborhood. I was sure it was the same set of locks I’d bumped into outside Terry’s place, but I wasn’t certain I wasn’t imagining the whole thing, either, so I kept my trap shut and shook my head.
Shay and I took a few steps back, joining Quinto and Rodgers at a prime viewing spot near our desks. We gazed at the board, everyone staring for several minutes without saying much of anything. The fact that my partner didn’t immediately start shuffling things around meant she didn’t have any brighter ideas than I did. Neither did my more veteran detective buddies, though they weren’t as submerged in the case as Shay and I were.
Eventually I broke the silence. “The stilettos are the key, you know. If we can figure out how those things got so frosty, I’m sure we’ll figure out who’s behind the murders.” I turned to my gal pal. “Are you absolutely sure there’s no such thing as frost enchantments?”
Shay shrugged. “My answer’s the same as before—not that I know of.”
“No offense,” I said, “but that’s not the most ringing endorsement of certainty. What about someone at the school you attended? Is there anyone there we could bother for a second opinion?”
“At H. G. Morton’s?” asked Shay. “Professor Kensington was the head elementalist. He’d be the one to talk to if you want to delve into magical theory of temperature control, but I’m fairly sure he’s on sabbatical right now.”
I grunted. “Just my luck. Maybe we’ll have to start our sniffing at the replica weapons shop Jjade told me about, after all.”
Shay raised an eyebrow. “Your barkeep? Is that where you’re getting your tips nowadays?”
“Hey, now. Most bartenders continue the time-honored tradition of spreading rumors, scuttlebutt, and outright lies while they serve foamy beverages. It’s not the worst place to scavenge for leads.” I hefted today’s dagger off my desk. The guys had tagged it, and true to Quinto’s word, the barest measure of a chill seeped through its darkened blade. “Besides, even if they were legal, blades like this don’t grow on trees. An expert should be able to give us some idea of where these might’ve come from.”
Quinto, once again lost in some goofy-faced trance, suddenly perked up and focused his eyes back into the realm of the living. “You know, there might be another way.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific there, big guy,” I said. “Another way to do what? Track the blades? We’ve already checked them for foundry marks.”
“Not that,” said Quinto. “The temperature angle. There’s another place you could take the blades. A meatpacking plant south of the dock district run by a frost mage. Her name’s Tremulous Portent of Rime, if memory serves me right.”
“Tremulous Portent of what now?” I asked.
“Rime. It’s a pseudonym.”
I knew that. Sorcerers often adopted ridiculous aliases to make themselves sound more mysterious and powerful. Chances were Rime’s real name was Sally or something equally mundane.
I frowned at Quinto. “Should I ask how you’re familiar with her?”
The big guy shrugged. “She’s not an old fling of mine, if that’s what you’re asking. I guess I just have a taste for previously frozen meat.”
Rodgers sniggered. I wasn’t sure I got the joke, but my stomach picked up on the reference to my favorite food group. It growled. I think my enthusiasm over visiting the Chapman Books headquarters had sent my hunger into remission, but standing in front of the corkboard had wakened the ornery organ from its slumber.
“Well, it’s worth a look,” I said. “We can hit the replica shop and the meat packer after lunch.”
“You still haven’t eaten?” said Quinto. “Count me in, then. I’m not getting hosed in the vittles department again.”
“What about you, Rodgers?” said Shay. “You want to make it a party?”
He shrugged. “Why not? As Daggers so eloquently put it, it’s not exactly a busy day on our end. Where are you guys heading?”
I smiled as I stuffed the two murder weapons into a coat pocket for safekeeping. “It’s my day to pick. Do you really need to ask?”
21
We stopped at Loaders, a sub shop known for piling their grinders so high with meat, cheese, and toppings that even trained professionals would have a hard time spotting the bread among the fatty, flavorful goodies. Shay ordered a tuna melt on wheat, while us detectives of the male persuasion indulged in meals more heavy on meats originating from animals that oinked or mooed.
After plowing through the sandwiches, we hoofed our way to Marlowe Street where Jjade had indicated the replica weapons shop resided. Honestly, I was more interested in what Tremulous Portent of Rime could tell us about our daggers than what some wizened geezer in a dusty shop would have to say, but the place was located on the west side of the Earl almost smack dab in the middle of our path to the meat packing plant.
I spotted the place by a weathered wooden sign that hung from an iron bracket in front. It depicted an image of a gauntleted fist clutching a dirk. There wasn’t any writing on the sign, but if there were, I would’ve expected it to start with the words ‘Ye Olde.’
A door-mounted bell announced our arrival as we pushed into the shop. A musty odor greeted me, similar to the sce
nt of a used bookstore but without the distinctive smell released by acid-eaten paper. The front of the shop was filled floor-to-ceiling with shelves separated by narrow aisles, giving the place a very claustrophobic feel. The shelves were packed with all manner of curios—not just replica weapons, but armor and maps and crinkled parchments stamped with red wax. A fine layer of dust covered most of it.
At the back of the store, a glass display case snaked its way along the edge of the room. I stepped over and took a look inside. I had a hard time seeing through the grime, but it was obvious the more expensive pieces were held in the cases under lock and key—not that the security measure would do much good in the event of a robbery. Glass isn’t known for its impact strength.
Inside the cases were knives and daggers of various shapes, sizes, and styles, from cleavers and dirks to broadswords and rapiers, as well as maces, flails, axes, and war hammers. I couldn’t believe the stuff was legal to own. I felt an urge to wrap my lips around a whistle and blow until a horde of truncheon-waving bluecoats swarmed into the store, but seeing as I didn’t have a whistle, I just leaned in toward the glass for a closer look. While the weapons looked convincing, their edges were rounded. I doubted they could be used to cut anything stiffer than warm butter, though I bet someone could inflict a wicked lump or two with the flail or the mace. The latter looked to weigh at least ten pounds.
A door creaked to my left, announcing the entrance of someone from the back. Although I’d expected the replica shop’s owner to be a wizened old geezer, I didn’t realize how right I’d be. The guy that stepped out would’ve made my ex-partner Griggs look like a newborn foal. I imagine he’d had a front row seat at the party the gods threw when they crafted the earth and the heavens.
