Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2)

by Alex P. Berg

  “No, that’s not true,” said Zeb. “I love werewolves. I’d never do anything to hurt them!”

  “Oh, really?” I said. “Then why didn’t you mention the stilettos with the cold reservoirs had been stolen from you? Why would you hide that fact?”

  Zeb clenched his teeth in despair. “I didn’t know. It must’ve happened recently. I haven’t been down to the basement in days.”

  I scowled and leaned over the table, placing my hands out wide before Zeb and his unwieldy mass of head and beard hair. “Look, Zebruder. You had multiple weapons—illegal weapons, I might add—in your possession mere days before they were used in a series of grisly murders. That’s a fact. Despite no communication from our department to you, we promptly found you at the scene of every crime. Fact. You proclaim you’re the city’s utmost expert on everything werewolves. You and you alone possess the requisite knowledge for werewolf murder, and you claim to have had close relationships with all of the victims, relationships that would’ve allowed you to get close to each and every one of them. Fact and fact. You’re a big strong guy. Bigger than me. You would’ve been able to handle yourself against a werewolf, and you certainly could’ve overpowered one if you attacked prior to their transformation. Your obsession with werewolves borders on the maniacal.”

  Zeb shook his head furiously, tears dotting the corners of his eyes. “No. No, it’s not like that. You don’t understand…”

  “Oh, I think I understand perfectly,” I said. “You claim to love werewolves, claim to be their friend, their confidant. You claim they’re wondrous creatures worthy of our adoration and respect. But your werewolf museum portrays them as dangerous beasts, and Eustace, a real live werewolf, thinks you’re a dangerous psycho. Now why would that be? You want to know what I think?”

  Zeb continued to shake his head, tears breaking free and running for his beard.

  “When I asked you why you weren’t a werewolf, you said it wasn’t that simple. I think you wish you could be a werewolf, but for whatever freaky reason, you can’t. And it eats at you like a cancer, doesn’t it? And so something inside you, something that might’ve started out as love, slowly turned into a roiling, churning hatred. I think you befriended werewolves in the hopes of becoming one, but when it didn’t happen, you decided if you couldn’t be one, then nobody should. I think you lured Terrence, Octavio, and Cynthia into your false friendship, and once you were done with them, you killed them. Admit it, man! You’re a serial killer! A murderer of werewolves.”

  Zeb looked at me, tears streaming down his face, his eyes strained and panicked. He tried to form words to refute me, but his attempts degraded into choked sobs. He lowered his big, shaggy head into his hands and cried.

  I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. I don’t have a lot of sympathy for murderers.

  43

  “That was hard to watch at times,” said Shay as we walked back to our desks.

  “Sometimes the suspects grit their teeth and refuse to say anything,” I said. “Sometimes they try to face you down but end up cracking under the pressure, spilling their guts on the floor in a mess of blubbering and denials. And sometimes they just plain break. Some guys can’t handle having the truth presented to them on a silver platter.”

  “You think Zeb is guilty, then?”

  I took a deep breath before responding. “Well…I didn’t say that.”

  Rodgers and Quinto waited for us at our desks like a couple of well-intentioned vultures searching for case scraps.

  “So, how’d the interrogations go?” asked Rodgers eagerly. Apparently their surly moods had evaporated under the case’s cool compress of curiosity.

  “What are you guys doing?” I asked. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “Not really,” said Quinto. “Captain agreed with you. Said he thought we should all work together on this one until we put the closing stamp on the file. You know, given the recurring nature of the murders.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “And you guys all thought I was crazy when I proclaimed to be in charge in his absence.”

  “Well, you are crazy,” said Rodgers. “But even crazy people are right sometimes. Kind of like a broken clock.”

  “I take offense to that. I’m right more than twice a day.” I gave Steele a soft punch in the shoulder. “So, you know what this means, don’t you?”

  “What?” she said.

  “That we can foist the paperwork off on these two when we’re done.”

  Rodgers frowned. “Come on, Daggers. Did you learn anything useful or not?”

  “Yes and no,” I said. “Yes, in that we discovered that these—” I produced the murder weapons from my coat pocket. “—belong to none other than our shaggy, delusional friend, Mr. Zebruder Coriander.”

  “What?” said Rodgers.

  “Seriously?” said Quinto.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s apparently got a secret stash.”

  “So what’s the ‘no,’ then?” said Rodgers.

  “The ‘no’ is that despite the murder weapons being his, I’m not convinced Zeb is our guy.” I pointed to the cork board, which had been propped up against the far wall. ”One of you mind wheeling that thing over?”

  Quinto obliged. As he did so, I noticed new sketches had been affixed to the surface of the board: one for Cynthia Gladwell, one for Zebruder Coriander, and one for Eustace Manshwitz. The sketches had been labeled with small strips of paper, and a good thing too, otherwise I might not have been able to recognize them. They looked as if they’d been drawn by a third grader.

  “What the heck happened here?” I said. “Did our sketch guy from upstairs suffer a stroke?”

  Quinto blushed. “Oh, um…no. I drew them. You and Steele were busy, so I figured I’d make myself useful. I gave it a shot and, well…it is what it is.”

  “I think you do better work when you curl your hands into fists rather than around hunks of charcoal,” I said.

  The big guy sulked.

  “Well, I think you gave it a great effort,” said Shay.

  Quinto perked up a bit. “Thanks, Steele. That’s a nice sentiment. A false one, but it’s nice.”

  “Anyway,” I said. “The problem is we have two likely suspects in our murder investigations, Eustace and Zeb, but neither of them fits the profile of the murderer completely. Let’s start with Eustace.”

  I pointed at his sketch. “On the surface, he seems like the obvious culprit. For one thing, he matches the description of our mystery killer given by Octavio’s nephew. He’s the right height, clean shaven, has short hair. He’s a bit on the slender side, but hidden underneath the right cloak, I could imagine how he might seem imposing to an eight-year-old.

  “He also knew each of the three victims and had a clear motive for committing the crimes due to his expulsion from the writing group. He verbally threatened everyone upon being kicked out, and let’s not forget that dopey, violent poem of his. But he didn’t really have the necessary opportunity to commit the murders.”

  “That’s news,” said Quinto. “Does he have an alibi for the past few nights?”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant,” I said. “If both Eustace and Zeb can be believed—which is a big if, I know—then Cynthia was the only member of the group who could transform at will, and beyond that, she was the strongest member of the bunch. Last night when she was murdered, Eustace couldn’t have transformed into a werewolf, so how could he have overpowered her? Her apartment was trashed, and we didn’t find any evidence of knockout juice at her place like we did at Creepy’s. And even though Eustace was aware of the existence of the murder weapons, we didn’t find anything incriminating at his apartment or in his backpack. No stilettos with reservoirs for liquid, no needles, no drugs or chemicals. Nothing.”

  “Meanwhile, Zeb is a big, strong guy,” said Steele. “If anyone might’ve had a chance at overpowering Cynthia before she transformed, he’d be the one.”

  “Exactly,” I said.


  “But there are problems with him as the murder suspect, too,” she said. “For one, he doesn’t match the description of the hooded man Sid gave us. He’s too big and too hairy. And despite Eustace’s claims, we didn’t see any bladed weapons at Zeb’s place. Nor did we see any of the other things we were looking for, like needles or containers of refrigerated liquid. Not that we have any idea why either of them would’ve been injecting the victims with drugs anyway. I think we can safely say Cairny’s theory about blood thickeners is incorrect, though.”

  I nodded. “All good observations. But we now also know Zeb has a secret stash of weird stuff in his basement. If the murder weapons were stored down there, I’m assuming everything else used in the murders was, too.”

  “So, what are we waiting for?” said Rodgers. “Let’s head back to Zeb’s place and see what we can find. If we’re lucky, we can wrap this business up tonight.”

  “You in a hurry or something?” I asked.

  “Not really,” he said. “I just like closure.”

  “You know, there’s something else that’s been bothering me,” said Steele as we gathered our things. “Because of the way in which Octavio was murdered, we’d assumed the murderer knew his victims, otherwise how could he have gotten close enough to dose him with ether? It makes sense in the murder of Cynthia, too. Whoever killed her would’ve needed an element of surprise to overpower her. Now clearly Eustace and Zeb both knew the victims, but after Eustace insulted and threatened everyone in the writing group, why would they let him into their apartments, much less feel safe around him? And Eustace said that, contrary to Zeb’s own claims, none of the werewolves liked Zeb or trusted him. So the same question stands for him. How could he have gotten close enough to the others to murder them?”

  “So, what?” said Quinto. “You think someone else is involved?”

  Shay shrugged. “Maybe. But if so, who?”

  44

  We stood in front of a pair of shuttered doors in the alley behind Zeb’s museum, the handles cinched together tightly by a padlock and heavy chain. Zeb had been too far gone in his sorrows to talk to us again, but from Eustace we’d learned the basement wasn’t connected to the rest of the abode. A thorough search of Zeb didn’t turn up the key to unlock it, but luckily for us, our status as members of the force granted us toys most civilians weren’t allowed to carry.

  Quinto squatted in front of the doors, a massive pair of bolt cutters clutched in his meaty hands.

  “Is that good?” said Rodgers. He shifted his lantern a little farther over the big guy’s shoulder.

  “It’s fine,” said Quinto. “I’m not going blind, you know.”

  Knowing we’d be descending into a subterranean hovel of unknown construction, we’d come prepared, but I hadn’t anticipated needing the lanterns before we started our spelunking expedition. In a very inconsiderate move, the sun set on us three-quarters of the way to Zeb’s place. I wondered how long I’d have to suffer before I found another chance to cram sustenance into the gaping hole that was slowly displacing my stomach.

  With a snip of the cutters, the lock clanked to the ground in a lifeless heap. Quinto pulled the chains from the handles and tossed open the doors.

  “After you, Daggers,” he said.

  “You’re such a gentleman.” Lantern held before me, I descended into the blackness.

  I’m not entirely sure what I expected to find, but a cluttered pile of boxes didn’t quite fit the bill. By the light of my lantern, I spotted at least a half-dozen storage racks, each crammed to the gills with boxes of any kind and construction—cardboard, plywood, you name it. More boxes leaned up against the basement walls, rubbing shoulders with teetering, freestanding piles of assorted crap.

  I sighed. So much for a timely dinner.

  “Alright, crew,” I said. “Time to split up. Everyone choose a rack and start digging. And let’s try to be efficient. I don’t care how freaky the stuff in your boxes might be, if it doesn’t pertain to our investigation, put that box aside and move on.”

  Steele struck gold first, stumbling across an open fruit crate containing two additional long-bladed daggers with flasks in their hilts. One of them was a dead ringer for the one we’d found sticking out of Cynthia. I guess it was part of a set, which made it even more collectible to a loon like Zeb.

  I didn’t encounter the same stroke of luck as my partner. My first few boxes contained crumbling books and bizarre periodicals running the gamut from the offensive to the incomprehensible. One box contained an anthology of werewolf erotica called Lusting after Lycanthrope Loins and a pseudoscientific publication entitled Phagocytosis and the Lycanthropic Foreign Particle. Both sounded dirty to me. I also found a foot-and-a-half long stick studded with canine teeth and with the words ‘Divining Wand’ etched into the side, not to mention the desiccated remains of what I assumed was once a human hand. While I contemplated what sort of psychopath kept a severed hand in his basement, I heard Rodgers’ call.

  “Hey guys, come take a look at this.”

  My sandy-haired friend stood in front of a bare stretch of wall slightly wider than Quinto’s shoulders. He stared at it intently, his lantern resting on the floor near his feet.

  “Find anything?” I asked as I walked up.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Does anything about this wall look off to you?”

  I took a look to my left and then to my right, noting the condition of the wall’s neighboring sections. “You mean other than the fact that it’s not suffocating behind massive piles of crap?”

  “No,” said Rodgers. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

  “You think there’s something fishy going on here?” said Quinto.

  Steele leaned in to get a closer look. “Well, it’s definitely real mortar,” she said, picking at a chunk of cement with her fingernail. “Real stone, too. But look at this. Does that look like a crack to you?”

  We all nearly cracked skulls as we leaned in together.

  “See? Right there,” said Steele.

  I saw what she meant. A hairline crack ran between the edge of the mortar and the stone slabs that composed the wall. After a few moments of squinting and running our fingers along crevices, we convinced ourselves the crack ran from floor to ceiling.

  “Well, it’s definitely a door,” said Rodgers. “The only question is, how do we open it?”

  We stood there scratching our heads until Shay broke the silence with a snap of her fingers. “I’ve got it.”

  “Yeah?” I said.

  She pointed to a spot on the wall to our right. “That wrought-iron sconce.”

  Rodgers snapped his fingers as well. “Of course! Why didn’t I notice it? It’s the only one in the whole room—well, except for the one by the entrance, but that one makes sense. You’d need to light the room when you enter. This one? It seems a little superfluous, don’t you think?”

  The pair grinned and flew into action.

  “Here, give it a turn,” said Steele. “No, no, clockwise. What? That’s not working? Try counterclockwise. Come on, Rodgers, put some muscle into it.”

  Rodgers grunted. “It’s not budging. Maybe we have to pull on it… Hmm… Nope. That’s not working, either. Maybe push up?”

  I gave Quinto a shrewd look. “You want to try this our way, big guy?”

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Give me a brace.”

  Quinto turned his back to the wall, squatted, and braced his hands against his legs. I put my back to his, lifted my feet up onto the stone wall, gritted my teeth, and pushed.

  Fingernails clawed across a chalkboard, and the wall shifted.

  Steele and Rodgers looked our way. “Oh,” said Steele. “Well, I guess that works, too.”

  I clenched my jaw and pushed again. The door shifted another foot.

  “Come on,” I said, hopping off Quinto’s back. “Give me a hand. I think I’ve loosened it.”

  We all squeezed in tight, low
ered our shoulders into the door, and pushed. With another horrible rasping squeal, the door swung open.

  Dust tickled our noses as we stood there, surveying the scene before us. I found my voice first.

  “Well, I have to admit…I did not expect that.”

  45

  We stumbled into one of the last places a police officer—or any humanoid, for that matter—would ever want to find themselves: a creepy underground torture dungeon.

  I snagged Rodgers’ lantern and hung it from a nasty-looking metal hook that dangled in the center of the smallish room. By its light, I could discern all the elements of the space that gave me the heebie-jeebies, not the least of which was a hulking cage on the far wall forged of thick, iron bars. I hoped the reddish hue of the metal was due to rust rather than blood, but I couldn’t detect any of the metallic, bitter scents that dried blood and stale bodily fluids so often emitted. Instead, the room smelled musty, and a fine layer of dust coated the floor.

  A splintered pine table sidled up against the wall to my left. Forceps, pincers, knives, and other wicked implements littered its surface, but medical equipment lay there, too. I spotted gauze, rubber tubing, a scalpel, and syringes. Syringes! Finally that missing piece of evidence reared its pointy, little head.

  As I absorbed the room’s contents, I started to realize my environs were less of a torture chamber and more of a freaky, experimental laboratory. A microscope sat on the edge of the pine table, and a rack to its right held beakers, flasks, and stacks of glass cell culture dishes. On the right side of the room, the ashy remains of a fire pit languished under the dust, and shiny slivers of glass within indicated beakers had once been heated in the coals—ineffectually, I might add.

  “What the heck is this place?” I said.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” said Steele. “But there’s one thing I’m becoming increasingly certain of. I think Zeb was lying when he said that, given his passionate love for the species, he’d never hurt a werewolf.”