by Alex P. Berg
STEELE-FACED
A Daggers & Steele Mystery
ALEX P. BERG
Copyright © 2015 by Alex P. Berg
All rights reserved. Published by Batdog Press.
ISBN 978-1-942274-16-2
No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer or with written permission from the author. For permission requests, please visit: www.alexpberg.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are a product of the author’s imagination.
Cover Art by: Damon Za (www.damonza.com)
Book Layout: www.bookdesigntemplates.com
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Table Of Contents:
Chapters:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41
About the Author
1
I stood at the foot of a castle, five stories tall with sides of solid granite, worn and smoothed from age but capable of brushing off an ogre attack or catapult barrage with little more than a shrug. The high walls blotted out the sun and cast me into chill darkness, made worse by the snickering whistle of an evil breeze. Wrought iron gates, black as night and cool to the touch, barred entrance into the castle’s depths, and I stood, rooted in place by the enormity of the task of breaking in.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t a castle. Maybe it was just a five story apartment building with unusually thick walls and a bit of a pedigree. Maybe the looming shadow it cast over me had more to do with the angle of the morning sun than its gargantuan size. Maybe the gates were nothing more than doors and they’d open at the touch of my fingers, and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the difficulty of entering that rooted me in place but my own indecision.
Either way, I was fairly sure a princess lurked behind those walls—although if history was any indication, she was in no need of saving.
The breeze blew again, a bitter gust that proved winter had well and truly arrived, providing me with the impetus I needed to pry my feet from the ground. I pulled on the wrought iron doors, cast my gaze around the lobby within, and found the stairwell.
Without even so much as a grimace, I launched myself up the steps. I fairly flew up to the fourth floor landing, or at least it felt that way to me. I’d recently broken the two hundred pound threshold, down twenty-five from my heaviest, and should a roving female hand find itself over my biceps or abdomen, it would find a bulge of muscle and no bulge at all, respectively. Through sheer force of will, as well as diet and exercise, I’d turned back the hands of time, although unfortunately no one had informed my hair about the temporal anomaly. It was all still there, thankfully, but the internal regulation system responsible for the slow loss of pigmentation from my crop of umber seemed oblivious to my new physical prowess. This morning, I’d counted a whopping twenty-seven grey hairs in the mirror. Twenty-seven!
In unrelated news, despite my exercise regimen, I still had way too much free time on my hands.
I crossed to apartment four fifteen. There, I adjusted the ratty piece of cowhide on my back, combed my hair a bit with my fingers, took a deep breath, and knocked.
I must’ve waited about a minute, though it felt longer. I fought the temptation to knock again. Once was enough.
The door cracked open.
“Well. Hello there, stranger.”
A beautiful half-elf stood on the other side of the frame, tall and slender with piercing azure eyes, arched eyebrows, and a slim nose. Her long chocolate brown hair had been drawn into a loose braid at the front and swept over to the side, where it disappeared among the loose locks that tumbled over her shoulders. A cream-colored cowl neck sweater caressed her neck and hugged her torso, and a pair of dark brown trousers, single-pleated, pressed tight against her thighs before flaring out over her calves.
I spent five or six days a week in Steele’s presence, from the crack of nine-thirty in the morning to sundown. It wasn’t nearly enough.
She leaned against the door frame. “So what brings you to these parts?”
I cleared my throat and snapped the hem of my coat. “Hi. My name’s Jake Daggers, and I’m selling these fine leather jackets…”
“Fine leather?” said Steele.
“Oh yes,” I said. “Sturdy. Dependable. Warm, safe, and comforting. Capable of a tender, gentle caress.”
Shay gave me a demure smile. “We are talking about jackets, aren’t we?”
“Of course,” I said. “What else would we be talking about?”
“What else, indeed?” Shay sniffed and turned the corner of her lip down. “Well, I don’t know. The jacket looks pretty ratty to me.”
“Don’t be fooled,” I said, running my hand across the exterior. “This is the display model. The real thing is much better.”
“Is it, now?” said Steele. “So it’s cleaner and fresher? The leather firmer and more supple? Stronger, perhaps lighter weight, and a little more fashion forward? Not something I’d be embarrassed to be seen around town with?”
I narrowed an eye. “We are still talking about jackets, aren’t we?”
Shay smiled. “Of course. What else would we be talking about?”
“I can think of a few things, but I’ve been told I have an overactive imagination.”
Shay stepped back from the frame and waved me in. “Come on in, Daggers. I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.”
She didn’t have to ask me twice. I’d been waiting for months for her to ask me into her apartment. Of course, I hadn’t envisioned the first time to be as I waited for her to finish getting ready for work in the morning, but I’d accomplish the feat any way I could.
Steele hooked a right into the kitchen as I closed the door behind me. Instead of following her, I headed straight into what I assumed would be her living room.
A jungle had overtaken it.
Greenery sprouted from a hundred different pots, some on shelves, others on tables, and more still on the floor. Bushes and saplings, flowers and shrubs, bonsais, cactuses, and succulents. Annuals and perennials of all shapes and sizes. Enough bark, fronds, and petals to brew a thousand pots of tea.
Sunlight streamed in through a large east-facing window, bringing with it warmth and the fuel of life. A rich, earthy scent filled my nose, that of damp soil and the perspiration of leaves, kissed with a touch of sweetness from the half-dozen plants who’d flowered despite the season.
I ran a finger across the thick, ridged leaf of a four foot-tall shrub and called out to Shay. “If you’d have warned me, I would’ve brought my machete.”
Her voice trailed over from the kitchen. “And risk having you cited for possession? Better to leave you unawares.”
It was a felony offense in New Welwic to carry around a weapon with a blade longer than six inches, even for police officers. For keeping the peace, I made do with my nightstick, Daisy, which I continued to refer to by name despite Shay’s protests. Her steel-weighted efforts were better served against skulls than trunks and branches, though.
A small, leafy plant with bright purple flowers caught my eye. I found a path through the underbrush and crossed over to it.
“You like that one?”
I’d just knelt when Steele’s voice brought me back to my feet. She stood at the edge of the plants, resting her elbows on the edge of one of her sofa c
hairs.
“This is the plant you brought with you on the first day of work,” I said. “What is it? A tulip of some sort?”
Shay smiled and snorted, as if she were on the edge of a chuckle.
“What?” I said. “You’re surprised I remember? You’re not the only one with superior observational skills. Or am I totally wrong about this thing’s genus?”
Steele picked her elbows off the chair and joined me by the flower. “No, you’re right. It’s a dwarf tulip. Pulchella variant. And you were right about the pit, too.”
I’d warned her at the time there wasn’t near enough natural light by our desks to support life. I’m not even sure how we survived, to be honest. Copious amounts of coffee, probably.
“Well, it sure perked up, didn’t it?” I said.
“It just needed light and love.” Steele stroked one of the petals with a perfect fingernail.
“And here I thought you weren’t into horticulture.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“On one of our cases,” I said. “I mentioned something about you being close to the trees because of your elven heritage, and you countered by saying you grew up in an apartment downtown.”
“Midtown. And that doesn’t mean I don’t like plants. Obviously.” She waved her hand around the room. “New Welwic is sorely lacking in greenery. At least here, I can keep the chill out, and every once in a while, if I’m lucky, I get a flower. Even in winter.”
“Do you have a favorite nursery?” I asked.
“Honestly? I got most of these from my aunt. She’s a botanist. She tells me how much water they need and when to prune them. If it were up to me, half of these would probably be dead.”
“So your aunt’s a botanist. Dad’s a chemist,” I said. “Science runs in your blood, doesn’t it?”
“It’s better than high cholesterol.” Shay smiled. “Be right back.”
She stepped around the foliage and disappeared into the kitchen.
I inspected another plant, one with thick, fleshy leaves. “Speaking of your folks, how are they?”
“Good,” she called back. “As much as I hate being forced away from work, it was nice spending a few days with them. I got to see both of my brothers.”
I’d warned Steele after our last case, in which she’d been kidnapped and imprisoned, that likelier than not the Captain would force her to take time off to rest and recuperate. Never mind she’d been imprisoned for a grand total of four hours. It was about avoiding ‘mental fatigue,’ something the Captain was keen on—in other people. I’d never seen the bulldog take a day off in his life.
Perhaps that’s why I’d been so nervous standing outside Shay’s apartment building. The Captain had banished her from the precinct mere hours after the resolution of our last case, and rather than sit around, mope, and read dopey mystery novels like I would’ve—and in fact did during my own administrative leave—she immediately departed to see her folks, all of which meant I hadn’t had a chance to spend time with her since the arrest of our killer. Or since our passionate kiss.
I remembered it well. Sitting there in the dark, our sight nullified but other senses heightened from danger and anticipation. The press of her body against mine. The faint hint of her lilac perfume. The sweet taste of her lips and the brush of her hair against my face. I’d frozen the moment in my mind. Names, I might forget. Birthdays, too. Childhood friend’s faces? You bet. But that? Never. The hint of honeysuckle on her breath, and the scent of—
“Coffee?”
I blinked and looked up from the succulent. Steele had returned, and in her outstretched arms she offered me a thermos.
I accepted it and took a sniff. “Where’d you get this?” Steele wasn’t a coffee person, except for the occasional cappuccino.
“I had it on hand.”
“But why?”
“Because I figured you’d be over here sooner or later, and I know you enjoy it.”
I took a sip. Warm, bold flavors exploded across my tongue, containing hints of nuttiness and smokiness and a smooth chocolate aftertaste. Steele hadn’t just made me coffee. She’d made me the best coffee.
I moaned a little. “That’s it. I’m in love.”
Shay’s eyes widened. “Pardon?”
“What? No. I mean with the coffee. The coffee. That is… I, uh…like it? A lot. So…thanks.” I cleared my throat and inspected the ceiling.
The smile returned to Shay’s face. “Well, I’m glad you enjoy it. I can share where I bought it, if you like, but it’s a bit of a hike. Let me grab my coat and we’ll head out.”
Steele turned, and I wiped my free hand across my forehead. I’d avoided that crisis with my usual deft flair, but my slip of the tongue brought to mind bigger questions. How did I feel about Shay? I couldn’t be in love. We weren’t even dating. Well, perhaps we were, even if we hadn’t gone on a date since the conclusion of our last murder. And then there was the coffee situation. I tended to drink throughout the day, but I absolutely needed the rich brew in the mornings after waking up. Shay knew that. Which could only mean…
I glanced toward her bedroom. Could she be sending me a message?
I sighed. If only women were as easy to solve as murders.
2
Morning sunlight glinted off the seal of justice over the entrance to the 5th Street Precinct. Despite the chill, beat cops milled outside the broad double doors, chatting and smoking and shuffling their feet, as did young runners with hopes of earning coin in exchange for their services. My old pal Tolek, proprietor of a mobile pastry cart, purveyor of fried goods, and preyer on unsuspecting detectives’ stomachs, waved at me, trying to get me to come over and purchase one of his delicious apricot kolaches. I waved and smiled in return, but I didn’t reach for my coin purse.
I turned to Shay, who’d bundled herself in a shearling jacket, scarf, and gloves, and spoke under my breath. “I wish Tolek would stop hanging around the precinct entrance. It’s awkward seeing him every morning and not buying anything.”
“You make it sound like you’re ex-lovers,” she said.
“You jest, but those looks he gives me? I gave my ex-wife Nicole much the same for the first year or two of our breakup.”
“So go over there and buy something if you feel so bad,” said Shay. “Doesn’t even have to be for you. Think how happy you’d make the rest of the station if you sprung for a couple dozen donuts.”
“And risk a citation from the Captain for willfully fattening members of the force?” I snorted. “You know how he is about our healthcare premiums. Besides, I don’t think it would be a good idea. It would only make Tolek pine for me that much harder. Look at him. He’s devastated.”
He kept smiling and waving.
I shook my head. “Poor sap.”
Steele snickered. “You’re a heartbreaker, Daggers. Get the door for me?”
I did, and we waltzed into the precinct, past the welcome desk, and into the dimly-lit heart of misery, gloom, and despair we lovingly referred to as the pit.
In truth, it wasn’t so bad. It was austerely furnished, thanks to the city legislators’ belt tightening efforts, and gloomy to be sure—the only natural light we got was what trickled through the windows in the Captain’s office—but hidden behind the heavy, not-quite antique desks and the ever-present musty odor hid a bit of rustic charm. Or so I’d convinced myself, anyway. It was possible I’d been around the precinct long enough that, like a kidnappee, I suffered from severe capture-bonding.
I followed Steele as she snaked through the cubicles toward our own desks on the far side. We weren’t more than twenty paces from our thrones when a big, rumbling voice cut across our path.
“Hey, Steele. Welcome back.”
Like a hill giant surging from underneath a layer of dried leaves and detritus, Quinto rose from his desk and lumbered over to join us. Standing roughly six feet, seven inches tall and weighing over three hundred pounds, he
in many ways resembled a giant, but the grayish tinge to his skin hinted at a different heritage, one with a little less giant and a little more troll.
Not that I knew for sure, of course. No one at the precinct did, unless our resident coroner and Quinto’s girlfriend, Cairny, had been successful in liberating the information. Regardless, we all knew better than to press the issue. Quinto was sensitive about his lineage and not because of his mismatched buckteeth, brick outhouse-like stature, or looks only a mother could love. Rather, Quinto hated the stigma of weak-mindedness society attached to the so-called lesser races: orcs, ogres, and trolls. He prided himself on being as clever, observant, and astute as the rest of us. Ten years of working at his side had proven he was far better than most.
“Glad to be back, Quinto,” said Steele. “And I’m happy to see the precinct hasn’t descended into anarchy and chaos in my absence.”
“Anarchy and chaos?” Quinto smiled and snorted. “That’s a bit much. Although a churning morass of sloth and inactivity…?”
Steele lifted an eyebrow. “It’s been that bad?”
“Are you kidding?” said Quinto. “For one thing, we haven’t had a murder since you left, which alone makes for dull times. But then you add your absence to the equation, and, well…you know Daggers.”
I puffed out my chest. “I was a model of inefficiency. A coffee-swilling, light banter-slinging, rib-elbowing machine. A primo chatter, eavesdropper, and nose sticker-intoer. I died and was reborn as an anthropomorphic sloth.”
“His chatty nature negatively impacted us all,” said Quinto. “I barely got any work done.”
“Work?” I said. “What work? You admitted we didn’t have any murders to investigate.”
“Since she’s the analytical sort, I present to Detective Steele the evidence.” Quinto leveled a thick finger at his desk, pointing out a stack of unfinished paperwork, then shifted the finger to Shay’s and my own desks, upon which languished much larger stacks of paperwork.
