Steele of the Night (Daggers & Steele Book 7)

by Alex P. Berg

  “What do you want to know?” he asked. “He’s a living legend. A troubadour and a balladeer. He’s toured in over a dozen countries and a hundred cities, attracting huge crowds wherever he goes. He’s penned over fifty songs. Been performing for over a decade. Women love him. Men want to be him. He’s the heart and soul of Yellow Cobra.”

  “We can get the boilerplate from a flyer,” said Steele. “I wanted to know about Chaz Willy Wilson the man.”

  Benson smiled, an unnerving grin with teeth both too sharp and too white. “Oh. In that case… He’s an insufferable prima donna who can’t keep it in his pants, drinks too much, smokes too much, spends half his time too intoxicated to work, and worst of all, draws crowds a quarter the size he used to. That more your speed?”

  “There we go,” I said. “He sounds like a blast to work with.”

  Benson turned the unsettling smile on me, sending another chill down my spine. “You have no idea.”

  “Any idea what he was up to last night?” asked Steele.

  “What do you think?” said Benson. “He played in the show.”

  “I meant after that.”

  “How should I know?” he said. “He went out with B. B., Sammy, and Ritchie. Some party. I stayed here with, ah…these lovely young ladies."

  I glanced at the nearest couch. On closer inspection, the ladies were neither as young nor as lovely as indicated, and I had my doubts about their general level of sophistication and charm. The one closest to me wore a disheveled halter top and a pair of jeans with intentionally torn knees, her hair sweaty and stuck to her forehead. Her chest rose and fell slowly, and her face seemed pale in the dim light.

  Her eyes snapped open as I stared at her, locking onto me for a fraction of a second before glazing. She barely moved during the endeavor, and her breathing changed not one iota. Was she drugged…or perhaps something else?

  I glanced at Benson. “Are you sure these women are alright?”

  “They’re fine,” he said, standing. “Now if you don’t mind my asking, what the hell is this all about? What happened to Chaz?”

  Benson removed his sunglasses, revealing pale eyes the color of ice. Despite the fact that he shared his gaze between Shay and me, I felt myself drawn toward him, drawn toward the impossibly clear pools of bluish white. Compared to them, the room around us seemed that much darker, the cigarette smoke that much thicker, the musky stink that much fouler. Try as I might, I couldn’t look away.

  “Chaz is dead,” said Shay.

  The effect broke like a hammer smashing through a mirror. Benson blinked, and so did I.

  “Dead?” said Benson. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Shay. “We found him in Rucker Park. Looks like he died sometime in the early morning hours.”

  Benson sat down and slipped his sunglasses back on, sparing me the sight of his eerie eyes. “A drug overdose?”

  “We’re not entirely sure of the cause of death yet,” said Shay. “We’re working on it.”

  Benson leaned back, passing his hand across the bald crown of his head and over the stringy hair at the back. He quickly moved from the first stage of grief to the second. “That son-of-a-bitch. How could he do this to me? Leave me in the lurch like that? What am I going to do? I’ve already sold the tickets to the next show. I can’t refund them. I already spent the cash on…things.” He glanced at the empty bottles and a spot on the coffee table that seemed oddly chalky.

  I waved away whatever fog lingered over me and cleared my throat. “Sorry…a moment ago you were badmouthing Chaz and complaining about him not being able to fill your venues anymore. Now you can’t bear to have him gone?”

  “Hey, a quarter of our old crowds is better than none,” said Benson. “Seriously though, this isn’t a joke? Maybe you have the wrong guy?”

  “It’s a remote possibility,” said Shay. “We’ll need someone close to him to identify the body. In the meantime, we need to locate the rest of the band. Any idea where we could find them?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Benson, suddenly sounding exhausted. “They’ve been renting a suite at the Banks Hotel downtown. Or we could check the ready room downstairs. It’s in the basement, around in back.”

  Benson didn’t move.

  Steele lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps you could show us the way?”

  “Oh. Right.” Benson glanced around, picked up a black gambler hat with a strip of metal-studded leather trim, and plopped it on his head. He stood. “Follow me.”

  6

  I let Rodgers and Quinto trail Benson closely as he led us out of the office and down to the main level, but I hung back. As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I pinched Steele’s sleeve to keep her at my side.

  She regarded my fingers with confusion. “What are you doing?”

  I answered in a hushed voice. “You felt that right? In Benson’s office? When he took his glasses off?”

  Steele’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “When his sunglasses came off,” I said. “When he revealed those piercing, ice blue eyes? It’s like the room suddenly became smaller and darker. I couldn’t look away. Tell me you didn’t feel the same way.”

  “Look, Daggers, I know where you’re going with this,” she said. “I’ll admit the man is undeniably creepy, that he possesses a strange…animal magnetism. But that doesn’t make him a you know what.”

  “No?” I said. “What about those women? They were so listless. Strangely so. Are you familiar with the act of enthrallment?”

  “They were drunk, or drugged,” said Shay. “Possibly both.”

  “They seemed too pale of skin for that to be the case,” I said. “And if you insist on being contrary, riddle me this. Why is Benson wearing sunglasses, a hat, and a heavy overcoat inside the Moxy, when there’s barely enough light to see what’s going on even during the day?”

  Shay glanced down the hall at our retreating quarry. “Stop it. You’re freaking me out. Now let’s move before we lose them.”

  We hustled to catch up with the others, heading to the side of the stage into the Moxy’s back corridors, past an emergency exit, and down a set of stairs. We reached Quinto, Rodgers, and Benson as they stopped in front of a door with a large gold star affixed to it in the upper center.

  “Well, this is the ready room,” said Benson as he cranked on the door handle. “Who knows if they’re here or not. Chances are they’re passed out in a gutter somewhere, or—”

  Benson paused, jamming Quinto and Rodgers in the door frame behind him. “Dear mother of the gods, what happened here? And—HOLY HELL, what’s that?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Rodgers.

  I couldn’t see past Quinto’s shoulders. “Guys? What’s going on?”

  “Calm down,” said Quinto in a deep voice. “No sudden movements. You’ll scare him.”

  I ripped Daisy from my coat and dove in, squeezing past Quinto and forcing Benson into the room as he tried to escape. He shrank against a wall as I turned toward the action.

  The scene before me unfolded quickly. In many respects, the ready room looked like a carbon copy of Benson’s office. Old posters and flyers plastered the walls, empty liquor bottles and cigarette butts littered the floor, and raggedy, stained couches beckoned with all the appeal of a seventy-year old harlot. Unlike Benson’s office, however, this place had been trashed. An interloper had smashed the bottles, trampled and torn the couch cushions, and befouled the rugs. In fact, he continued to do so. He stood before us, staring at us with wide-set eyes, buck-naked and crapping all over the place.

  Literally. Crapping.

  Luckily, it could’ve been worse. The interloper was a camel.

  As Benson cowered in fear against the wall, I questioned my thesis about his supernatural abilities. After all, it wasn’t as if the camel howled in a blood rage, stomping and rearing and baring its teeth. It just stood there, slowly chewi
ng on a piece of paper and going about its most basic of bodily functions. A nice, fat clump of mostly-digested organic matter dropped from its posterior, splattering across the floor with a wet smack.

  Steele weaseled her way between Quinto and me. “Ah. Well, this makes a little more sense.”

  “More sense?” I said. “Have you forgotten what that word means?”

  She ignored me and turned to the sleazy band manager. “Benson, you mind explaining what in the world in going on here?”

  “Me?” he said. “You think I know?”

  “You’re bound to have a better idea than we do,” said Steele. “Were you here all night?”

  “Yeah, but up in my office,” he said. “With my, ah…female companions. You can check with them. I didn’t come down here after the show. It must’ve been one of the guys who brought this thing in.” His head tilted toward the camel. “Wait… Is that Chaz’s songbook? That thing is eating my lead singer’s songbook!”

  On cue, the camel bent down, latched onto a few pages from a notebook, tore them free, and started chewing.

  “Someone! Stop it!” screeched Benson. “Before it eats any more!”

  “What’s the big deal?” said Rodgers. “It’s a songbook, not a stack of cash.”

  “To you, maybe,” said Benson. “But if you’re right and Chaz is dead, that notepad is the only remaining scrap of Chaz Willy Wilson’s creative efforts. We need to save it! The fate of the band is at stake!”

  “Right,” I said with rolled eyes. “The band.”

  “Alright, everyone calm down,” said Quinto. “The animal’s wearing a bridle. He’s clearly domesticated. Let me handle it.”

  Quinto approached the camel slowly, with his hands at chest level. The beast eyed him and kept chewing, but it didn’t shy away. Quinto spoke in a soothing tone as he walked, carefully avoiding the droppings.

  “That’s it. Good boy. Who’s a good camel?”

  In another two steps Quinto was at its side. The animal didn’t even flinch as Quinto took hold of the bridle with one hand and pet its neck with the other.

  I let out a latent breath that had been hanging out in my throat. “Well, that was surprisingly easy.”

  “Yes, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” said Quinto, continuing to massage the beast’s neck. “You guys can come over, and you can put that headknocker away, Daggers. He’s not going to bite. He’s obviously used to people.”

  I wandered over, taking the same path as Quinto to avoid unwelcome additions to my shoes. The camel continued to stand there, oblivious to our presence and interested only in the succulent flavor of Chaz’s hand-written notes. The bridle which Quinto held in his hand was constructed of faded red and yellow leather. I noticed a few words printed on the top of the crownpiece.

  “World Famous Minestrone Brothers,” I read. “You think they’re the owners?”

  “Sounds like a circus,” said Quinto. “Never heard of them.”

  Shay and Rodgers joined us by the seven foot tall animal, as did Benson, the latter only closing to within snatching range. With a quick swipe of his arm, he stole back Chaz’s notepad from the coffee table on which it rested—or at least what was left of it.

  “Damn beast,” he said. “As if I didn’t have enough problems to deal with right now…”

  It might’ve been my imagination, but I think the camel narrowed an eye in Benson’s direction.

  “Hey, did you guys see this?” Rodgers pointed at the camel’s hump.

  In the dim lighting of the Moxy’s basement suite, I hadn’t initially noticed anything concerning about our new camel friend’s backside, but upon closer look, the fur was matted and dark. “Is that…blood? Holy harvest, is this big brute okay?”

  “He’s fine,” said Shay. “It’s not his.”

  I glanced at my partner. “And you know this because?”

  “It’s why I said things made more sense now,” said Steele. “Think about it. You were concerned about the lack of blood at the crime scene. I said Chaz being murdered elsewhere and transported to Rucker Park would account for that. Did you happen to take a gander at the camel’s feet?”

  I did upon her suggestion. They were enormous. Rounded, longer than my own and at least twice as wide, with two toes per foot and a large claw at the tip of each toe—or whatever passed for one.

  “Right,” I said. “Well, I’d say I feel sheepish, but I’m afraid the pun doesn’t fit. Regardless, as glad as I am to see we most likely aren’t dealing with a hulking, twelve foot man-were-beast roaming the shrubbery of New Welwic’s central-most park, the discovery of this camel raises more questions than it answers. Apart from what’s on the camel’s back, I don’t see any pools of blood on the floor or upholstery. And let’s not forget we have no idea how this beast got here. It goes without saying there’s no one else here.”

  Shay turned to Benson Forsythe. “Who would’ve had access to this room overnight?”

  “You saw me turn the door handle,” he said. “Anyone. Everyone. Seriously. You ever party with a rock band?”

  “No comment,” said Shay. “You think anyone here might’ve seen who brought this animal in?”

  “Maybe one of the guys upstairs?” offered Benson. “I don’t know. Moving this beast in here would’ve been hard to escape notice.”

  “You missed it,” said Rodgers.

  Benson scowled.

  Shay gave Quinto a nod. “You mind taking this animal back to the station? I’m not entirely sure where to hold it, but we can’t leave it here.”

  “Oh, I see how this works,” said Quinto. “I have to babysit the beast because I’m the big burly one?”

  “Not especially,” said Steele. “More because you’ve already developed a nurturing relationship with it. I think he likes you.”

  “Steele’s right, Quinto,” I said. “This animal could be a witness to murder. Someone needs to squeeze a statement out of him.”

  Quinto’s brow furrowed as he looked at me. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

  “Neither can I,” I said. “But think of the accolades you’ll get if you succeed.”

  “Fine,” said Quinto. “I’ll take him back to HQ. Stick him in a holding pen or something—but I expect to rejoin you guys on this case. Given how this one’s unfolding, I don’t want to miss more than I have to.”

  “Fair enough,” said Steele.

  With bridle in hand, Quinto began the process of leading the camel toward the door and up the stairs. Luckily, the beast mostly played along. Shay scanned the room, likely looking for more clues. Rodgers followed suit.

  I glanced at Benson, who’d retreated toward the door and was in the process of flipping through the mangled remains of the notebook. Emboldened by his response to the camel, or perhaps sufficiently distanced from the events that had transpired in his office, I approached him.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I said.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  I ignored his snark. “Did Chaz have any fascination with…how should I put this? The occult?”

  The manager lifted his head from the notebook, but thankfully he didn’t remove his sunglasses. “Are you kidding? Have you listened to any of his songs?”

  “I’m not much of a fan.”

  Benson snorted and waved the notebook in my face. “People think he was all about the romantic ballads. They didn’t bother to listen to the actual lyrics. Of course he was into the occult. I mean, honestly. His famous song, “Creatures of the Night?” Fans thought it was an allegory about two lovers meeting after nightfall. Please. If so, it was the most thinly veiled allegory ever. They didn’t want to admit Chaz was a dark, brooding weirdo.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got the lyrics to that song available?” I said. “In that notebook, perhaps?”

  “Here? Nah. This is all new stuff. Even darker and more depressing than the old if what I’ve seen is any indication. At least “Creatur
es of the Night” was nuanced. Catchy. And people liked it. Can’t believe he’s not going to be playing that to crowds anymore…”

  Benson paused and glanced toward the stairs.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Nothing. Just an idea. Come with me.”

  He headed for the door. I gave Steele a glance, but she wasn’t caught unawares. She motioned that she and Rodgers would follow.

  7

  We backtracked to the stage, where Forsythe flagged down the two stagehands Steele and I had already met. “Mickey. Dennis. Come here for a sec.”

  The pair did as requested, though Mickey didn’t seem excited about the prospect of being summoned by Benson at such an early hour—either that or he was miffed about being called by his real name rather than his gemstone-inspired nickname.

  “Yeah, boss,” said Big D as he approached the front of the stage. “What’s up?”

  Benson jerked a thumb at me. “This here police officer—he talked to you, right? He’s interested in hearing “Creatures of the Night.” Think you two knuckleheads could play it?”

  “You want us to play a song for you, brah?” said Diamond.

  “I’m not your brah,” said Benson. “And yes, that’s exactly what I want. Or what the officer wants. Same difference. That a problem?”

  I opened my mouth to argue that I’d never actually asked to hear it, but Diamond drowned me out before I had a chance.

  “Yeah, brah,” he said excitedly. “I mean, boss. Of course. Uh…let me grab a guitar. Dennis. Give me a beat?”

  Big D nodded. “You got it.”

  The big bruiser headed back to the drums and plucked a pair of drumsticks from a pouch that hung in their midst. Meanwhile, Diamond ran over and grabbed the guitar he’d been noodling on earlier from a stand at the stage’s side. He looped it over his chest as he jogged back toward us. He looked back at Big D and gave him a nod.

  The big man nodded back, struck his sticks together three times, and went to work on the drums. He played out a steady, thumping beat, mostly from the snare and high-hat with a bit of bass drum action thrown in. Shortly thereafter, Diamond chimed in on the guitar, producing a catchy, enigmatic melody.