Steele of the Night (Daggers & Steele Book 7)

by Alex P. Berg

  “And I’m guessing you and Steele are off to see the lion cart?” he said.

  “You’re as sharp as a tack, my friend.”

  “Figures,” he said. “But I’ll do it. And not only because I might be able to brag to Allison that I got to see the last Yellow Cobra concert.”

  “That’s the ticket,” I said. “Steele?”

  She gave me a nod. We got the address from Phillips and pushed our way back out through the front.

  37

  Phillip’s address wasn’t quite as accurate as I’d hoped, but Shay and I found the spot anyway thanks to the lanterns the beat cops had set up at the scene. They shone like beacons of curiosity, their light spilling from the mouth of an alley tucked between two mottled brown brick buildings, one shuttered and with a ‘For Lease’ sign hanging over the door and the other a warehouse of some sort.

  A light snowfall had started to fall, though the air remained too warm for it to stick. Certainly, the flakes hadn’t impacted the bluecoat at the foot of the alley. He stood there, impervious to their assault as he plucked something from a small brown bag and stuffed it in his mouth.

  We approached the man, a middle-aged guy with broad shoulders and a brown beard that grew thicker around his neck than it did over his face. He eyed us, but didn’t move to stop us. His legs might as well have sprouted roots.

  “You those detectives?” He stuffed more of the bag’s contents into his mouth.

  I eyed the bag. What was it? Chewing tobacco? “Daggers and Steele. That’s us. This the alley with the cart?”

  The officer turned and spat. Remnants of sunflower seeds spewed from his lips. It wasn’t quite as disgusting as a spray of brown, nicotine-soaked saliva would’ve been, but it was close.

  “This is it,” he said. “Go on in. Have a look. We tried not to touch anything. I know how persnickety you lot are about your crime scenes.”

  Between the man’s word choice and his clear disdain for our presence, I gathered he didn’t have any career aspirations beyond his position. Good thing, too. A spittoon wouldn’t match the station’s décor.

  “Just a sec.” Shay pointed toward the alley interior. “When did you find this?”

  The officer shrugged. “I don’t know. Hour. Hour and a half ago.”

  “While on your beat?” asked Shay.

  The guy nodded. More sunflower seeds went into his mouth.

  “Was anyone here?” asked Shay.

  “Nope.” The seeds gave his voice a warbled texture.

  I nodded toward the lanterns. “Come on.” The ‘this guy’s useless’ was implied.

  I led the way into the alley, skirting a stack of trash loosely piled against the bricks on the left-hand side. Unfortunately, my route took me straight into a trap. Mud squelched as it met my boots, squishing and rising over my soles.

  “Oh, and watch for the mud,” called Officer Spittleface.

  I ground my teeth. “Thanks.”

  A drain pipe ran down the edge of the warehouse, spilling its contents behind the pile of trash. The warmer than normal temperatures must’ve melted whatever snow lingered on the roof and sent it pouring into the alley. I pulled my foot from the mud with a wet smack and scraped it against the bricks to clean it.

  Shay picked her way around the trouble spot. “Better you than me, given our footwear. I owe you one.”

  “That’s me,” I said. “The proverbial guinea pig. Just push me in the way of any wild animals, stray fists, or crumbling masonry. I’ll be fine.”

  I banged my boot against the bricks a couple more times and danced along the edge of the structure toward the cart, brightly illuminated by the pair of lanterns Officer Spittleface had mounted on stakes at the scene. The cart itself, marked on the sides with the words ‘Live Animal Transport,’ stood about six and a half feet tall and was mounted on two enormous wooden wheels with a hitch assembly hanging from the front. I spotted a few long leather straps that looked as if they were meant for attaching the thing to a horse, but I imagine they could’ve just as easily been used with a camel.

  Shay had already moved to the backside of the cart. She peered into the iron-banded box and gagged. “Ugh. Jake, come look at this.”

  I did as she asked. As I skirted the corner, I got a whiff of what had wrinkled her nose—a sour, metallic tang of blood mixed with a potent musk reminiscent of the zoo’s worst offerings. I plucked one of the lanterns from its post and held it into the cart’s cavity. Sure enough, a dark, sticky substance coated the floor, as well as parts of the sides and ceiling. Because of the darkness and mud, I couldn’t tell how much of the stuff had spilled outside the enclosure, but I could tell it wasn’t blood alone that coated the inside of the cart. Copious amounts of hair had been sprinkled into the mixture. The cart’s walls also appeared to be heavily scratched, but whether the damage was new or old, I couldn’t tell.

  I returned the lantern to its stake. “Well, unless multiple people were murdered in New Welwic Zoo transport wagons last night, I’d say we found our cart.”

  “Agreed,” said Shay. “Why don’t you check the front? See if there are any clues we might’ve missed. I’ll do the same here in back.”

  “Clues you might’ve missed?” I said. “I can try, but I’ll probably fail.”

  Despite her exhaustion, that brought a smile to her lips. I skirted back around the edge of the cart, keeping my feet close to the shuttered building and out of the muck. I cast my gaze around, more slowly this time.

  “You noticed the mud, of course,” I said.

  Shay’s voice drifted around the side of the wagon. “I would’ve had a hard time missing it thanks to your own squishy encounter.”

  “So you noticed the tracks, then,” I said. “The mud, well…muddied them, for lack of a better word, but they seem to be about the same size and shape as the camel footprints we found in Rucker Park this morning.”

  Shay hummed some sort of agreement.

  I glanced toward the pile of trash. “Did you notice the garbage? Some of it’s been knocked out of the cans. I can’t imagine it was deposited that way to being with.”

  “Daggers?” said Shay. “Come look at this.”

  I turned around and found Shay kneeling at the side of the alley. A few loose pieces of trash inhabited her side as well: stray sheets of newspaper, cigarette butts, an old shoe, and bits of rotting foodstuffs, mostly. Shay held something else in her hand, though.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Shay stood and turned. “An empty jar. Well, mostly empty. There’s a little something left at the bottom. Could be mud, but I think it’s…peanut butter.”

  I blinked. “That’s…odd.”

  “Is it?” said Shay. “The zookeeper said she found baboons fighting over a jar near the animal enclosures last night.”

  “Yes, but she also said the baboons weren’t able to get it open. That she confiscated the jar. And the bodega owner who pointed us in the zoo’s direction said he sold the Cobras a jar of peanut butter. As in singular, not plural.”

  “Maybe he misremembered,” said Shay.

  “He checked the ledger,” I said. “I doubt he’d have marked it down wrong. Sales are that orc’s livelihood. He wouldn’t make that sort of mistake often.”

  “What are you saying?” said Shay. “That the orc from the bodega is in on this somehow?”

  I shook my head, but I’d already retreated into the depths of my mind. There was an explanation that made sense. Sort of.

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” said Shay. “We can bring this to Cairny, but I’m pretty sure this is peanut butter. Certainly I’m not going to taste—hey, where are you going?”

  I’d started to drift toward the far end of the alley, the one opposite from where we’d entered. “I’ve got an idea. Follow me.”

  38

  I made it to the street and peered down its darkened lengths. The neighborhood we’d entered wasn’t partic
ularly busy given the hour, but lights nonetheless shined from beneath the eaves of a few shops. I squinted as I tried to make out the signs above them. One featured a picture of a shoe and a pie and the name The Cheery Cobbler. Another sign read Qwik Wicks, which sounded more my speed, but the picture next to the name made me think the place was a candle shop rather than a convenience store owned by a guy with a lisp and a poor grasp of punctuation. I did eventually spot the place I’d hoped I would—a small freestanding building by the name of Go Go Grocery.

  Shay joined me at the mouth of the alley. “Daggers?”

  “Come on,” I said, tilting my head toward the shop. “Let me do the talking.”

  A few quick steps brought me to the door. I pulled it open, hearing the shopkeeper’s bell ring out. Lights burned bright within, showcasing the store’s assorted snacks, groceries, and household goods, all set on racks much like they’d been at the Pop ‘n Shop bodega.

  A gnome with a long pipe in hand, wearing a velvet nightcap in addition to a set of purple pajamas, sat on a stool behind the front counter.

  I approached him. “Hey, pops. Got a question for you.”

  “Pops?” he said. “I’ll have you know I’m sixteen, you old fart.”

  “Tell it to the wrinkles on your face.” I took out my badge. “Either way, if you’re telling the truth, you shouldn’t be smoking. Or violating occupational workplace standards.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” said the gnome, putting down the pipe. “I don’t want any trouble. This is a family business. My dad owns it. We’re not breaking any age-related hiring rules.”

  “Good,” I said, returning my badge to my jacket. “Now tell me. Someone came in last night. Probably between four thirty and six thirty. Bought a jar of peanut butter. Who was it?”

  “What?” The gnome looked at me like I’d lost it. Maybe I had.

  “Last night. Peanut butter. Four thirty. Six thirty. Who?”

  I heard Shay’s voice from behind me. “Daggers… Calm down.”

  The poor gnome blinked. “Dude, I don’t know. I don’t work the night shift. My pops does.”

  “I need to talk to him. Now. Where is he?”

  “Upstairs in the loft,” said the gnome. “We rent the whole building. But he might be asleep. He doesn’t take over until ten.”

  I looked around. A door to the side of the counter beckoned. “Those the stairs?”

  “Yeah,” said the gnome. “But you can’t go barging in there. That’s our home.”

  Shay stood behind me. In addition to being calmer and more level-headed than I was, she was also captain now. She didn’t make the rules, but she enforced them. Punished the stubborn jackasses who barged into people’s apartments without warrants and excluded the evidence said knuckleheads gathered. Somehow I suspected she wouldn’t cut me any slack due to our relationship, not even in exchange for sexual favors—especially because the favors usually flowed in the other direction.

  “Look,” I told the gnome. “What was your name?”

  “Gniddgnissario.”

  “Okay, Nidnis… Nidni… Can I call you Nid?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Here’s the deal, Nid,” I said. “I’m a homicide detective. My partner Steele is, too. Someone was murdered in an alley around the corner from here last night. I think they came in and purchased something from your grocery. I have to get a description. It could break our case wide open. So unless your old man’s in a coma, I’m going to need you to take me to him to see what he knows. Steele can guard the door, make sure nobody makes off with anything. Is that okay with you?”

  “Uh…yeah. Sure. I guess.” He hopped off the stool and landed lightly on his feet. “Come with me.”

  He led me up the stairs, which thankfully were sized for normal people—Nid had said they rented the building, after all. At the second floor landing, we stopped in front of another door. I had to reign in my desire to kick the thing down while Nid produced a key, which he inserted into a secondary lock installed at knee level.

  The lock clacked, he pushed the door open, and ushered me in. The smell of cooked beet greens and bacon greeted me, as did the whistling of a tea kettle and the shrieking of a teeny, tiny baby gnome. The gnome lass who held the babe stared at me as I entered, as did an assortment of six or seven other gnomes of indeterminate ages, all of them seated at a diner table roughly the size of my coffee table at home.

  Suddenly I felt overjoyed that I hadn’t barged in like a rampaging bull. Given that I dealt with murderers for a living, it was easy to forget most people in the city had families and were simply trying to get by.

  “Uh, mom? Dad?” said Nid. “This is officer…Daggers, was it? With the police. He needs to talk to dad.”

  “Detective, actually,” I said. “But it’s okay.”

  One of the gnomes—to my eyes neither discernibly younger or older than any of the others—stood and skirted the table. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  I felt the weight of over a dozen small eyes on me, burrowing into me with a mixture of anger and fear. Was it my size? It wasn’t that I was a police officer, was it?

  “Ah…sorry to interrupt your dinner,” I said. “Or breakfast, for you anyway. Whichever. I just need to ask you about last night. A man came into your store. I’m guessing between four-thirty and six-thirty. He bought peanut butter. Am I right?”

  “Yeah,” said the father gnome. “That’s right. He didn’t look too good. Was all muddy and had a welt on his face. I had to get the mop out after he left.”

  I didn’t need to ask the next question, but I did anyway, just to be sure. “His hair. Describe it for me.”

  “It was black. Curly. He had a lot of it.”

  I suppressed a fist pump. “Thanks. That’s all I needed. You guys have a wonderful dinner.”

  I turned and raced down the stairs where I found Steele still standing by the door. I shot her a grin. “It was Ritchie.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “The gnome upstairs identified him?”

  I nodded. “He fell into the mud outside. He came here and purchased a second jar of peanut butter. He’s the one who killed Chaz.”

  Shay’s brow furrowed. “Okay, I’m with you so far. But…why? And not just why, but how? What the heck happened out there?”

  I rubbed my hands together. “I’m not sure, but it’s high time we found out.”

  39

  My badge—still somehow attached to the rest of my black leather wallet—got me past the bouncer at the Moxy’s front door. Inside, I found the situation largely unchanged from when I’d left it. A dense crowd packed the club’s main floor, bouncing and gyrating along with the music. The Yellow Cobra quartet, with Diamond having replaced Chaz, continued to rock, though they’d all developed a sheen of sweat thanks to the bright lights, the heat of the huddled masses, and their own exertions.

  I found Phillips and Rodgers standing against the wall near the front door. I waved and closed on them, with Shay at my side.

  “Guys,” I said. “Give us an update.”

  “I talked to Benson,” Rodgers said over the crowd. “Made myself explicit about his required participation in our stunt. He’s in his office. He won’t try anything. Phillips and I’ve been here by the front the rest of the time, and Quinto hasn’t shifted from his post at the back—at least he hadn’t the last time I checked. Those groupies are persistent.”

  “That’s not all. We sent for backup.” Phillips pointed out a pair of bluecoats, one by the bar and another at the base of the crowd, near the hallway toward the back. “There’s another with Detective Quinto. They arrived maybe ten minutes ago. Good timing, for you two as well. This is the Cobra’s encore. They came back onstage a couple minutes before you popped in.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “When this song’s over, I want everyone to move. Rodgers, you head to Benson’s office and snag him. Phillips, you’ll help Steele, Quinto, and the rest of us wrangle the Cobras. I want all of t
hem. B. B., Sammy, Ritchie, Diamond, and Dennis. And hopefully we can send a team to snag Billy Charles. I’ll want to talk to him, too.”

  Rodgers looked to Steele. “That good with you?”

  She nodded, which reminded me I should be letting her take the lead now. Then again, her being captain didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to dictate the course of our investigations. Perhaps she preferred for me to take charge in those scenarios, or she felt comfortable wrestling the reins from me if I happened to deviate from the strategy she would’ve suggested. Or she valued my fragile male ego and knew I liked to boss people around every now and then.

  “What about you guys?” said Rodgers. “Find anything?”

  I nodded. “Ritchie did it.”

  “Seriously?” said Rodgers. “What happened?”

  “We’ll explain it later,” said Shay. “Or rather, I hope Ritchie or one of the others will, because right now we’re pretty clueless about how or why it happened. But we’ll get there.”

  The music intensified, a crescendo of wailing guitars, thumping drums, and ringing cymbals, all with Diamond’s warbling voice carrying over the rest of it. With a resounding cymbal crash, it died, and B. B. called out. “Thank you! Thank you! Good night!”

  The Cobras waved, bowed, and exited toward the back of the stage.

  “That’s our cue,” I said. “Let’s move. Phillips? Can you notify Quinto?”

  “You bet.” He motioned to the officers at the sides of the club, both of whom were thankfully paying attention. They nodded and started to close on the stage as Phillips worked his way into the back hallway. Rodgers headed toward the stairs to snag the band manager while Steele and I pushed our way through the crowd.

  I led the way, feeling like a fish swimming upstream, but eventually I reached the elevated platform. A decent mob still gathered there, chatting, sipping on their beers, and dancing to the ghost echoes of the music. I pushed through them, too, and mounted the stage. From there I headed stage left, knowing the route to the ready room lay that way.