by Alex P. Berg
As we entered, Talent’s eyes turned up from a stack of paperwork to examine us over the rims of his blocky spectacles. Something deep within the eyes smoldered, giving off a cool heat.
Ahh. So there was a fire.
“Sir,” said the butler. “Some detectives from the constabulary are here to speak with you.”
Constabulary? Apparently Jeeves held a master’s degree in linguistics. Is that what our society was coming to? Guys with university degrees taking on jobs as valets?
“Yes. Come in,” said Mr. Talent, waving off the butler. His voice, hard and lean, matched his exterior. I sensed my patented quip-heavy approach would be wasted on him, so I decided to play it straight and cut to the meat.
“Perspicacious Blaze?” I asked. “I’m Detective Daggers. This is my partner, um…Detective Steele.”
The words felt fuzzy as they left my lips. I realized I’d never referred to her as a detective. Had that been an intentional slight on my part? Did saying the words add legitimacy to her position? I stowed the thoughts in my cheek for me to chew on later.
“Call me Charles Talent,” said the graybeard. “I only use the moniker Perspicacious Blaze as my public persona. In matters of business, I use my given name.”
“Very well, Mr. Talent,” I said. “We’re here regarding the murder of your soon to be son-in-law, Reginald Powers.”
Charles Talent exhaled and ran a weathered hand through his hair. “Yes. What a disaster. Poor Felicity is inconsolable. As if she hasn’t had to deal with enough personal tragedy in her life already. If her mother were here perhaps she’d be able to guide her through this, but I’ve always been terrible at providing support in matters of the heart. And as if dealing with my disconsolate daughter weren’t hard enough, I also have to deal with this mess of a cancelled wedding. Do you have any idea how many people I have to notify and how many deposits I’m going to lose?”
The old man removed his glasses and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. After the brief moment of weakness, he blinked and replaced his glasses. “I hope you’re here to inform me of some leads in your investigation, at least?”
Shay jumped into the fray. “Actually, Mr. Talent, we were wondering if you could tell us about Reginald.”
“Very well,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“What were your impressions of him?”
“He was a nice enough young man. Had a good head on his shoulders. Knew how to strike a deal. I liked that. Most youths lack a keen business sense these days.”
“And did you approve of his engagement to your daughter?” asked Shay.
“Yes. He was honest and forthright with me, and he treated my daughter with love and respect. I fully supported their union. Or at least I supported the endeavor as much as any father can be expected to when he’s about to lose his daughter.”
“So,” I asked. “You didn’t have any suspicions about him or his devotion to Felicity?”
The old guy chuckled. “Detective, suspicion is a quality that develops naturally for every father of a young woman. When you’re as wealthy as I am, that suspicion is magnified tenfold. I can’t tell you how many suitors of Felicity’s I’ve had my doubts about, but Reginald wasn’t one of them. He loved Felicity. Plain as day.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask? What are you getting at?”
I glanced at Shay before turning my eyes back on the old man. “Mr. Talent, I don’t know how to tell you this, but we have reason to believe your future son-in-law was a Grade A confidence man.”
21
The eyebrows on old granite-face rose in what appeared to be genuine surprise. Either the geezer was a seasoned actor, or he truly didn’t know.
“Really?” he said. “Are you sure?”
“We found numerous forged documents in his apartment,” said Shay. “Identification cards. Bank records. You name it. Not to mention wigs, makeup, and disguises. He also may have been involved in a number of other illegal activities, including both drug and weapons trafficking.”
Mr. Talent leaned back in his chair, silent in thought. I sensed an opening, so I attacked. “Mr. Talent, could you tell us what exactly you do for a living?”
“I’m the head of a consortium that owns a number of foundries here in the city. I’d assumed you were aware of that fact.”
“I was,” I said. “But what exactly qualified you to lead such a consortium?”
“I’m what a layman would call a fire mage,” said Mr. Talent. “Again, I thought that was common knowledge.”
“So you’re exceptionally talented—no pun intended—at creating intense, concentrated sources of heat. Heat that could be used in a number of different ways. Melting ores. Starting fires. Burning through things that otherwise wouldn’t burn?”
Granite-face cast a fiery glare my way. “Don’t patronize me, Detective…what, Daggers was it? Say what you mean to say.”
“Charles, are you aware of the manner in which Reginald Powers was killed?”
“Enlighten me,” he replied.
“We found him flat on his back with a six inch hole burned through his chest. Went clean through him. Melted his muscles, bones, everything. Left nothing behind.”
The old man snorted. “What? And you think I killed him?”
“Your daughter, she’s an only child?” I asked.
“Yes. Her mother died during labor.”
“And you never remarried?”
“No.”
“So, whoever marries her stands to inherit quite a fortune after your eventual passing on, correct?”
Charles Talent pressed his fingers to his temple. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying Reginald was a con man, and you think he was marrying my daughter for the inheritance money. And so…what? You think I found out about that fact, and then rather than simply kicking him to the curb and forbidding him from marrying my daughter, I killed the man instead? That’s ludicrous!”
“Is it?” I asked. “Then how do you explain the manner of Reginald’s death?”
“What? I don’t know,” said Mr. Talent. “Explaining that’s your job, not mine. Look, Detective, I don’t know what sorts of evidence you found at Reginald’s apartment, but his murder had nothing to do with my wealth. I stand by what I said. Reginald loved my daughter, and I have the paperwork to prove it.”
“Excuse me?” Had the old man lost his marbles? What kind of paperwork could prove a man’s love? Psychics in the city abounded, but as far as I knew they were all frauds.
The fire mage leaned to his left and opened a drawer. After leafing through some files, he produced a standard legal document with a number of signatures at the bottom of the page.
“This,” he said, holding the document forth for us to inspect, “is a prenuptial agreement signed by Reginald Powers. At the bottom, you’ll find his signature alongside mine and that of my banker, who’s a public notary. There’s an additional copy stored in a safe deposit box at my bank.”
Shay, who’d started to look ashen around the moment I accused His Blazeiness of murder, took a few tentative steps forward and retrieved the printed form. “This looks legitimate,” she said. “And ironclad, I might add. The money would stay in the family under any imaginable scenario.”
“Which was my intention,” said Mr. Talent.
Something nibbled at the back of my mind. “When was that agreement signed?”
“Um…let’s see…about a month ago,” said Shay.
Hmm… So the prenuptial agreement had been made before Reggie had asked Felicity to elope with her. Interesting. I pulled out my trusty spiral-bound pad and made a note.
I turned back to Mr. Talent. “Do you mind if we ask you a few more questions?”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “But I don’t suppose I have any choice other than to comply, do I?”
If anything, old granite-face’s visage had hardened even more. He knew we had nothing on him, and he tired of us lowly public servants wasting his time.
“Wh
ere were you last night between the hours of ten and two?” I asked.
“I attended the charity ball with my daughter and Reginald until about midnight, at which point a carriage brought me home.”
Despite the fact that their complaints were the primary impetus that launched the new age of human-powered transport, the city’s wealthy preferred not to use the term ‘rickshaw.’
“And what about this morning,” I said. “Where were you at around eleven?” That would’ve been more or less when we found the remains of the fire at Reginald’s place.
“I was taking a brisk constitutional in the neighborhood to clear my thoughts.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Can anyone vouch for where you were?”
“Corey keeps a dated log of everyone who comes and goes at the front. Beyond that, I’m sure some of the neighborhood watch spotted me on my walk.”
I assumed Corey was the name of Mr. Dazed-and-Confused at the front gates. I’d be sure to check his logs, but it wouldn’t matter. By his own admission, Chucky placed himself at the crime scene during the initial murder and claimed to be alone during the window of time in which the fire took place at Reggie’s apartment. I made a few more notes in my pad and tucked it away.
My impatient silver-haired adversary noticed the action. “So, are we done here? I have a number of affairs that need to be attended to, and your unscheduled visit has pushed me behind schedule.”
“We’re done,” I said. “Just don’t leave town until we’ve made an arrest. Understand?”
A glare served as my only response.
I beckoned to Shay and we left.
22
Shay looked out of sorts as we reached the exit to the breezeway.
“Crotchety old badger, isn’t he?” I said.
“Hmm?”
“The geezer. His Blazeiness. Charles Talent?”
“Oh…yes,” said Shay. For a moment, I thought that was all she was going to offer, but she turned to me with a question in her eyes. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” I asked.
“How do you accuse someone like Charles Talent of murder?”
“Oh, it’s easy. Comes with the territory. Stick around long enough and you’ll start tossing around murder accusations like they’re hoops at a carnival game, too.”
“I didn’t mean in general,” said Shay. “I meant him, personally. Someone with that much power? That much influence? How could you not be intimidated?”
The honest answer was I probably lacked some vital survival mechanism most logical beings were born with. That, or I’d taken one too many hits to the head. Or maybe it was some sort of continuous feedback loop—the more blows to the head I took, the less I cared about my own self-preservation.
I provided a more politically correct response, however.
“People of all types and stations commit murder, and usually for the exact same reasons. The ones at the top of the heap take longer to fall. But when they land, they tend to hit the hardest. They might seem powerful, but you can’t let them intimidate you. We’ve got the claws of justice on our side. Always remember that.”
I hadn’t intended to deliver a motivational speech, and part of me felt a little foolish. Way to impress the rookie, Daggers. But Shay hadn’t rolled her eyes at me, so perhaps my words hadn’t sounded as silly to her ears as they had to mine.
“Anyway,” I said. “I figured you’d be comfortable around a guy like him.”
“Me? Why?” Shay looked confused.
“Well, you’re like two peas in a pod, aren’t you? With your para-super-doopery abilities?”
Shay blushed and looked away. “Yeah, um…to compare my abilities with the sorts of powers he can unleash is exceedingly generous.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Magic is magic, right?”
Young Miss Steele shook her head.
My buddy, lemon-face, at the gate showed us the entry logs, but they didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.
We hailed another rickshaw and bounced our way back to the precinct.
We found Rodgers and Quinto hunched over their desks, poring over large piles of Reggie Sweatervest’s personal effects. I felt a sudden outpouring of affection for the Captain who’d so generously assigned the pair to help out with the case. Without them, it would’ve been me and Shay on rummage detail, and the only thing keeping me from tearing out my hair at the roots would’ve been the never-ending flow of coffee from the break room.
I clapped Rodgers on the back. “You guys find anything useful in all that stuff?”
Rodgers lifted his head and gave me a sly grin. “Depends. What are you offering in return?”
“What’s going on here?” I asked with mock seriousness. “You angling for a free beer? At my expense? I should report you to the Captain for unethical behavior.”
Quinto was in on the game. “I don’t know, Daggers. My throat’s parched, too. If the Captain were to ask me about this here incident, I’m not sure I could properly describe what happened, given the current condition of my vocal cords.”
I noticed Shay smiling. Her mood improved whenever the four of us—her, Rodgers, Quinto and I—all had a chance to interact together. Was I that much of a curmudgeon that my company alone turned her into a moody mess? Or did she just enjoy seeing me getting ripped on for a change? I suspected the latter.
“This is extortion, you know,” I huffed. “Fine. I’ll buy you guys a round later, but just one. And by one I mean a pint, not some pony keg with a handle attached.” I wagged a finger at Quinto. He was clearly disappointed. “So come on, what have you got for me?”
“Lots,” said Rodgers. “But I’m not sure how much of it is really useful. All of our dead guy’s different identities are pulling us in separate directions. Looks like Reggie had at least a half-dozen bank accounts. All at different institutions. All in different names.”
“So you’re saying it’s going to take a lot of legwork to sort out his financials, and even if we do, we might not get much out of it?” Perfect. If there was one thing I loved, it was copious amounts of low-intensity physical activity.
“The drugs and weapons might be the better route to pursue,” said Quinto. “Rodgers said he knows a guy in narcotics who might be able to shed some light on these.” He held up a couple of loose-leaf pages of artwork I’d noticed upon entering Reggie’s apartment—the ones that held tribal-like designs.
“You think that’s some sort of gang symbol?”
“My buddy Esteban should know,” said Rodgers. “He’s out on assignment today, but I notified the Captain. He said he’ll make sure Esteban drops by first thing tomorrow to talk to us.”
“For now, the weapons might be your best lead,” said Quinto. “We checked the maker’s marks, and they all came from a place called Drury Arms. It’s on the forty-nine hundred block of East 23rd.”
“That’s the place Felicity said Reginald worked,” said Shay. “I’m sure the owners would be eager to know their best dealmaker had a half-dozen of their finest sharp and pointy things in his apartment.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Arms dealers tend to be pretty persnickety when it comes to thieves. As they should be. Those who aren’t tend to lose their business licenses and end up in jail.”
“The forty-nine hundred block,” said Shay. “That’s…pretty far out on the east side.”
I glanced at my partner’s boots. I knew they weren’t as comfortable as she’d made them out to be. One more point for me. Of course, I wasn’t about to fight the notion that we should take a rickshaw either. The Captain might blow a gasket if we blew the department’s weekly transportation budget in a day or two, but I could always blame it on Shay. I doubted the Captain would go ballistic on his new star recruit.
“Alright,” I said. “We can hitch a ride.”
“Hey, before you go,” said Rodgers. “I wanted to let you know Reginald’s body is down in the morgue, and Miss Talent just stopped b
y and identified it. We may not know if Reginald was his real name, but at least we know our dead guy is who we think he is.”
“Great,” I said. “Does Cairny have a report for us yet?” Cairny was our coroner, and prior to Shay’s arrival, she was the only woman who I had any regular interaction with at the precinct.
“Not yet,” said Rodgers. “Maybe in a few hours.”
“Alright. You ready to go?” I asked Shay.
She nodded.
“Have fun on your rickshaw ride,” said Quinto. I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a jab at me and my partner, or if he was just plain jealous. The guy was so big most rickshaw drivers would keel over from exhaustion after dragging him a bare half-mile.
“So this should be a fun visit for you,” I told Steele as we exited the precinct.
“What? Why?” she said.
“Well, you know, because smithies work mostly with steel, and your last name is Steele.”
My partner looked at me blankly. “You know your last name is Daggers, right?”
I smiled. “Well, then, I guess this is going to be a rip-roaring trip down Surname Lane for both of us then, isn’t it?”
Shay failed to find the same humor in that as I did.
23
The ride to Drury Arms was more eventful than I’d anticipated and not in a good way. Our rickshaw found smooth sailing up until we hit the entrance to the Bridge, at which point we became snarled in a traffic quagmire of stalled rickshaws, stationary handcarts, and impatient pedestrians.
Like most things in our city, the Bridge had a name—the East Bay Bridge—but no one had any reason to call it anything other than ‘the Bridge’ as it was the only decent option for traversing the Earl for ten miles north or south. I’m sure engineers got all wet in the britches whenever they set eye on it. Part suspension bridge and part bascule bridge, its weighty pylons spanned the river’s wide girth while a movable section in the middle could be raised to allow passage to freighters and barges.
