by Alex P. Berg
Shay cut me off with a loud hawk. “Why don’t you tell us what you found in those documents, Detective Quinto.”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Everything checks out.”
“Wait,” I said. “I think I’ve got wax in my ears. Did you say you found nothing?”
“Well, nothing in the documents. But I did find something.”
I tried to adopt my most befuddled look. I didn’t have to try hard.
“Let me explain.” My partner’s desk groaned as Quinto leaned against it. “I looked through all the documents we received, and everything fit the narrative as we know it. Drury Arms cut tons of new deals—with Mr. Powers spearheading nearly all of them. Cash came in, and cash came out. Weapons were manufactured and delivered. Receipts got signed upon delivery. Taking the story as a whole, everything looked legit. But something didn’t feel right. So I dug deeper. And I’m glad I did, because I found one slight problem. Most of the incoming payments were vapor trails.”
“Huh? What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean they disappeared, evaporated into the ether. I stopped by Mr. Drury’s bank this morning—which, by the way, is the real reason I’m late—and I inquired about his accounts. Turns out, Drury Arms is almost broke. All that money from Mr. Powers’ deals never got deposited.”
“What?” I said. “How is it nobody ever noticed?”
“I don’t know,” said Quinto.
I stroked the fuzz growing from the tip of my chin. In my morning doldrums, I’d neglected to shave.
“If Reg stole all that contract money,” I said, “nearly driving Drury Arms into bankruptcy in the process, that would be a clear motive for Thurmond Drury to want to kill him. We don’t know if he was at the charity auction, but he would’ve certainly had access to our murder weapon—if you can call it a weapon.”
“Not so fast there, hotshot,” said Quinto. “I’m not so sure Mr. Drury knows about the state of his finances. These records don’t smell fishy until you’re so close you can feel their gills rubbing against your face. If the documents were doctored—and I’d have to assume they were—then they were doctored by someone with intimate knowledge of the business’s inner workings and finances. Someone very close to the action.”
“You think Walter Fry is involved?” asked Shay.
“I can’t say for sure,” said Quinto. “But in my experience, when you’ve got a case where all the money magically disappears, talking to the accountant is a good place to start.”
I leaned back in my chair. “So it seems we need to have a more prolonged chat with Stutters McGee. An interrogation room would suit our needs better than his office. Quinto—you want to do the honors of bringing our little squirrel in?”
Quinto tilted his head and peered at me. “You sure that’s a good idea, Daggers? I thought you wanted to interrogate the runt, not kill him.”
“What are you planning, big guy? You got a vendetta against bookkeepers I don’t know about?”
“No,” said Quinto. “But the little dude nearly had a heart attack when he saw me yesterday while dropping a box off. Imagine what’ll happen when I show up to drag his butt to the precinct for questioning.”
I smiled. “Oh, I can envision it perfectly. Wally’s probably going to soil himself when you show up at his doorstep. Then again, he’s such a spook he’d probably do the same if it were me. I’d rather make you deal with the smell on the ride back from Drury Arms.”
Quinto narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. For a moment I feared I might’ve gone too far in poking the bear, but then he spoke. “I get the feeling this is an elementary plan to make me do your legwork for you, Daggers.”
I spread my arms out wide. “You know me too well, big guy.”
“Fine.” He pointed a thick finger at me. “I’ll go down there. But only because you bought drinks last night. Don’t get used to it.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, but not too big of a sigh. My wit had helped me skirt one obligation this morning, but I spotted another approaching from the precinct’s entrance.
33
Quinto stormed out the front doors as Rodgers sauntered in with an unfamiliar trench coat-clad guy in tow.
Rodgers jerked a thumb toward the door. “What’s wrong with Quinto?”
“Not sure. Hemorrhoids, maybe,” I said.
I heard a derisive snort emanate from the she-elf.
I nodded toward the new guy, an average height human with tan skin and dark hair. “Who’s this?”
The mystery man took a step forward and extended a hand. “Detective Esteban Morales. Narcotics. You must be Detective Daggers. Rodgers has told me some interesting stories about you.”
I shook the guy’s hand, but before I could inquire about the lies Rodgers had filled him with he turned to Shay. “And Miss Steele. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Likewise, Detective. Although it’s Detective Steele now.”
“Oh,” said Morales with a nod. “Well, congratulations then. You’ve come a long way in a short time if you don’t mind me saying.”
I busted out my best set of shifty eyes and split them between my partner and the new guy. “You two know each other?”
Morales nodded. “Miss—err, excuse me—Detective Steele interned with me a couple years back. She only spent a few days working with me, but in that short period of time it became obvious she was born to do police work. She’s one of the most attentive people I’ve ever met. Few details escape her notice, Detective Daggers. And that prescience? Well, let’s just say I’m not surprised to already find you in the position you’re in, Detective Steele.”
I think Shay blushed. “Thank you, Detective Morales.”
Given the mental jog, I remembered the Captain mentioning something about Shay’s involvement with the narcotics guys a few years back. Apparently, she knew more cops outside of the homicide unit than I did.
Rodgers shifted from side to side on the balls of his feet. “Guys, I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m going to see if I can catch up to Quinto before he gets too far. Got some things to discuss with him. Detective Morales should be able to shed some light on the drug paraphernalia you found at Reginald’s place.”
Rodgers turned and hightailed it after his partner. I waved in the general direction of Shay’s empty chair.
“Well, have a seat and share some knowledge with us,” I said.
Morales glanced at Shay first. “You mind?”
“Be my guest,” she said.
Morales sat. As he did so, he fished a small brown baggie out of his coat pocket. He dumped the contents onto Shay’s desk. A couple syringes and the small vial of caramel-colored liquid we’d found in Reggie’s apartment rolled out. He also extracted from his pocket a few billfold-sized placards drawn from Reggie’s desk—the ones that had been adorned with the tribal-like designs. All three cards that Detective Morales spread before him featured the same fundamental drawing—a three-pronged radial weave of thick and fine brushstrokes, each embellished in slightly different ways.
“Rodgers gave me a little background on your investigation, but not much,” said Morales. “I understand these items all came from a murdered con man. A dark elf?”
“That’s right,” said Shay. “One Reginald Powers.”
“At least that’s what we’re calling him,” I said. “That, or Reggie Sweatervest. Or maybe Reggie Mortis. I still like that one. Fact is, we don’t know what our dead guy’s real name is. We found a stack of IDs at his place.”
Morales pointed at the syringes and vial. “Was this the extent of the drug paraphernalia you found in his apartment?”
I nodded.
“Well then, I can give you a couple insights into your victim. I’ll start with the potentially less useful tidbit. This Powers guy probably wasn’t a user.” Morales picked up the brown vial. “You see this crank, here? It’s low-grade stuff. You can tell by the hue and the viscosity that it’s got loads of impurities in it. Not only is it incredibly dangerou
s—those impurities can range from the innocuous to the extremely toxic—but it takes a fair amount of this stuff to get high. If your guy was fairly well off—and from the impression Rodgers gave me, he was—he wouldn’t spring for something like this. He’d buy finer quality dope. In the event he did use this low-grade crank, he’d surely have more than one tiny vial on hand. Serious users would go through this volume of dope in less than a day.”
Shay leaned over her desk and picked up one of the syringes. “I’d thought that myself, Morales. And there’s something else I’ve just now noticed. I don’t think these have been used.” Shay pulled back the plunger on the syringe, drawing air into the tube. “See? No residue’s coming out of the tip. If these had been used, there definitely would’ve been some liquid remaining in the needle.”
“Exactly. Good eye, Steele,” said Morales.
“You were right,” I said. “That wasn’t a particularly useful tidbit. So what else can you tell us?”
Morales glanced at Shay.
“Don’t worry about him,” she snarked. “He’s grumpy because he still hasn’t gotten his daily infusion of fried sweet dough.”
I frowned. That remark reeked of defiance. I considered taking a quick trip to Tolek’s to buy a kolache so I could toss it at her head.
“Well, the more interesting information is in regards to these drawings.” Morales tapped the placards with the tribal designs. “A bunch of smalltime outfits deal low-quality dope, so there’s no way we could track down who sold the crank to your guy by way of the drugs alone. But we should be able to with these placards. Some of the more industrious gangs have recently started distributing these to their street teams. Guttersnipes mostly. They hand out the cards to prospective buyers. That way the buyers know who to contact when they want to purchase product. Names are never exchanged, and the product is never specifically mentioned. Keeps the dealers from getting entrapped.”
“Hold on a sec,” I said. “I’m not sure I follow you. How do these cards help dope fiends find their drug dealers?”
“Oh,” said Morales. “I thought that would be obvious. These designs are tattoos. Dealers have them inked onto visible body parts so buyers can identify them.”
“And let me guess,” said Shay. “These tattoos belong to a specific gang. I’m guessing dwarves.”
Morales raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why…yes. As a matter of fact, they do. How did you figure that out?”
Shay raised a finger. “Well, I—”
“Let me spare you her boast,” I said. “Shay had a vision while at Reggie’s apartment yesterday. She saw bearded men with tattoos. Obviously once she heard your take on the dope pushers, she figured we were dealing with a gang of dwarven dealers.”
Shay tilted her head as she looked at me. “You remembered. I’m impressed.”
“I’m not as dumb as I look. Really, I just didn’t want to hear you gloat about your preternatural powers again.”
“You’re just jealous because you have nothing to gloat about,” said Shay. “Unless you count the fact that you used the word ‘preternatural’ properly in a sentence for once.”
“I did? Hey Morales, guess who used the word ‘preternatural’ correctly?”
Shay and I exchanged glares.
Morales rubbed his chin. “Should I go on?”
“Please,” I said.
“Detective Steele is correct. We’ve traced this particular set of tattoos to a band of dwarves in the Erming. They’ve been in our sights for a long time now, but they only started making waves a couple months ago. Rumor has it they recently came into possession of a substantial score of illicit arms. They’ve been expanding their reach ever since.”
The gears in my head churned. Reginald’s apartment. Drug paraphernalia. The cardboard box of weapons. The Drury Arms blacksmithing operation. Dwarves with recently obtained illegal weapons.
Shay stared at me. “If you’re done making the obvious connection, perhaps we should go look into this in more detail.”
I blinked. “Right. Morales, what else can you tell us about these guys? Who are they? Who’s in charge? Where can we find them?”
“They call themselves the Razors,” said Morales. “The dude in charge is a dwarf by the name of Occam Silvervein. He—”
“Wait. Really? Occam Silvervein? Head of the Razors?” I chuckled.
“Yeah,” said Morales. “Apparently the guy has a sense of humor. Anyway, they’re in the Erming. I don’t know where exactly. But I know a guy who might have an inkling.”
“A narc?”
Morales nodded.
“Give us a name,” I said.
“Mikey ‘Tiny’ Dulcett. You should be able to find him at a dive bar called Slippery Pete’s.”
I groaned and ran a hand through my hair. “Tiny? Really?”
“What? You know the guy?”
“No, but I can guess.” I patted my coat pocket and felt Daisy’s smooth, hard body poking out from underneath the fabric. I had a feeling I might need her.
“Grab your coat and a weapon, Steele,” I said. “Papa Bear and Tenderfoot are heading to the Erming.”
34
Shay and I stood outside a faded brick building with a door that looked like it’d been pieced together out of leftover onion crates. A sagging, moth-eaten awning hung over the front, and a wooden sign nailed above the door depicted a bare foot slipping in a puddle. I figured we’d found the right place.
“You know, you still haven’t told me how you know this Tiny Dulcett character.”
I turned to Shay. “I don’t know him.”
“So how come you didn’t ask Detective Morales for a description of the guy?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I said.
I pushed the door open and strode into the bar. I had to stop for a moment as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. A horse-faced guy armed with a dirty dishrag manned the castle, while a number of surly, beer-saturated goons protected the battlements.
The irregulars turned to stare as I entered. I spotted a meaty guy with a bulbous nose, a one-eyed half-breed with an assortment of scars crisscrossing his face, and an old guy with a long, bushy mane and a hook for a hand. What a welcoming party.
The thugs snarled and went back to their brews. One guy at the end of the bar hadn’t moved—a mammoth-sized pile of man meat with a wrinkled, shaved head and shoulders that could’ve moonlighted as traffic barricades. He loomed over the bar like a mountain, blocking out what little sunlight trickled his way.
That would be Tiny.
His stench filled the room, a mixture of onions, overripe bananas, and sweaty feet. He was chowing down on a plate of bar vittles I could only hope smelled better than he did, and a tall, empty mug of beer rested beside his plate. Foamy suds dripped down the sides onto the unlacquered wood of the bar. I contemplated a strategy.
Shay slipped in behind me as the door thudded closed. I turned to her and tipped my head toward the brute.
“See that guy over there?” I asked.
Shay looked, her eyes widening. “That’s not—”
“It is.”
“I see,” she said. No wisecracks followed.
“Is he looking this way?”
“No,” said Shay. “He’s engrossed in…whatever it is he’s eating.”
I stole a glance over my shoulder. Big and Ugly seemed oblivious to our presence.
“So…are we going to go over there and talk to him?”
I nearly choked. “Are you kidding? And let everyone know what side he’s on?”
I couldn’t tell in the darkness, but I think Shay might’ve blushed. “Oh. Right. Sorry. So what’s the plan?”
“Well,” I said. “There’s a Plan A and a Plan B. I’d prefer Plan A.”
“Which is?”
“You pull one of your little vision thingies and figure out where Occam Silvervein is hiding.”
“Sorry, Daggers. I’m not getting anything at the moment.”
“Yeah, I didn’
t figure you would.” I cracked my neck to the sides and straightened my coat.
“So what’s Plan B, then?” said Shay.
“Same as it always is. I go in feet first and balls out, kicking the crap out of anything that gets in my way.”
Shay looked at me with equal parts concern and disdain. “Uhh…you sure that’s a good idea?”
“No, not really,” I said. I reached a hand into my coat and wrapped my fingers around Daisy’s cold steel. “Now stand back. The weather’s looking a little murky. I’m predicting a ninety percent chance of shit storms.”
I slipped Daisy out of my jacket, holding her down by my thigh as I walked past the bar. I casually waltzed over to the big fella.
“Hey Tiny!”
He turned around and responded in more or less the fashion I expected.
“Huh?” he said.
I slapped him upside the head with Daisy, but she didn’t want anything to do with the big lug. She rebounded off his thick skull with a loud ring. Tiny howled and surged out of his seat, swinging at me with a giant fist.
I was prepared.
I ducked as his punch sailed over me. Tiny’s momentum sent him stumbling into my outstretched leg. Leaning over, I grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked, giving him a little extra mustard.
Being as massive as he was, momentum wasn’t Tiny’s friend. He sailed across the bar, spinning and stumbling before crashing through a flimsy door and into a side street. I marched out after him, vaguely aware of the rest of the bar’s patrons fleeing out the front. Who could blame them? Anyone stupid enough and crazy enough to mess with a guy Tiny’s size deserved to be given a wide berth.
I stepped into the alley as Tiny extracted himself from a pile of tin trashcans. He pulled a knife, but I stopped him with a flash of my badge. “Hold up there, Mikey. Daggers. Homicide. I need a word.”
The emotion in Tiny’s eyes flashed from anger to confusion, then back to anger. “Bleeding goat sacks, man…what the hell?”
“Watch the language, tough guy,” I said. “You’re in the presence of a lady.”
On cue, Shay stepped through the shattered remains of the door and into the alley at my side.
