by Alex P. Berg
I grunted in response. “You clearly have some thoughts nagging at you, so why don’t you share?”
“Charles Talent is a smart guy. You can’t become as financially successful as he is without possessing a high degree of intelligence. So how is it a guy as smart as he is left a pile of blackmail documents tying him to Reginald’s murder in his own safe?”
“Smart people make stupid mistakes when they’re stressed,” I said. “You see that in this business all the time.”
“Yes,” said Shay. “I agree. But he knew he was a suspect. You basically accused him of murder yesterday afternoon. Even if he’d forgotten to cut ties with Reginald immediately after the murder, don’t you think he would’ve destroyed the blackmail letters after our first meeting with him? Besides, what about the burnt documents we found in Reginald’s apartment? Someone clearly went out of their way to destroy those. If Mr. Talent disposed of the incriminating evidence at Reginald’s apartment, why would he have forgotten to do the same with his own? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Fair point,” I said.
“There’s more than that, though,” said Shay. “You remember how Felicity mentioned Reginald wanted to elope?”
“How could I forget?” I said. “You’ve mentioned it more than once.”
Shay stuck a finger up in the air before her. “Well, if Reginald was trying to blackmail Charles Talent into annulling the prenuptial agreement, why would he try to skip town and marry Felicity before the agreement was dissolved? That doesn’t make any sense, either.”
“Simple,” I said. “He underestimated Mr. Talent. Reginald thought he’d roll over, but Charles pushed back. The encounters got passionate. Violent, maybe. He realized he never should’ve messed with a fire mage and tried to skip town.”
“But to do so before having the agreement annulled would mean he wouldn’t inherit any of Talent’s money.”
I shrugged. “If the choice is between money and your neck, you choose your neck every time.”
“But if you’re right, Daggers,” said Shay, “then why ask Felicity to come along? Why bother continuing to perpetrate the ruse at that point?”
I drummed my fingers on the face of my desk. “You’re right. That doesn’t make sense.”
Shay leaned in toward me. “I have a theory.”
Her lean pulled me in like a magnet. I shifted forward in my chair. “Well, go on. Don’t leave me hanging.”
Shay smiled. “What if Charles Talent was telling us the truth? What if Reginald was in love with Felicity? What if the marriage wasn’t a con after all?”
I raised my eyebrows. “You really think Reginald…was in love?”
Shay cocked her head at me. “Come on, you’re not that jaded, are you? Why not?”
I stood up and threw my arms in the air. “Because it would mean this whole marriage thing was a giant red herring! And it would leave us without any clue as to who killed our dapper dark elf.”
“We’re not completely in the dark,” said Shay.
“Oh, really? You think you know who killed Reggie?”
“Well, it’s usually the obvious person, isn’t it?”
I furrowed my eyebrows to the best of my ability, inviting the cream of my partner’s wit. I’d be damned if I’d missed something obvious.
“You know,” she said. “The guy who Rodgers, Quinto, and I all thought you were going to arrest? The other guy who had access to thermite? The guy who probably went into a rage when he found out Reginald had completely ruined him? Thurmond Drury.”
“Oh. Right.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets, feeling sheepish. “But what about the blackmail letters from Reginald to Talent?”
Shay twisted her lips a mite. “Yeah…that part doesn’t totally jive, does it? But maybe Mr. Talent’s right. Maybe someone’s trying to frame him, and those documents were planted.”
I paced back and forth as I mulled over my partner’s thoughts. I didn’t want to admit it to Shay, but I’d forgotten about Mr. Drury. In my haste to tie together the case’s threads, perhaps I’d been too focused on the biggest target.
If Shay was right, and Reginald and Felicity’s upcoming wedding was a thing of love and not opportunity, then Thurmond Drury was the only obvious culprit. Perhaps Drury had realized Charles Talent had been the beneficiary of his own loss, and so he’d attempted to frame him for the murder with thermite. It all seemed possible, but something about the theory nagged at the back of my mind—something that didn’t fit.
Despite being deep in thought, I heard the clip-clop of approaching footsteps—for once.
47
A woman with short, spiky hair and thin rectangular bifocal glasses approached us, a brown leather attaché case in hand. She wore a mauve pantsuit over her lanky frame, and her stiletto heels knocked on the hard office floor.
“Excuse me…are you detectives Daggers and Steele?” Her voice was formal but not unpleasant.
“Yes.” I eyed her. I’d already had to deal with one of Perspicacious Blaze’s lawyers, and I had little interest in being badgered by another.
“I’m Annabel Clure of Zaldane and Associates. Detective Rodgers asked me to authenticate some documents for you.”
“Oh.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re the handwriting expert. Rodgers had you looking at the bank statements and shipping invoices, didn’t he?”
“That’s correct.” Ms. Clure set her attaché case down on my desk and snapped the case’s clasps open with a pop. She extracted two bank statements and set them on my desk. Next to them she placed a letter of some sort.
“I’m sure your time is as valuable as mine, detectives, so I’ll try to be brief. On the right is one of the bank statements you suspect of having been forged. In the center is the official statement obtained by Detective Quinto this morning, and on the left is a reference document from your suspected tamperer, Mr. Powers.
“Given the full spectrum of evidence, I can say with confidence the bank statements represented by the specimen here on the right were, in fact, forged by Mr. Powers. The signals are subtle, as Mr. Powers was clearly an expert at symbolic mimicry, but the weight of the script is identical in the forged statements and in the control.”
I wasn’t sure I understood everything she said, but I got the gist of it. “Well, that’s not really a surprise. What about the invoices?”
Ms. Clure extracted one of the shipping invoices and a memo from Mr. Drury from her attaché case, laying them over the bank statements on the desk.
“Good question.” The graphologist pointed at the memo. “If I could draw your attention to this numeral here—the number four. See how the line that composes the upper left quadrant of the number curves in?”
I leaned over the page to look. Shay did the same.
“That’s how Mr. Drury scripts his fours. Now take a look at the shipping invoice.” Annabel pointed at the address that had been modified. “This number four features a much straighter line in the same quadrant. To the lay eye, it seems a trivial difference, but line curvature is an important trait of writing. This portion of the document was clearly rewritten.
“Now, if we turn our attention to Mr. Powers’ handiwork—” Ms. Clure pointed at the reference page. “—we also find a number four. You’ll notice how the nose of the four has a slight curl to it, right at the tip. That’s a distinctly different feature than seen in the other two documents.
“From analyzing Mr. Powers’ work on the bank statements, I can tell he was a highly trained forger. If he’d wanted to match his script to Mr. Drury’s, he would’ve. On the other hand, Mr. Drury’s handwriting would have no reason to fluctuate between the memo and the invoice. Overall, the evidence is clear.”
I scratched my chin. I hated it when people left things unsaid. “So…”
“The invoices were tampered with, but not by Mr. Powers or Mr. Drury.”
“Say what?” I peered at Shay. “Does that make any sense to you?”
My partner crossed her
arms. “No. If neither Reginald nor Thurmond modified those shipping invoices, then who did?”
Ms. Clure snapped her attaché case shut. “I’m sorry, detectives, but that I don’t know. I can guarantee you, however, that it was a third party. If there’s nothing else you need of me, I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait…actually there is one more thing.” I dug around in my coat and pulled out the blackmail letter I’d presented to Charles Talent. I unfolded it and handed it over to Ms. Clure. “Is there any chance you can tell us who wrote this letter?”
Annabel scrunched her nose, peering through the bottom portion of her bifocals, scanning her eyes across the page. After a minute she set it on the desk.
“Well, after a cursory examination I can see some telltale stylistic elements of this writing that stand out. For example, the curvature of the crossed portion of the t’s and the slope of the f’s. I’m working off a limited data set you understand, but upon first glance, I’d hazard to guess this document was written by the same individual who doctored the shipping invoices.”
I felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the support beams of our case’s foundation. The graphologist's testimony was supposed to have confirmed our suspicions, not thrown all of our previous conclusions into question.
I funneled my frustrations into a fierce grumble. “Well, that’s just great.”
“Pardon?” said Annabel.
“Nothing,” I said. “That’ll be all. Thanks for your time.”
Shay scratched her head as Ms. Clure walked away. “So…if Reginald didn’t write those blackmail letters, then I was right—Mr. Talent is being framed. But the letters aren’t in Mr. Drury’s handwriting. So who wrote them?”
Answers eluded me. I desperately needed to mortar the cracks before our entire case collapsed into dust.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But everything you said about Thurmond Drury still applies. He’s the most likely suspect. He had motive to kill Reginald and access to thermite. Just because he didn’t fake the blackmail documents himself doesn’t mean he didn’t commission someone else to do so. I’m going to take a run at him.”
“With what?” said Shay. “Even though he seems like an obvious suspect, we don’t have any evidence that ties him to the crime.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But he doesn’t know that. I’ll go at him hard and see if he breaks. Let’s gather up Rodgers and Quinto. They’ll want to be a part of this.”
48
We found Rodgers and Quinto in the break room. Rodgers swilled coffee while Quinto nursed some horrible, weak concoction I could only assume was tea. Rodgers was still miffed about being left out of the Loaders brigade, so he hemmed and hawed when I asked him and Quinto to tag along to the Drury establishment. He whined about his limp turkey wrap and made vague references to chopped liver. I offered to buy him a nice palate-cleansing kolache, and he changed his tune.
Outside the precinct, we flagged down a herd of rickshaws and rolled our way across the Bridge to the city’s east side. A cool breeze wafted off the river and into the cart I shared with Shay, bringing with it brackish smells and hints of coming rains. For the time being though, the afternoon sun held the showers at bay, beating back oncoming clouds with its potent rays.
Most days, I would’ve appreciated the rickshaw ride for what it was—a chance to decompress and let my mind wander. But my stubborn brain refused to cooperate. Something about Reginald and Mr. Drury picked at the back of my skull like a raccoon stuck between the walls of a house, trying to scratch his way out through the drywall. It drove me bonkers, rendering me less chatty and effervescent than usual.
When we arrived, Drury Arms looked much the same as we’d left it the previous day, with its barbed wire-topped brick wall and jutting smokestacks. Unlike yesterday, however, the chimneys stood calm and quiet. Nary a hint of black smoke emanated from their stacks.
I led my consorts into the lobby where I found the same surly secretary as before sitting behind her desk. She stood as we approached, but I cut her off before she could spout off any sass.
“Thurmond Drury. Where is he?”
“He’s in his office,” she said. “But—”
“No buts,” I said. I whisked past her and pounced onto the grated steel stairs, taking them two at a time. In a grand act of self-control, I held back from kicking down the office door, though I did throw it open hard enough to cause it to fly into the wall with a bang.
Thurmond Drury, seated at his desk, startled at the crash. He lifted his head in alarm, exposing bleary, bloodshot eyes. A nearly empty fifth of whiskey leaned against a single shot glass, its walls still slick with the caramel-colored liquid.
Mr. Drury was a big man, but the amount of sauce he’d consumed would’ve affected even the stoutest of fellows. His inebriety was a boon I wouldn’t reject. I’d take any edge I could get to try and break him.
“Huh?” he said. “Oh. It’s you. The detective. Wonderful. Just the sort of person I’d want to share my misery with. Although…” He eyed the bottle’s dregs. “It doesn’t look as if I have much left to share, does it? I don’t suppose you’ve brought some with you?”
“Some what?” I asked. “Whiskey? Or misery?”
“Either. Although brandy would do in a pinch.”
My coworkers filtered in behind me, fanning out to my sides like police-issue doppelgangers.
Thurmond Drury raised a bushy eyebrow. “Eh? What’s this? You’ve brought friends? Well, I guess it’s a party then. Too bad I didn’t think to bring any streamers.”
“Don’t play dumb, Thurmond,” I said. “You know what this is about. It’s the same reason you’re drinking yourself into oblivion.”
“Oh, so you’ve come to help me cope with my impending financial ruin? Well, that’s thoughtful. I would’ve assumed you boys had grief counselors for that sort of thing, but apparently they’ve got you and your friends doing double duty. I guess your police department balance sheets are only slightly less desperate than my own.”
“Cut the crap, Drury. We’re here about Reginald.”
Mr. Drury’s jaw clenched. “Oh. Yes. Certainly. Let’s talk about that backstabbing bastard, shall we?”
“Let’s,” I said. “Specifically, let’s talk about how you murdered him.”
The big man paused for a moment as he stared at me, his eyes narrowing nearly to slits. Then he pounded the table with a clenched fist and broke into a hearty, belly-shaking laugh. It filled the room with his forced mirth.
“Hah! Oh, that’s a good one, Detective. You almost had me there. Now, don’t get me wrong—I probably should’ve killed him, or at least thrashed him within an inch of his life. But it seems someone beat me to it, didn’t they? Oh well…I suppose it’s karmic justice, isn’t it? He screwed me into oblivion and then that cold bitch karma screwed him right back.” He poured himself the last shot of whiskey. “A toast then? To dark humor?”
I didn’t say a word. Neither did any of my companions. I’d instructed them to stay quiet before we left the station.
Drury raised the glass to his lips and held it there. He passed his eyes back and forth, from me to Shay to Quinto and back to me. The spirits untouched, he slowly lowered the glass back to the table.
“Wait,” he said. “You’re serious. You think I killed Reginald, don’t you?”
“It all points to you, Drury,” I said. “You’re the only person he well and truly screwed over. Just admit it. You found out about his theft, and your passions got the best of you. You killed him. But you needed to hide your tracks, and who better to frame than your old pal Charles Talent who made out like a bandit from your loss. All you needed was thermite and some faked blackmail letters.”
The blacksmith looked as if he’d swallowed a fly. “What? Blackmail?”
Now was the time to grab hold of Mr. Drury, to shake him and squeeze until a confession spurted out of him. But conjecture and hearsay wouldn’t break him. I needed evidence, and I didn’t have any
. I could feel the case slipping away, like sand between my fingers. I swore under my breath.
“Rodgers, Quinto,” I said. “Cuff him and take him back to base. We’ll sort through this in interrogation.” At least I hoped we would.
“I can’t believe this.” Mr. Drury wiped a meaty hand down his face. “First Reginald ruined me, and now he’s working to imprison me.”
Quinto and Rodgers approached the blacksmith and helped him to his feet. He wobbled as he stood, but he didn’t resist as Rodgers fitted him with a set of irons. Quinto led him by the arm toward the door.
As he passed me, Thurmond paused. “A word of advice, Detective, since it seems it might apply to you. Beware your business partnerships. Apparently they can follow you to their graves.”
Ever since we’d entered the arms factory, the nagging feeling at the back of my mind had been pushed aside by my machismo-fueled sense of justice, but suddenly, there it was again. I could almost see its little raccoon face and hear the scratching within my skull.
“Hold on a sec,” I said to Quinto. “Mr. Drury, there’s something bugging me. Why did you hire Reginald in the first place?”
“I told you before,” said Thurmond. “He wasn’t an employee. He was an independent contractor.”
“Whatever. He may have fooled you into thinking otherwise, but Reginald was just a street rat from the Erming. He didn’t have any contacts that would’ve helped him land the sorts of foreign arms deals you’d covet. So what gave you any confidence he’d land new contracts for you? Did he play you like a fiddle? Provide you with fake references? A forged resume? What?”
In his liquor-soaked state, it took a moment for my question to sink in. Thurmond’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Well, no. It wasn’t anything like that, actually. He came highly recommended, that’s all.”
“Recommended?” I doubt I hid the obvious incredulity from my voice. “By who?”
“Walter.”
“Your accountant?”
“Yes.”
Finally. There it was. The piece I’d been missing. I turned to Quinto. “Is Wally still back at the precinct?”
