Daggers & Steele 1 - Red Hot Steele

by Alex P. Berg

  The big guy shook his head. “No. We cut him loose after the interrogation. Figured he didn’t have anything else useful to offer.”

  “Damn it,” I said. “We need to find him, pronto. Thurmond, is he here?”

  The businessman similarly gave his head a shake. “No. But he stopped by about an hour ago.”

  “And?”

  “And I promptly canned him,” said Mr. Drury. “Any fool accountant who could miss the kind of gross negligence that occurred under his watch deserves to be prosecuted, let alone fired.”

  “Thurmond, we need to find him. Think. Where would he have gone after you delivered the news? Does he have any haunts? A bar, a club, anything like that?”

  Mr. Drury snorted. “Walter? Are you serious? The man’s a recluse. He probably went home to cry in his ledgers.”

  “You have an address?”

  “I don’t know,” Thurmond said. “Check with my secretary.”

  I pursed my lips. “Quinto. Rodgers. Take Thurmond back to the precinct for safekeeping. Shay and I have an accountant to catch.”

  Quinto nodded and escorted Mr. Drury out.

  Rodgers paused at the door and gave me a look. “If I miss anything fun while babysitting your suspect, Daggers, you know I’m going to come calling for more than beers and a kolache.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to be here,” I said.

  Rodgers shrugged.

  “Look,” I said, “if I end up in an epic battle of wits with an accountant who’s the best damn method actor you and your partner have ever met, then Shay can recount the experience to you for posterity—and I’ll buy you a steak dinner.”

  Rodgers smiled and winked as he left.

  “So,” said Shay as she walked up from behind. “Walter, of all people. You really think he did it? You think he’s a murderer?”

  “This case still feels like it’s one card short of a full deck,” I said. “Walter may or may not be our killer, but I’d bet the odds he’s involved. Let’s go see if we can shake some acorns from the squirrely man’s tree.”

  49

  The secretary stared, mouth agape, as Quinto and Rodgers escorted Mr. Drury from the premises. When I asked for Walter Fry’s address, she held her lip and complied without the slightest hint of resistance. She flipped through a rolodex numbly until she found the proper card.

  I felt bad for the gal. Con men invariably target the rich because they’re the ones with money, but it’s also easy to get wrapped up in the notion that rich people are inherently evil and that stealing from them is akin to righting some cosmic injustice. Maybe that’s true. Only the gods know—but one thing’s for certain. When rich guys go down, everyone else gets trampled underfoot, too. I wondered if Reggie knew that by conning Thurmond, he’d end up putting every working stiff at Drury Arms out of a job.

  Address in hand, I exited the compound. Luckily enough, our rickshaw driver was still parked in front. He was no dummy. He knew waiting for our return fare was a safer bet than trying to find a new one in the factory district. Rickshaw fares may be cheap, but they’re still out of the price range of day laborers.

  The rolodex address listed a place back on the west side, not too far from Reginald’s apartment. Shay and I hopped into the cart and our driver hoofed it.

  Buildings flew past in a blur as my mind raced in lockstep with the driver. Could mousy, stammering Wally Fry really be the murderer? He didn’t seem the type. Then again, I couldn’t discount the possibility Wally was enacting his own con—an all-consuming piece of performance art where he pretended to be a bumbling, introverted schmuck to avoid suspicion. If so, then well done, sir.

  Or perhaps Wally wasn’t the murderer but merely an accomplice of Reginald’s. His recommendation of Reggie as a suitable contract negotiator for Drury Arms suggested something along those lines, but the possibility raised more questions. How did Reginald and Wally know each other? Where had they met? The Erming would’ve chewed up and spit out a guy like Wally in about fifteen minutes.

  Eventually, our driver dropped us off at a five-story stonework building a half-dozen blocks or so from the edge of the Pearl. It wasn’t quite swanky enough to merit a doorman, but it did have a communal first floor lounge with a couple of red velvet sofa chairs by the windows. The real mark of class was the lack of hobos inside. The building tenants probably pitched in to keep a rent-a-cop on retainer, and judging by the distinct lack of urine smell in the lounge, the hired thug treated loiterers poorly.

  Wally’s place was on the third floor. I led the way, Shay close at my heels. When we found the apartment door, I stepped back, gathered my weight, and readied my foot.

  “Wait,” said Shay. “You’re not going to kick the door down, are you? Didn’t we go through this yesterday?”

  “That was Reginald’s place,” I said. “He’s dead. Walter, to the best of our knowledge, is very much alive. I doubt he left his door unlocked.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a good chance he’s in his apartment right now. You could knock, you know.”

  “And give him an opportunity to shimmy out a window and down a fire escape?”

  Shay tilted her head at me. “Really?”

  “Come on,” I said. “Kicking down doors is one of my greatest joys in life. You’d really deny me that?”

  My partner sighed. “Fine. If the Captain asks, I’ll say you heard a noise inside—a screech that carried a note of distress on its wings.”

  I smiled. Women didn’t understand the ecstasy of kicking down a door. That was a joy the gods only blessed men with, like the thrill of throwing rocks into a lake or the appeal of a spitting contest.

  My itchy foot spurred me to action.

  “Police! Open Up!”

  My boot blasted the door from its hinges with a resounding crash. I stormed into the apartment—a compact studio affair. A rumpled quilt with a garish flowery print covered a convertible futon bed, and a flimsy particleboard desk soaked up the afternoon sun from under a lonely window. A couple tumblers sat on a glass-topped coffee table next to an unidentifiable bottle of hooch.

  I ventured further inside. The studio had an L-shape construction, with the kitchenette tucked around a corner. I popped my head into the food prep area, but instead of Wally I only found a stack of boxes of half-eaten takeout food and a pile of dirty dishes.

  “Damn,” I said. “I guess Wally’s not—”

  Shay stood in the middle of the apartment, eyes glossed over, hands held out to her sides tickling the air and pulling at invisible strings.

  “Oh, wonderful,” I grumbled.

  I took another glance around the apartment. Clutter abounded, from the takeout containers to clothes thrown haphazardly across the futon to books sprawled over shelves. I shook my head. Apparently Wally valued his personal tidiness less strongly than his professional.

  A squeaking hinge interrupted my musings.

  I snatched Daisy from my coat and spun, ready to pound any oncoming threat into oblivion, but I failed to encounter any fang-toothed monsters or fiery demons. Instead, I found Wally emerging from his bathroom. His face was pale and his hands shook.

  “M-m-my door!” he said. He eyed the prone piece of pine on the floor that used to usher guests into his studio.

  “Wally!” I stashed my truncheon and approached him. His head barely scraped my chin. I snarled as he stared at me, his spectacles slipping on his sweat-slicked nose. “What in blazes are you doing? When a cop comes crashing into your place, you’re supposed to come out with your hands up!”

  “I-I-I…” Wally swallowed back a lump in his throat. “I was u-u-using the b-b-bathroom.”

  I couldn’t contest that argument. Little in life trumps the needs of a man’s bowels. Normally I would’ve cut Wally some slack, but I was tired of the wild goose chase on which we’d been led. I wanted answers, damn it!

  I puffed myself up to look more intimidating, although next to Wally even a declawed housecat would’ve seemed a hulking jaguar.


  “Let’s cut to the chase, Wally,” I said. “You lied about your relationship with Reginald. You knew him much better than you let on.”

  “W-w-what?”

  “You were in cahoots with him, weren’t you? You helped him get a foot in the Drury Arms door, and you knew what he was up to. You helped him doctor the files, but why? What’s your beef with Thurmond Drury? Did years of squirming under your boss’s thumb finally get to you? Figured it was time for payback?”

  “I-I-I—”

  “I swear to the gods, Wally, if that stammering of yours is a ploy I’ll throw the book at you so hard it’ll leave your eyes crossed for weeks. Now spit it out, man! How did you know Reginald? Did you meet him on the street? Did he con you? Blackmail you? Did you know him from the Erming? Were you friends? Enemies? Were you…romantically involved?”

  That last idea blossomed in my mind. Perhaps Reginald fancied the less fair of the sexes. If he did, though, you’d think a stunner like Reggie could’ve done better than a drip like Wally.

  Small Fry looked at me, confusion and fear waging a losing battle with dignity across his face.

  I grabbed Walter roughly by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. He squeaked in terror. If he hadn’t just visited the little boy’s room, we might’ve both had to deal with the olfactory consequences.

  “Cut the crap, Wally! You know who killed Reginald. Either you did it, or it was someone you know, so spill the beans! Who did it? WHO?”

  I shook Wally as I demanded answers, and with every shake another pint of blood drained from his face. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. His tongue moved, but no sound came out. I raised a hand to slap him when a voice caught me from behind in mid windup.

  “Who is she, Wally?”

  I turned. Shay stood with her hands on her hips, a fierce look of authority radiating from her.

  “Wha-wha-wha—”

  “Your girlfriend, Wally. Who is she?”

  “Girlfriend?” I looked back at Wally. “Girlfriend? You? You have a girlfriend? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Shay pushed on, undeterred by my incredulity. “Don’t lie to us, Wally. Slim. Pretty. Who is she?”

  “Whoa, whoa. Wait a second,” I said, throwing my hands up. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I saw it, Daggers,” said Shay. “In the vision. And she’s involved. I know it.”

  Free from my clutches, Wally tried to force out a response, but his nerves were sabotaging his vocal cords. “Her n-n-n…her n-n-nay—”

  Wally’s stammering filled my ears, but the noise felt like nothing more than a gnat’s buzzing. I tried to process what Shay had said. Wally? A girlfriend? And not just any girlfriend, but a pretty one? That made no sense at all. How in the world could a schmuck like Walter Fry land a pretty girl? I could barely get one to look at me as if I wasn’t some sort of mutant human-cockroach hybrid. It’s not as if the guy was rich. His apartment was tiny, and a dump at that. Why, the only way him having a girlfriend made any sense at all was if…

  And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. It was obvious in retrospect.

  Wally was still trying to force out a name. “Her n-n-name i-i-i—”

  “Save it, Wally,” I said. “We don’t need a name. I know who murdered Reginald Powers.”

  Shay turned to me, her eyebrows furrowed. “What? Really? You do?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And we’d better move fast before someone else gets hurt. Reginald may be dead, but his cons are still very much alive.”

  “Cons?” asked Shay. “As in plural?”

  I turned to leave, giving Shay no choice but to follow.

  50

  Shay peppered me with questions as our rickshaw bounced along the cobblestone streets, but she soon became surly at my lack of verbosity.

  “Seriously?” she said. “You’re not going to tell me your theory?”

  “It’s not a theory,” I replied. “The word ‘theory’ implies a lack of observational evidence to support a notion. This time, I know for a fact who killed Reginald Powers.”

  “And you’re not going to enlighten me?”

  “Not yet. It’s more fun this way. Plus it makes me look super smart when I make the final reveal.”

  Shay rolled her eyes.

  Eventually, our driver pulled up and dropped us off in front of the Talent mansion. I waved to my good friend lemon-face at the gate and pushed on through to the front door.

  Furious pounding on my part eventually brought about a response. The door opened, manned by the Talent’s manservant. He eyed me and my partner with a look most people reserved for dogs that pass gas at the dinner table.

  “Ahh, detectives,” the butler said dryly. “What a pleasant surprise. And to what can we attribute this particular honor?”

  “Nice to see you too, Jeeves,” I said. “We’re looking for Felicity Talent? She home?”

  “Regrettably not, sir.”

  “And would you know where she is?”

  “To my knowledge, Detective, she’s at the place of business of both her and her father’s legal representation. As you may recall, her father is currently in police custody under suspicion of murder. She requires legal representation to help defend her father against the accusations of a pompous, overzealous windbag.”

  Dealing with a passive-aggressive butler wasn’t on my to-do list when I’d gotten up in the morning, but I took his snarkiness in stride. I had bigger fish to fry, and the afternoon was starting to wear.

  “Right,” I said. “And I’m sure arranging her father’s legal representation is all she’s doing there.”

  Jeeves looked at me blankly.

  “So what was the name of those guys?” I asked. “Mackerel, Angst, Crustfont, and Pigs?”

  “Merkel, Ernst, Trustmont, and Figs.”

  “Close enough. You got an address?”

  “1118 Riverview. Suite 110. In uptown. If memory serves me correct, sir.”

  “Thanks, Jeeves,” I said. “Stay out of trouble. Wouldn’t want to piss off the wrong people.”

  He closed the door without so much as a goodbye.

  Shay accompanied me back toward the street. “What did you mean by that comment?”

  Gravel from the Talent’s walkway crunched underfoot as we walked. “Which one?”

  “The one about Felicity’s legal representation.”

  “Let me ask you something,” I said. “Are you familiar with inheritance law?”

  “Not in particular,” said Shay.

  “Well, as it turns out, if someone is convicted of murder they lose their right to property and their entire estate passes on to their next of kin. From a legal standpoint, it’s as if they suddenly died.”

  I saw a light flicker behind Shay’s eyes. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Why would Felicity frame her own father? She’s already the heir to his fortune.”

  “You’re close, but not quite there,” I said. “Just hang with me a little longer. We’re about to finally unravel this thing, and I know how much you like your threads.”

  51

  I craned my neck up to look at the building that stood at 1118 Riverview, a five-story tower with polished marble columns and grotesque gargoyles perched on top. Much like a lawyer, the building was both intimidating and monstrous—or it would’ve been if the fool landlord had let the structure be. In an attempt to conform to more modern architectural sensibilities, the ground floor of the tower had been gutted and filled with glass and polished steel.

  I’d blame the lawyers for the structural defacement, but I’m fairly sure they were only tenants, not owners. As much as I’d like to blame lawyers for all of society’s ills, there are limits to their deplorability.

  A chill breeze whipped up the street and worked its way into the gap between my neck and collar. The rain clouds that had been threatening earlier had now fully committed to their domination of the sky, and with them they brought abnormally cool temperatures.

&
nbsp; “What are we waiting for?” Goosebumps prickled on Shay’s forearms as another gust of wind flitted down the street. She rubbed her skin.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Got lost in thought.”

  I pushed into the palace of glass and steel and found my way to the law offices of the four stooges. A heavily painted secretary wearing a tight ivory blouse greeted us from behind a cherry wood desk. Exotic potted trees with gnarled trunks and tightly manicured foliage stood at attention flanking each side.

  “Can I help you?” said the secretary in a high-pitched tone.

  I flashed my badge. “Detective Daggers. This is Detective Steele. I need to see Miss Felicity Talent.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Detective,” said the secretary. “Miss Talent is currently in session with one of our attorneys regarding her father’s ongoing case. As I’m sure you’re well aware, attorney client privilege dictates that all conversations between clients, their families, and their legal representation remain private. If you wish to see Miss Talent, I’m sure you’ll be able to find her at her residence at a later time.”

  The secretary offered me an insincere, prefabricated smile.

  I smiled back and leaned over the desk. I meant it as a faux gesture of geniality—a riposte to the secretary’s jab—but it also afforded me a better view of her not unsubstantial cleavage. I may have leered a little.

  “You misunderstand me,” I said. “I’m not here to talk. I’m here to make an arrest.”

  The secretary scrunched her eyebrows in confusion. “Excuse me?”

  “Show me where Miss Talent is,” I said, “or I’m liable to start kicking down doors until I find her.”

  The secretary glanced at my partner, who nodded in agreement. “You think he’s kidding, but it’s his third favorite pastime—behind snarking and overeating.”

  I would’ve leered at Shay, but my leering skills were still fully occupied by the prominently displayed knockers in front of me.