3 Time to Steele

by Alex P. Berg

  “And encourage them to come back?” I snorted as I sat in my chair, tossing my jacket across the seat back. “Not on your life. Besides, they didn’t show up last night. I couldn’t sleep for other reasons.”

  “Thinking about the case?” asked Steele.

  “Among other things, yes.”

  Like you, I thought. After much tossing and turning in bed, I’d come to the decision that I’d absolutely go through with my plan of asking Shay out to dinner, using those exact words. I’d do it tonight…or possibly tomorrow. Maybe. Perhaps. Or not.

  Shay held a knuckle up to her chin. “Hmm. Perhaps you were right last night, after all.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Maybe you are maturing,” she said. “Thinking about the case after hours? I can’t remember that ever happening before.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “I was obsessive during that case with the icy stilettos.”

  “Obsessive over that Rex Winters novel you were convinced had something to do with the murders,” said Steele. “Not obsessive over the case itself.”

  “Hmm. I remember it differently.”

  Shay turned her eyes back to a stack of files she had on her desk, including one page she held between her hands. I also noticed the sketches Boatreng had produced for us of our two suspects taking up space on the far corner. Who’d put the cork board away?

  “What’ve you got there?” I asked.

  “Gill’s letters,” she said, without raising her eyes. “I liberated the pile from Quinto’s desk when I arrived this morning.”

  I glanced over at Quinto’s barren slab of pine. “Where is the big fellow, anyway?”

  Shay shrugged. “Not sure. I saw Rodgers a few minutes ago though. I think he grabbed some coffee and started making his rounds.”

  “Oooh. Coffee.” I got up and headed to the break room to pour myself a steaming mug. While I manned the pot, I spotted the thermos I’d leant to Gronk the previous day sitting upside down on a drying rack. Someone braver than me had cleaned it—or maybe they didn’t know who had borrowed it.

  Mug in hand, I returned to my desk. Shay continued to read.

  “So, find anything interesting?” I asked as I sat.

  She looked up, face stricken. “You didn’t get me any?”

  My heart sunk. “What? I thought you weren’t a drinker.”

  “I’m not. I’m just razzing you.” She smiled. “Anyway, yes, I did find something interesting. You know the report we got from the lab techs yesterday? They listed the prints they found on the items from Gill’s place, including those they lifted from these letters, but they also catalogued how many prints they detected on each individual page. I figured that might be a good way to narrow down what particular piece of information yesterday’s intruder was after.”

  “Cheeks,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, Cheeks,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Now, admittedly, if Cheeks found something important on a letter, he probably took it with him, and the technicians’ techniques aren’t foolproof. They always miss some prints. But if nothing else, it gives us some indication of what letters Cheeks spent more of his time on.”

  I tapped my fingers on my coffee mug as I sipped the warm joe. “Ok. And?”

  “I’m getting to that.” Steele pointed to a stack of correspondence on her desk. “These letters are from a variety of people—men and women. Most appear to be from ex-lovers, based on the contents. Yes, including the ones from women. I think Gill went both ways, and, well…let’s just say he was involved in some rather lurid relationships. But these letters—” Shay shook the one she held in her hand. “—are from a woman named Anya. They’re the ones with more prints on them, according to the techs’ report. And something I discovered while you were grabbing your coffee…” She handed the letter over and pointed at a spot on the page.

  I looked at the phrase in question. “Our dad?”

  Shay nodded. “That’s right. This woman is Gill’s sister.”

  “So that’s the piece of information Cheeks and Scar Face were after?” I asked. “They were searching for Gill’s sister? I wonder who she is, and how she fits into all this.”

  “And why her identity was worth murdering Gill to obtain,” said Steele.

  As I mulled the new information, I noticed the front doors to the precinct open, followed by a shadow and a walking mountain of a man with crooked teeth. Quinto spotted us and waved before walking over.

  “Hey big guy,” I said as he approached. “You’re just in time. My partner had a bit of a breakthrough.”

  “Daggers. You’re in early.” Quinto glanced at the letters on Shay’s desk and the one I clutched in my hand. “You figured out the bit about Anya, I take it?”

  “You knew?” asked Steele.

  The big fella nodded. “I stayed late last night reading that stack, figuring it might provide some clues. Of course, by the time I got done with it all, Taxation and Revenue was long closed. I had to wait until this morning to drop by.”

  Taxation and Revenue was exactly what it sounded like: the city’s headquarters for all things tax and revenue related. We had a close relationship with them, mostly because if we needed to find someone elusive, they were generally the best place to ask. It’s true what they say about death and taxes. The T&R guys were nearly impossible to avoid. In the past, they’d given us addresses for hobos living in random alleys in the Erming. They were that good.

  I tsked. “Don’t tell me…you already went there.”

  Quinto raised an eyebrow. “You wanted to go instead?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’d held onto a faint ray of hope that I’d legitimately beat you into work for once.”

  Quinto grinned, showing off his big, square chompers. “No such luck.”

  “So, did you get an address?” asked Shay.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Quinto. “They didn’t have an Anya Gill on file.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Well, that settles it. She’s off grid. In hiding somewhere. That must be why Gill was tortured—to give up her location.”

  “Possibly,” said Steele. “But even if that’s true, we don’t know why anyone would be after her. We don’t know anything about her, unfortunately. Unless there’s something hidden in these letters, but the few ones from Anya seem pretty mundane. They’re full of exactly the sorts of stuff you’d expect cordial but not particularly close siblings to tell each other.”

  “That’s the same conclusion I came to,” said Quinto. “But regardless, we need to hunt her down. If someone killed Darryl Gill to get to her, there’s a chance the killer wants to hurt her, too.”

  “Anyone have any smart ideas on how to find her?” asked Steele.

  I rubbed my chin. “If she was even remotely close to Darryl, he may have mentioned her to people he confided in. At least, I hope he did. Steele, why don’t we head back to the 9’s? See if we can find Passion. If he loved the guy as much as it seems he did, he might’ve mentioned Anya. And Quinto, why don’t you grab Rodgers and head back to Gill’s Repossessions? Gill and Gronk were close. Maybe he knows where to find Gill’s sister. And look at the business’s financials while you’re there. We never checked them yesterday. I want to rule out Gronk as a potential suspect.”

  Quinto nodded and left to find his partner. Meanwhile, Shay and I grabbed our coats. The clock was ticking, and we had leads to follow.

  16

  Flatley Street had seemed sluggish the previous afternoon, but that’s only because I hadn’t yet visited in the early morning. Not a single patron entered the red light district, though I saw a handful stumbling away. Most of them held their heads and looked disoriented, probably wondering what exactly their money had bought them. Even the hired thugs in the green jackets were largely absent, thought I spotted a few pairs lounging against building façades or sitting under porticos cooling their heels.

  When we arrived at the 9’s, I found the same two bouncers as before guarding the ca
stle gates. The head hooligan remembered us and nodded for us to go through.

  “You guys ever sleep?” I asked as we reached the doors.

  The head honcho shook his head. “Not when there’s money to be made.”

  I thought up a droll remark about how now, with the sun barely scraping past the roof tiles, might not exactly be the bonanza hour, but I saved my zinger for later. My wit would be wasted on the flathead.

  A couple girls cast glances our way as we entered, but none of them bothered soliciting us. I spotted goldilocks from yesterday with her feet propped up on a divan. She must’ve spread the word. Much to my dismay, I didn’t see her two friends, including the elf girl with the long dark hair and the vibrant rump. It was probably for the best. Shay had a long memory and a way of turning casual glances into biting conversation fodder.

  We had to search a little to find the madam in charge—she wasn’t at the bar, but neither were any patrons—but when we finally located her, going over expense accounts at a small writing desk crammed into a nook in the back, she informed us Passion was upstairs in one of the bedchambers. Alone, she thought, though she couldn’t remember. I made a mental note to knock and provide ample time for the guy to throw on a robe.

  We whisked back around to the front and up a broad set of hardwood stairs covered in the middle by a once plush, ruby red carpet. The railing at the side of the staircase ran glossy and smooth, and I wondered how many lace glove-clad hands had slid seductively across its surface over the years.

  I stomped my feet as we walked to the room that supposedly held our quarry, and I put the full weight of my beef- and cheese-fed physique into a hearty knock on the door. Shay gave me an out of the corner of her eyes sort of look. I shrugged in response. There was a method behind my madness.

  A rustling sounded from inside, followed by the squeak of the door’s hinges. When the hardwood pulled back from my face, I found Passion Faust and his chiseled physique staring back at me, nude except for a delicate pair of silk boxers he wore over his man parts. I thanked the gods for that minor boon.

  Passion ran a hand through his flaxen locks and stifled a yawn. “Aaaahhh. Excuse me, detectives. Pardon me for my weariness. It was a late night.” He winked seductively. “So, how may I be of assistance to you two today? What services may I provide?”

  Passion performed the same little gyration he’d shown off the previous afternoon. I suspected it was his thing.

  “No services, Passion,” I said. “We’re here to ask you a few more questions.”

  “Well, I’m not working at the moment, so I suppose I can indulge you.” The gigolo swept his hand into the bedroom. “Please, come in.”

  Besides a bed, which was wide, overstuffed, and draped in velvet, the room held a pair of stud-edged padded chairs, a delicate three-legged cherry wood table, and a couple of coat racks, but the racks held everything but coats. There were a few normal items of clothing hanging on the racks’ knobby arms—hats, a shawl, and a pair of ladies’ stockings—but most of the attire was for costume rather than function. A pink feather boa, a fishnet chemise, and a pair of tan leather chaps caught my eye, among other things.

  Passion waved us toward the chairs while he lounged on the bed, resting his head on a pyramid of down. “So what brings you into my warm embrace today?”

  “Same thing as before.” I tested the chairs with a finger to make sure they weren’t sticky before sitting down. Who knew what sorts of unmentionable activities they’d seen in their years. “Darryl Gill’s murder.”

  “Ah, Darryl,” said Passion. “I liked him quite a lot, you understand. He had such soft, gentle hands.”

  “Yes, you said the same thing yesterday,” I said.

  “Did I?” Passion raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I did. The mind tends to wander when the body wants.” He drew a hand across his smooth, exposed chest and took an exaggerated breath.

  I tried not to gag, then turned to my partner. “You mind?”

  She knew what I meant. I have a long history of distaste for naked and nearly naked dudes.

  “Look, Mr. Faust,” said Shay. “Your warm and compassionate nature is something I’m sure we all appreciate—”

  I snorted.

  “—but at the moment, we need to employ a bit of haste. The man who murdered Gill? We think he may be after one of his relatives, too. His sister, specifically. Did Darryl ever mention her to you?”

  The man whore tilted his head and put a finger to his chin, which was such a stereotypical display of remembrance that for a moment I wondered if he might be faking it, but I didn’t think he possessed the brain power for that. Rather, I think Passion fancied himself a performer, except his acting abilities only extended to bedroom theater.

  “Well now,” he said, “as a matter of fact, I think he did. Darryl had a tendency to get chatty after sex. He’d drone on about all sorts of things. Business, past relationships…though inevitably the conversation always turned back around to me.” Passion twirled his finger.

  “That’s great, Faust,” I said. “But what can you tell us about his sister?”

  “Well…” Passion tapped his chin. “They were twins, though not particularly close despite it. Their family life wasn’t particularly pleasant, I do remember that. Darryl once mentioned his father was never around, and his mother died young, I believe. Not sure from what.”

  I could commiserate. Gill’s story sounded extremely similar to my own—except for the twin sister and premature death parts.

  “Please try to think, Passion,” said Shay. “Did Gill say anything else? Did he mention where she lived or any places she frequented? Bars, restaurants, social clubs, anything like that? We need to find her.”

  “No, no, I don’t think so. Not that I recall anyway.” Passion sucked on his thin lips and shook his head slowly, all the while continuing to tap his chin. “Goodness, what was her name? For the life of me, I can’t remember.”

  “Anya,” I said.

  Passion snapped his fingers. “Yes. That’s right. Anya. Thank you. Anya Crestwick.”

  Shay and I glanced at each other.

  “Crestwick?” I said.

  “Yes.” Passion gave me a blank stare. “She’s married.”

  17

  Steele and I flagged down the first rickshaw driver we could find and instructed him to double-time it over to Taxation and Revenue, but I didn’t offer an extra silver crown as a carrot this time. The department’s transportation budget could only be stretched so thin. Nonetheless, the driver gave it the old college try, and we arrived at the hallowed halls of the old T&R building in a bare twenty minutes.

  Hallowed might’ve been a bit of an exaggeration. Old was spot on though. The headquarters for the city’s tax collectors recently hit its bicentennial anniversary, and it showed—not necessarily in terms of grime or general decrepitude but in style. Thick, ionic columns ran across the building’s façade, and inside, virtually everything from walls to floors to desks to partitions was fashioned out of thick slabs of granite.

  Badges out, Shay and I hustled inside, forcing our way to the interior of the tax collectors’ den where the gremlins and boggarts lived—figuratively speaking, of course. Most of the T&R employees were humans or dwarves. There, we recruited a young man in a bowtie named Teller to help us locate the last known coordinates of Anya Crestwick, which the young lad did at government speed.

  With the address in hand, we brushed the cobwebs off our jackets and burst out of the building in search of another rickshaw. Once our bottoms were firmly pressed into a fresh bench seat and the wheels had started clattering against the cobblestones below, my mind began to wander, and not to its normal destination full of busty women serving free beer. I was worried about Anya, and rightfully so.

  To our knowledge, she had both a murderer and a thief after her, and there was good reason to suspect either or both of those individuals knew where she lived. But it went beyond that. I had a gut feeling our efforts would be too little
and come too late. I couldn’t vocalize the concerns to Shay, of course. She’d brush them off as hokum—which was amusing given her own particular talents, or lack thereof—but my gut had been correct often enough that I knew better than to dismiss my own unfounded worries.

  By the time our rickshaw driver pulled onto Anya’s street, I’d worked myself into a frenzy of despondent certainty, but as I saw the neighborhood unfold before me, I felt like perhaps reality might prove my gut wrong.

  A dozen brown brick row houses, split level homes that had surged in popularity around the turn of the century, stretched along the side of the street, partially hidden behind evenly spaced oak trees that dotted the sidewalk. The trees sighed and hushed one another in the gentle fall breeze, rubbing leaves that had only just started to turn the color of fire. Further down the street, a cry sounded out, not of distress but of a small child. I noticed a young mother walking under the boughs of the trees, the handles of a stroller grasped lightly in her hands.

  We hopped off the rickshaw in front of Anya’s house, the third home along the line if the T&R folks could be believed. Crocheted curtains hung in the front window, knitted from interwoven threads of violet, blue, and gold. They looked like the love child of a rainbow and a snowflake.

  I paid our driver and approached the front door.

  “Let’s hope Anya’s home,” said Shay.

  Part of me hoped she wasn’t, and that she hadn’t been since yesterday morning, but perhaps I was overreacting, seeing connections and possibilities where none existed. Perhaps my years as a homicide detective had jaded me and predisposed me to expect the worst.

  I lifted my hand to knock. I paused. The door was ajar.

  Despite my surly, hard-boiled persona, I wasn’t prone much to cursing, and even less so since I’d taken up working with Steele. She had this miserable effect on me where she made me want to be a better person. Still, even her sunny personality couldn’t keep my mouth under control when the appropriate situation presented itself.