by Alex P. Berg
Much like his smart-mouthed buddies back at the halfway house, Zander had a few choice words for Quinto and I, which made his newfound cellmates chuckle. I laughed alongside with him and told him his sense of humor would serve him well. Guys his size and complexion always did great in prison, I assured him.
Leaving the appropriately cowed Zander in our wake, Quinto and I caught a rickshaw back over the Bridge to the west side of town, where, before arriving at the precinct, we stopped by a new sandwich shop by the name of Grinders. I’d heard from some of the other flatfoots around the precinct that the place could slap toppings between slices of bread with the best of them, and while I was a fan of a different shop by the name of Loaders, I was willing to give Grinders a try, despite the ludicrous name.
I snagged a ham and cheese with mustard and pickles to go, and Quinto, possibly still on his cod and potato high from yesterday, opted for a smoked pepper mackerel sandwich that reeked of mesquite smoke and the aftermath of a summer algal bloom. The thing could only have looked more dubious if the heads had still been attached to the filets. We grabbed a more normal hoagie for Rodgers, and, in a fit of enthusiasm and lunacy, I picked up a turkey, bacon, and tomato half-sandwich for Shay, consequences be damned.
Quinto’s and my sandwiches disappeared within a few minutes of us leaving the shop, so it was with only a slim paper bag in hand that the big guy and I walked back into the 5th Street Precinct. As we passed through the wide front doors, I spotted the back of Shay’s head at her desk, her dark brown hair hanging lazily past her shoulder blades. Past her, in my chair, at my desk of all places, sat Rodgers. The pair giggled over some clandestine joke, probably one with me as the punch line if I knew them as well as I thought I did.
I walked up and deposited the paper bag on my desk. “You’re in my seat.”
“Oh, hey Daggers,” said Rodgers, getting up. “Just keeping it warm for you.”
“I hope you didn’t ruin my butt groove,” I said.
Shay snorted and shook her head.
“Very funny,” said Rodgers.
Cushions were something reserved for those public servants with real pull, people like the mayor and the DA and the Captain. Honestly, I’m not sure how the bulldog had added his name to that list. He must’ve blackmailed someone somewhere along the line.
“So what did you get me?” asked Rodgers, eyeing the bag.
“Smoked pepper mackerel,” said Quinto. “I had one and it was delicious.” He licked his fingers as proof.
Rodgers’ face fell. “You’re kidding.”
“Sort of,” said Quinto. “I had one. We got you roast beef.”
Rodgers clutched his heart. “Oh, man. You had me there. Especially because I could smell a strange fish funk coming off you.”
I eyed Quinto. “That scent does have a way of lingering.”
Rodgers opened the bag and pulled out both sandwiches. “What’s this one?”
I nodded to the half-sandwich. “That’s for Steele.”
“What?” Shay raised an eyebrow. “I told you not to get me anything.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want you wasting away,” I said. “What if we get into a scrape and I need you to back me up? You’re not going to be much use if even an arthritic grandmother could push you around. After you finish that sandwich we’re going to do some pushups and wind sprints out on the sidewalk.”
Shay accepted the sandwich with a begrudging smile. Maybe she was right. Maybe I couldn’t read facial expressions. I certainly couldn’t tell if her current attempt at a grin indicated subdued annoyance or heartfelt affection.
Shay unwrapped her turkey, tomato, and bacon and took a bite.
“Good?” I asked.
She nodded. “So…tell us about your adventures with the reformed teenage gang member.”
“Well, Zander’s not our murderer,” I said, sitting down in my still warm chair. “And I know that because he’s far from reformed. He’s been incarcerated for the past few days on charges of aggravated robbery. Plus he’s a gnome, so murdering humans with a claw hammer is probably a little out of his wheelhouse.”
Rodgers shook his head as he unwrapped his own sandwich. “That’s a shame, Daggers. Well, not the part where he didn’t murder anyone. More that you went to all that hassle. Fortunately—” He brandished a finger in the air. “—you have a partner with a few licks more sense than you do.”
I propped my arms up on my desk and rested my chin on a palmed fist. “I take it you two discovered something during your secret trip to…oh, I don’t know. I’m going to guess the Municipal Department of Boredom and Tears?”
“Close,” said Rodgers as he took a bite. “The bank.”
Quinto looked confused. “But I already went over Gill’s finances.”
Shay swallowed a mouthful of bread and turkey. “Not Darryl. Mel and Anya. Daggers, remember how Mel said he was a guidance counselor?”
“Of course I remember,” I said. “I just went chasing after one of his snot faced appointees wrongly thinking he might be involved.”
“Then you’ll also remember how he mentioned Anya was unemployed until she recently started her own events planning business.”
I nodded. “So? What are you getting at?”
“Well,” said Steele. “If Mel was telling the truth—and as far as we know he was—how is it he and Anya were able to afford to buy their very own, nicely furnished brownstone row house?”
I almost slapped my forehead, but I held back on the self-mutilation. “Holy crap. How didn’t I see that? There’s no way they could afford a place like that on a single counseling salary. What did you find at the bank?”
Rodgers answered as Shay took another run at her sandwich. “Turns out Mel deposited a large sum of money—very large—into his bank account a little over a year ago, and they used that as the down payment on the home.”
“And what did Mel have to say about that large chunk of change?” I asked.
“Not sure. We haven’t asked him yet. But he’s still here.” Rodgers pointed across the pit to the waiting room, where I spotted Mel curled up on the couch, perhaps asleep. “Steele thought it would be better to wait for you. She’s better at the soft and fuzzy approach, but your tactics are better when you need to catch someone in a lie.”
“So you admit I’m the bigger hard ass,” I said to Steele.
She nodded as she swallowed another bite of sandwich. “I won’t argue that point.”
“Well alright then,” I said, rubbing my hands together in glee. “Let’s go see what Mel has to say.”
24
I had to rein my horses for a few minutes until Shay finished her sandwich, but as soon as she’d swallowed the last bite, I led the way over to the waiting room where Mel lay sprawled out, snoring on the tan leather couch.
I knocked on the open door none too gently, startling sleeping beauty awake.
“Howdy, Mel,” I said.
Mel sat up and blinked, his hair a disheveled mess. “Oh, um…hello.” He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Just after lunch,” I said. “Twelve thirty-ish.”
“Oh. Wow.” He blinked again and seemed to realize Shay and I were both at the door. “Did you already find the killer?”
“No. Sorry,” I said. “We’re here to ask a few more questions. Mind if we sit?”
He nodded.
I introduced my posterior to the face of the club chairs. “So, if you don’t mind, Mel, can you refresh me on what it is your wife Anya did?”
Mel looked around as if he’d misplaced something. Perhaps his coffee. “Yeah. She was an events planner. Like for parties.”
“But she’d stared that business recently,” I said. “She’d been unemployed before that, right?”
“That’s right,” said Mel.
“How was business?” I asked.
“It was ok,” said Mel. “She had some clients lined up, but nothing to write home about. Why are you asking?”
�
�We combed through your bank records, Mel,” I said. “Turns out you deposited a substantial quantity of cash into your account about a year ago. Money you used to buy your house. You mind telling us where that money came from?”
“Oh, uh, right. That money.” Mel rubbed his neck. “It was…from an inheritance.”
I could smell the lie on him. “Whose, exactly?”
“My, uh, uncle,” he said. “Daniel Crestwick.”
I glanced at Steele. She said nothing.
“So…you wouldn’t mind if we check on that, then,” I said. “Just to make sure we have the story straight.”
“I, uh… I mean…” Mel glanced at the door, and he rubbed his hands together. “Ok, look. That money? It wasn’t from an inheritance. It was from…something else.”
“Go on,” I said.
Mel sighed. “This is going to sound bad, but…someone paid me to find out more about Anya’s father. But there’s no way this has anything to do with Anya’s murder!”
I performed a quick double blink. “Huh?”
“Look, I know what you’re thinking,” said Mel. “But I loved Anya. By the gods, I loved her… I’d never do anything to hurt her! It’s just that, well…we’ve been married for about four years now. And we’ve never had much, between my meager salary and her nonexistent one. So when someone approached me to seek out Anya’s father, offering to pay me several years worth of my salary for the information, I figured, what harm could it do? Anya didn’t know anything about her father anyway. He’s long gone. A recluse. So I took the money and told Anya it was an inheritance from my uncle. And we used it to buy our house.”
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down,” I said. “You’re going to have to back things up. Someone wanted you to track down Anya’s father? Why?”
“I don’t know,” said Mel. “They wanted to meet him, or get his help on something, I suppose. I didn’t ask questions. Like I said, I knew Anya didn’t know where the man lived. But I was happy to take that much money to try and find out more.”
“Hold on,” said Shay. “Who, exactly, is Anya’s father?”
“Buford Gill,” said Mel. “He’s a scientist specializing in astronomy and, uh…theoretical physics, I think. As I said, he’s a total recluse. Anya hasn’t seen or talked to the man in over a decade. He used to be a professor at one of New Welwic’s universities, but as far as I know, he angered some of the brass there and was fired. Nobody’s seen him in years. The only reason anyone knows he’s still alive is because he occasionally publishes papers in scientific journals.”
I scratched the back of my head. “And who paid you a boatload of cash to locate him?”
“Uh…” Mel chewed his lip.
“Look at me, Mel,” I said. “You’re not implicated in any wrongdoing…yet. But I have plenty of time to change my mind about that.”
Mel continued to chew his lip, but he relented. “Ok. He told me to keep it quiet, but these are sort of extenuating circumstances, so I’m sure he’ll understand. It was Linwood Bock.”
I tried to rouse the hamster in my mind and get him on his wheel. “Wait…the wealthy business magnate?” I recalled the man as I’d seen him at yesterday’s fair, aging, wearing a pinstripe suit and with a white doorknocker beard over his lip and chin.
“Why did Linwood Bock hire you to find Anya’s father?” asked Steele.
“I already told you, I don’t know,” said Mel. “I assume he wanted his help with something, a research project of some sort. Buford Gill’s a curmudgeon, and he’s a little off his rocker—or so I understand, I’ve never met him—but by all accounts, he’s a genius. He’d surely be an asset to Bock Industries.”
“And you have no idea where to find the man?” asked Steele.
“None,” said Mel. “Honest.”
I looked at the guidance counselor: his posture, his demeanor, and, most importantly, his eyes. An experienced detective could tell a lot about a person from the contents of their eyes, and I had enough seasons on me to discern the motives of an entire sack of potatoes. Mel was an idealist, a romantic, and possibly a bit of an idiot, but he wasn’t a murderer, and I didn’t think he was hiding anything from us in regards to his relationship with Anya’s father and Linwood Bock.
I tapped my chair’s armrest. “Alright, Mel. Those are all the questions we have for the time being. You’re free to leave if you want, but if someone killed your wife to get to her father, well…they might come to you for information next. Why not hang out and enjoy the coffee?”
Mel’s eyes widened and he gulped, and I realized perhaps there might’ve been a better way to break the news to Anya’s husband. I glanced at Steele and reminded myself to let her take care of the warm and fuzzies. Unwittingly, I might’ve ensured Mel’s catnap was the last he indulged in for days.
25
Upon returning to our workspaces, I found an even greater act of sacrilege had been committed than the one preceding my interview with Mel. Rodgers had reinvaded my desk, and he’d convinced Quinto to conquer Shay’s. Their elbows and leftover lunch wrappers littered our desks like so many soldiers enjoying a post-battle snooze.
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do?” I asked as Shay and I approached.
Quinto shot his partner a glance. “Doesn’t he know?”
“Know what?” I asked.
“We’re officially on the case,” said Rodgers.
“Really?” I said.
Quinto nodded. “The Captain assigned us this morning. Yesterday we were lurking because we didn’t have anything of our own to investigate, but now we’re lurking in an official capacity—again, because we don’t have anything of our own to investigate.”
I grunted. “Hmm. I’ll let it slide, but only because nobody else being murdered over the past day puts me in a good mood.”
“This is you in a good mood?” said Steele.
I glared at her. She smiled back at me brazenly, which melted my frown like a pair of wax lips under the hot rays of the sun. Try as I might to invoke my inner sourpuss, I found it harder and harder the longer I spent around my partner.
“So,” said Rodgers. “What did you learn from Mel?”
“That this case possibly goes far deeper than we’d initially imagined,” I said.
I glanced at the side of my desk. Something was missing. Something I’d noticed earlier but hadn’t brought up as a point of discussion. I pointed to the gaping hole beside my desk that allowed light to drift in from the Captain’s office windows. “Say…where’s the corkboard? I swear I left it here yesterday.”
Quinto looked around, his furry eyebrows pressed together. “Huh?”
“It’s the janitor,” said Shay. “He rolls it into its cubby at night so he can sweep the floors.”
I raised an eyebrow. “How late are you staying at work, exactly?”
Shay shook her head. “It’s not that. I’ve noticed it before, and I asked him about it. That’s what he told me.”
“Oh, good gods,” I said. “I’ll bet you know the guy’s name and everything. Well, don’t get any ideas. I’ve already befriended Boatreng. That’s enough social fluttering to hold me over for another few months, at least.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Steele. “Now quit bitching and go get the board.”
I did as I was told, without slinging a single quip or zinger in my defense before I left. And they say an old dog can’t learn new tricks.
When I returned, Shay had reclaimed her chair, and one of the Rodgers and Quinto pair had brought over seats enough for the rest of us. I repinned the sketches of Scar Face and Cheeks, now better known as Harland Wyle, up onto the corkboard while Shay put her creative skills to use fabricating sketches of Darryl Gill, Anya, and Mel Crestwick. The sketches of the victims, or of Mel, weren’t particularly necessary, but ever since revealing her artistic abilities a month or so ago, Shay had insisted on sketching anyone she deemed important to the case and adding them to the board. I think her motivations were twofold.
For one, she enjoyed stretching her artistic muscle, and what better time to do it than on company time? But I also think Shay was more of a visual learner, and having the faces on the board helped her make connections she otherwise wouldn’t.
My deductive system was far simpler. I just swilled coffee and listened to my gut.
Once Shay had finished her drawings, she added them to the cork and stepped back. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s try and make sense of what we know. Rodgers and Quinto, this applies to you, too, since you’re on the case. Daggers, you like to hear yourself talk—” She followed that jab with a sly smile. “—so bring us up to speed.”
“My pleasure,” I said. “Why don’t we go over what we absolutely know, and then we can bring in all the things we think we know.”
I got a few nods in response, so I stepped over to the board and pointed at Shay’s sketch of Darryl Gill. “We know Gill was murdered early yesterday morning via a heavy blow to the skull. The techs found a set of prints from someone other than Gill on various surfaces in his apartment. The night prior, Gill visited an elven gigolo by the name of Passion Faust at a club called the 9’s, and the bouncer at the club reported seeing a man following him. Later that day, eyewitness accounts have a different man, who we now know as Harland Wyle—” I pointed to Boatreng’s sketch. “—breaking into Gill’s apartment. CSU found his prints, which we’ve since confirmed, on letters and curios.
“Then today, we found Darryl Gill’s sister, Anya Crestwick, murdered in her home, also by a blow to the skull. We found Wyle on the scene going through Anya’s personal effects.” I turned to Steele. “Do we have the CSU report from Anya’s place yet?”
“I haven’t seen it,” she said. “I can go bug the techs later.”
“Alright,” I said. “So for the time being, that’s all we know. Now, here’s what we think we know. We think the man the bouncer spotted outside the club followed Gill and murdered him. We don’t think Wyle’s the killer because his prints weren’t on the scene prior to his break-in at Gill’s apartment yesterday afternoon. Given that Anya’s murder was performed in the exact same manner as Darryl’s, chances are Wyle didn’t murder her either, although we won’t have any evidence to support that until we get the CSU report.”
