Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5) (15 page)

Believe it or not, I’d guessed.

22

For the second time in as many days, I found myself standing at the mouth of an alley across the street from the precinct. As before, I put on my best impersonation of a mouse, but unlike yesterday, I didn’t harbor any secret desires of station infiltration.

I lifted my right hand to my mouth and almost bit off the tips of my fingers. My apricot kolache, purchased from my buddy Tolek’s fried food cart, had disappeared in only a couple bites. I considered buying another one but ultimately decided against it. For one, it would liberate me from the shadowed confines of the alley. For another, it would subject me to Tolek’s incessant jibber-jabber, all spoken in his distinctive rolling accent and accompanied by the dance of his massive, push-broom mustache. Besides, even if I wasn’t in Steele’s immediate company due to my work situation, that didn’t mean I should suddenly abandon my diet.

I cast a glance at the station’s broad double doors followed by another at the sky. Where was the scamp? Surely he should’ve been back by now.

My gaze was still averted to the heavens when a wide shadow fell across me. Thunder pealed—or maybe just a voice resembling it.

“Daggers?”

I looked down. Quinto stood in front of me, blocking my view of the station, while Rodgers stood to his side. Each of them held a half-eaten Loaders sandwich—I could tell by their savory smell. Despite myself, my mouth began to water.
Dang it!
I knew I shouldn’t have let Tolek talk me into buying a kolache, not before lunch. My diet would be shot for sure.

“Uh…hey, guys,” I said.

Quinto glanced at my boots. “Nice galoshes. You know it’s winter, not spring, right?”

“Hardy-har,” I said. “Send a runner after me when you come up with a joke that’s not on its last legs. Better yet, make
it
do the running.”

I think I stretched that metaphor a little too far. Rodgers gave me a curious look. “So, um…what’cha doing here, pal?”

“What?” I said. “A guy’s not allowed to hang out in an alley and gaze upon the majesty of the city’s finest façade every now and then?”

Rodgers glanced at the seal of justice hovering over the precinct’s face. “Oh, sure he is. But I doubt that’s what
you’re
up to.”

I shrugged and threw up my hands. “You got me. I bought a kolache from Tolek, but I already ate it. See? My fingers are still sticky.”

I held them up so Rodgers could see.

He waved them away. “I don’t want those anywhere near me, even if they are sticky for the reason you claim. But let’s be honest. You didn’t come for the donuts, did you?”

The pair of detectives regarded me with raised eyebrows and knowing glances.

I let them have what they wanted. It would distract them from my true purpose. “Okay, fine. But I can’t stop thinking about Griggs’ murder. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Sit around at home and read books? Because I tried that already, and both their quality and my ability to stay awake was questionable, to say the least.”

The duo shared a look. Rodgers took a bite of his sandwich. Quinto eventually came back with a response.

“Look, Daggers,” he said, “it’s not like we don’t commiserate. But deep down you know the Captain is right. You’re too close to the case. And even if we felt otherwise about it, our hands our tied. The Captain made that very clear after your unscheduled morgue visit yesterday. Trust me, we all heard about it.”

“Sorry, pal.” Rodgers clapped Quinto on the shoulder, and the pair turned to go.

“Wait,” I said, partly because it would be expected and partly because I couldn’t help myself. “Guys, you’ve got to give me something.
Anything.
Not the nitty-gritty, obviously, but a general sense of how the case is going. Do that and I
promise
I’ll head home.”

Rodgers and Quinto held another silent powwow. As soon as they finished passing around their invisible peace pipe, Rodgers came at me with a stern finger. “None of this reaches the Captain’s ears, you understand?”

I gave him a thumbs up. “You got it.”

“We’re making progress on the Barrett front,” he said. “It looks like his company, West and Smith, might’ve been running some off-the-books shipments. We got copies of their financial records, and the land and sea transport manifests don’t totally add up.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean it looks like there were shipments transported away from the facility by boat that—officially, at least—never arrived at the dockyard in the first place.”

“Which shipments?” I said.

“We’re working on it,” said Quinto. “But Barrett hid his tracks well. And by the way, if we catch word of you snooping around West and Smith later, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I just needed a mental hit. I’m a justice junkie. So what about Griggs?”

“We’re trying to track his movements,” said Rodgers. “That’s about all we can tell you.”

“Thanks.”
I packed as much sarcasm into that one word as I could. “Anything else?”

“I think you’ve been given enough to keep the withdrawal symptoms away.” Rodgers shot his thumb at the double doors. “Quinto?”

“One sec.” The big guy leaned in. “Daggers, I don’t suppose you know of anyone Griggs might’ve interacted with before his…well, you know. Demise. Someone he might’ve gone to for help?”

I blinked. “You’re asking
me?”

“Why not?” he said. “You’re here. You’re mentally engaged. You knew him as well as anyone.”

Luckily I didn’t have to lie. “Sorry, bud. I’m as in the dark as you are on that. I don’t know who Griggs might’ve been knocking boots with.”

Quinto frowned. “Oh well. Figured I’d ask.”

Rodgers used his free hand to guide Quinto in the direction of the station’s entrance. “See you round, Daggers. Try not to catch a cold.”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “I’d rather catch a fish.”

It was a galoshes joke. I don’t think either of the pair got it.

I retreated into the alley a few feet, but I kept my gaze on the precinct’s doors. Despite my promise to the guys, I couldn’t leave quite yet.

Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long. Bare seconds after my compatriots disappeared behind the station’s granite walls, a familiar skinny ten-year-old burst from the front doors and made his way over to me.

He pulled a manila envelope from underneath his arm and handed it to me. “Here you go, Detective.”

I accepted it. “The Captain pay you?”

He nodded. The kid was way too honest for his own good.

“Great. Thanks.”

I shooed him away. Once he’d made himself scarce, I peeked inside the envelope. In addition to the falsified personnel files I’d requested, there was a note, written in the Captain’s now familiar hand.

It read, simply,
Don’t get caught.

23

I waited until after dark because I figured it would make my life easier. Besides, the extra time awarded me an opportunity to head home, shower, get a proper meal into my belly, and change into more appropriate footwear, not to mention make more progress on
Six Feet Under.
I managed to churn through the dull part without falling asleep, which I considered a win.

When seven o’clock rolled around, I headed back onto the mean streets of New Welwic and made my way to Grant Street.

In many ways, the Grant Street Precinct looked much the same as my beloved 5
^th
. A massive seal of justice hung over its doors, depicting the soaring eagle in all her majesty. A pair of columns flanked the entrance, giving the building an air of power, but there was something about it that didn’t resonate with me. Perhaps it was the mileage. My station was better seasoned than Grant Street’s, and while age was generally a detriment for housing, it seemed to have the opposite effect on the grandeur of public edifices.

I pulled on one of the door handles and let myself in. A pair of lanterns burned bright on either side of me, illuminating an unmanned reception desk in front of a maze of desks and cubicles and booking stations that reminded me of our own pit. A couple of beat cops chatted at my right. I approached them.

“Excuse me, guys,” I said. “I’m looking for the personnel office. Know where I could find it?”

The nearest to me, a heavyset man with a wide nose and a bowl cut, gave me the once over. “And you are…?”

“Detective Daggers, from over on 5
^th
Street. We’ve got a case that involves someone who once worked here.”

The portly guy wiped a hand across his nose. “And this couldn’t wait until the morning?”

I snorted. “You think I’d be here at this hour if it could?”

That seemed to assuage the guy. He glanced at his partner in chatter. “Who’s got responsibility for Personnel at night? Marshall?”

The other guy, thin and swarthy and maybe with a bit of dark elf in his background, scrunched his eyes in thought. “No, I think he’s got the key to the records vault. Kiel, maybe?”

The heavyset man nodded and gave me a bob of his head. “Alright. Follow me. I’ll try to help you find him.”

We ventured into the labyrinth on the first floor, weaving through heavily shadowed cubicles and past the thankfully dark windows of the local captain’s office. After a few twists and turns, we stopped before an empty desk—at least empty in the census assessor’s estimation. Otherwise, it was packed to the gills with crap.

Big and Round scratched the side of his head and glanced at me. I gave him the old eyebrow raise.

“Let’s try upstairs,” he said.

Onward through the maze we trod, up stairs and into a series of poorly-lit back hallways. Eventually, we heard a clunk and a thud and turned into a room with a brown leather couch, a stove, a bunch of cabinets, and a pair of empty coffee pots. A slender guy with narrow shoulders and a thrift store tweed jacket knelt, his head buried in the furthest cabinet, the one closest to the floor.

My rotund escort spoke up. “Kiel.”

The floor-bound guy jolted, whacking his skull against the shelf above him. He yelped and backed out, pressing a hand to the back of his head as he did so. “Yes?”

“Detective here from the 5
^th
to see you,” said my attendant, and then to me, “He’s all yours.”

Big and Round left and Kiel stood. The latter looked at me, fresh-faced and scar-free. He sported a beard that needed a few more years and several pounds of hormone cream before it could intimidate anyone. I chuckled silently to myself. This would be like planting candy on a baby.

I took advantage of the kid’s plight to ingratiate myself. “You looking for the coffee? At my precinct, the Captain always hides it up high. Luckily for me, I’m tall, and my buddy Quinto pushes six seven. Needless to say, we’re usually saturated, though my pal goes for tea rather than the black stuff.”

I popped open the nearest high cabinet and took a peek.

“Um, thanks…I guess,” said Kiel. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” I said. “Jake Daggers. 5
^th
Street Precinct. Homicide.”

“Gunnar Kiel,” said the young man.

I gave him an inquisitive look as I moved to the next cabinet.

“Um…Grant Street Precinct. Administrative?”

He sounded unsure. Perfect.

I reached into the cabinet and pulled out an unopened bag, one that smelled rich and bold and toasty. I set it on the counter. “See? What did I tell you? Always look in the top back.”

“Thanks,” said Kiel lamely. “So what can I do for you?”

“I need to get into the personnel office,” I said, “and I heard you’re the guy who can get me there. I’m investigating a case that might have ties to a former detective here. One Horatio Volstock.”

“Volstock?”
said Kiel. “Never heard of him.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Um…”

“That’s what I thought.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “Mind showing me the way?”

“I’d love to,” said Kiel. “But it’s after hours, and—”

“Don’t sweat it. I know how this works.” I reached into my jacket and produced a missive. “Here’s a signed and stamped letter from my Captain down at the 5
^th
. I thought you might need it given the hour.”

Kiel gave it a perfunctory look. “Well…okay then. Follow me.”

The young guy led me down the hall to a door with a frosted glass pane set into it. He produced a key ring from his pocket, unlocked it, and let us in.

A pair of heavy, oaken desks sat in front of us, each faced by a pair of austere chairs, but Kiel headed toward the far wall and the bank of filing cabinets that lined it.

“What was that name again?”

“Volstock,” I said. “Horatio.”

Kiel headed to the right side of the filing cabinets, to a drawer about halfway between top and bottom. It was where I figured he’d head, based on my assumption that Grant Street’s personnel files would be alphabetized, same as ours.

Kiel opened the ‘V’ drawer and bent over it. “Let’s see… Vance. Venn. Virtue—”

With the guy’s back turned, I popped open a drawer on the far left. Despite whatever Lazarus might’ve thought about my chosen pseudonym, a benefit of Baggers was that it fell right at the start of the ‘B’s, something I was familiar with from my own name. In the time it took Kiel to utter a pair more ‘V’s, I’d slipped the fabricated files from my jacket, slid then into place, and sealed the drawer.

“—Vole. Vundersnuck? Weird. Whatever.” Kiel looked up. “Sorry, Detective. Doesn’t look like there’s a Volstock.”

“What?” I put on my best blustering cop face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Take another look.”

Kiel looked somewhat apologetic, but he didn’t back down. Good for him. “Feel free to take a look yourself. There’s not that many v’s.”

I did as the kid instructed, thumbing though the files. When I finished, I looked up, narrowed my eyes, and ran my tongue across my teeth. I stared into oblivion.

“Are you alright?” asked Kiel.

I frowned. “I bet I know what happened. Volstock transferred here from the Perry Street station. I figured they would’ve sent his files over—heck, they
should’ve
—but what if they forgot? Those Perry Street jackasses always struck me as a bit loose with the rules…”