Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5) (8 page)

The girl winced in self-admonishment. “Oh. Right. Sorry. Come with me.”

She scooted back, leading us around the highly flammable rice paper and wood dividers and into the kitchen, such as it was. All the fundamental elements were there: pots, pans, ovens, carving tables, even a ventilation shaft for smoke, although its jagged edges made it look as if it had been hacked out by a drunken dwarven carpenter in exchange for a handful of coppers and a bowl of sweet and sour soup. A trio of sweaty, white aproned cooks worked the flames, while a quartet of young ladies, at least two of whom appeared related to the hostess, waited for orders to come in.

Steele drew everyone’s attention with a sharp whistle. “Excuse me, everyone? New Welwic police. No one’s in trouble, but I need a moment of your time.”

The waitresses walked over, and the cooks spared an eye, which in the restaurant business was about the best we could hope for. Steele reached into her jacket and produced the sketch of our victim.

“We believe this man came to eat here yesterday for lunch,” said Steele. “First things first, does anyone recognize him?”

Skinny, olive-skinned waitress number two lifted a hand. “Um, yeah. That was me. I served him. And his friend.”

Bingo.

“So someone met him here?” I asked.

“The other way around,” said the waitress. “His friend arrived first. Then that guy in the sketch got here.”

“And how well do you remember him?” I asked. “The first guy, I mean.”

“Pretty well, I guess,” said the waitress. “It was yesterday, after all. He was old, like the man in the sketch. Older, actually, and grizzled. Grumpy, too. And
not
a good tipper.”

“We don’t need a full rundown at the moment,” said Steele. “But we will be sending a sketch artist over after we leave. We’ll need you to work with him to produce an image of this second individual. However, anything you could tell us about their conversation or their overall interactions could be useful.”

The young lady shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really pay much attention to what the customers are saying.”

Her sister, cousin, or what have you chimed in. “It’s true. She barely remembers their orders half the time.”

“Hey, shut up, Alanis,” she said.

Alanis got smacked on the arm. The cooks eyed each other silently as they tossed vegetables and poured dark sauce into their pans. I got the feeling they weren’t unfamiliar with family squabbles in the kitchen, and they all wanted nothing more than to remain employed.

I wasn’t feeling confident, but I figured I’d try one last volley. “What about their mannerisms? Were they cordial? Angry with one another? Did any money or packages exchange hands?”

The young waitress contorted her face into a manner that made her look confused and apologetic at the same time—no small feat. She shrugged and put her hands in the air.

I gave Steele a glance. “I think our work here is done. You concur?”

“Work? Yes. But…we could stay for a bite.” She smiled.

I was tempted, but ultimately I declined. I’d never been a fan of stir fry.

11

I leaned back in my chair, my feet propped on the edge of my desk, and stretched my toes. Light trickled through the Captain’s windows and wormed its way my direction before crashing into the back of the corkboard, which cast a shadow across Steele’s desk that had doubled in length in the past fifteen minutes.

Shay’s shearling coat draped the back of her chair, but the woman herself perched on the edge of her desk, one foot tucked underneath her knee and the other dangling, the tip of her boot inches from the ground. Her right hand cupped her chin, her index finger occasionally stroking the firm line of her jaw as she thought.

We’d collected the grand sum of our collected evidence onto the pockmarked face of the board, but it could only showcase what we’d uncovered. A red pin affixed Barrett’s sketch to the cork, and while we’d pieced together a crude timeline of his activities during the past day, a huge patch of nothing still stretched from after the end of his workday to the point at which we found him, with only his window of death there to break the monotony.

I sighed. “You know, for as much legwork as we put in today, we sure didn’t discover a whole lot.”

Shay kept her eyes on the board. “We discovered Barrett’s identity, which was no small feat. And we’ll have a lead on his associate—or perhaps his killer—once Boatreng returns.”

“Which will undoubtedly mean more walking,” I said. “Lots and lots of walking, and the showing of pictures, and hoping that someone recognizes a sketch pulled from the mind of a flighty young waitress.”

“It might not be that bad. One of Barrett’s acquaintances or co-workers might recognize who it is.”

I grunted in response.

Steele gave me an over the shoulder glance. “It’s funny. You claim to love this job, and yet to the unbiased observer…”

“I know,” I said. “And I do love it, for the most part. But I love it more when we catch the perps and less when my feet ache. And even less on payday. My checks are often stained with my tears.”

Steele chuckled and turned back to the board.

A thought hit me. “Speaking of acquaintances…surely Barrett had someone of at least moderate specialness in his life? A girlfriend or a wife, most likely. If we could track her down, I’m sure that would go a long way towards finding his killer.”

“Not likely,” said Steele. “You saw his apartment, right?”

“Through my own dull, jaded eyes, yes,” I said with a frown. “Why? What did you notice?”

Shay shrugged. “Nothing specific. But even through the chaos, I could tell that was a bachelor pad. Still, I suppose he could’ve divorced. Did you check the T and R files?”

She meant Taxation and Revenue. I looked for the folder, then recalled I’d left it on Rodgers’ desk. With an exaggerated groan, I lifted myself up, retrieved the file, and brought it back.

I stuck my nose in it. “Well, no record of a marriage here. Nor any deductions for dependants, so I’m guessing he doesn’t have any kids. Maybe we could track down his next of kin.”

“Given his age, though,” said Steele, “his parents are probably dead. So we’d have to try to find a sibling, if he has any. We’ll stop by Public Records in the morning. It’s probably a little late to head there now.”

Heavy footsteps drew my attention out of the file. Quinto and Rodgers approached, their noses pink and their hands stuffed deep in their pockets.

“There you are,” I said.

“Let me guess,” said Rodgers. “You found the restaurant?”

Shay shifted so she could get a better look at the guys. “Didn’t the runner find you?”

“A runner?” Quinto locked eyes with Rodgers and shook his head.

“And he seemed like such a trustworthy kid,” I said. “He had shoes and everything.”

Rodgers pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together. “You know, I’m not even sure why we try. Anytime Quinto and I split up to investigate the same thing you do, you invariably wrap it up first. We should just send you out and put our efforts somewhere else entirely.”

“I’m not going to lie, the taste of success is sweet,” I said. “It’s like a delectable golden beverage, with dancing bubbles on the tip of my tongue, all provided free of charge.”

Quinto snorted. “Well, I think that success is a little less sweet and a lot less free when your partner is involved.”

Rodger nodded his agreement, and I shook my head.

Steele lifted a brow. “Am I missing something?”

“Just that we’re boys, and we’re weird,” I said.

“Boys with graying hair?” Shay asked with a smirk.

“It’s mostly still umber, thank you very much,” I said. “And I don’t see you giving Quinto any guff for losing the majority of his.”

“Hey, I’m not balding,” said Quinto. “I like my buzz cut, that’s all. It’s easy to maintain.”

I thought about challenging that notion, but I spotted Boatreng and his shiny dome enter through the precinct’s wide double doors. While baldness jokes would roll of the big guy’s shoulders like gnat spit, the same remarks around our sketch artist wouldn’t come across as quite so jocular.

Shay spotted him, too, and hailed him as he approached. “Boatreng. Were you able to find the girl?”

“Sure did,” he said. “And I think I’ve got a pretty good representation for you. Although…”

“Although, what?” asked Steele. “The young lady wasn’t easy to work with?”

“No. It’s…nothing.” The short, stubble-chinned man reached into his satchel and produced a page, which he handed to Steele.

She glanced at the pencil drawing and pursed her lips. “Well, it’s an old guy, all right. Grouchy and grizzled, just as the waitress said.”

Boatreng stood there, silent but hesitant, as if waiting for our approval. He wasn’t the most chatty of individuals. Normally, he delivered the fruits of his labors and retreated to his desk, so I couldn’t understand why he hung back—until Shay handed me the page.

I blinked as I stared at it. Then I blinked again. Then I felt my lips pucker, and I glanced at Boatreng. He’d been around for a few years. He would’ve made the connection.

He noticed the look in my eyes. “So I’m not crazy. You see it, too.”

I nodded.

“See what?” asked Rodgers. He snatched the drawing from my fingers.

“Tell me I’m wrong. That
we’re
wrong.” I gave myself and Boatreng the finger treatment.

Rodgers eyed the sketch, and Quinto peered at it over his shoulder. Rodgers’ brow drew together. “It can’t be.”

“But it looks just like him, doesn’t it?” I said.

Quinto nodded. “A dead ringer.”

Shay hopped off her desk and approached the pair. “What are you guys talking about? Who is this?”

Quinto ignored her and turned to Boatreng. “Any chance you put some of these details in subconsciously?”

Boatreng looked offended. “Please. I’m more disciplined than that.”

Shay swiped the drawing from Rodgers and took another gander at it. “Seriously, what are you all going on about?”

I took a deep breath, my mind swirling with freshly hatched thoughts. “Look, Steele. You wouldn’t know because you haven’t been around long enough. But the guy in that drawing? That’s the man you replaced. That’s my ex-partner. Griggs.”

12

I stood in front of a three story hunk of cinderblock, a building with as much charm and compassion as my former partner had. The sky glimmered with faint hints of pastel pink, orange, and deep blue. Beyond the thin veil of colors shimmered a sea of stars, just starting to make their presence known in the deepening gloom. I let out a breath in the cold, still air, and fog formed a cloud in front of my nose. An overnight freeze seemed inevitable.

“So this is Griggs’ place?” Rodgers stared at the dull gray walls.

“Sure is,” I said. “Or at least it was when he retired. Actually, scratch that. It was the last time I visited him
before
he retired, which was about two years ago. But I doubt he moved. This cold, sterile block of masonry that vaguely resembles a habitat for sentient beings fits him like a glove.”

“Oh, come on,” said Quinto, his coat wrapped tightly around his midsection. “He wasn’t that bad.”

“You need to get your memory checked,” I said. “I hear the department health plan covers that now.”

“Curmudgeon or not, he was your partner,” said Rodgers.

“Exactly,” I said. “Which means I remember his invigorating two word pep talks and milk-curdling scowls better than anyone.”

Steele stood at my side, glancing at me with curiosity. She’d remained silent during our walk over. “You know, I’m starting to see where some of your less pleasant personality traits originated.”

“Yeah, believe it or not, I wasn’t this broken when I joined the force,” I said. “Griggs and my divorce both had parts to play in that.”

“I seem to recall you were pretty shaken up about his departure when it happened,” said Rodgers.

I gave Quinto a nod. “Be sure to bring Rodgers with you when you get that head exam.”

Rodgers rolled his eyes. “You know, as much as I love getting mercilessly taunted on a nice, brisk winter’s night such as this, it also might be worthwhile to, you know,
head up to Griggs’ place.”

I didn’t have a witty riposte to that. I’d been the one to hesitate at his doorstep, solemnly staring at the cinderblocks and digging up memories of the past, memories I thought I’d outgrown. Maybe I had, at that. But what about the future? What would I uncover up there in Griggs’ apartment? I felt as if I stood at the edge of a rabbit den, and I had no idea how deep the hole went.

Despite her decided lack of psychic ability, Shay read my mind. “Look, Daggers, for all we know it’s not your ex-partner. We all trust Boatreng’s ability, but it’s impossible not to let your subconscious influence you. Chances are the man at the restaurant looked more or less like the man you used to work with, and when the waitress gave a shaky description of him to Boatreng, his mind filled in the blanks with an image of Griggs.”

I chewed on my lip.

“And even if it is Griggs,” said Steele, “so what? It’s entirely possible he’s an innocent bystander. I mean, what are the chances your ex-partner would be involved in something like this?”

“It’s not his innocence I’m worried about.” I nodded toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go.”

I pushed through and followed the route I remembered, down a dull corridor and back out into a courtyard, one with a half-dozen evergreens, a pair of stone benches, and elevated beds that in the summer months would burst with daylilies, daisies, and black-eyed Susans. It was a small slice of paradise imprisoned within four hard walls, and if the obvious metaphor between it and Griggs had never dawned on me, it was only because I’d never noticed a glimmer of the greenery within Griggs’ own granite perimeter.

I led the crew through to the other side, up a set of stairs, and over to apartment two thirty-five. I paused for a moment, gathering myself as I stared at the number.

I knocked.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, the clock in my head ticking through the seconds. I felt Quinto’s hot breath on the back of my neck and caught a hint of something gingery—perhaps a remnant of whatever sesame chicken substitute the guy undoubtedly ate while he and Rodgers roamed the docks. The door stood there, immobile, mocking me.