Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5) (9 page)

I knocked again. “Griggs? You in there? It’s Daggers. Open up, you old buzzard.”

“Maybe he’s asleep,” offered Rodgers.

“At dusk?” I said. “Really?”

He shrugged. “Hey, you’re the one always joking about his age.”

“He could be out,” said Steele.

I snorted. “Yeah, sorry, but you really don’t know Griggs. You think
I
was antisocial when we first met? Well, the closest Griggs came to desiring human contact was his obsession with fishing.”

“So?” said Steele. “Fishing is a perfectly acceptable social activity.”

“Yes,” I said. “But Griggs’ went alone. His only contact was with the
fish.”

I startled as I heard the creak of a door, but it was a false alarm. A middle-aged woman with short curly hair and a round face stepped from her apartment, just to the right of Griggs’ place.

I didn’t waste the opportunity. “Excuse me. Do you know the man who lives here? Griggs?”

She eyed us with distrust as she pushed her key into the lock. “Who the hell are you?”

“Detectives,” I said. “With the police.”

Her bolt slid to the side with a clank. “Isn’t he a retired officer?”

“That’s right. You—” I wanted to say ‘seem like the nosy type,’ but I thought that might not go over well. “—seem like an observant individual. Do you know if he’s been around much today?”

The woman narrowed an eye, one that seemed highly experienced in the art of eye-narrowing. “How should I know? What do I look like, a snoop? Is that what you think?”

Note to self. Don’t waste euphemisms on crabby old women.
I tried again. “I just want to know if he’s in. When was the last time you saw or heard him?”

“I have a bridge game to catch, you know,” she said as she turned.

I took a step toward her and surprised myself. “Please. He could be in danger.”

The woman glanced at me and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I heard him…oh, I don’t know. Late last night. He had some friends over.”

I tilted my head.
“Friends?”

“Yes, you know,” said the woman. “People who enjoy your company? Or in your case, tolerate it. I heard a number of voices.”

I felt my pulse quicken as I turned back toward the crew. “You heard that right? That can’t be good.”

“Relax, Daggers,” said Steele. “Again, it could be a coincidence.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “Griggs didn’t
have
friends. I thought I’d made that clear.”

I turned back to the door and banged on it with my fist. “Griggs? Come on, old pal. Open up!”

Words came out of Rodgers’ and Quinto’s mouths, but I didn’t process them. No one answered, so I stepped back, shifted my weight, and drove my boot heel into the lock. The door gave way with a crack and a snap, splinters flying. I burst through after it, casting my gaze about wildly.

I’m not sure what I’d expected, but in everything but the floor plan I found the exact opposite of Barrett’s apartment: a couch with cushions in place and throw pillows neatly tucked into corners, a small, round dining table clear of debris, bookshelves packed with historical tomes, all organized by author last name except where size disallowed. Tidy countertops. Clean floors. The place barely looked lived in, much less as if goons had stomped around within it less than twenty-four hours ago.

The clack of Steele’s boot heel preceded the heavy thump of Quinto’s shoes and Rodgers’ own muted footsteps.

“So,” said Rodgers, eyeing the wooden scraps that now littered the entryway. “How resigned are you to buying your ex-partner a new door as a belated going away present?”

My heart beat heavy in my chest, and though all seemed as it should, I couldn’t shake a growing sense of disquiet in my stomach. Not butterflies—more like locusts.

“Griggs?” I called out, still tense. “Are you here? If so, this would be a good time to show yourself.”

I checked the wash closet, but he wasn’t there.

“I’ll admit, Daggers,” said Quinto. “Between the sketch and Griggs’ absence, my curiosity is piqued. But I think we could get by with leaving a detail here. If he comes back, we’ll talk to him.”

“Let’s give his place a quick once over,” I said. “He’ll understand. He was in this business for a thousand years, give or take. We’ll be gentle. Put everything back. Just have to make sure—”

I froze as I entered Griggs’ bedroom. On the far side, slumped in an overstuffed beige sofa chair, sat an old man with thinning white hair, hands that had lost some of their whipcord muscle, and a face so full of weathered creases that it could’ve been mistaken for a dry riverbed. It was a face I knew almost as well as my own, mostly because I’d stared at it six days out of seven for over a decade prior to Shay’s arrival. Even in the dim light, I could see the face hadn’t changed, but Griggs’ neck wasn’t so lucky. A thin bruise stretched across the top of it from jaw line to jaw line.

The mark of a garrote.

13

I sat on one of the stone benches in the courtyard, my hands clasped in my lap as I stared at my feet. A light snowfall drifted through the sky. Tiny flakes sparkled in the light of the three-quarters moon, some of them dusting the needles of the pines in the courtyard’s corners, others adding flecks of white to the shoulders of my dark leather jacket, and still others alighting on the bare flesh of my knuckles, where they promptly melted into wet specks.

I suppose they felt cold, but I couldn’t really tell. They weren’t there, nor were my hands or my feet or the hard ground underneath. Griggs was. Front and center, slumped in his chair. His chest still, his skin pale, his furrowed brow creased…
permanently
. Nevermore would he stare at me with those inscrutable eyes that could’ve held anything from respect to confusion to disapproval. Nevermore would his tongue lash me with some bitter quip born from decades of his experiences, all of which he viewed through glasses made of increasingly thicker pieces of jade. Nevermore would he grunt and groan wordlessly for days on end, only to reveal after scores of prods that his back hurt.

I never thought I would’ve missed those things about him…but you never know what you’ll miss until it’s ripped from your life for good.

The clack of boot heels made me lift my head and focus my sight back into reality. Shay stood nearby, the long hair of her ponytail drawn over her shoulder where it fell into the wooly portion of her jacket. Her hands filled her pockets.

“How’re you doing?” she asked.

I took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “I’m hanging in there.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I paused. The old me would’ve shook my head and summarily dismissed the need for such a thing, or perhaps I would’ve hemmed and hawed and waffled and eventually allowed it to happen, but only as a formality. But the old me—the me that, ironically enough, Griggs’ hand had helped shape—wasn’t a frequent visitor anymore.

“Yeah,” I said. “That would be nice.”

Shay sat down at my right. She pulled her left hand from her pocket and snaked it in between my own hands, clasping my right tightly. While I hadn’t noticed the cold before, I did notice the warmth now, radiating through her soft palm and tender fingers.

“Tell me about him,” she said.

“You want the novelized version, or the bitter and frustrated one?”

“How about neither, Daggers?” she said. “No spin, no spiel. Just the truth. About him, about how he made you feel. About how you still feel.”

I took another breath and stared inside myself. “Twelve years we worked together, you know that?
Twelve.
He was a spiny old cactus. A real pain in the ass. Hell to work with. But…he was my partner. He always had my back, even when it meant putting his own life on the line, and at his age that wasn’t hard. He was rough around the edges. Hell, he was rough several inches below that. But…he was a good guy at heart.”

Shay smiled and squeezed my hand. “Sounds familiar.”

“Oh, Griggs was far worse than I’ve ever been.”

Shay declined to comment. “Share a story with me, something featuring the both of you. A fond memory.”

“Fond?”

Shay tilted her head and arched her eyebrows ever so slightly. “Jake…”

“Sorry. The façade I put on is so ingrained it’s hard to take off sometimes. It’s like a second skin. Alright, let’s see…” I smiled as I thought of something. “Okay. I think you’ll like this one. It happened a long time ago. A
long
time. I’d only been on the force for a few weeks. Two months tops—”

“A rookie Daggers story?” said Steele. “This should be fun.”

I snorted. “Yeah. Strap yourself in. Anyway, Griggs and I were over in the Erming. We’d been hassling street urchins trying to shake loose information on one of our suspects, a small time thug we suspected of being involved in the murder of a pair of dope heads. I didn’t have much experience in on-the-fly interrogation, if you will, and I was young. I’d turned twenty a few days earlier. The kids we were bullying for clues couldn’t have been more than five or six years my junior. I could vividly remember what it was like to be their age at the time. And Griggs? Man, he was cold as ice. Not violent, but ruthless. Unforgiving as he intimidated these kids for information.”

Shay ran her thumb across the edge of my hand, between my own thumb and forefinger. “Are you sure this is the story you meant to tell?”

“It gets better, trust me,” I said. “After we shook down the kids, we followed their leads all the way to the killer, who we tracked to a shack on the edge of the slum. Took us a couple days, but we found him. I remember being conflicted about Griggs’ tactics during those two days. Didn’t seem like the right way to do things. Then as we’re bringing the killer out in manacles, guess who we find outside the lean-to? One of kids from before. Being the young, strong one, Griggs tasked me with handing the killer over to the beat cops, and he went to confront the youth.

“Of course, I figured the kid was screwed. He’d obviously been in cahoots with the killer—even if he didn’t know the thug had moved his operation up to capital crimes. So I dotted some i’s and crossed some t’s on the paperwork and hustled over to find Griggs to make sure he hadn’t ground the kid into dust under his foot.

“I found him around a corner, and I’d been quick enough to catch the latter part of the kid’s sad story. Drug pusher, homeless, had been loyal to the killer simply because he’d given him clothes and money for food and a place to sleep at night. He straight admitted to Griggs he was a drug dealer. And you know what Griggs did?”

I let go of Shay’s hand and pantomimed Griggs’ actions. “He clapped the kid on the shoulder and told him it would be ok. Then he reached into his pocket and handed him a pair of silver eagles. Told him to buy himself a pair of good shoes and a few hot meals. And then he told him the address of our precinct. Said he was a little on the old side for a runner, but because of that he could outpace the others, and if he proved himself to be reliable he might be able to leverage a real job out of it one day. Something menial, to be sure, but a real job.”

I settled my hand back down on top of Shay’s. “With that, he let the kid leave.
And
he noticed me eavesdropping, upon which he told me if I ever told anyone what I’d heard, he’d kill me, then murder me, and then kill whoever I’d told. So, you know…keep your eyes peeled for cranky old ghosts popping over from the spirit realm.”

“I will,” said Shay with the barest hint of a smile.

We sat there for a while, the snowflakes wetting our hands and flecking our hair. In the distance, I heard a dog barking and the faint clatter of a rickshaw. Cold nipped at my nose, and my heart felt heavy in my chest.

“I never wanted to be like him,” I said. “I mean, sure, he had that kernel of good, but on the outside? Cold and distant and hard as a rock. And yet there’s not a shadow of a doubt in my mind I became the person and the detective I did in part due to his influence. My surliness and inability to express myself? I wear a different skin than he did, but I suffer from the same root problem, and the fault is as much his as mine. So tell me…if that’s all true, then why do I feel so drained? As if a sliver of my heart gave out?”

Shay squeezed my hand again. “It’s alright to mourn the loss of someone we don’t completely agree with. He was a big part of your life. That’s why it hurts. Simple as that.”

I nodded and stared at the ground.

Steele lifted my chin with her free hand. “And let me tell you something else.
You’re not Griggs.
You’re your own man, with your own qualities and quirks, good
and
bad. And you’re not beholden to a particular image of yourself—which, if I’m to be honest, you haven’t been. You’re growing, Jake. And in a good way.”

Some of the pressure over my chest lightened. I smiled. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

A door creaked from the far side of the courtyard, and through it walked the Captain and a pair of bluecoats. Shay pulled her hand back as the old bulldog approached.

He stopped a few feet shy of the bench, a chestnut-colored trench coat draped across his shoulders. What little hair remained on the top of his head stuck out a half-inch, like soldiers standing at attention, while a uniform grayish-brown stubble covered the remaining portions of his skull, chin, and jaw.

His jowls barely moved as he spoke. “Detective Steele, do you mind showing officers Wilson and Greaves the apartment? They’ll help with the nitty-gritty.”

My partner nodded. “Yes, Captain. This way, officers.” She gave me a tender glance as she left. I tried to freeze it in my mind for future recollection, on cold, windy nights and whenever the ghost of Griggs made an appearance.

The Captain waited until the trio had exited through the far courtyard door before speaking again. “How’re you holding up?”

His voice was as warm as I’d ever heard it—roughly the temperature of a bath drawn forty-five minutes ago.

“I’ve been better,” I said.

He gave me a firm nod and an “I know how you feel,” which was roughly the equivalent of a hug and a good cry from anyone else.

A gust of wind blew, sending the snowflakes scattering. They’d collected in the trees, but none had stuck to the ground.