3 Time to Steele (13 page)

“You can come with me,” she said. “But let me do most of the talking. I don’t want you badgering this poor man over his lost wife with ill-conceived references to time travelers.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and then to Rodgers and Quinto, “We’ll be back. Hold down the fort.”

“We always do,” said Quinto.

Thinking Quinto could probably hold down anything shy of a seven-foot tall werewolf, I followed Steele to the waiting room, a simple space adorned with framed quotes from retired captains and a map of the city from circa fifty years ago. An old worn couch made of tanned lambskin populated the room along with a pair of matching deep-seated club chairs, all of which remained in miraculously acceptable condition only through the unrelenting will of the Captain. Any detectives caught lounging in the chairs outside of official interviews were given a stern reprimand. Apparently, only civilian posteriors were good enough for padding and leather.

In the middle of the couch sat a man with short brown hair, lighter in color than mine, wearing a pair of maroon slacks and a white collared shirt with the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled to mid forearm. His head hung so low I wondered if he might be inspecting the floor for cracks, and he clutched a mug of steaming precinct-issue coffee between his shaking hands.

Shay paused inside the open door and knocked on the side of the frame. “Excuse me…Mr. Crestwick?”

The man’s head shot up in surprise. Tears streaked his face, and I realized he’d been hanging his head to hide his pain.

He wiped the trails of despair from his face with his palm hastily before responding. “Um…yes. Yes. I’m Mel. Mel Crestwick. Anya’s… Anya’s husband.”

“I’m Detective Steele. This is my partner, Detective Daggers.” Shay shot a thumb at me, and I gave a halfhearted wave. “Mind if we sit?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Mel gestured toward the club chairs. “It’s your office.”

Steele and I sat. As we did so, Steele reached a hand out and lightly touched Mel’s knee.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry for you loss,” she said.

Mel nodded without speaking, but I could tell the gesture put him slightly more at ease. Shay had that effect on people. Not on me, of course. I think she intentionally inflamed me. Perhaps it was in retaliation for all the guff I gave her day in and day out, but she certainly saved her aura of caring and calm for others. Victims and witnesses, mostly. So what did that say about me? Did it mean she cared even
less
for me than she did a stranger?

Don’t do this to yourself, Daggers,
I told myself.
Not now. Focus.

“I know how difficult this is for you, Mr. Crestwick,” said Steele. “But do you mind if we ask you some questions? Your answers could help us solve this tragedy involving your wife.”

Mel brought the coffee to his lips, his hands shaking so much I feared I’d be placed on spot janitorial duty. “Sure,” he said between sips. “Sure.”

“Mr. Crestwick, did your wife have any enemies?” asked Steele. “Anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”

Mel shook his head, and his eyes glistened. “No. No. Absolutely not. She was a kind, sweet woman. The best. I can’t imagine why anyone would…” His voice cracked, and the rest came out in a whisper. “Why…why would anyone do this to her?”

“We’re trying to find out, Mr. Crestwick,” said Steele. “Daggers. The sketch.”

“Oh. Right.” I fished the drawing back out of my coat pocket and handed it to Shay.

She smoothed it and showed it to Mel. “Does this man look familiar, Mr. Crestwick? We think he may be responsible for your wife’s murder.”

Mel shook his head again wordlessly, perhaps not trusting himself to retain his forced stoicism if he opened his mouth.

“Were you aware Anya’s brother, Darryl, was also murdered yesterday?” said Steele.

Mel looked up and blinked.
“What?
No.”

“This man in the sketch is our primary suspect in his murder,” said Shay. “We have good reason to believe he’s behind your wife’s murder as well. Are you sure you’ve never seen him? There may be a connection between him, your wife, and her brother.”

Mel looked at the sketch, more carefully this time, but again he shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Detective. I’ve never seen this man before. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

I spoke up, but I tried to keep my voice warm and fuzzy. “Do you mind telling us where you and your wife were yesterday morning, Mr. Crestwick?”

“We were at the World’s Wonders Fair,” said Mel. “To see the exhibits. We spent the majority of the day there. Didn’t get home until late.”

“What time?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Mel. “Maybe eight or nine in the evening.”

I tried to envision Scar Face’s movements, stalking Anya and Mel’s home after having tortured the address out of Darryl, but eventually giving up after not finding them at home all day. We’d have to canvas Anya’s neighborhood to see if anyone could corroborate my theory. Surely someone would’ve noticed a creep like Scar Face hanging around.

“And this morning,” I asked. “What happened? Could you run us through your schedule?”

“Sure.” Mel dropped his eyes back down to the floor. “We…went through our normal routine. I got up just after sunrise. Had breakfast and was out the door by seven thirty, at the latest. Anya stayed home, like she always does.”

“Was she unemployed?” asked Steele.

Mel shook his head. “No. She had been, for a while, but she got proactive. Started up her own events planning business. She worked small functions. Parties for businesses, birthdays, even weddings, though she hadn’t scheduled any of those yet. She’d just begun a few months ago.”

“And what do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a guidance counselor,” said Mel. “I help young people get their lives on track. Help them figure out what sorts of careers and paths to consider.”

A thought struck me. “So…you work with troublemakers, then?”

“Not really,” said Mel. “They’re misguided, but they’re good kids. They just need, well…guidance for lack of a better term.”

“So none of them ever threatened you or your family?” I asked.

“No. No, they…” Mel looked up, and I could tell someone had connected the hoses in his mind. “Wait. Actually, there was one kid. A young gang member. You know the type: cocky, self-assured, brash. He didn’t want to be in my office, but he had to be as part of his parole agreement. I was trying to be sympathetic—only the gods know what sorts of things these kids go through—but then Anya dropped by to deliver some lunch. Left the bag on my desk, leaned over to give me a kiss, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the kid ogling her. And then he made a—” Mel clenched his teeth. “—a
rude
remark, one that’s not fit to be repeated in public. And so I told him to get lost. To get the hell out. I wasn’t going to help him. And he gave me this look. Like a real, malicious,
evil
sort of look.” Mel shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining things. But it gave me a bad feeling about the kid.”

“When did this happen?” I asked.

Mel shrugged. “I don’t remember. A few weeks, maybe a month ago?”

“And do you remember this kid’s name?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was Zander, though I can’t remember if it was his first or his last name. He was sent to us from the Our Lady of Hope and Salvation halfway house. The one on Crown Street, south of the Erming. We have a relationship with them.” Mel leaned forward a little. “Look, you don’t think that incident had anything to do with Anya’s…murder, do you? I mean, how would that kid be connected to the guy in the sketch?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Crestwick,” said Steele. “Chances are there
is
no connection.” She glanced at me pointedly as she said that. “But we need to look at this case from all possible angles. Who knows where a lead will surface?”

Mel nodded again, glumly, as if he wanted to drown himself in his coffee.

“I know this is hard, Mr. Crestwick,” said Steele, “but do you mind staying here a while? We don’t understand the motivations behind your wife’s murder yet, but between her and her brother, it would appear someone’s targeting her family, or yours. Did Anya have any other relatives?”

“No,” said Mel with a sigh. “It was just her and her brother. Her mother’s long dead, and her father’s been out of the picture almost as long.”

“Alright. Thanks,” said Steele. “We’ll try to send some officers out to check on the rest of your family members.”

My partner stood and gave me a nod. I considered leaving Mel with my condolences, but I knew better than to think they’d make any difference. The only thing that could fill the hole in his heart now was his own misery, and chances were the hole was deep enough it wouldn’t fill for years.

21

Shay and I returned to the pit where we found Rodgers and Quinto exactly where we’d left them. Well, not exactly—Rodgers had shifted from the top of Quinto’s desk to his own seat, but neither detective looked to be involved in anything particularly useful, unless a discussion on how a guy like Gronk Turbot could come to be conceived could be considered useful. From what I caught of the conversation, Rodgers and Quinto were split between copious amounts of alcohol, a curse, and divine fury as the most likely causes.

Rodgers broke off his jibber jabber as we approached. “That was quick. Get anything useful from Mel?”

“Not much,” I said. “The name of a possible suspect, a punk kid parolee. The only other thing I carried away from that interview was a lingering stink of sorrow.”

“And what does that smell like?” said Quinto.

“Coffee and old leather, mostly,” I said.

Shay snorted. “You know that kid’s not involved, right, Daggers?”

“He could be,” I said.

“He’s not,” said Shay.

“Oh, so suddenly your psychic sensibilities are acting up again?” I said.

Rodgers chuckled, but my partner didn’t seem to think it was funny.

“We
have
a suspect,” said Shay. “The guy from the sketch. I think it’s pretty clear he murdered Darryl Gill, and the MO for Anya’s murder is exactly the same.”

“Exactly,” I said. “We
suspect
Scar Face is the murderer, but we don’t know for sure. To our knowledge, no eye witness noticed him at either Gill or Anya’s places, and the only person who’s been able to implicate him in the murders is that nutball Wyle. Maybe this punk who insulted Mel has something to do with the murders.”

“Alright,” said Shay. “Let’s say this Zander kid is somehow involved. Let’s say he wanted revenge on Mel for a proposed slight. Why would he go after Darryl Gill first? By all accounts, he and his sister weren’t exactly close.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’ll ask.”

Shay threw her hands up in the air. “Whatever. If you want to go after this kid, be my guest. I’m going to spend my time pursing more fruitful avenues.”

“Like?” I asked.

Shay smiled and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Well, yeah. I would,” I said.

Shay shook her hands and frowned in overexaggerated fashion. “No, no. You go and track down the gang member. I’ll pursue my own gut for once.”

“That’s not really how this works,” I said, crossing my arms. “We’re partners. What if you get into a jam?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Steele. “My investigative path has a lot more pencil pushers than vicious murderers populating it. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll take Rodgers with me and you can take Quinto to protect you from that dangerous juvenile parolee Mel told us about.”

Rodgers groaned, but he hid his displeasure on receiving a glare from Shay.

I turned to Quinto. “Well, bud. Looks like you got conscripted into my army. You up for taking a trip to the Erming?”

“Does
anyone
ever want to take a trip there?” said Quinto with a grimace.

The Erming was by far the worst slum in all of New Welwic, a place so miserable and destitute even rats avoided the place for fear of being turned into a rat casserole that was light on the cheese and potatoes and heavy on the rat.

“To be fair, the place we’re heading to is south of the Erming,” I said. “And we can grab lunch on the way back.”

Quinto flashed his buckteeth. “Sold.”

I straightened my jacket and gave my partner and Rodgers a two finger salute. “Well, then. Enjoy the stacks of records or files or whatever it is you plan to delve into in my absence.”

Shay smirked. “We’ll cherish the silence.”

I held my hand out for Quinto. He led the way, but Rodgers stopped us with a call before we’d taken more than a few steps toward the door.

“Daggers?”

“Yes?” I said.

“Pick me up a sandwich on the way back, will you?” he said.

“How’d you know we were going to get sandwiches?” I asked.

“Do you have to ask?” said Rodgers.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Steele, you want anything?”

She dropped her indignant act and regarded me with a more serious gaze. “Um, no. It’s ok. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

I sighed and headed for the exterior, my mind trying to process Shay’s comment.
It’s ok. I’ll be fine. Thanks.
I didn’t want to overanalyze everything she said, but by the grace of the gods, what in the world did
that
mean? Was she unwilling to accept an offer of free food from me? Did she think that by breaking that social convention she’d be accepting my advances? She could’ve paid me back for the sandwich if she’d wanted, but the conversation had never advanced to that point.

Quinto flagged down a rickshaw driver, the one with the widest cab he could find to accommodate our combined bulk. I glanced at the big guy as we settled into our seats and the rickshaw driver set his feet to pavement. I could confide in him, couldn’t I? And he ate a lot. Maybe he had more knowledge of dining etiquette and its correlation to relationships than I did.

“Can I ask you something, Quinto?” I said as the rickshaw wheels clattered over the cobblestones.

“Yeah, sure,” he said.

“What do you think my partner meant by that comment of hers?”