3 Time to Steele (26 page)

Quinto nodded and gave a two finger salute. “Likewise.”

As my two detective buddies wandered off, I lingered in my chair. I don’t think I did a very good job of hiding the scowl that was slowly spreading across my face. Shay, with her butt still pressed against the hardwood of my desk, eyed me with a raised brow.

“Now, now, Daggers,” she said. “Just because there ended up being a perfectly logical explanation for Wyle’s abilities doesn’t mean you have to go looking like someone drowned a cat.”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “I’d be smiling if that happened. This is my ‘not enough cats were drowned face.’”

“You know what I mean,” Shay said.

“Yes, I do,” I said. “But that’s not what I’m glum over. I’m upset about this whole Bock fiasco. The Captain may be happy but only because I haven’t shared with him my theory about Mitchell, Bock, and Gill.”

“It’s just a theory,” said Shay. “You could be wrong. Either way, we’ll sort through it. If Bock’s guilty of conspiracy to commit murder, we’ll get him.”

I snorted. “You’re far less jaded than I am. With his wealth and connections? I don’t know… And in the meantime, we have to accept everyone’s accolades and pats on the back for saving the guy. If we can’t implicate him… This could be one of those things that bothers me for the rest of my career.”

I chewed on my lip, and my stomach growled.

Shay tilted her head. “You, uh…want to get a bite to eat?”

I glanced at my partner. She sat there, a smile splayed across her lips and her feet dangling above the floor as her legs hung over the side of my desk. She seemed upbeat and eager, as if she really
did
want to share in a bit of dinner and conversation. But there was that same terminology again.
Get a bite.

I wasn’t much of a linguist, but her word choice bothered me. Had I really expected her to suddenly shift her attitude toward me? And because of what? Because I’d saved her life? Because we’d shared a moment on the floor of an abandoned physics building while the corpse of an old scientist oozed blood and viscera a bare arm’s length away?

Was that what bothered me so? Or was it precisely what I’d told Shay—that I couldn’t stand the idea of some rich, bloated liar skating away from the triple murder of his greatest rival and his children while I was lifted up as the man who’d saved him.

I grunted and stood. “Maybe another time, Steele. I’ve got a lot on my mind. See you tomorrow.”

41

Dawn’s initial foray arrived far too early, so I counterattacked in the only way I knew how—by ignoring it entirely. I slept until around nine, then dragged my sorry hide out of bed and headed to work.

Clouds had rolled in overnight, cloaking the city in a hazy gloom, which seemed appropriate given my lingering foul mood. No one else at the precinct believed me, but I was certain the gods paid far more attention to my own personal highs and lows when determining the weather than they did anyone else’s. Given the state of my psyche—and my stomach, which I’d barely pacified the previous night with a hummus and chicken-filled pita purchased off a street vendor—I had no choice but to make a pit stop on my way to work.

Afterwards, I walked into the station, a white paper bag held in my right hand, and headed toward my desk. As expected given the hour, Shay was already in, and based on the stack of papers on her desk and the pencil grasped in her delicate hand, I could only assume she was hard at work on the paperwork the Captain had so graciously told us we could postpone until today. And Shay wondered why I came in to work late so often…

“Hey there,” I said.

Shay lifted her head and glanced at the white bag. “Kolaches?”

“I got you one.” I opened the bag.

“Let me guess,” she said, peering in. “The apricot one’s yours?”

“And the honey one’s yours,” I said. “Come on, I know you as well as you know me.”

“Well, that’s debatable, but what isn’t?” Shay plucked the honey kolache from the bag and took a bite. “Mmm. These
are
good, don’t get me wrong, but weren’t you down to two a week?”

I shrugged and sat down at my desk. “Yeah, but there were extenuating circumstances this morning.”

Shay lifted her eyebrows and tilted her head. “Don’t tell me you forgot to eat last night? See, this is part of the reason I asked you to come with me.”

“No,” I said pointedly. “These are more for emotional support purposes.”

“Ah, I see,” said Shay. “You’re still upset about how things unfolded last night following the interrogations, aren’t you? With Mitchell and Bock?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, that’s a big part of it.”

“So I take it you haven’t heard the news, then?”

I raised a brow. “What news?”

Shay took another bite of her kolache. The honey glistened on her fingertips. “Linwood Bock fell down a flight of stairs in his mansion this morning. Broke his neck. Died on the spot.”

I blinked. “What? You’re kidding.”

Shay shook her head and tore off another chunk of the glazed donut.

“And there wasn’t any evidence of foul play?” I asked.

“Nope,” said Shay.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, as crazy as it may be, the evidence supports it,” she said. “His wife Sophia, the Bock’s butler, and one of their gardeners saw it happen, and they all tell the exact same story. The guy tripped and landed on his head. Didn’t move after that. There’s a team at the estate grounds now, surveying the place to make sure there’s no evidence of…well, anything. But the body should be here soon. Cairny’s going to take a look. If he died from a fall and a broken neck, it should be pretty easy for her to tell.”

I sat there and stared at Shay, my apricot kolache sitting in the paper bag, untouched.

My partner finished the last of her pastry and licked her fingers. “You don’t seem terribly pleased. I take it you don’t believe in karmic justice?”

“It’s a hell of a coincidence, is all,” I said.

Shay shrugged. “People slip and fall all the time. It’s not that rare with guys approaching Bock’s age. And from what I understand, even though we didn’t find him with one last night, he normally walks with a cane. Maybe his balance wasn’t that great. Or maybe his legs were tired after walking all the way back here from his factory last night.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” I said.

I must not have looked convinced. Shay jerked her thumb towards the far set of stairs. “His body should be here any minute. I was going to go check with Cairny while she did her analysis. Want to come?”

“You’re going down there while she’s cutting into people?” I asked. “And after having eaten? Who are you, and what did you do with my partner?”

Shay chuckled. “I’ve been working on my intestinal fortitude. For example, you don’t disgust me the way you used to.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

Shay jerked her thumb again. “So…you coming?”

I tapped my fingers on my desk. “Not right now. I’m just going to sit here and enjoy the aroma of my apricot pastry.”

Shay rolled her eyes. “Alright. Don’t hurt yourself up there while I’m gone.” She tapped the side of her head. Clearly, she didn’t buy my explanation of why I wanted to sit back and cool my heels.

“I’ll try,” I said.

Shay stood and headed toward the stairs. As much as my partner thought herself my intellectual equal, she didn’t understand there were actually
three
reasons I wanted to stay back instead of joining her in the morgue. Yes, I did want to think, but I also needed time to eat my kolache, and—a very underrated reason—by hanging back I got to enjoy the sight of her swaying backside.

Unfortunately, the sight lasted only a few seconds, and soon enough, I was left with the unsightly void of the pit’s interior. I opened the paper bag and removed my kolache. I set my teeth into the gooey, sugary dough, seeing if the activation of the flavor receptors in my tongue might help awaken whatever part of my brain I needed to help me make sense of Bock’s death.

They didn’t have long to work their magic. Before I’d finished my second bite, a young man approached me from the direction of the front door.

42

The fellow who walked toward me sported a crop of tousled, medium-length brown hair to go along with a thin mustache that needed a few years and several ounces more hair before it would look respectable. A blazer with patched elbows hung over his narrow shoulders, one that looked like it had been snatched up from a retired professor’s rummage sale. He walked slowly, glancing to his sides. I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or merely uncertain, but unless he planned on making a sudden detour, he seemed to be headed my way.

I rested the uneaten portion of my kolache on the paper bag. “Can I help you?”

“Um, yes,” he said, stopping at my desk. “At least, I think so. Are you the detective in charge of the Bock case?”

“One of them,” I said. “But I guess it depends. Are you referring to the kidnapping, the murder investigation, or the falling down the stairs episode?”

“Um, the latter, I suppose.”

I wasn’t sure who’d been assigned to that particular event—I wasn’t sure if it was even a detective from our precinct—so my first instinct was to tell the kid to get lost. But he looked perplexed, and gosh darn it if Shay’s compassionate influence hadn’t shaped me for the better. Besides, something about the kid seemed familiar.

“Why don’t you tell me what you need and I’ll see if I can help?” I asked.

“Well, I’m here to deliver some notarized testimonials from the Bock residence, specifically the written statements of the witnesses regarding Mr. Bock’s fall.” He reached into his blazer pocket and produced a sealed envelope. “I’m one of Mr. Bock’s assistants—or at least, I was. I quit this morning. Anyway, the point is, Mrs. Bock asked me if I could bring these over here as one last favor.”

The kid’s statement jogged my memory. “Ah! That’s it. That’s why you look so familiar. I saw you at the World’s Wonders Fair a couple days ago. You were working the levers on that lightning hickamabob.”

“The electrical generator?” he asked.

I snapped my fingers. “Yeah, that’s it.”

The kid nodded. “Yes. I’m very proud of that exhibit. It’s exciting for people to actually
see
electricity. But it’s the implications of the generator that are far more interesting. Of course…”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “It’s just that, with Mr. Bock’s death, I don’t know how that’s going to affect the pace of the projects, including the ones involving electrical experimentation. Without Mr. Bock’s leadership, I have no idea what’ll become of the company. His children certainly aren’t up to the task of running it, nor is his now-widow. Not that it matters to me much. Even if I hadn’t quit, I wasn’t going to last long at Bock Industries, at least not after…well, it doesn’t matter. I’m rambling. None of this is your concern. Here.” He held out the envelope.

“Thanks,” I said, taking it. “I’m not sure I’m the detective these need to go to, but I’ll make sure they end up in the proper place. Before you leave, though—can you give me a name? So I can pass it along to whoever ends up getting these?”

“Oh, yes,” said the kid. “I’m Sherman. Tanner Sherman, technically, but everyone calls me by my last name.”

Both of those names tickled my brain, and in different ways. The first was due to something Wyle had said, something about how in his futuristic society, all the history texts referenced a ‘Sherman Industries’—but that had to be nothing more than an odd coincidence…
right?
The second way in which the name tickled my brain couldn’t be a coincidence, however.

“Wait…Tanner Sherman?” I narrowed my eyes. “You knew Buford Gill, didn’t you? The scientist?”

The kid started inspecting the floor. “Uh…”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Look, Sherman. I’m not the detective in charge of investigating Mr. Bock’s untimely death. I’m the detective who was investigating Buford Gill’s murder, and I know Gill collaborated on his scientific endeavors with someone by the name of S. Tanner. That’s you, isn’t it?”

Sherman held up his hands and shrugged. “Um, yes…
which
is why I mentioned I probably wouldn’t have been working at Bock Industries for long, even if Mr. Bock hadn’t passed. Mr. Bock didn’t pay any attention to what Buford Gill had to say other than the insults he threw his way, but sooner or later he would’ve put the pieces together and realized it was me in those papers.”

“So, hold on a second,” I said. “You risked your job to collaborate with Linwood Bock’s sworn enemy? Why?”

“Look, Detective…what was your name?”

“Daggers,” I said.

“Detective Daggers,” said Sherman. “Buford Gill, despite his personal failings, was a brilliant mind. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to work with him, even if it did cost me my job. And honestly, given how the past couple days have played out, I’m glad I was able to find him when I did. I learned so much from him. His murder is…tragic. But given what he taught me, at least I’ll be able to continue his work.”

Continue his work?
My fingers felt numb.

“So, uh…what are you going to do now?” I asked, hoping my voice didn’t betray any of my creeping concern. “Seeing as you’re unemployed and all?”

“I don’t know,” said Sherman. “Continue my studies on electricity, one way or another. Maybe try to get a position at one of the universities. Or if Bock Industries doesn’t pursue the opportunities, maybe I’ll start my own company.”

I swallowed.
Hard.

“Anyway, I should get going.” Sherman jerked his thumb toward the doors.

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Of course,” I said. “Thanks for the depositions.”

Sherman turned toward the door, and I sat there at my desk, my mind swirling with possibilities. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d stuffed the last of my kolache in my mouth, wolfed it down, and headed to the Captain’s office.

The door was open. I knocked on the frame. “Captain?”

The old bulldog looked up from his desk. “Yes?”

“There haven’t been any new murders today, have there?”