Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) (8 page)

Jolliet Jjade’s, the bar near my apartment, was my own personal watering hole, but calling it a ‘hole’ was a bit of a disservice. It was far nicer than any place catering to gents like me had any right to be. Instead of flimsy tables and chairs that threatened to implant a disease-laden splinter into your flesh at any moment, the bar was filled with booths—padded bench and polished countertops units—each positioned far enough from each other that conversation wouldn’t carry. Frosted lamps filled the place with a diffuse light, and the few windows in the joint were covered with thick velour drapes in a dark violet.

As I walked into the establishment, notes from a saxophone and soft drumbeats tickled my ears. A jazz band had commandeered the corner, serenading the patrons with their avant-garde melodic riffing.

I sauntered over to the bar. Jjade stood behind it, but much to my dismay, she—or he, I’m still not really sure—wasn’t drying mugs, wiping down the counter, or doing any of the sundry stereotypical things you’d expect a barkeep to be up to. Instead, she just stood there listening to the music.

“What’s up with the band?” I asked as I sat down.

“I’m trying something new,” said Jjade. “Seeing if it’ll trump up more business.”

“You seem to be doing fine, as far as I can tell.”

“Yes, but you can never get too complacent. Adapt or die, they say.”

“Who’s
they?”
I asked.

Jolliet Jjade gave me a reproachful look. Today she wore a zebra print blazer buttoned up to the top with a puffy bowtie roughly the same size and color as a pumpkin spilling out from her neckline. Her long brown hair, parted flawlessly down the middle of her scalp, fell on either side of her shoulders with all the flow of a starched sheet.

“Are you going to order something, or are you just going to sit there and drive away my more affluent clientele?” Jjade asked.

“Give me a beer,” I said. “Something with a lot of hops and a thick head.”

Jjade smiled as she grabbed a pint glass from underneath the counter. “So, you want a beer that’s a lot like you but less jumpy, is that it?”

I pressed my lips together. “I walked into that, didn’t I?”

Jjade slapped a coaster on the counter and set the beer on top of it. “It’s a little early for beer, even for you, don’t you think?”

“Why does everyone insist on telling me it’s too early?” I said. “It’s too early to leave work. It’s too early to drink. Maybe I’m just getting old and plan to fall asleep at seven-thirty.”

Jjade raised an eyebrow. “
Are
you planning on falling asleep at seven-thirty?”

“No.”

Jjade peered at me curiously, but I didn’t elaborate. She shrugged and went back to her music. I dove into my beer, coating my throat and innards with its frothy glory, swiveling back and forth on my stool as I drank.

Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I found myself getting sucked into the progression of the tunes emanating from the corner. The musicians were talented, I had to admit. That didn’t change my opinion that they were wasting their lives, spending countless hours perfecting their craft only to draw crowds of a couple dozen beatniks interspersed with a few indifferent sourpusses like me—but hey, to each his own, right?

“You’re not going to start having guys like these on a regular basis, are you?” I asked Jjade.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”

“I already stick out here enough as it is. I don’t want to become an eyesore. Besides, if you start attracting musicians people actually
want
to see, I might get squeezed out. Then I’d have to find a new bar at which I could depress people with my presence.”

Jjade patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll keep a seat open for you, Daggers.”

I took another gulp of my beer. “Do you mind if I ask you an odd question?”

“I think most of the questions you ask are odd.”

I paused. That was neither an affirmation nor a denial of my request.

Jjade seemed to notice my confusion. “Shoot.”

“Do you know anything about ancient, custom weaponry?”

“Wow. You weren’t kidding,” she said. “You really came out of left field with that one.”

“Told you,” I said.

“I’m assuming this has to do with work.”

“You’re very astute.”

“Ok,” Jjade said, tapping her fingers on the counter. “Well, strictly speaking, no, I don’t know anything about that. But you could inquire at that shop over on Marlowe. The replica weapons place. I don’t remember the name, but it’s got a sign. Should be pretty obvious.”

I lifted a brow. “A replica weapons shop? That sounds kind of illegal.”

Jjade shrugged. “Beats me. You’re the cop. But the owners are pretty blatant about what their business is. I can’t imagine they wouldn’t have been shut down by now if they were gaming the system.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Alright. Might be worth looking into. Thanks.”

I took a last draught of beer, tossed some coins on the counter, and made to get up.

Jjade squinted her eyes at me. “Wait—you’re only having one brew? And nothing fried to eat? What’s going on? Are you feeling ok?”

“What? I’m fine. I just want to get home, that’s all.”

Jjade’s eyes widened. “Dear gods…you really
are
going to bed at seven-thirty, aren’t you?”

I chuckled. “It’s not that. It’s this.” I reached into my coat and produced the book I’d poached from Williams and Sons. “It’s the latest Rex Winters novel. Pinched it earlier today from a book binder. Claimed it was evidence. One of the perks of the job.”

Jjade looked at me blankly.

“
Seriously?
Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Rex Winters, either? Honestly, am I the only one who recognizes great literature when I see it?”

My barkeeper friend shrugged.

I sighed. “Whatever. You man the gates and make sure these jazz-addled beatniks don’t rob you blind. I’m going home to delve into the secrets of this untapped literary gem.”

15

I stifled a yawn as I padded down Schumacher Avenue. As I neared the station, my buddy Tolek spotted me and tried to engage me in polite conversation—as well as sell me a bag full of kolaches—but I turned him down. I was running late enough as it was. I hoped no one at the precinct would notice, but they’re observant chaps. They’re detectives for a reason.

“Daggers,” said Steele as I reached my desk. “Where’ve you been? It’s like a quarter till ten.”

Today my partner wore a sleek black V-neck top, and her hair shot out from a tight ponytail that sat high on the back of her head. It was her choice of leggings that caught me by surprise.

“You’re wearing shorts?” I said.

“Just because
you
insist on wearing that coat every day regardless of the weather doesn’t mean we should all suffer the same fate,” said Shay. “Besides, they’re chinos. They’re knee length. They’re work appropriate.”

“What if it gets chilly?” I asked. “What if we have to visit a machine shop, or a laboratory?”

My partner shot me a sideways look. “Who are you, my dad? If we visit a lab, I’ll throw on a lab coat, and in the highly unlikely event a cold front blows in today, I’ll suck it up and deal with it. But that’s beside the point. Don’t try to change the subject on me. Why are you so late?”

“I, uhh…was busy,” I said.

Shay crossed her arms.

“I mean, my shoes…broke. I had to get new ones.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Ok, fine. I stayed up late and overslept, if you must know. But I had a good reason.” I reached into my coat and pulled out
Rex Winters in Double Blind Danger
.

“Seriously?” said Steele. “You’re late because you stayed up reading some dopey crime novel?”

I settled into my chair. “Look, I’ll let that comment slide because you’re one of the uninitiated, but I thought I made it clear to you yesterday. These aren’t some dopey crime novels. They’re
the
dopey crime novels. And this one in particular is
awesome!
It starts out with Rex yachting in the bay with a sultry seductress, when all of a sudden they hear a thump. Rex looks overboard, and who does he see? None other than the mayor of the city! Well, his lifeless corpse, anyway. He tries to wrestle the body on board, but a storm’s coming in and he can’t get a handle on it. But then, Rex heads back to shore and—”

Shay cut me off. “Daggers, I’m sure it’s great, but really, I don’t care.” She stood up. “And even if I did, we don’t have time for chit-chat. We need to get moving.”

“What do you mean? I just got here.”

“Yeah, and if you’d gotten here half an hour ago, you would’ve seen the runner come flying into the Captain’s office and whisper something into his ear. And then you would’ve heard the Captain yell for you and me, only for him to wonder where you were. And you would’ve heard me trying to make excuses for you. I’m not even sure why I was doing that except possibly out of some misplaced loyalty I feel for you as my partner.”

My ears had perked at ‘runner.’ “Was there another murder?”

“Yes,” said Steele.

“Somehow related to yesterday’s case?”

“I can only assume so.”

I glanced at the Captain’s office. I saw neither hide nor hair of the old jarhead. “Where is the bulldog, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Shay. “Probably in the can. Which is part of the reason I figured you’d be eager to leave, seeing that as soon as he gets back he’s liable to lay into you like a butcher into a carcass.”

I frowned. “Hmm. I’m not sure about that metaphor.”

“No? How about like a teamster into a pack horse?”

I lifted an eyebrow and twisted my lips. “Not perfect, but better.”

“That’s all I’ve got,” said Shay with a shrug.

“Ok, fair enough,” I said. “Let’s get moving. But we should bring some extra protection.”

“What? Why?” Shay furrowed her brows. “You think this crime scene is going to be dangerous?”

“No, I meant sunblock. Wouldn’t want you to burn those pretty little legs.”

Shay sighed. “Is this going to be your thing all day?”

“Possibly,” I said. “I haven’t decided yet. Depends how quickly the mirth dies off.”

16

My partner led the way to an apartment building on the south side of town. It was in a neighborhood called New Respiro, which I think translates to something like ‘fresh breath of air.’ It’s a bit of a misnomer. If anything, the place smelled like hobo urine and ethnic spices.

Shay only had a brief description of the place—an unspectacular four story stack of bricks that shared a wall with a friend—but I was able to deduce which building contained our stiff. It was the one with a couple of cops hanging around outside the front door.

“Hey, it’s my buddy Phillips,” I said as we walked up.

The lad perked up. “That’s right, sir. You remembered.”

Not really. It was a lucky guess, but I played it cool. “Of course I did. I’ve got a mind like a steel trap.”

“One that needs its springs oiled every now and then,” said Steele.

I frowned, but the blank looks on the bluecoats’ faces indicated they hadn’t picked up on the jab.

“Come on, Phillips,” I said. “Show us what we’re dealing with.”

He nodded and headed inside, leading us to an apartment on the fourth floor. I noticed a few faces glancing at us furtively from behind cracked doors as we mounted the stairs, but not many, and certainly no herds of distressed neighbors whispering in hallways and accosting us for information. That gave me an idea about the kind of neighborhood we were in.

It may seem counterintuitive, but folks in bad neighborhoods, even those who lived their lives as cleanly as possible, feared us. You’d think they’d be thankful when the police arrived—and they were, when their lives were being threatened—but most of the time they hid.

I couldn’t blame them. They understood how the hierarchy worked. Police departments functioned through taxes paid overwhelmingly by the rich, and the rich expected laws to work to their benefit—which for the most part they did, primarily because rich people were the ones who had stuff worth taking. And the poor saps who did the taking were the only ones who regularly got crunched underfoot of the law.

I made a mental note to soften my tone when interrogating the tenants, otherwise they might clam up and treat me to a heaping helping of useless soup.

A beat cop kept watch outside the apartment in question. I was feeling generous, so I let Phillips tag along. I figured he could probably use the seasoning—that, and he was ignorant enough of the inner machinations of our department that Shay wouldn’t have to bother with her dog and pony show in front of him.

The first thing I noticed was the decided lack of things worth noticing. The apartment looked much like I’d expected it to from the outside: on the small side, slightly disheveled, and sparsely populated with furniture on the grungy side of the cleanliness spectrum. Other than general untidiness, however, the place appeared to be undisturbed—certainly nothing like the barroom brawl that had greeted us at Terry’s place. The window, singular this time, was intact, as was the lone table and sofa chair.

Phillips was eager to be of use. “I think the body’s in the bedroom, detectives.” He led the way.

Steele and I followed. It didn’t take long. Chez Dead Guy was only a two-room abode. When I saw the body sprawled across the bed, its paddle-like feet hanging precariously off the edge of the mattress, I muttered the first thing that came to mind.

“Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

There were a number of reasons for my reaction. The first was the manner in which he’d been murdered—a long, ornate stiletto driven into his heart. The second was his current condition—fully clothed in outerwear, instead of stark naked. And the third was who, precisely, had been murdered.

I walked over to stand by the bed’s headboard. I pulled a piece of paper from my coat pocket, smoothed it, and set it down next to the dead dude’s ugly mug.

“Look familiar?” I asked.

Shay sighed. “So much for that suspect.”

The body belonged to Creepy McGee. His shoulder-length black hair, hawk-like nose, and baggy under eye skin made for rather distinctive features. I thanked my lucky stars he hadn’t been stripped down like Terry had. Who knew what sort of foul, tangled mass of shudders and nightmares lay under the guy’s baggy clothes.