Fine Blue Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 4) (17 page)

“Is there…anything else I can do for you?” asked the pastor.

I nodded in the direction of the windows as I tucked the sketches back into my pocket. “We had another report from a homeless man placing Lanky—err, I mean, Buck—in this general location. What do you suppose drew him here?”

“Other than us?” asked Bellamy.

I didn’t have the heart to tell the pastor that street people probably
didn’t
flock from miles around to gander at their wacky roof-less church. “Um…yes. Other than you.”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Perhaps he frequented the trash cans behind that restaurant next door. They always seem to do good business, especially throughout the day. I imagine they must throw away some leftovers.”

“Don’t you feed the homeless?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Bellamy, “but we are of meager means. Limited donations of late have meant fewer meals for us to distribute.”

My stomach growled again at the mention of food. “Alright. Well, I appreciate your help. If you think of anything else, any information that might help us identify the victim or lead us in the direction of his killer, please drop by the 5
^th
Street Precinct. Steele?”

I jerked my thumb toward the door, but Steele gave me a narrow-eyed nod first. “Daggers…why don’t you show them that token?”

I blinked. I’d forgotten about the thing, but Shay had a point. The strange imagery on the token’s face held a bit of a cultish aura about it, so why not ask the whackos to see if it rang any bells for them?

I dug the coin facsimile out of my pocket and handed it to Bellamy. “We found this on the body of the second vagrant. I don’t suppose you know what it means?”

The pastor’s brows furrowed. His lips pressed together, and after a moment, he shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t recognize this symbol.”

He held the token back out to me, but I didn’t take it.

“Chester,” I said. “What about you? Anything?”

The tall young man stood to Bellamy’s side, hands clasped in front of him. He’d remained motionless during our back and forth. Now his eyes darted from me to the token to Bellamy and back to me. I swore I caught a hint of motion in the youth’s jaw, but he merely shook his head.

26

I spent the majority of our minute long jaunt over to the Delta Deli & Brew Pub mulling over whether the facial tic I’d seen on Chester had been real or a figment of my imagination, but the deli’s shopkeeper bell brought me back to attention.

Shay held the door open for me. “After you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Despite Pastor Bellamy’s claims about the deli’s popularity during daylight hours, the place stubbornly remained as barren as I remembered it. Like the previous morning, a single customer sat at one of the booths by the windows, tapping his fingers on the table and eyeing us with distrust.

At least this time someone manned the hostess station, though not the same greasy-haired orc as before. A rust haired man with freckles dotting his high cheekbones, perhaps in his mid thirties, stood there, hunched over the lectern with his mouth half open. I wondered if he was drugged or merely tired.

I approached him. “Hi. Uh…is Wayne here?”

“Who?” The word came out slurred, and I placed my bets on drugged.

I wracked my brain. “Oh, how did he pronounce it?
Way-ee-anne?”

“Wheyiane,” said Shay.

“Right,” I said. “That guy.”

“He’th indithpothed today.”

As the redhead spoke, I realized the entire left side of his face refused to move alongside the rest. Perhaps I’d been wrong, and his dumbfounded appearance was due to a medical condition rather than sloth or dope.

I tried to ignore the man’s lisp. “What happened to him?”

“Intethtinal dithtreth.”

I grimaced. “Say no more. Who’s in charge, then?”

The guy gave himself the pointy thumb treatment. “That’th me. Mark Andrewth. I’m uthually the nightthift manager.”

“Nightshift?” said Steele. “That could be beneficial.”

Mark’s eyebrows crumpled together. “What’th thith about?”

“We’re detectives,” I said. “We’re investigating a murder of a homeless man that occurred in the alley a couple nights ago, as well as another similar homicide we found out about this morning.”

Mark’s eyes widened in response to my initial declaration of fact, but they quickly returned to normal size. I pulled out the sketches.

“These are the two vagrants,” I said. “One of them may have gone by the name of Buck. Do either of them look familiar?”

Mark took a quick glance at the sketches—perhaps a little
too
quick. “Nah. Thorry.”

“You sure?” asked Steele, perhaps picking up on the same speed of reply I had. “Take a closer look. One of them in particular was known to frequent this area.”

Steele’s appeal didn’t change Mark’s mind. He frowned—or at least tried. Half his mouth didn’t cooperate. “I’m telling you, I’ve never theen thethe guyth.”

“Alright. No need to get testy.” I swapped the drawings for the token that also resided in my pocket. “What about this? We found it on one of the dead guys. Do you have any idea what it is?”

“Lookth like a token of thome thort.”

I wanted to press my forehead into my palm, but I somehow managed to keep my composure. “Yes, we know that. I meant if you had some idea of what it represents, or where it came from.”

Mark stared at me blankly.

“Wonderful,” I said as I returned the metal disk to my jacket.

“Anything elthe you need?”

I tried to engage my brain in further lines of possible questioning, but my stomach kept poking its head in and screaming at me. If I didn’t cram something in my maw soon, I might collapse in on myself like one of those inflatable kid’s dolls under the weight of a Quinto belly flop.

I turned to Steele. “You want to do lunch?”

My partner suffered an eye tic. “Here? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, why not?” I said. “You remember our chat about hidden culinary gems, right?”

“Well, yes, but—” She grabbed me and pulled me close, lowering her voice as she did so. “Daggers, there’s no one here. I mean
nobody
. And did you forget what Mark here told us. Wheyiane is out due to
intestinal distress.
I wonder where he could’ve contracted such a thing…”

My stomach made its unhappiness known with a vicious, abdominal wall-shaking rumble. “Look, Shay,” I said. “I don’t know how much longer I can go. Besides, how bad can it be?”

She sighed and frowned. “Fine. But don’t blame me if this experience goes south. And I do mean that quite metaphorically.”

I gave Mark the nod. “Alright then. Table for two please.”

I think Rusty looked displeased by our decision to extend our stay, but given his half-paralyzed face, he was extremely hard to read.

He gestured toward the tables. “Have a theat.”

I picked a table that gave Shay and me a fair berth from the sourpuss in the corner. Mark followed us to the table.

“Tho… what can I get you?” he asked once we’d sat.

Shay gave me a dubious glare before turning it upon the man with the palsy. “Um…menus?”

“Oh. Right,” he said. “Jutht a thec.”

He wandered back to the hostess stand and returned with a pair of sheets which he distributed among us. I took a quick glance at the contents, which didn’t take long. The menu listed only five options, each of them with sterling descriptions accompanying the item names. The first one read:
Turkey and Cheddar Sandwich: Turkey and cheddar cheese, on a sandwich. Cheese optional.

“So…what’s good here?” I asked Mark.

The man took a peek at the menu, as if he couldn’t remember everything on the page. “Um…the ham and cheethe?”

I could feel the heat from Shay’s cheeks radiating toward me. I made some quick executive decisions before her clothes caught fire.

“Two ham and cheeses, then,” I said. “I’ll take a brew. Whatever it is you’ve got fresh and on tap. And my partner will take a hot tea.”

I shooed him away before Shay bit him. He disappeared behind the bead curtain separating the front from the kitchen. I tried to engage Shay in conversation while we waited for our meals, but she still hadn’t cooled to a reasonable temperature. After a few minutes, I began to despair we might never see the droopy-jawed night manager again. Then the shopkeeper’s bell rang.

An orc—not Wayne, but similar in appearance—walked in and took a look around the restaurant. A moment later, Mark poked his head through the bead curtain, made eye contact with the new arrival, and motioned him back.

I rubbed my chin, wondering if perhaps the new arrival was a chef, when Mark reappeared with a serving tray. He placed a steaming mug of tea in front of Shay before providing me with a sudsy, yellow beverage, and finished the table service with the delivery of our sandwiches.

The latter had all the visual appeal of a stripper in her fifties, so I turned my attention to the beer. I took a careful sip, and surprisingly enough, it wasn’t half bad. In fact, it was light and crisp. Refreshing.

I picked up my hoagie—which, unless appearances deceived me, was constructed in the most minimalistic way a ham and cheese sandwich could be—and took a bite.

I chewed, set it down, and glanced at Shay. She’d just finished her own first morsel.

“I don’t want to say I told you so,” she said. “But…”

“I know,” I said. “It’s awful.”

Shay flashed me a forced, knowing smile. “How’s the beer?”

“Fair,” I said. “Your tea?”

“It’s tea,” she replied. “Which is a step up from the warm dish water I half expected.”

I picked up my ham and cheese and took another bite, but try as I might, I couldn’t convince my tongue of its worth. My stomach, on the other hand, wasn’t quite so picky, so I forged a compromise and kept eating.

Two more parties came in through the front door while we ate, a group of three goblins and a pair of elves. Both picked up take out orders, delivered to them by Mark in brown paper bags with the tops folded over, just as the dwarves’ breakfasts had been yesterday morning.

After they’d both left, the suspicious man at the back table rose, joined Mark at the hostess station, and engaged him in a short, hushed conversation. Then he left, but not before shooting a dubious glance in Shay’s and my direction.

I leaned into my sandwich for another bite and almost took off the tips of my fingers. I’d consumed the whole thing, and I’d drained my mug of ale. When I checked Shay’s plate, I found she’d even eaten some of hers.

Say what you would about the quality of the food, but at least the Delta Deli’s entertainment was top notch.

27

I gave my weary feet a break and treated Shay and myself to a rickshaw ride back to the precinct—and by treated, I mean used the department’s coffers—but I didn’t think the trip from the relatively nearby Delta district would cause too much commotion. The Captain, despite his gruff exterior, never put up much of a stink when the transportation budget disproportionately benefited his sole female detective.

I thought we’d make it all the way back to our desks in silence, but as we transferred from the wheeled cart’s confines to the hard ground in front of the station, Shay deviated from the norm. “You’ve been abnormally quiet the whole trip back.”

It wasn’t a question. More of a statement of fact. I responded in kind. “Conversation is a two way street, you know.”

“Oh, no,” said Shay, wagging a finger. “I’m smarter than that. I knew I should wait.”

I held the front door open for her and peered at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen that look on your face before,” she said with a smile. “The one you donned as we left the Deli. You wore it right up until now. It’s your ‘I’m concocting a crazy theory’ face.”

“See, now,” I said, “I take exception to that word.
Crazy.
It implies my theories aren’t grounded in facts, when more often than not, they are.”

“More often than not?”
If Shay wore glasses, she would’ve looked at me over their brims. “You realize that’s an objectively verifiable statement.”

“Whatever,” I said. “I’m often right.”

“Like that time you thought your favorite mystery writer was a shapeshifter?”

“Hey, I wasn’t
that
far off.”

Shay settled into her chair, and I followed her lead.

“So,” she said. “Lay it on me. What’s your newest hypothesis, based on the best bits of conjecture and guesswork your mind has to offer?”

I smiled and leaned forward in my chair, thankful for the opening. Truth was, despite my defensive nature regarding them, I didn’t require a lot of prodding to divulge my theories. Usually I forced them on people whether they liked it or not.

“Well, you don’t have to ask me twice.” I intertwined my fingers and lifted a provocative eyebrow. “I’ve been thinking about the Delta Deli. There’s clearly something fishy going on there. Pastor Bellamy said they did good business—and they’d have to if they wanted to stay open. But the place was barren, both today and yesterday morning. And not surprisingly. The sandwiches were terrible. But there
was
a clientele. Takeout business didn’t seem too shabby. But why? That food wasn’t like a bottle of fine wine, expected to improve with age. And no one in their right mind would go back for seconds. So what are they peddling?”

“I’m completely on board with you so far,” said Shay, “but I’ve got to admit, I’m disappointed. This isn’t a crazy theory. These are observations. Obvious ones, if I say so myself.”

“Well, then buckle in, tenderfoot,” I said, “because I’ve got three words for you that’ll bring Lanky’s and Burly’s murders and the Delta Deli into a horrifying new focus.”

Shay lifted a dubious eyebrow.

“Black…market…beef.”

Shay blinked. “Come again?”

“Think about it,” I said. “The deli is clearly selling
something,
delivered via those brown paper bags. Nobody is dining in because they’re too afraid of other people realizing what they’re eating. And if you’ll recall, not a single human came by for a pickup order. Admittedly, I’ve never heard of elves dining on human flesh before, but at least for them, it’s not cannibalism.
And
it explains Lanky’s disappearance from the morgue.”