Fine Blue Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 4) (23 page)

Cairny looked at me as if that answered everything—which, to be fair, it did. At least what I’d specifically asked.

I stared back. “So…why would anyone stab a corpse? Is there such a thing as necrosadism, where people get pleasure out of defacing the dead?”

Cairny tilted her head and stared at me. “Daggers, this is the part where I tell you to go do
your
job and leave me alone to do mine.”

I snorted. “Fine. But no screwing around with Quinto tonight. I want full reports on these two by tomorrow morning, because if we don’t solve this thing soon, I think we’re all going to get a crash course in sadism thanks to the Captain.”

Cairny didn’t seem moved by my appeal, probably because she was the precinct’s only coroner and the Captain never applied the coals to her feet. Nonetheless, I knew she’d have the reports for me on time, for inscrutable reasons. Professional pride or some other nonsense, probably.

I made myself scarce and let her get to work.

36

As I reached the top of the stairwell, I spotted Shay back at her desk, sipping on a cup of tea. I headed in her direction, but a shadow flitted across my field of vision, followed closely by a snap like that of a snare drum. I turned my head toward the lounge room, where I caught the aftermath of Meriwether ricocheting off the glass. He seemed not to notice, as he kept buzzing around the room pell-mell in wide circles.

I kept my eyes on the pixie as I settled into my desk chair. “What in the world’s gotten into him?”

Shay shrugged sheepishly. “He, uh…found the coffee.”

“Don’t tell me he’s never had any before?” I said.

“Apparently, pixies brew it differently. Like, without the beans.”

“I can see why.”

I shifted my gaze to Shay as she took another sip of her leaf juice. The steam drifted lazily into the folds of her scarf, which she’d neglected to remove following her arrival at the precinct.

I let my eyes linger on her for a moment as I wondered what to do. We hadn’t had a moment alone since the interrogation room incident, and I felt as if I should say something. Apologize, perhaps, but for what exactly? Or should I try to convince her of my worth, as a friend, as a partner, as something more? My stomach clenched, paralyzed by my indecision.

I took the easy route out and skirted the problem altogether. “So…did you get anything useful out of Meri before he whacked himself out on caffeine?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” Shay spoke effortlessly, as if she had no inkling of my inner struggle. Then again, she probably didn’t. Why would she? “Once I got past his perfunctory come-ons, I found him reasonably agreeable. And boy, does he like to talk. I get the feeling he was acting tough in front of you and Quinto, because after I got him alone, he really opened up about Vo. I think he’s pretty bent out of shape about his death.”

“Did you ask him about Vo?” I asked.

Shay smirked and lifted an eyebrow at me.

“Let me rephrase that,” I said. “Surely you asked him about Vo. What did he have to say?”

“Well, he said he was very quiet. Very reserved. A kind person, and staunchly devout.”

“And what does that entail in their religion?” I asked.

“We didn’t go into too many details—thankfully,” said Steele, “but I got the impression their theology centers mostly around reason, logic, and a sense of fatalism. The idea that life is final and solitary and whatever we do during our time on this earth is the grand sum of our accomplishments.”

I snorted. “That doesn’t sound like much of a religion. Rather, it sounds like the exact
opposite
. I think most of us would call that life and death.”

“Well, you can go talk to Meriwether if you want,” said Shay, “but I gathered what distinguishes their religion from atheism is they feel there’s a driving force that acts to nullify existence, and it can’t be avoided. That’s the Holy Oblivion.”

“I’ll pass on the one-on-one pixie time, thanks,” I said as I watched him continue to zip around the lounge room ceiling. “What else did you get out of him, though? Did he say if Vo had any odd habits, or if he was up to his gills in misdeeds? Maybe he hung around in bad circles?”

“Not really,” said Shay. “According to Meriwether, Vo didn’t spend almost any time away from the church, and was practically a recluse. At least, he was following the passing of his wife.”

“I could imagine that would be pretty rough for someone who espouses fatalism as a religion,” I said. “When did she die?”

“About a year ago.”

“And how long has Meri been living at the church rent free?”

“I think about two years, give or take a few months,” said Steele.

Another shadow crossed over me, but unless our coffee-addled pixie friend had grown about six feet and added three hundred pounds to his frame, it wasn’t him. I looked up to find Quinto standing nearby, a chair in one hand and a couple folders in the other.

“Hey, bud,” I said. “Did you have a fruitful trip?”

“You could say that.” He parked his chair at the intersection of Shay’s and my desks and sat. “I heard you mention Vo’s wife. According to the documents I picked up at Public Records, her name was Tabitha Vo.”

“Hold on,” I said. “You already read through that stuff?”

“I took a rickshaw back here so that I could, yes,” said Quinto.

“You’re married to this job, you know that?” I said.

“Don’t act like you’re not curious about what’s in here,” he said. “And also…shut up. I have important information to share.”

I ran my fingers across my lips and flicked the invisible key into the air.

“As I was trying to say, “ said Quinto, “Vo’s wife Tabitha, who he married roughly three years ago, did die recently. But not
about
a year ago. She died
exactly
one year ago. To the day.”

“What?” I said. “Let me see that.”

Quinto passed me her death certificate. I scanned my eyes to the appropriate box, which listed today’s date one year prior. Then I found the cause of death.

My eyes widened. “Hold on. She committed
suicide?”

“That’s what it says,” said Quinto.

“Hand that my way,” said Steele, as if my and Quinto’s two sets of eyes couldn’t be trusted.

I obliged her as I turned back to Quinto. “What else did you uncover?”

“That’s the only juicy bit,” said the big guy. “Apparently, Vo lived at the church. Didn’t pay taxes, but that’s some sort of religious loophole, I think. Other than that, nothing popped out at me. No mental illness or anything like that.”

Shay put the death certificate down. “So, let me get this straight. Someone kills Vo on the one year anniversary of his wife’s suicide? I find that one
hell
of a coincidence.”

“No kidding,” I said. “And what a way to go, too. Maybe the Holy Oblivion does exist, and it has its sights set on its most fervent followers.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Steele.

My old, grey-skinned detective friend sat there, tapping his enormous fingers against his chin.

“What’s on your mind, Quinto?” I asked.

He flicked his hand. “I don’t know. It’s just that, ever since I read through these files on the rickshaw ride back here, I’ve had this nagging feeling. Like I’ve heard that name before.”

“Who?” I asked. “Tabitha Vo?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I leaned back in my chair. Now that he mentioned it, the name
did
sound a mite familiar. Where had I come across it?

Shay eyed me curiously. “What…you, too?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She smiled. “Maybe the two of you tried to pick her up at a bar.”

“A staunchly devout married woman?” I asked.
“Right.
Because that’s my type.”

I closed my eyes and tried to focus. At first all I saw was the back of my eyelids, but then my mind gave me some line. I saw a flash—a fraction of a memory. Me, standing in the halls of the precinct, with a cup of coffee in my hands. I was talking to someone. Detective Elmswood.

My eyes snapped open. “Elmswood.”

“What’s that?” said Quinto.

“Elmswood, from upstairs,” I said. “I remember him mentioning her in passing. I think he was investigating her death.”

Shay tapped the certificate in front of her. “Are you saying perhaps her death
wasn’t
a suicide?”

“Well, clearly he ruled it that way,” I said. “But I’m thinking it’s something we should ask him about.”

37

We stampeded up the stairs to the second floor and descended upon Elmswood’s desk, but as luck would have it, we found it empty. His partner Drake’s desk was similarly unoccupied.

I spotted Boatreng shrugging into his coat and flagged him down. “Boatreng! Hey, hold on.”

He sighed and dumped his satchel into his chair. “What now? You finally locate a witness to one of your murders? Give me an address. Hopefully it’s on my way home.”

I eyed the man’s brown leather bag.
Of course
he wore a satchel. What else would an artist carry? “No, it’s not that. Have you seen Elmswood?”

“I think he left about ten minutes ago,” he said. “Why?”

I snapped my fingers. “Dang.”

“Let’s try the records room,” said Quinto. “We can find his old case file there.”

We bid speedy adieus to Boatreng and trampled our way back down the stairs, past the end of the pit, and into the station’s bowels. After fighting our way through walls of cobwebs and skirting past the desiccated remains of long-forgotten interns, we arrived at a locked gate. To the side of it stood a narrow kiosk, and inside that sat an overweight old man with a drooping white moustache that gave him the appearance of a walrus.

I skidded to a halt in front of his stall. “Goodman. Boy am I glad you’re still here.”

In some ways, I envied him. His gout and subsequent weight gain had made it impossible for him to continue his service as a beat cop, but he’d served the department so well for twenty odd years that they’d stuck him down here guarding the records room, where he could read in peace to his heart’s content, assuming the oil in his lantern didn’t run dry. Like me, he enjoyed mystery novels, and thanks to the distinct freeness of the public library system, he churned through about one a day. If only my duties allowed me the same luxury…

Then again, he was a fat sixty-some-year-old man with no friends to speak of and a leg that was twice its normal size, so I didn’t envy him
that
much.

He lifted his head from a book, one entitled
The Hurly Boys: Stuck on Witch’s Hill.
I was surprised he could read in his lantern’s flickering light.
“Still here?
Where else would I be? Dead?”

“I don’t think that poorly of you, Goodman,” I said. “I meant it’s getting late. We thought you might’ve already headed home.”

The fat old man glanced at his watch. “Come to think of it, it has been three thirty-five for some time now.” He jiggled his wrist, sending the loose flesh on his underarm bouncing along for the ride. “Damn it. Must’ve forgotten to wind the thing.”

Quinto snickered. “That
Hurly Boys
novel must be pretty engaging.”

The series, which had about four hundred iterations, was aimed at teenagers, so it was mildly amusing to see someone of Goodman’s caliber reading one.

“Can it, Gaptooth,” said the guardsman. “For your information, I ran out of quality reading material ages ago, so I’ve been relegated to this fluff to keep my brain from melting. If only more mystery writers cranked books out on a more predictable schedule…”

“Amen to that,” I said. “But on a more important note, we need to get into the vault.”

“No problem.” Goodman reached under the lip of his desk and produced a key. “I’m headed out, though, so you know the drill. Lock the key in the safe when you’re done.”

“You got it.”

I took the key, slid it into the record vault gate’s lock, and cranked on it. The metal contraption responded with a clunk, and I slid it to the side.

Shay stepped through the portal, took a deep breath, and exhaled. “So. This is the famed records vault. Smells…musty.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been here before,” I said.

“Oh, I’ve come down,” said Shay. “I had to introduce myself to Goodman—”

“Of course you did,” I said.

“—but I’ve never been in the vault proper,” continued Shay. “Never had a need to until now.”

I shook my head. “See? This is how I know this place is going to pot. Back in my day, we didn’t
have
interns whose jobs it was ferry files back and forth to the vault. We did it ourselves. In the snow. Uphill. Both ways.”

“Daggers, you still work here,” said Steele. “And I don’t even know how to respond to the rest of that.”

“Are you two coming or not?” Quinto’s voice echoed off the makeshift walls of cardboard boxes and steel shelving that filled the vault. A flickering light created a halo around his massive frame as he descended into the depths, and I felt a twinge of sympathy for Goodman. Hopefully the old guy would be able to limp his way out without his trusty lantern.

I rushed after Quinto, past stacks and stacks of dull brown file boxes, each marked with a department and a range of dates. By the time I made it to the homicide files, Quinto had already pulled out the box with the date range encompassing Tabitha’s investigation. He’d set it on the floor, and he thumbed through the contents with his sausage-like fingers.

“Here it is.” He yanked a manila folder from its entourage, one with ‘T. Vo’ and the date on the tab. He flipped it open and held its contents up to the flickering lantern light.

Because of the big guy’s positioning, I couldn’t see what the file contained. “So? What does it say?”

“Give me a sec,” said Quinto. “I’m not a speed reader. Ok, let’s see… Elmswood did, in fact, rule Tabitha’s death a suicide.”

“And how’d she die?” I asked.

Quinto flipped a page. “Well, uh…” He grimaced.
“Ooh.
She jumped out a window. At the Church of the Holy Oblivion. And unless I’m mistaken, she jumped out
the
window in Cornelius Vo’s office. The same one we saw today that had been busted up.”