Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5) (22 page)

“Jeremy Droot, of Droot, Miller, and Starchild,” I said. “I need his home address. Please tell me you have it.”

The guy scrunched his eyebrows—or more accurately, his eyebrow. He really only had the one. “Ya came here for a guy’s address?”

I nodded.

“But…you’re a cop,” he said. “Isn’t there some sorta official place to go for that?”

Clearly, the man—orc? dwarf-giant hybrid?—had never worked in government before. “There is, but it’s not open at one in the morning. And before you ask, no, Taxation and Revenue doesn’t hire night guards. One, the city won’t spring for the expense, and two, the place is housed in a giant block of solid granite, not some fancy high rise packed with glass that young rapscallions could break and vandalize.”

The guard grumped. “And I suppose this can’t wait?”

I didn’t think the man had any other pressing business to attend to, but I tried to keep my snark to a minimum. “This could be a matter of life and death. Now, do you have the man’s contact information or not?”

The squat-headed sentinel grunted and let me in. He then led me back to a small office behind the lobby where he pulled a ledger out of a drawer that he first unlocked with another of the keys from his ring. After providing him with Droot’s name twice more, he eventually found it and gave me the associated address.

I thanked him and split.

My luck held as I found a rickshaw at the edge of the Pearl district and booked it toward—where else—the Brentford district, New Welwic’s premier home for the rich and famous. I’d made the trip on several occasions, always for work, as when I went to dawdle the rent-a-cops patrolling the neighborhood quickly ushered me out. Their presence might be a boon for once, though. They might keep Bonesaw at bay. Of course, unless he ran into a score of them, I doubt they’d slow him down much, especially after seeing the carnage he wrought at the Metro. My best hope was to beat the bruiser there.

I didn’t have long to brood. Within a quarter hour, my driver deposited me at the foot of Droot’s estate, a two-story mansion on a neatly-manicured plot of land made seem like a cottage only by the opulence of the homes and gardens surrounding it. I rushed down the gravel path, between rectangular holly bushes dusted with frost, to the front door. I grasped the heavy, brass door knocker I found there and began to work it.

I stretched my ears as I waited for a response, but none came.

I slammed the knocker into its base again and stepped back. I didn’t see any light burning through the windows, but neither did I see shards of glass or broken latches. The door similarly appeared to be un-Bonesawed.

I got impatient. I banged once more on the knocker and called out in a commanding voice. “Droot!
Droot!
Open up! Police!”

That did the trick. After a moment, I heard footsteps, increasing in strength. A latch clanked, and the door opened. Jeremy Droot stood inside, dressed in a checkered fleece robe and fuzzy slippers.

“What in the
WORLD
is going on? I’ll have you know, I am a
lawyer,
and I won’t tolerate this harassment. Who do you think—” The man blinked. “Wait…you’re that detective, aren’t you? The one who came to my office the other day asking about Randall.”

I didn’t have time to waste. I got straight to the point. “What were your business dealings with Barrett?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a simple question, Droot. You said you didn’t know Barrett that well. That you hadn’t kept in touch. But what about financially? You said he’d fallen on hard times. Did you ever loan him money? Invest in any questionable business ventures?”

The lawyer’s demeanor, which had cooled from when he first cracked the door, now frosted over. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “This isn’t the time, Droot. I’m not here to drag you to the precinct for questioning. I just need to know, okay? How deep in with the man were you?”

Despite the frosty glare, the man’s cheeks reddened. “This is outrageous. I can’t believe you’d drop by my home to threaten me with unfounded allegations about my investments. To insinuate I was somehow involved in that man’s death. And in the middle of the night no less! You can expect a strongly worded letter to arrive at your supervisor’s desk in the morning.”

I sighed. Why was it no one ever told me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

Droot started to close the door.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“And why not?” asked Droot.

“Because there’s a bloodthirsty, four-hundred pound ogre assassin on his way here to kill you. And rip you to pieces. And then murder you some more.”

Droot’s mouth fell.
“WHAT?”

“The Wyverns sent him here to scare you, but that’s not the guy’s style,” I said. “Sent me to do the same, actually. It’s a long story.”

“Wyverns?
What are you blathering about? Is this some sort of tasteless joke?”

I gauged his reaction. Maybe the guy really didn’t know much more than he pretended, although he’d certainly lent Barrett money for something. Even if he wasn’t aware of how, surely his crowns had grown thanks to the Wyverns’ smuggling efforts.

“If only it were,” I said, “but unfortunately your life is very much in danger. You need to get out of town. Like, yesterday. Don’t pack a bag. Do not pass go. Just gather your wife and kids if you have them and GTFO.”

Droot blinked. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I know my face looks funny, but I’m not always joking,” I said. “You need to scram
now.
But before you do, I’ll need your championship ring.”

Droot looked down at his hand. Apparently, he wore it even in his sleep.
Reliving the glory days, much?

“What?” he said. “Why?”

“So I can prove you’re dead.”

Droot looked at me as if I were crazy, but he nonetheless twisted the gold- and jewel-encrusted bauble off his finger. “Your supervisor is still going to receive a strongly worded letter, mind you.”

“Just make sure it’s postmarked from far away,” I said. “Your anger I can deal with. Your metaphorical blood on my hands is another.”

I took the ring and turned back into the dark of night. Sometimes I wondered why I tried, given the thanks I got. But at this point, I wasn’t sticking to my path for Droot’s benefit. The person on the line meant much more to me than he did.

35

I took a look around as I approached the precinct’s broad front doors. At this hour of the night, there weren’t any beat cops lounging around the front. Of course, given the cold, even if there had been I’m sure they would’ve all moved inside. Lucky for me, however, there was
one
intrepid young soul still out looking to make some coin.

I waved the runner over, a kid in a ratty wool coat who couldn’t have been older than ten. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be out?”

The kid shrugged. “Work’s work.”

“Don’t I know it.” I reached into my coat pocket and produced an envelope. “I need you to take this to Detectives Rodgers and Quinto. Don’t read it. Don’t lose it. Don’t give it to anyone else. Don’t dawdle. Understood?”

The kid nodded.

I gave him descriptions of my pals and the address of the warehouse, along with a shiny silver eagle for his troubles and the promise of more if he delivered it. His eyes widened, and I knew my missive was in as good a pair of hands as I could hope for given the hour.

He ran off, and I yanked on the front door’s handle.

Inside, a pair of lanterns burned bright near the entrance, but the rest of the pit sat dark, cold, and lifeless. At the creak of the doors, a bluecoat sitting at the front desk glanced up. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Smithers? Smuthers? Something with an ‘s’.

His brow furrowed. “Detective Daggers? Aren’t you on leave?”

“Duty calls.” I headed toward the stairs.

The poor bluecoat rose to his feet. “Uh…but sir. Captain said you weren’t supposed to be here. He made a point of saying so in a meeting a few days ago. I mean, I guess he might’ve meant during regular business hours, but—”

“Take it up with him in the morning,” I barked over my shoulder. “I have work to do and lives are on the line. Deal with it.”

That shut the guy up, although I felt bad for snapping. He was merely doing his job, and he didn’t have any idea what I was up to. Nor did I intend to have him find out. I descended into the morgue and headed into the examination room.

As I’d expected, Griggs’ and Barrett’s bodies had been cleared from the exam tables, all of which now were empty, shiny, and gleaming from a fresh clean. I snaked my way through them and crossed to the cadaver vaults.

I grasped the polished steel handle of the middle vault, farthest to the right, cranked it, and pulled. It rolled out on greased wheels with a whisper, but it was empty. I closed it and moved on to the next.

I worked my way through a dozen vaults, two-thirds of which were empty, before finding one that fit the bill. A tag affixed to the body within read ‘Dexter Sampson,’ who’d apparently died from complications suffered from a broken leg after he’d fallen at a construction site. I didn’t recognize him or the name, so I figured he must’ve been one of Elwswood’s or Drake’s cases. I hoped they’d forgive me—just as I hoped Sampson’s family would.

I crossed over to the nearest exam table in search of a scalpel.

36

The door screamed, and I returned to squalor. A light still shined in the back, behind the staircase.

Floorboards creaked as I walked, announcing my presence. When I turned the corner, I found Cobb precisely where I’d left him at the folding table. Unlike our solo meeting at the shipping container warehouse, he didn’t have a book in his hands. Perhaps he’d forgotten to bring one with him this time—or he’d hidden it under his jacket upon hearing the door and floorboard’s horrible symphony of groans and moans.

He eyed me with his patented cool expression, neither surprised nor relieved at my arrival. “We meet again.”

“And I’m as charmed as I was the first time.” I glanced over my shoulder into the shadows, for piece of mind. “Am I to assume I’m the first one back?”

Cobb crossed his arms. “Would I be here if you weren’t? Besides, I’m fairly sure I outlined the terms of the competition in a way that could produce only one victor.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “True, but I wouldn’t put something crazy past Bonesaw. He’s surprised me before.”

I reached into my jacket, produced a manila envelope, and tossed it to Cobb. He caught it with a deft hand, undid the string that kept it closed, and peered inside.

“Nicely done, Mr. Baggers.” Cobb dumped the severed finger and ring combo onto the table, where he picked it up with all the care one might afford a cocktail weenie. “A beautiful ring, isn’t it? And you made quite the surgical strike, if I might say so.”

Did the man notice my use of a scalpel? Would that tip him off?

“What did you expect?” I said. “That I’d bite it off? That’s where Bonesaw and I differ, you know.”

“Yes, thankfully.” He returned the severed finger with the championship ring to the envelope. Then he stared at me.

“So,” I said after a pause. “Here I am, your unlikely champion. You asked me to take part in a large scale jewelry heist, and I did. You sent me after a vertically-challenged drug pusher, so I tracked him down and gave you the means to locate his cache. You asked me to get nasty, and I showed I can do that, too. So what’s next? Are you going to make me bribe a councilman? Extract protection money from an unwilling shopkeeper? Wrestle a bear? Or am I in?”

Cobb ran his tongue across his teeth, his nose wrinkled and smug. I wanted to punch him in the face, but on the outside I was as cool as a cucumber.

“Unlikely champion, indeed,” said Cobb. “But, regardless of my feelings on the matter, you did in fact succeed—and I suppose you couldn’t be any worse than that ogre. So yes…you
are
in. If not yet one of us.”

I’d started to breathe a sigh of relief until I caught that last part. “Come again?”

“Don’t worry, Baggers. It’s not another test. You’ve shown yourself capable. But that alone doesn’t make you…Wyvern material.” It was the first time he’d mentioned the gang by name. “There’s someone you’ll need to meet, and should that go well, an initiation before you become a full fledged member of our society.”

That seemed cryptic. “So…do I wait for another note to get slipped under my door? Or do we do this now?”

Cobb stood and grabbed his lantern. “Come with me.”

I guess that answered my question.

Cobb stepped past the table and rounded the corner toward the front, but after a couple steps he stopped at a door set into the wall under the staircase. He turned the handle and pushed on through to another stair headed down.

“Hold on,” I said. “Are you telling me we’re already here?
This
is your hideout?”

“Not exactly,” said Cobb.

Dust rose from the planks as I followed him down the stairs. “So, what then,
exactly?”

“There are tunnels under much of this city. Some official, others less so.” Cobb turned and caught my eye. “We’re smugglers, after all. If you plan on joining us, you might want to get used to operating underground.”

The stairs doubled back on themselves twice before we reached a landing. Cobb turned a corner and started down a long corridor. Wood paneling lined the sides and ceiling, worm-eaten and rotten, as if we’d been transported to an ancient, long forgotten mineshaft. Streaks of black mold ran up and down the walls in stretches, located under cracks in the paneling above where water likely seeped and trickled. Though the corridor was dry at the moment, in the springtime it probably became an asthmatic’s nightmare.

“How long of a trek is this going to be?” I asked. “Are we talking a quick jaunt or a half marathon? Because if it’s the latter, I would’ve stopped for coffee on the way.”

A rusty iron gate materialized through the gloom, and Cobb stopped before it. “It won’t be far. A few more of these gates and we’ll be there.” He produced a keychain from his pocket and slid it into the keyhole. The lock turned with a heavy clunk.