Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) (19 page)

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not placing the blame for that on you. The reason I’m telling you these things is that your books, among other things, impressed upon me the importance of observation, the rankness of favoritism, and the need for firm, unyielding justice. I take my job seriously, sir. So forgive me when I tell you your answer about Ms. Gladwell holds about as much water as a cup that’s been turned upside down.”

“Just so you know,” said Steele, “that’s the nicest way I’ve ever heard him tell someone they’re full of crap.”

Gregg took another drink of brandy and frowned. Eventually he spoke. “Is she dead?”

“Yes,” I said.

The surly author grunted.

“So tell me,” I said, “what’s your relationship with Ms. Gladwell? And be honest. Whatever crimes were committed, we can sort them out later. Did she steal your work? Was she blackmailing you? Whatever it is, my partner and I can handle it. Unless you tell me she was secretly a doppelganger. In that case, I’ll need a little more backstory and some hard evidence.”

“What?
What are you blathering about?” the old guy sputtered. “No.”

“No, she wasn’t a doppelganger?” I asked.

“No, she didn’t steal my work.” He sighed. “She’s really dead?”

“Her corpse is still fresh, but yeah. And you still haven’t told me what the heck was going on between you two.”

Gregg pressed his free hand to his temple. “Look, Cynthia wasn’t stealing from me. She was an honest woman. A good woman. A talented woman. She was my… Gah… I wish it hadn’t come to this, but I guess it would’ve come out eventually. She was my ghostwriter.”

That threw me for a loop. If I’d been wearing glasses, I might’ve had to juggle them comically around my face as I tried to settle them after sitting up in shock. “Wait…
what?”

“Look,” said Gregg, “I’ve been writing Rex Winters novels for almost twenty-five years. Do you know how hard it is to keep coming up with exciting, original ideas for novels for that long? The gods know I tried, but at some point, the whole enterprise just got stale. And it showed. Sales of Rex Winters novels tanked.”

“Right around book twelve in the series,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “After a few stink bombs in a row, Chapman Books started breathing down my neck. Telling me I needed to get my shit into high gear. Otherwise, they wouldn’t renew my contract. But I was totally spent. Burnt-out. I had nothing. So I found Cynthia. She was good. Produced a gem of a first effort.”

I invoked my prodigious knowledge of the series again. “That must’ve been book fifteen.”

“Yup. And she’s been writing the novels ever since. Best investment I ever made. Now don’t get me wrong, she was expensive, and I had to pay her extra to keep quiet. I didn’t want anyone to know, especially those vultures over at Chapman. But she was worth it. Sales have been great ever since. And now I’m screwed. Guess I’ll have to find another ghostwriter. A good one. That’s the hard part, mind you. Bad ones are a dime a dozen.”

I sat there for a moment, trying to process all the information I’d absorbed over the past minute. Gregg’s revelation that Ms. Gladwell was his ghostwriter threw my whole theory about her, Terry, and Creepy being literary thieves into the waste bin. But if they weren’t involved in an elaborate scheme to defraud Frank Gregg of his money, then how were they all linked? What could a ghostwriter have in common with a janitor and a book binder?

Shay took my silence as an opportunity to ask Mr. Gregg more questions. “You’re a mystery writer, Mr. Gregg, so indulge me for a moment if you will. Can you think of any reason a person might want to kill someone with a stiletto that’s been depressed in temperature?”

“Huh? Is that what happened?”

Steele still wasn’t in the mood for banter. Gregg hadn’t made a good first impression apparently. “Answer the question, please.”

“No,” he said. “Sounds batty, if you ask me.”

“What about injecting someone with a drug before murdering them with a bladed weapon? Why would someone do that?”

“You have evidence of that?” asked Gregg.

Steele bore into him with her eyes. “An injection mark, yes. Now answer the question.”

Gregg shrugged. “Maybe they’re trying out something experimental and didn’t want anyone to find out. Or maybe—and this would be a good twist—your killer didn’t inject someone with drugs, but rather
stole
their blood. Not sure why. Something religious or mystical, probably. Could be a good story element.”

Shay shot me a glance. I nodded.

“I think we’ve got what we needed here, Mr. Gregg,” I said. “If we think of anything else to ask, we’ll pop by. Thanks for your time.”

The old guy grunted. “You know where the door is.”

As I walked away, I realized a load had been lifted from my shoulders. In all probability, Frank Gregg wasn’t our killer. However, I still felt heavy and depressed for an entirely different reason. I guess finding out one of your lifelong idols is a huge dick can do that.

33

“What was it you told me earlier today?” said Steele as we exited the house. “That sometimes in this business you
just know?
You were so sure Frank Gregg was our murderer. You even suggested—nay, downright proposed—that doppelgangers were involved. How’d that turn out?”

“Hey, we all make mistakes,” I said. “Forgive and forget, I always say.”

Shay tilted her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that before.”

“Sure you have,” I said. “You probably forgot about it because you’re so entrenched in the ideals of my mantra.”

My partner smiled and rolled her eyes.

As we made our way down the path, we found Rodgers and Quinto loitering near the street.

“So, you guys learn anything useful?” asked Quinto.

I shrugged. “Yes and no. Yes, in that we discovered the connection between stiff number three and Frank Gregg. No, in that Gregg isn’t our guy.”

“You’re sure he didn’t kill anyone?” asked Quinto.

“I’m never sure of anything,” I said. “But Gregg didn’t have a motive to murder Cynthia, nor either of the other guys. Ms. Gladwell was his ghostwriter.”

Rodgers flashed his trademark toothy grin. “So, it turns out your favorite author is nothing but a big, fat phony. How’s that make you feel, Daggers?”

“He’s not a total phony,” said Steele. “Just a huge, misogynistic jerk.”

“Yeah, he wrote the first dozen plus novels in the series himself,” I said, “but he ran out of gas about a decade ago. And it makes me feel terrible, to answer your question, but it does give me an idea. I wonder if I could find a ghost detective to solve my cases for me. Some poor, desperate immigrant. I can’t afford a lot.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” said Quinto. “Not sure the Captain would go for it, though.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s a stickler when it comes to things like privacy and security. Oh, and ethics. That one, too.”

“So what’s the plan?” said Rodgers, getting us back on track.

Good question. We’d exonerated Frank Gregg from any wrongdoing, which in turn seemed to exculpate Terry, Creepy, and Cynthia from the same thing. That left us up a creek with regards to what the bunch of them were doing every fourteenth night, and we still weren’t any closer to figuring out why our murderer had offed each of our victims in the manner he had. Frosty daggers, blood thickeners, and denuded corpses sounded like the stuff of doppelgangers, but despite my wild speculations, I didn’t truly think they were real.

I scratched my head. “I don’t know. This case is wackier than a stand-up comic hopped up on paint fumes. And despite our continually expanding repertoire of knowledge and evidence, we still haven’t explained either of the big whys. Why did the killer target the victims he did, and why did he kill them in that manner?”

Something gnawed at my insides, and I don’t think it had anything to do with my breakfast choices. I pursed my lips and grunted. “I can’t shake the feeling we’re missing a vital piece—or that I’m forgetting something, for that matter. Why don’t we head back to Cynthia’s place? Give it another once over. You two lugs can help.” I pointed at Rodgers and Quinto. “You didn’t get a close look the first time.”

Shay looked dubious. “I doubt we’ll find anything new.”

“Look,” I said, “I’ve got a gut feeling we missed something, ok?”

“Kind of like that gut feeling of yours about the doppelgangers?” asked Shay.

I scowled. “You have any better ideas?”

She didn’t.

We flagged down some rickshaws, and a couple hops, skips, and a jump by our driver later we arrived back at the rose-colored cement structure. As I exited the cart, my gut yanked on my eyeballs and started to crow about its deft intuitive skills. Behind a corner, peeking around the end of an alley across the street, shaggy wisps of honey blond hair dangled in the wind.

I stopped my partner with a verbal cue. “Steele, do you remember a couple days ago when we returned to Terry’s place to show everyone the sketch of the hooded mystery man?”

“Yes.”

“And do you remember, while we were entering the building, a guy bumped us on the way out? He had a big bushy mane of honey-colored hair.”

“Vaguely,” she said. “Why are you bringing this all up?”

“Because while we were at Creepy’s place interrogating his nephew, I could’ve sworn I spotted the same guy down the street.”

Steele’s eyes widened. “And you just now thought it was worth sharing? Daggers, what gives? I’m your partner. You’re supposed to tell me these things.”

“And risk you yukking it up over my insanity when I’m proved wrong?” I said. “Not a chance.”

Shay reached over and clasped her hand to my upper arm. “Daggers, please. I laughed when you told me you thought a doppelganger stole Frank Gregg’s skin and used it to go on a refrigerated liquid-fueled murder spree. I’d never belittle you for sharing an honest-to-goodness clue that could help solve a case. You know that, right?”

I looked down at her hand, and there it was again. The well of emotions—the boiling feelings that had slapped me around outside Gregg’s place when Shay had placed her hands over mine and forced me to close
Rex Winters in Double Blind Danger
. They surged up from the depths of my soul, making my heart constrict and my throat feel scratchy.

For the first time in years, I
wanted
to give the emotions free reign over my psyche. I
wanted
to cut them loose and see where they’d take me. I wasn’t afraid of them anymore. They could only hurt me if I let them, and in all honesty, I’d hurt myself enough by shutting them away in the first place.

But now wasn’t the time to unleash them—not with a string of unsolved murders threatening to stretch into the weekend, and with a potential honey-haired suspect lurking around a nearby street corner.

“Daggers? Are you ok?”

I looked up at Steele. “Yeah… Yeah, I’m fine.”

Shay gave me an odd look. “So why are you bringing up this stuff about the guy we bumped into? Don’t tell me you saw him here this morning, too?”

“Hmm?” I shook my head. “No. But…” I tilted my head over my shoulder.

“What?” said Shay. “He’s here?” She scanned her eyes across the street, settling them on the alleyway I’d already identified.

Rodgers and Quinto joined us after having dismissed their rickshaw. I filled them in, instructing them to circle around and approach the alley from the back. Steele and I’d meet them at the front, hopefully snagging Shaggy in our web. I told them to be ready for trouble.

“You think this is going to get rough?” asked Steele as the boys moved into position.

“Possibly,” I said. “If this turns out to be our cloaked mystery man, then yes.”

Shay glanced down at her capris. “I didn’t really dress for a beatdown.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll go first. You’ll only be in charge of dropping the dude if he claws his way past me and leaves me bloody and motionless in his wake.”

“Oh, that’s encouraging,” Shay said.

I reached into my coat and wrapped my fingers around Daisy.

34

Thankfully, the guy’s teleportation trick hadn’t recharged in the time since I’d last spotted him near Creepy’s place. He was right where I’d made him. Shay and I turned the corner and found him looking over his shoulder, having just realized Quinto and Rodgers were approaching him from behind.

The guy was big—as tall as me and bulkier—but it was his enormous, fluffy mane that really stood out. Wavy brownish-blond hair poured from his scalp, over his shoulders, and down to the middle of his back. A beard of similar color and kingly proportions stretched down toward his belly. When he turned his head back and saw us, I noticed a pair of thin, dainty bifocals perched upon his wide nose.

He froze upon realizing his situation—the usual reaction when the brain struggles to decide if it’s worth making a break for it or giving in to the inevitable. Then he progressed through a series of motions I like to call the ‘playing it cool’ dance. He leaned against the wall, stood up and crossed his arms, then pulled them apart and clasped his hands near his lower abdomen, all the while hemming and hawing incomprehensible expressions of hesitation and doubt.

“Hi there,” I said.

Shaggy’s eyes drew down to the eighteen inch piece of steel gripped in my right hand and widened in response. I got the impression he wasn’t about to bolt, but I didn’t relax my grip in the slightest.

“Um…hi,” he said.

“Do you remember me, by any chance?” I asked.

“Have we met?” Shaggy asked.

“You bumped into me outside an apartment building a couple days ago,” I said. “You know, the apartment building where a guy by the name of Terrence Mann had just been murdered? And then I caught a glimpse of you near another apartment, one that happened to contain yet another guy who’d been murdered, Octavio Clapper. Funny to find you outside the apartment of a
third
murder victim, Ms. Cynthia Gladwell—especially considering all three of the people I’ve mentioned were murdered in surprisingly similar ways.”