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

“Probably couldn’t have killed anyone with it anyway,” said Steele as she wandered over.

“You done with your inspection?” I asked.

“Just finished,” she said.

“How convenient.”

Shay flashed that malicious grin I was sure she’d been wearing before. She shrugged in response.

“So did you glean anything from your endeavors that us plebeians couldn’t have?” I asked.

“The blood I showed you is recent, no doubt about it,” said Steele. “The spray pattern indicates someone was hit, not that someone fell. And while I did find scuff marks on the brick, I didn’t see any that could’ve been left due to an impact with Sergeant Holmes’ face.”

“So, basically,” I said, “you confirmed our suspicions.”

“Someone needed to,” she said.

“Quinto’s confusion not withstanding, I felt they were rather obvious.”

“Says the man with trash juice on his shoes.” Shay’s eyes twinkled.

I grumbled and took another look around me. The hobos at the end of the alley had smartly chosen not to return. At the cross street where they’d disappeared, smoke puffed from a chimney in the back of a building. Above me, high on the second floor of the ostentatious building with the leafy topping, a few windows stood open to the elements.

I turned toward the mouth of the alley and called out. “Phillips! Hey, Phillips!”

The clean cut young chap popped his head in and ran over. “Yes, sir, Detective. Any leads?”

It wasn’t any of his business, but I could understand his curiosity. “Not so much. You said there were witnesses from the bar across the street? That heard fighting?”

“That’s right,” said Phillips. “I think they’re still here, chatting with Gorman or Poundstone.”

“Good. And what about these two buildings?” I indicated them with my thumb.

“Um…I think this big one’s a church,” said Phillips. “And the one that backs into the alley…a bar, maybe?”

“You’re a paragon of knowledge, Phillips,” I said.

The kid looked at me blankly. “Um…what sir?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Quinto, why don’t you go see what you can wring out of those barflies? Steele, you’re with me, as always. Let’s flex our vocal muscles and see what else we can learn about the events of last night.”

6

Steele and I pushed our way through the wide double doors gracing the front of the church. As they closed behind us, I stopped, craned my neck to the sky, and stared.

“Well,” I said. “I did
not
expect that.”

Apparently, my initial characterization of the church as having shrubbery growing on its roof was grossly inaccurate. The shrubbery
was
the roof. Centenarian trees sprouted from the floor of the church, stretching their boughs up, up, up toward the sky. Dense clusters of leaves, some of them orange and yellow but many still green despite the oncoming cold, blocked our view of the sun and spilled over the church’s exterior walls.

Heavy vines, also thick with leaves, wrapped themselves around the tree trunks and boughs. They wandered across cables that had been hung from the top branches of the trees and crept onto the thick, unfinished wood columns lining the sides of the common area, adding a muted brushstroke of bluish-green to the space.

The floor was of packed dirt rather than tile or stone, and although a cluster of two dozen rough, wooden benches surrounded an open area on the far side of the church, the majority of the building’s interior was pockmarked with much smaller gathering spaces—circles of brick, recessed into the earth, where people might sit and dangle their legs. If only they’d had a fire pit in the center, I could’ve envisioned myself rubbing shoulders with Shay at one, drinking a beer and toasting marshmallows.

“This place seems right up your alley,” I said to Steele.

She gave me a furrowed brow sort of look. “I’m no more religiously inclined than you are, Daggers.”

“Yeah, but this place is so open,” I said. “So airy and natural. So very…
elven.”

Shay’s look deviated not one whit. “I grew up in a small apartment in midtown. The nearest park was four blocks away.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t feel any connection to the trees?”

“We had a bonsai in our living room,” said Shay. “I liked it. It was cute.”

A stone path meandered around the church interior, eventually making its way to the cluster of benches at the backside, though it did so with no sense of haste whatsoever. I strolled across it as I continued to gaze upon the interior. A number of worshipers sat at the organically distributed stone circles, though upon further inspection, many of them appeared to be curled in balls, sleeping. More hobos, based on their attire. Churches always attracted them in droves, but given this particular chapel’s lack of a solid roof, I wasn’t sure I understood the appeal.

Before we’d made it halfway along the path, a couple of men materialized from a doorway set in the wall not far from the benches and approached us. I pegged the first of the pair as in his mid-fifties. Wavy, salt-and-pepper hair swept across his temple and over his ears, pairing nicely with the pale grey frock that reached to the tops of his shoes. He walked with a slight limp, but his cornflower blue eyes seemed as bright and healthy as those of a man twenty years younger.

Behind the older gentleman followed a tall and thin adolescent.
Exceptionally
tall. I’d wager he had me beat by at least a foot. His long arms hung at his sides, capped with hands the size of frying pans, and his sandal-clad feet would’ve fit comfortably in clown shoes. Angry, red acne dotted his face. Between that, his gangly build, and an outdated bowl cut, I gathered he probably wasn’t beating young ladies off with a stick.

“Good morning, pilgrims,” said the elder statesman as he neared, “and welcome to the warm embrace of the divine. May the strength of nature course through your veins and fill you with the spirit of the everlasting.”

Oh boy. Here we go…

I waved a dismissive hand at the pastor. “I’m sorry, but we’re not here for your insights into life, death, and the grand purpose of the cosmos.”

“Oh?” The man lifted a brow. “Do you need a place to rest your weary heads? Or a hot meal, perchance?”

Ah. Food.
That would explain the hobos.

“No, thank you,” said Steele with more grace than I could’ve mustered. “We’re here for information, actually. I’m Detective Steele, and this is Detective Daggers. We’re with the NWPD.”

“I see.” The man clasped his hands and dropped them to his lap. “Well, I’m Pastor Bellamy. Julian Bellamy. What brings you to the Church of the Divine Rebirth?”

“Church of the Divine Rebirth?”
I asked.

I regretted the question as soon as it left my lips. Bellamy launched into a well-rehearsed spiel.

“The Divine Rebirth is an idea as old as civilization, as old as nature, as old as time itself. We followers of the Divine Rebirth believe in a cyclicality in all things. Wealth and poverty. Bounty and famine. Wetness and drought. But most importantly, we believe in the cyclicality of life and death.

“You see, detectives, we all possess within us an essential core of our being—a spirit, if you will—that existed before our birth, that has always existed, and will always exist. It is the spark of life, and every living being, every plant, insect, or animal, sentient or not, carries within it this divine spark. And upon our deaths, this spark will travel through the divine cycle and give new life in what we call the gift of creation. That is why we celebrate and revere every life, from that of our fellow downtrodden man to that of the noble trees and every creature that makes them their home.”

Bellamy punctuated his speech with a grand sweep of his arms, as if to encompass the entirety of his church. Throughout the discourse, the supremely tall youth stood at Bellamy’s back, his head bowed and his lips sealed.

I surprised myself by not only staying awake through the impromptu sermon, but staying alert. Must’ve been the coffee.

I pointed at the beanpole. “What’s up with Slim?”

Bellamy blinked. “Oh. This is Chester. He’s my assistant.”

Chester bobbed his head.

“Does he talk?” I asked.

“He is physically able, but he chooses not to,” said Bellamy. “He took a vow of silence a little over a year ago.”

“Is that a thing in your religion?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Bellamy.

Stupidly, I waited for an explanation, but by some miracle, none came.

“So,” said Bellamy. “What can I do for you, detectives?”

I pointed to the far side of the building, past the benches where Julian and Chester had emerged. “We noticed some windows high on your church, backing up to the alley. Tell me, Pastor, what do you have on that side of the building?”

“Kitchens and meeting spaces on the first floor, primarily,” said Bellamy. “Living and work quarters on the upper levels.”

“So you live here?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Why?”

“We’re investigating a disturbance that occurred late last night in the alley,” said Shay. “A few other witnesses reported hearing yelling. We were wondering if perhaps you heard anything more concrete, given your proximity.”

The pastor nodded. “Ah. Yes. That. It woke me up. Before the break of dawn. I’d say…five thirty or so.”

“And what did you hear?” I asked.

Bellamy rubbed his smooth cheeks. “Well. There was an argument. Between a man and a woman. And yelling, both male and female. Oh, and fighting.”

I gave my partner a tilted head and raised eyebrow combo, as if to say Bellamy’s story matched our suspicions. She’d clearly hoped for more.

“Can you be more specific?” asked Shay. “Did you hear any names, or make out any phrases?”

Bellamy shook his head. “I’m afraid not. With the chill in the air, I keep the windows closed overnight, and they do a fair job of muffling sound—which is a good thing, to be honest, because we have more than our fair share of boisterous partiers roaming the streets in these parts. Eventually I did rise and head to the windows to investigate, but by that point, whoever had been involved in the altercation had moved to the end of the alley.”

“And what about you, Slim?” I asked. “You hear anything?”

Chester—who now that I thought about it, must’ve been a half-giant of some sort—gave me a blank stare before looking to Bellamy for guidance.

“Go on,” said Bellamy. “Answer the detective’s questions, Chester.”

The tall youth looked at me expectantly.

I scratched my head. “Um…do you have a system for communication? Hand signals or something?”

“We ask yes or no question, and he nods or shakes his head.”

“Clever,” I said. “Ok, then, Chester. Did you hear the yelling last night, too?”

He nodded.

“Did you overheard anything specific?” asked Steele. “Anything Pastor Bellamy didn’t?”

He paused briefly, his eyebrows wrinkled, then shook his head.

“Well, that was…brief.” I’d meant to say pointless, but Shay had given me one of those ‘be nice’ looks. I glanced at her. “So, now what?”

“You could try the restaurant next door,” offered Bellamy. “It’s possible someone there heard something I didn’t.”

“At five thirty in the morning?” I said.

“They serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner, seven days a week,” he said. “Someone should’ve been there.”

“Thank you, pastor,” said Shay. “We’ll check it out.”

We turned to go.

“Wait,” said Bellamy. “Pardon my curiosity, but…what exactly happened out there?”

I paused and looked back at the guy. “A transient got beaten to death.”

His face fell. “You’re kidding.”

“You’re right,” I said. “The other bums actually threw a birthday party for him, but he suffered a heart-attack when the stripper burst through the cake.”

Steele smacked me in the arm, and Bellamy looked at me sternly. “Are you always so glib in the face of death?”

“Comes with the territory,” I said. “You get immune to it after a while.”

I also wanted to ask why Bellamy seemed so crestfallen over the death of a downtrodden transient, given his belief in the ‘Divine Rebirth’ or whatnot, but I’d learned my lesson the first time—which was to not feed the priest any straight lines he might interpret as requests for theological discourse. I had enough on my plate at the moment, and my coffee’s intellect-perking magic could only be stretched so far.

7

Shay and I exited the church and walked over to the restaurant in question, a shabby, mottled brick building with a weather-beaten sign above it labeling it the Delta Deli. A smaller sign hung underneath, with the words ‘& Brew Pub’ in a different type. A chimney puffed smoke out from the back, the same chimney I’d spotted from the confines of the alley.

“A ratty joint that serves sandwiches and beer?” said Shay as she gazed at the sign. “This place might be tailor made for you, Daggers.”

“Hey, don’t tempt me,” I said. “That scone I devoured is already a distant memory.”

I pulled the door open for my partner, and a shopkeeper’s bell mounted in the frame jingled. Inside the restaurant, two score seats, evenly distributed between tables and booths, languished, empty. A lone patron—a guy with a shaggy crop of light brown hair and glasses—occupied the last booth on the left, an elbow propped on the table and his face pressed into his hand. I couldn’t tell if the guy was despondent, drunk, or dead.

A dry, musty smell worked its way into my nostrils, giving me the impression the place would benefit greatly from a good sweeping and a day with its windows spread open. A rickety, wooden hostess stand at my right went ignored by any possible employees. I squinted as I peered into the back of the establishment in the direction of the kitchen, but the owners hadn’t bothered to light any lamps—or even purchase them. I couldn’t be sure which, given the gloom.

Steele reached out and rapped her index finger twice against the tip of a call bell on the edge of the hostess stand. A few seconds passed with no response. I tipped my head in Shay’s direction, but before she could ring the bell again, I spotted movement in the back. A hand grasped the edge of a bead curtain that separated the dining room from the kitchen, sweeping it to the side, and into the darkness stepped an individual wearing khakis and a puffy jacket.