longer than that. Hey, Quinto?”
The surly one tilted his head in my direction. “Yeah?”
“When did you notice this dagger had warmed up?”
“I don’t know,” said Quinto. “Around when we got it back here, I guess. Maybe an hour ago?”
“So this dagger was frigid for at least three or four hours, then,” I said.
I looked at Shay. She gave me a slight shake of her head, as if to say she wasn’t sure what to make of it either.
Before I had much of a chance to batter my brain over the conundrum of the icy stiletto, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Excuse me, Detective Daggers?”
I turned around to find a short guy with a shaved head and stubble on his chin standing by my desk.
“Um…yes?” I said.
“I’m Boatreng,” he said.
My eyebrows furrowed.
“From upstairs. The sketch artist?”
I unknitted my furry eyeball shades. “Oh. Right.” I wondered if I needed to get my head checked. I couldn’t seem to remember anyone today. Then I remembered how lousy my insurance was and tossed the idea in the wastebasket in my mind where all my other crazy notions got deposited.
“I’ve got the sketch you requested,” the guy said.
“That was fast,” I said. “Let’s see it.”
The guy gave me an inscrutable look, but a growl from his stomach indicated his speed was really a byproduct of having worked through his lunch break. He dug a piece of paper out of a file he held at his side and handed it over before walking away.
I smiled as I gave the page a once over. “Well, it looks like we’ve identified our killer.”
“What? How do you figure that?” Shay snatched the page from my hands.
“Just look at the guy,” I said. “He’s a total creepazoid.”
The sketch depicted a guy with chin length black hair that hung loosely around his face. An elongated, crooked nose stuck out between the sagging bags that hung under his eyes, and craters on his cheeks hinted at a childhood fighting some pox or other. The page also listed him as somewhere between six foot three and six foot six, but on the skinny side.
Shay gave me a sidelong glance. “Come on, Daggers. You can’t judge a murderer based on appearance alone.”
“No?” I said. “I’ve solved cases with less to go on than that. That guy’s either a serial killer or really into his collection of lifelike miniature dolls that he surrounds himself with while he sleeps.”
“Well, at least it’s something to go off of,” said Steele. “Should we head back to Terrence’s apartment building—see if anyone can identify this guy for us?”
“Good idea,” I said. “But I have an even better one—one that involves more delegation and less legwork. Hey, Quinto!”
With his back still facing me, the big guy shot me the finger.
“Well that wasn’t very nice,” I said. “Fine. Let’s hit the road, partner.”
12
“Come on,” I said as we approached Terrence’s apartment building. “You can’t tell me you honestly have no idea how to go about firing bricks to produce a sublime, banana-yellow appearance such as that.”
“I already told you, Daggers,” said Steele, “I don’t know anything about brickmaking.”
“Yes, but you do know a fair amount about science, including chemistry. You don’t even have a guess?”
Shay shrugged. “It’s probably a compositional thing. I’m guessing red bricks have more iron. Yellow ones? Maybe they’ve got lime?”
“You’d think lemons would work better if the goal is yellow,” I said.
Shay stopped in her tracks, mouth half open.
“It’s a joke,” I said. “I know what you meant.”
The beat cops at the tenement had all returned to their patrols. I yanked on the door and held it open for my partner, but before she could get to it, some burly doofus with a mop of honey blond hair let himself out at my expense. At least he had the decency to mutter a hasty “Thanks” as he walked by. I shook my head. Chivalry really was dying. At least Shay appreciated my
The surly one tilted his head in my direction. “Yeah?”
“When did you notice this dagger had warmed up?”
“I don’t know,” said Quinto. “Around when we got it back here, I guess. Maybe an hour ago?”
“So this dagger was frigid for at least three or four hours, then,” I said.
I looked at Shay. She gave me a slight shake of her head, as if to say she wasn’t sure what to make of it either.
Before I had much of a chance to batter my brain over the conundrum of the icy stiletto, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Excuse me, Detective Daggers?”
I turned around to find a short guy with a shaved head and stubble on his chin standing by my desk.
“Um…yes?” I said.
“I’m Boatreng,” he said.
My eyebrows furrowed.
“From upstairs. The sketch artist?”
I unknitted my furry eyeball shades. “Oh. Right.” I wondered if I needed to get my head checked. I couldn’t seem to remember anyone today. Then I remembered how lousy my insurance was and tossed the idea in the wastebasket in my mind where all my other crazy notions got deposited.
“I’ve got the sketch you requested,” the guy said.
“That was fast,” I said. “Let’s see it.”
The guy gave me an inscrutable look, but a growl from his stomach indicated his speed was really a byproduct of having worked through his lunch break. He dug a piece of paper out of a file he held at his side and handed it over before walking away.
I smiled as I gave the page a once over. “Well, it looks like we’ve identified our killer.”
“What? How do you figure that?” Shay snatched the page from my hands.
“Just look at the guy,” I said. “He’s a total creepazoid.”
The sketch depicted a guy with chin length black hair that hung loosely around his face. An elongated, crooked nose stuck out between the sagging bags that hung under his eyes, and craters on his cheeks hinted at a childhood fighting some pox or other. The page also listed him as somewhere between six foot three and six foot six, but on the skinny side.
Shay gave me a sidelong glance. “Come on, Daggers. You can’t judge a murderer based on appearance alone.”
“No?” I said. “I’ve solved cases with less to go on than that. That guy’s either a serial killer or really into his collection of lifelike miniature dolls that he surrounds himself with while he sleeps.”
“Well, at least it’s something to go off of,” said Steele. “Should we head back to Terrence’s apartment building—see if anyone can identify this guy for us?”
“Good idea,” I said. “But I have an even better one—one that involves more delegation and less legwork. Hey, Quinto!”
With his back still facing me, the big guy shot me the finger.
“Well that wasn’t very nice,” I said. “Fine. Let’s hit the road, partner.”
12
“Come on,” I said as we approached Terrence’s apartment building. “You can’t tell me you honestly have no idea how to go about firing bricks to produce a sublime, banana-yellow appearance such as that.”
“I already told you, Daggers,” said Steele, “I don’t know anything about brickmaking.”
“Yes, but you do know a fair amount about science, including chemistry. You don’t even have a guess?”
Shay shrugged. “It’s probably a compositional thing. I’m guessing red bricks have more iron. Yellow ones? Maybe they’ve got lime?”
“You’d think lemons would work better if the goal is yellow,” I said.
Shay stopped in her tracks, mouth half open.
“It’s a joke,” I said. “I know what you meant.”
The beat cops at the tenement had all returned to their patrols. I yanked on the door and held it open for my partner, but before she could get to it, some burly doofus with a mop of honey blond hair let himself out at my expense. At least he had the decency to mutter a hasty “Thanks” as he walked by. I shook my head. Chivalry really was dying. At least Shay appreciated my
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