Free Fine Blue Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 4) by Alex P. Berg

Captain’s own staunchest adversaries. Not that I’d explored the underground portions of the precinct to their fullest, mind you, but if the rumors held even a shred of truth, surely I would’ve been one of the first to be shackled and imprisoned for my gross insubordination.
    Rather, ‘the dungeon’ encompassed the precinct’s morgue, so named for its complete lack of natural light, musty smell, and overall cheery atmosphere. Oh, and the dead people. There were lots of dead people.
    I shivered as we reached the bottom of the steps and gave my head a shake. “I don’t know how Cairny manages. Especially in the winter.”
    “Well,” said Steele, “there are these things called sweaters…”
    “Oh, come off it,” I said. “If it were you down here, you could throw on a half-dozen layers, and you’d still turn into a half-elf popsicle. Chances are they’d send me down with an ice pick to free you from the frost.”
    We stepped into the morgue proper, a cavernous room sparsely filled with examination tables, surgical instruments, and coat racks pre-supplied with long, white coats. Cadaver vaults with shiny steel handles, stacked three high, lined the far wall—dozens of temporary homes for the recently living. The room smelled of lemon and industrial solvents, and the floors seemed shinier than I remembered. Either the janitor had just completed his bi-monthly visit, or Cairny had gotten bored and stooped to tasks far beneath her pay grade. Well…not that far. None of us public servants earned much.
    Only one of the exam tables was currently in use, its occupant’s form shrouded by a pristine white sheet. I guessed it had to be Lanky, based on the size of the body. Of Cairny, however, I saw neither hide nor hair. I’d hoped to inquire if she’d had time to examine the corpse yet. Our leads were limited, but a confirmation of blunt force trauma as the method by which Lanky had been slain would go a long way toward confirming our theory involving Private Delvesdeep and Sergeant Timmy.
    I glanced at Shay. “So…where’s Cairny, I wonder?”
    “Why do you assume I know?” she said. “I came down with you, remember?”
    “Well, you’re friends and all,” I offered. “Plus there’s that prescient insight of yours.”
    “That’ll never get old, will it?”
    I shook my head.
    “Maybe she’s warming her hands by a roaring fire?” said Steele.
    I grunted, doubtful. The Captain would never spring for firewood.
    After a lengthy circuit of the precinct that had us visit the lonelier portions of the dungeon and the holding cells, not to mention the building’s second and third floors, Shay and I eventually returned to the pit, whereupon we spotted Cairny lounging on a couch in the break room, Quinto’s wide frame and smiling, brick-toothed mug at her side.
    “There you are,” I said as I walked through the doorway.
    “Hey Daggers,” she said, and then as she eyed Steele, “Looking good, bestie. I like the jacket.”
    “Thanks,” said Shay. “The color’s kind of fun, isn’t it?”
    Cairny nodded, which I found amusing given her own closet probably resembled a mortician’s. She rarely wore anything other than black, likely because the color paired so well with her long, jet-black hair and ivory skin, but today she’d decided to get crazy and wear a grey cowl neck sweater—points to Shay for calling that—which she’d matched with a pair of voluminous charcoal-colored pants that helped disguise her gangly legs. In the delicate fingers of her right hand she held a few thin cuts of deli meat sandwiched between slices of bread that appeared to have been trampled by a herd of large ruminating mammals.
    “What in the world are you eating?” I asked.
    Cairny stared at me with those large, vacant eyes of hers. “Roast beef. On white.”
    “Yes, I can see that,” I said. “But what in the world happened to it? It looks so…sad.”
    Shay pressed a hand against my arm and pointed at Cairny and