Free Death's Reckoning by Will Molinar Page B

Come with me. There’s much better places to talk. C’mon.”
    Cubbins followed him outside, glad for the fresh air since his head was heavy. Plus, it might dispel some of Craven’s odd cologne and halitosis combination. It didn’t help much.
    They went east for two or three blocks, turned north and went up an alleyway until they reached the edge of a two story building.
    “Up this way, Captain Cubbins,” Craven Mills said and pointed to the metal fire escape. “Help me up here, would ya? Give an old mariner a hand. C’mon.”
    Cubbins hopped up, and with his lanky, strong arms he grabbed the metal bar and yank it down. It clattered as it hit the ground, and up they went. The older man went first, huffing and puffing before they went five steps.
    “This’ll… give us some privacy… yeah.”
    Cubbins followed behind. The would-be informer went a few paces forward on the roof, looked around to make sure they were alone, and turned back. “So what’s this job ya got for me? Wanna fill me in?”
    Cubbins gave him a brief description of the issues at hand, sparing him details that didn’t matter. When he finished, Craven had a look of disgust on his face. His earrings jingled as he shook his head and spat on the ground behind his back.
    “Dirty job that is. I remember some years back, before you were on the job, something similar happened. Nasty business.”
    “I need to know what you know.”
    “Nah, not much. Bet you know more than I do. People are too busy talking about them fellas from Janisberg. No, I’ll be on the look-out from now on, now that I know ya need me. I’ll get some help, with your permission of course.”
    “You’ll let me know if you need more.”
    “Thank you, Officer Cubbins. Hey, what’d they steal anyway from them graves? Why you on the beat tonight? That important? Some noble’s grave robbed or something?”
    “I’ll be in touch, Craven.”
    They separated. Mills headed back to the tavern. Cubbins walked the streets towards home. Near the docks the activity level was higher even at such a late hour. The moon and wind were punishing the walk north towards home.
    Several people stood by some older warehouses, smaller versions of the newer mammoth storage buildings the guild used. The old ones were blocky, simple buildings with a great deal of wear and tear around the edges. Their middles sagged. The wood rotted from the years, decades even, of being so close to the sea.
    Cubbins noticed a few officers close by the group of dock workers, sailors, and also various other ruffians that found their way to the docks from time to time. He wanted to remain incognito and turned away, some voices raised in anger.
    It happened so fast, Cubbins had no time to react. He cursed himself for not moving fast enough. A scuffle broke out. Men yelled, and one of the police officers went down holding his stomach. Three men ran. The other officer shoved a man forward, and two other men stood as if rooted to the ground.
    By then the captain was there. He saw the man grappling with his officer holding a bloody knife. Cubbins slugged him in the jaw. Hard. His knees buckled, and he fell backwards unconscious. The officer’s forward momentum carried him over on top of him, and they fell in a clump.
    Cubbins turned his attention to his fallen officer. Collin Hawkins was young, pale, and dying. They sat him up and held his shoulders as men stood around them muttering in shock.
    “What was that?”
    “What happened?”
    “… cut him, he did! Cut ‘im deep!”
    “Never seen it….”
    Hawkins looked at Cubbins. Surprise and then comfort clouded his pallid features. “Captain,” he said, and blood dribbled over his lips.
    “Quiet, Officer Hawkins. Save your energy. Help’s coming.”
    There was no guilt for lying. Not to a dead man. The man had taken a stab to his lungs, Cubbins could tell by the way he breathed, and the amount of blood on the lengthy dagger. He glanced over at the other officer. He