Free Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5) by Alex P. Berg

off guard. No point in making her any more uncertain than she already was.
    The girl shrugged. “Actually, I wasn’t in yesterday.”
    I gave her a second or two as a benefit of the doubt before pulling out the verbal prodding iron. “Perhaps someone else here was? Waiters or waitresses?”
    The girl winced in self-admonishment. “Oh. Right. Sorry. Come with me.”
    She scooted back, leading us around the highly flammable rice paper and wood dividers and into the kitchen, such as it was. All the fundamental elements were there: pots, pans, ovens, carving tables, even a ventilation shaft for smoke, although its jagged edges made it look as if it had been hacked out by a drunken dwarven carpenter in exchange for a handful of coppers and a bowl of sweet and sour soup. A trio of sweaty, white aproned cooks worked the flames, while a quartet of young ladies, at least two of whom appeared related to the hostess, waited for orders to come in.
    Steele drew everyone’s attention with a sharp whistle. “Excuse me, everyone? New Welwic police. No one’s in trouble, but I need a moment of your time.”
    The waitresses walked over, and the cooks spared an eye, which in the restaurant business was about the best we could hope for. Steele reached into her jacket and produced the sketch of our victim.
    “We believe this man came to eat here yesterday for lunch,” said Steele. “First things first, does anyone recognize him?”
    Skinny, olive-skinned waitress number two lifted a hand. “Um, yeah. That was me. I served him. And his friend.”
    Bingo.
    “So someone met him here?” I asked.
    “The other way around,” said the waitress. “His friend arrived first. Then that guy in the sketch got here.”
    “And how well do you remember him?” I asked. “The first guy, I mean.”
    “Pretty well, I guess,” said the waitress. “It was yesterday, after all. He was old, like the man in the sketch. Older, actually, and grizzled. Grumpy, too. And not a good tipper.”
    “We don’t need a full rundown at the moment,” said Steele. “But we will be sending a sketch artist over after we leave. We’ll need you to work with him to produce an image of this second individual. However, anything you could tell us about their conversation or their overall interactions could be useful.”
    The young lady shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really pay much attention to what the customers are saying.”
    Her sister, cousin, or what have you chimed in. “It’s true. She barely remembers their orders half the time.”
    “Hey, shut up, Alanis,” she said.
    Alanis got smacked on the arm. The cooks eyed each other silently as they tossed vegetables and poured dark sauce into their pans. I got the feeling they weren’t unfamiliar with family squabbles in the kitchen, and they all wanted nothing more than to remain employed.
    I wasn’t feeling confident, but I figured I’d try one last volley. “What about their mannerisms? Were they cordial? Angry with one another? Did any money or packages exchange hands?”
    The young waitress contorted her face into a manner that made her look confused and apologetic at the same time—no small feat. She shrugged and put her hands in the air.
    I gave Steele a glance. “I think our work here is done. You concur?”
    “Work? Yes. But…we could stay for a bite.” She smiled.
    I was tempted, but ultimately I declined. I’d never been a fan of stir fry.
     

11
    I leaned back in my chair, my feet propped on the edge of my desk, and stretched my toes. Light trickled through the Captain’s windows and wormed its way my direction before crashing into the back of the corkboard, which cast a shadow across Steele’s desk that had doubled in length in the past fifteen minutes.
    Shay’s shearling coat draped the back of her chair, but the woman herself perched on the edge of her desk, one foot tucked underneath her knee and the other dangling, the tip of her boot inches from the ground. Her right hand