Free Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) by Alex P. Berg Page B

the body on board, but a storm’s coming in and he can’t get a handle on it. But then, Rex heads back to shore and—”
    Shay cut me off. “Daggers, I’m sure it’s great, but really, I don’t care.” She stood up. “And even if I did, we don’t have time for chit-chat. We need to get moving.”
    “What do you mean? I just got here.”
    “Yeah, and if you’d gotten here half an hour ago, you would’ve seen the runner come flying into the Captain’s office and whisper something into his ear. And then you would’ve heard the Captain yell for you and me, only for him to wonder where you were. And you would’ve heard me trying to make excuses for you. I’m not even sure why I was doing that except possibly out of some misplaced loyalty I feel for you as my partner.”
    My ears had perked at ‘runner.’ “Was there another murder?”
    “Yes,” said Steele.
    “Somehow related to yesterday’s case?”
    “I can only assume so.”
    I glanced at the Captain’s office. I saw neither hide nor hair of the old jarhead. “Where is the bulldog, anyway?”
    “I don’t know,” said Shay. “Probably in the can. Which is part of the reason I figured you’d be eager to leave, seeing that as soon as he gets back he’s liable to lay into you like a butcher into a carcass.”
    I frowned. “Hmm. I’m not sure about that metaphor.”
    “No? How about like a teamster into a pack horse?”
    I lifted an eyebrow and twisted my lips. “Not perfect, but better.”
    “That’s all I’ve got,” said Shay with a shrug.
    “Ok, fair enough,” I said. “Let’s get moving. But we should bring some extra protection.”
    “What? Why?” Shay furrowed her brows. “You think this crime scene is going to be dangerous?”
    “No, I meant sunblock. Wouldn’t want you to burn those pretty little legs.”
    Shay sighed. “Is this going to be your thing all day?”
    “Possibly,” I said. “I haven’t decided yet. Depends how quickly the mirth dies off.”
     

16
    My partner led the way to an apartment building on the south side of town. It was in a neighborhood called New Respiro, which I think translates to something like ‘fresh breath of air.’ It’s a bit of a misnomer. If anything, the place smelled like hobo urine and ethnic spices.
    Shay only had a brief description of the place—an unspectacular four story stack of bricks that shared a wall with a friend—but I was able to deduce which building contained our stiff. It was the one with a couple of cops hanging around outside the front door.
    “Hey, it’s my buddy Phillips,” I said as we walked up.
    The lad perked up. “That’s right, sir. You remembered.”
    Not really. It was a lucky guess, but I played it cool. “Of course I did. I’ve got a mind like a steel trap.”
    “One that needs its springs oiled every now and then,” said Steele.
    I frowned, but the blank looks on the bluecoats’ faces indicated they hadn’t picked up on the jab.
    “Come on, Phillips,” I said. “Show us what we’re dealing with.”
    He nodded and headed inside, leading us to an apartment on the fourth floor. I noticed a few faces glancing at us furtively from behind cracked doors as we mounted the stairs, but not many, and certainly no herds of distressed neighbors whispering in hallways and accosting us for information. That gave me an idea about the kind of neighborhood we were in.
    It may seem counterintuitive, but folks in bad neighborhoods, even those who lived their lives as cleanly as possible, feared us. You’d think they’d be thankful when the police arrived—and they were, when their lives were being threatened—but most of the time they hid.
    I couldn’t blame them. They understood how the hierarchy worked. Police departments functioned through taxes paid overwhelmingly by the rich, and the rich expected laws to work to their benefit—which for the most part they did, primarily because rich people were the ones who had stuff worth taking. And the