black—but that’s not the half of it. The bloke’s gown was covered in astronomical symbols, moons and stars and whatnot, like he was some sort of storybook magician’s apprentice.”
“Really?” I glanced at Rodgers. He shrugged. “That sounds like something out of a P. D. Wentwick swords and sorcery pulp.”
Yancey shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
“Her,” I corrected. “The ‘P’ stands for Patricia, I think.”
“You’re proving my point,” said Yancey.
Shay sighed and joined me at my side. “Don’t worry, Mr. O’Brien. Detective Daggers’ fictional interests are pretty esoteric.”
I smirked. Shay could joke all she wanted, but my passionate love of old mystery novels had helped solve one of our more recent, high-profile cases—at least, that’s how I remembered it.
“Alright, I think that’s all we need, Yancey,” I said. “Are you on this floor?”
The wannabe wharfie nodded. “Flat 204.”
“Great. Thanks,” I said. “The sketch artist’ll be by soon.”
As Yancey left, Quinto entered, leading a team of lab techs that spread out and got to work dusting and cataloging.
“Did I miss anything?” asked Quinto.
“Depends,” I said. “How good are you with dialects?”
Quinto frowned and cast a glance at Rodgers.
“It’s a joke,” said his partner. “But not a very good one.”
“Hey, that’s unwarranted,” I said. “I’m doing the best I can with a limited arsenal. I don’t see you slinging around any one-liners, today.”
Rodgers smiled. “I’m saving my ammunition for a worthwhile occasion. Like when we catch the killer.”
“Let me know if you come up with anything good,” said Shay. “We could always collaborate to clobber Daggers with a one-two punch of zingers and withheld information.”
I glanced at Steele. “I thought you didn’t enjoy that.”
“I’m trying a new strategy. One with more snark.” She smiled. “So far it’s working better.”
I grumped and expended my negative energies on the lab techs, expounding upon the virtues of hard work and explaining how the prints wouldn’t document themselves. They didn’t care for my hovering, so I rounded up my fellow detectives and headed back to the precinct.
13
I sat at my desk in the pit with the two reports from the lab techs clutched in my mitts, the ones from both morning and afternoon sessions at Gill’s place. Apparently, berating the technicians regarding their timeliness was an effective strategy. They’d delivered their second report to me less than an hour after returning to the office. Of course, judging by the glare the tech had shot me as he handed me the file and the crude frowny face blowing a raspberry that had been inked onto the bottom of the folder, I guessed I might’ve made another enemy in the precinct besides Boatreng.
I scanned the results once again, to make sure I’d read them correctly. The prints collected from Gill’s place in the afternoon weren’t the same as those found in the morning. I’d anticipated the possibility, but I’d hoped the murderer would be the same person as the intruder. The case made more sense that way.
Shay’s left hand held the top of my chair back as she leaned over me and read the reports I held in my hands. Her fingers pressed lightly into the space between my shoulder blades, and her gentle, warm breath wafted past me as she scanned her eyes across the pages. I filled my lungs with the scents of the office, scents of staleness and ink and warm coffee, but also Shay’s subtle perfume. It was definitely lilac. I was sure of it now.
As she stood there reading, I wondered if she had any idea the effect she had on me—the way she sometimes made my heart flutter with a heartfelt smile, the way my stomach sank when I made a quip that went a little too far or hit in a spot I hadn’t intended, the way she could simultaneously make me feel strained and at ease, something no doctor equipped with a stethoscope and one of