Free 3 Time to Steele by Alex P. Berg Page B

those arm wrap thingies would ever believe possible.
    The way Shay stood behind me, relaxed and focused on the reports, made me think she had no clue how I felt—something that seemed at odds with her otherwise impeccable observational sense—but how could she know? I’d never explicitly told her how I felt about her. Instead, I’d gone to great lengths to bury the well of emotions she’d helped me uncover. I’d only recently come to grips with the feelings myself, and, moreover, admit I wanted those feelings of love and affection in my life again—along with everything that went with them. The painful feelings. The feelings of uncertainty and rejection and doubt.
    A miasma of those latter feelings swirled around me as my eyes burned holes in the technicians’ reports. Maybe I shouldn’t share my emotions with her. After all, what would Shay want with someone like me? A good ten years her senior, jaded, divorced, with a kid. Someone her age should be having fun and getting into trouble. Not that Shay was the type for that—she was far too focused on her career for that sort of nonsense, just as I’d been a decade ago when I was in her exact position…
    Her position? That thought gave me hope. In many respects, we were so similar. At Shay’s age, I’d also been looking for companionship, hoping to fit it into my busy schedule. Maybe she wouldn’t reject my feelings out of hand if I shared them.
    Of course, there was also the job angle. If Quinto and Cairny’s romance was a taboo subject, what chance did a detective partner pairing have of succeeding? None, I suspected. But then again…
    Shay clapped me on the shoulder. “Well, I can’t say any of that helps us much, but it’s good to confirm it.”
    I blinked away the fog. “Uh…you mean the fingerprint stuff?”
    “That, and Cairny’s report.”
    “Cairny gave us her report?” I asked.
    “She wrote her notes at the bottom of that second page.” She flicked the reports with a fingertip. “Where it confirms Gill died between six and seven this morning? Honestly, Daggers, were you even reading these?”
    “I…uh…”
    Boatreng saved me from having to answer. He walked up to my desk, a couple of pages held in his small, stubby hands. How the man managed to wield a pencil with as much skill as he did with his sausage-like appendages, I’d never know.
    “Got your sketches,” he said. “Took longer than expected, mostly because I couldn’t understand half of what the witness from the break-in at Gill’s apartment was saying. Anyway, here’s the sketch of the lurker outside the 9’s club, and here’s the intruder at Gill’s place.”
    Boatreng handed me the two sketches. The first was of the guy the bouncer spotted. It showed the face of a guy maybe in his early forties, grizzled, with a four day beard and a faded scar trailing from underneath his left eye. A hood hid his hair, but it appeared to be close-cropped. The other sketch put some detail into the description we’d already received from Yancey the Deckhand. It featured a youthful face, clean-shaven, with a slim nose, thick eyebrows, and the aforementioned shoulder-length, wavy black hair.
    “Thanks, Boatreng,” I said. “These are perfect.”
    Our sketch artist nodded. “No problem.” He turned to walk away.
    A thought hit me. “Hey, just a sec.”
    Boatreng paused. “Yes?”
    “You know,” I said, “it occurs to me I’ve never asked if you prefer to go by Boatreng or Davis.”
    Boatreng shrugged. “Either’s fine. I don’t have the same aversion to given names you detectives do.”
    “Ok,” I said. “Just checking.”
    Boatreng retreated to the stairs, and I handed the sketches to Shay. As I did so she gave me a slight nod and smile, as if in approval of my civil interactions.
    “Well, we’ve got two sets of prints, and two different sketches,” said Shay as she regarded the drawings. “The question is, what do these people have in common, and what’s their