Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2) (17 page)

Steele’s voice worked its way around the corner again. “You know what else I don’t get?”

“What?” I said, as I replaced the folder and grabbed a three-ring binder labeled ‘WIP.’

“Well,” she said, “both Terrence and our current victim—”

“Cynthia,” I called.

“What?”

“Cynthia,” I said again. “I found her name on a letter in the desk.” I opened the binder and started to read.

“Oh,” came Steele’s voice. “Well, both Terrence and Cynthia were found naked at the crime scenes. I think we can safely assume both of them were clothed at the time our mystery caller arrived to kill them. That means their clothes were removed, either before or after death.”

My eyes widened as I flipped over to the next page.

“Given the pieces of cloth in the apartments,” said Steele, “I’d assume their clothes were torn from their bodies, but neither body exhibited any bruising to support that theory. That said, the clothes are clearly torn. So that means our victims either voluntarily disrobed or the killer undressed them after killing them, and then afterwards he tore their clothes into shreds. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would someone do that? And why would they do it to Terrence and this woman, Cynthia, but not Octavio? And don’t tell me it’s because Octavio was so creepy looking no one would want to see him naked.”

“Dear gods,” I said softly as I continued to read.

“What was that?” Steele called.

“Come in here,” I said, my heart racing. “Right now. You’ve got to see this.”

The sound of Steele’s pounding feet preceded her arrival by seconds. “What did you find? A murder note? An affidavit? What?”

I handed her the binder.

“Read this,” I said.

She started to scan her eyes across the page. “Um…what is this, Daggers?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I said, jabbing at the page with my finger. “This first page is a jumbled mess, but among the scribbles and notes you can see all the major plot points and settings. On page four, there’s a detailed character biography. And if you flip to the seventh page, it starts for good. See?”

I flipped to the sheet in question. Shay read the title. “
Rex Winters in Double Blind Danger?
”

“Exactly,” I said.

Shay shook her head and blinked. “What? Is this some sort of joke? Because it’s not funny.”

“I wish it were, but unfortunately, I don’t have the sorts of resources necessary to pull off a prank of this magnitude. No, Steele, this is the real deal. Our victim, one Cynthia Gladwell, has an original, handwritten draft—I’d hazard it’s
the
original handwritten draft—of
Rex Winters in Double Blind Danger
in her desk.”

My partner’s dainty eyebrows bunched up and down like caterpillars on the move. “I…but… How? Why?”

“Remember when we talked yesterday afternoon, and I floated the idea that perhaps Terry and Creepy were involved in an unscrupulous activity?” I asked. “Perhaps a theft? And you poo-pooed my theory because neither of them would’ve had anything of value to steal from their employers? Well? We’ve just found something of value.”

“Wait,” said Steele, finally recovering her ability for speech. “Are you saying you think the connection between Terrence, Octavio, and now Miss Gladwell…is that they worked together to steal the most recent Rex Winters novel?”

“It’s really more of a manuscript in its current format,” I said as I retrieved the notebook. “But yes. Why not?”

“Well for one thing,” said Steele, “the author of these books doesn’t work at either the book bindery or the publishing company. How would Terry’s or Octavio’s positions help them pull this off?”

I waved my hand dismissively and paced around the room. “Oh, they were clearly there to gather information or obtain access to business contacts. Something like that. Besides, we don’t know what role Cynthia played in this yet. Clearly someone had to be working an inside angle with the author, Frank Gregg. I’ll bet it was this Gladwell woman. The question is, how did they intend to profit from this? Stealing the manuscript wouldn’t have been good enough. They couldn’t sell it to the publisher, bypassing Frank Gregg entirely. Even with guys on the inside, the bean counters at Chapman Books would’ve noticed that. So what then? Blackmail?”

My eyes snapped open and I clenched my fingers into a tight fist. “
Oh no!
Not that. Anything but that.”

“What are you muttering about?” asked Shay.

I turned toward Steele. “Our murderer. I don’t want it to be so—I wish it weren’t—but it must be. It’s none other than Frank Gregg!”

“What? Are you mental?” Shay’s eyebrows furrowed and her mouth hung open.

“Think about it,” I said. “These guys were holding his novel hostage. He’s the one with motive. And besides, remember how I told you the murders in the book eerily mirrored the ones we’d found so far? Someone with knowledge of the book has to be behind these killings. Who better than the head writer himself?”

“That’s crazy,” said Steele.

“Is it?” I said. “Sketch me a more plausible scenario.”

Shay stammered. “I…I don’t know. I can’t think of one right now. But your theory doesn’t hold water, either. If Frank Gregg is behind this, why would he wait until now to kill these people? His novel is due out to the public in a few days. Surely he got the manuscript back ages ago.”

“Maybe he just now found out who was behind the theft,” I suggested. “Or maybe he waited to kill the thieves for dramatic effect, like in the book. Maybe this goes deeper than we think.”

I stared at the ground and scratched my chin. I probably would’ve worn my jaw to a nub if Rodgers and Quinto hadn’t chosen that moment to pop back in and report to us.

“Whoa, what’s wrong with you two?” said Rodgers as he entered the study. “You look like someone just killed your dog, Daggers.”

“Close enough,” I said. “But there’s no time to explain. What did you guys find out?”

“Well, all the neighbors tell pretty much the same story,” said Quinto. “Our newest victim is Cynthia Gladwell. Just like the other two stiffs, she was a loner. Kept to herself. No one seems to know what she did for a living, but apparently she worked from home. She was around a lot. And we asked about the cloaked mystery man. No one recalls seeing him enter the building, and no one recalls seeing him leave, either. So that’s a dead end.”

“Yeah,” said Steele. “We saw the busted windows and figured it would be.”

“The one thing you’ll find really interesting, though,” said Rodgers, “is that as much time as she spent at her apartment, people do remember her going out in the evenings every now and then. And it wasn’t random nights. It was very regular.”

I perked up. “Like, every two weeks on the dot sort of regular?”

Rodgers nodded. I gave Shay a knowing, raised eyebrow.

“What?” she said. “That doesn’t prove anything. All it proves is Cynthia’s involved with Terrence and Octavio, which is pretty obvious given the circumstances of her death.”

“Look, I wish I wasn’t right about this,” I said, “but sometimes in this business, you just know. And this is one of those times. Come on. We’ll flag down some beat cops to mop this mess up. We need to get moving.”

“Where to?” asked Quinto.

“Chapman Books. We need an address for Frank Gregg.”

30

It wasn’t far from Cynthia’s apartment to the Chapman Books headquarters, but we took rickshaws regardless. The case’s gears had started to lock into place, and it felt as if one good nudge would send the whole mechanism whirring into action. I didn’t want to wait any longer than necessary to initiate that nudge.

With that said, however, there were still some loose parts rattling around the crime scenes that could gum up the machinery. If Frank Gregg was involved in the murders, then why all the bizarre eccentricities regarding the way in which the victims had been murdered? Frosty daggers? Naked bodies? Smashed apartments? Why? And how? I didn’t know Mr. Gregg personally, but from reading his books, I had a fair idea of who he was—a successful, middle-aged man of no particular skill other than his talent for plot development and storytelling. How could someone like that pull off such a string of murders?

I didn’t speak to Shay during the rickshaw ride, but not because I was lost in thought. The fact that the creator of my most beloved work of fiction—a series of novels that had changed my life, nurtured a sense of justice in me, and helped push me along the career path I now held—could possibly be a murderer was shocking to me, and I didn’t shock easily. The green tint to my skin faded ages ago after arresting multiple corrupt politicians and cops in the line of duty.

But Frank Gregg? It’d be a bitter pill to swallow to have to arrest that man, and also a striking bit of situational irony if I, his biggest fan, should end up doing so.

Since I didn’t speak, I spent my time reading. Something about
Rex Winters in Double Blind Danger
gnawed at me, as if the novel had a greater significance in the murders than even I realized. There were the obvious connections between the written word and real life, the stuff I’d told Steele about in the morning before we’d responded to the latest murder, but it was the still hidden elements of the plot that drew my attention. A grand conspiracy was unfolding, and although Rex understood some of what was transpiring, he didn’t understand why people were being murdered in the fashion they were. Just like me. So I read, to see if the book held clues to the greater mystery of the real life slayings.

I could feel the heat of the book’s big reveal warming my face as the rickshaws pulled up in front of the gothic-styled Chapman Books building. I was close, but I’d have to finish the read on the trip to Gregg’s place.

I barged into the office lobby, my detective compatriots hot on my heels. The same overly made-up secretary we’d met the previous day sat behind the greeting desk, inspecting her fingernails. Her eyes widened as I approached. Apparently I hadn’t made a positive first impression.

I made my purpose immediately evident. With an elevated sonic fury, I demanded to see someone in charge. I asked questions—lots of questions—and I punctuated each one with a weighty slap of the desk. I let my anxiety and frustration pour out through my arm and into my not-unsubstantial fist.

I think I scared the poor secretary. She ran off up the stairs, squeaking incoherently and on the verge of tears.

“That was a little excessive, don’t you think?” said Steele.

I ignored her, instead focusing my attentions on the cardboard cutout of Rex Winters that graced the lobby, a sexy piece of arm candy stuck to him like a fine, young lamprey. The smile that graced his face, the smile that had once lent him an air of elegance and style, now felt smug and self-satisfied. His fedora, tilted at a rakish angle, made him seem like a dastardly jackass instead of a model gumshoe.

I frowned. My rapidly changing perceptions of Frank Gregg were coloring my mental picture of his greatest creation.

How could you do this to me, Rex? You should’ve seen it. You should’ve known. You could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. You let him get away with murder. Why, Rex?

I reined my psyche back in. I knew a fictional character couldn’t prevent a string of real-life murders. But in a way, if Frank Gregg had been more connected to his own protagonist, put a little more faith and belief in his own characters, perhaps he could’ve been dissuaded from his ultimate path.

The secretary returned, and she’d brought reinforcements: Shannon from HR, a woman in a tan skirt suit, and two uniformed gentlemen who I assumed were security due to their posture, attire, and the little badges upon their chests that read ‘Security.’

The skirt suit-clad woman spoke first. “You’re Detective Daggers, I presume?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “I’m Felicia Marsh, vice president of operations. Is there something we can help you with?”

I almost purred. Felicia was such a sexy name. Unfortunately, in this instance it was attached to an utterly unremarkable woman in her middle years. She looked at me in a superficially polite way—a way that said she really thought I inhabited the same rung of the evolutionary ladder as dung beetles and naked mole rats. Apparently, she was still a decade or two shy of being affected by my cougar-attracting pheromones.

“Frank Gregg,” I said. “I need his address, and I know you have it.”

“And why do you need it?” asked Felicia.

“He’s a suspect in a murder investigation,” I said.

Shannon whispered something into the vice president’s ear. She cocked an eyebrow at me. “You mean the investigation into the murder of our janitor, Octavio?”

“Among others, yes,” I said.

“Look, Detective,” Felicia said, “I’m not up to speed on your investigative procedures and methods, but if I may ask—what in the world makes you think award-winning and best-selling author Frank Gregg murdered our janitor?”

“This is an active investigation, Ms. Marsh, so I’m not at liberty to say,” I responded. “But suffice it to say there’s incriminating evidence that links him to the murders. Now, an address please. If you don’t help me now, I’ll come back later today with a warrant. And I assure you, I’ll make myself an even larger pain in the ass then than I am now.”

“He’s often full of crap,” said Steele, “but he’s telling the truth about that, ma’am. I’d help now if I were you.”

The VP nodded to Shannon, who set off up the stairs as fast as her loafers could carry her.

We all stood in awkward silence, eyeing each other with varying levels of dislike and mistrust.

Shay took it upon herself to break the layer of frost that had started to cover us all. “Ms. Marsh, did you by any chance experience any irregularities with the publication of the latest Rex Winters novel?”

Felicia blinked. “Irregularities? Like what?”

“Anything related to the manuscript obtained from Frank Gregg,” said Steele. “Was it late? Unpolished? Did Mr. Gregg ever share any concerns about it in correspondence?”

“What?” The vice president squished her eyebrows together. “No. Nothing like that. The manuscript was delivered on time and in excellent shape—which is a nice change of pace from how things used to be. There was a time when getting anything out of Frank was like pulling teeth, but he’s been great for a few novels now. Very professional.”