Authors: Alex P. Berg
Sophia Bock snorted. “You must be joking. Buford Gill was murdered?”
“Yes,” I said.
Sophia laughed a bitter laugh. “Hah. Well good riddance.”
I glanced at Steele. She peered back at me, eyes narrowed and mouth slightly open.
“Excuse me?” I said.
Sophia Bock stared at me coldly. “I don’t know where you get your information, detectives, but my husband and Mr. Gill are not and were never
professional colleagues.
They despised one another. I’m not entirely sure what that blowhard Gill had against Linwood—likely he couldn’t accept his immeasurable success—but it’s no secret why my husband hated the man.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That being…?”
“Well, Gill constantly derided him,” said Sophia, “at every opportunity, public and private, in speeches and in publications, constantly ripping his work to shreds because his interests were more commercial than scientific. It all came to a head years ago after that man Gill all but assaulted my husband at a charity function. Apparently he’d just been fired and was half drunk, and my husband’s never been the sort of man to stand for that. He threatened Gill with his life, and thankfully that put an end to it. Gill went and hid under some rock, though he still lambasted my husband on occasion in publications. I thought his firing was karmic justice enough, but I certainly won’t shed any tears over his murder.”
Silence filled the room in Sophia’s wake. Reynolds stared at her, as did Steele and I. I recalled Dr. French’s words earlier about how Gill had been combative in defense of his theories, but I hadn’t quite envisioned this.
Sophia Bock flushed. “What? Why are you all looking at me like that? We’re the victims here.
My
husband’s the one who’s been kidnapped.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Mrs. Bock,” said Reynolds, assuring her. “It’s just that it’s an interesting…
coincidence,
that’s all.”
“Very
interesting.” I turned to Steele, rubbing my chin. “Interesting enough that I’m wondering if there are any
other
coincidences we haven’t uncovered yet.”
My partner tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting that look again. The one where you’re forming a theory.”
“Starting to,” I said. “But it’s not fully cooked yet. It needs time to simmer. In the meantime, let’s get back to the precinct. There’s someone I want to talk to.”
36
The 5
th
Street Precinct buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Lanterns blazed above the wide front doors, illuminating the faces of a dozen beat cops chatting and shuffling their feet in the soft evening breeze. Runners shuttled memos back and forth between mobile street teams and the head brass, their bare feet slapping the concrete as they flew up and down the precinct steps two at a time. An air of tension hung over the street corner like a dense fog.
Despite the cool weather outside, the interior of the station steamed like a sauna. Bluecoats massed together, clutching mugs of coffee that trailed hot vapors as they carried them to and fro, clenched in fists alongside witness affidavits and report forms. The break room overflowed with guys I’d never even seen, much less whose names I remembered.
Amid the bustle, the Captain sat alone in his office, chewing his cud and looking as if he might set his teeth into anyone dumb enough to enter his bubble of thought. I spotted him looking my way and gave him a determined nod, trying to convey my commitment to the case without risking the bulldog’s physical presence. I didn’t want to get any spittle on my coat.
Like everyone else on the police payroll, Rodgers and Quinto were still at work, but instead of hovering around, buzzing and stinging people and being huge annoyances, the pair sat at their desks, manuscripts grasped tightly between their fingers.
“You guys find some interesting new reading materials?” I asked.
Each half of the mismatched detective pair startled. Perhaps amidst the elevated activity in the pit, they hadn’t heard us approach.
“Oh, hey Steele. Daggers,” said Rodgers.
I glanced at Shay and raised an eyebrow. “Look at that. He mentioned you first. Have you been slipping these guys bribes while I’m not looking?”
Shay smiled seductively. “Oh, I have more effective ways of changing minds than bribes.”
I gulped. I knew she did, but I hoped she wasn’t wasting those skills on Rodgers and Quinto when I was so readily available.
“I was just trying it out,” said Rodgers. “You know, for kicks. Although, I have to admit, I think I like Daggers followed by Steele better. Sorry, Steele.” He shrugged.
“It’s ok,” said Shay. “I’m the rookie. I understand. But enjoy it while you can. Some day you’ll be referring to me as
Captain
Steele.”
Rodgers smiled. “I’ll look forward to it, if for no other reason than to see what new, horrid partner you stuff Daggers with.”
“Hah,” I said. “Not likely. I’ll be long retired at that point, living it up in a tiny shack surrounded by empty whisky bottles, weather-beaten paperbacks, and my own faded memories of the past.”
Quinto chuckled and shook his head.
“So,” I said, “did you guys learn anything while Steele and I made our excursion to the Bock estate?”
Before leaving, I’d tasked Rodgers and Quinto with digging up whatever back story they could on Gill and Bock to see if any shiny bits stuck out.
“Interesting you should ask,” said Quinto. “You know how you’d mentioned during your interview with Mel, Mel said Bock had paid him to track down Buford Gill? And Mel thought Bock wanted to hire the man to work for his company?”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Not so much?”
“Probably not,” said Rodgers. “Let me read you a passage from one of Gill’s manuscripts, a review paper entitled
An Analysis of Disparate Theories regarding Phase Changes in Closed Systems.
Let’s see, where was it…” Rodgers flipped through one of the many journals we’d brought back from the library, drawing his finger down a page. “Ah, here we are.
Bock’s suggestions on the nature of gaseous processes in closed systems are so laughably inadequate as to border on scientific slander. While he and his teams have produced impressive results under controlled conditions, Bock’s explanations regarding the phase changes in his prototypical ‘engines’ are completely unsubstantiated by traditional theories, showing conclusively that his many exploits are due to the coercion of other’s minds for profit and not to any production of his own intellect.”
“His papers are littered with these sorts of insults,” said Quinto. “But…based on the looks on your faces, you already knew that.”
I shrugged. “Bock’s wife spilled the beans.”
“Apparently, the animosity between the pair goes beyond verbal insults,” said Steele. “Sophia Bock told us Gill accosted Bock at a party some years back, and, tired of his insults, Bock threatened Gill with physical force. We didn’t get many details into precisely how it occurred, but the really curious part? That was right before Gill went into hiding.”
Quinto tapped his chin. “Are you implying that incident was the impetus for Gill’s disappearance?”
“It’s a possibility,” I said.
“Daggers is working on a theory,” said Steele.
“Ooh, a theory.” Rodgers rubbed his hands together. “Well, don’t be shy. Let’s hear it.”
“Not yet,” I said. “I haven’t figured out all the details. There’s still an important piece of the puzzle I can’t fit into place yet.”
“Which is?” said Quinto.
I shook a finger at the big guy. “Not so fast, Quickdraw. I’ll share when I’m ready.”
Quinto rolled his eyes. “Ok. Well, regardless of your theory, we still have a major problem. None of the teams the Captain sent out have seen hide nor hair of Scar Face, and as interesting as these papers of Gill’s are—” Rodgers snorted at that part. “—we’re no closer to finding our bearded murderer than we were when we left the abandoned Physics and Chemistry building. So I hope you learned something other than Gill and Bock’s ten year history while out and about.”
Shay grimaced.
Quinto leaned forward in his chair and his eyes widened. “You didn’t?”
“Daggers said he has a plan,” said Steele.
“And are you willing to share
that?”
asked Quinto.
“Sure,” I said. “I’m going to ask the final piece of the puzzle to take us to Scar Face.”
37
My instructions to Wyle, who’d been placed back into one of the overnight holding cells, were simple: take me somewhere. He’d asked what I’d meant and I’d reiterated my statement: take me anywhere you think we should go.
I hadn’t pushed the whole Gill/Bock angle. I hadn’t even mentioned it. But I had played along with Wyle’s worldview, emphasizing his own statements from earlier in the day about the time streams ebbing and flowing like tides. Surely, I told him, the ebbing had abated. Surely, I told him, someone with his abilities could detect disturbances in the flow of time, no matter how minor. Surely, I told him, you can feel
something
. So close your eyes, find your inner quiet spot, do whatever it is you need to do—but take us wherever it is your magics draw you.
I’d expected resistance from my compatriots, and I got some in the form of snorts and rolled eyes from Quinto and Rodgers, but surprisingly enough, I didn’t get any pushback from Steele. Not a word. That caught me off guard. She merely stood at my shoulder and smiled, and when I’d asked what she thought of my strategy, she’d said she thought it was worth a shot. I couldn’t tell if she was yanking my chain, letting me hang myself in my own noose, but I doubted she’d do that, not at this point in the investigation with a serial killer on the loose and lives at stake. She wouldn’t risk the wellbeing of others to teach me a lesson, which could only mean…
she trusted me.
She might not agree with my methods or my strategies, which perhaps explained her silence when I’d asked her for her opinion, but she trusted me enough to follow along with whatever wild plan I concocted, because even if she didn’t believe in my methodology, she believed in
me
as a detective.
It was a sobering thought. Shay trusted me. In a sense, I think she always had—or least she had after our first painful couple days together—but she’d done so as a natural course of action. I was her partner. I’d have her back, and she knew that. But now she trusted me
implicitly
. So what changed? Was it our encounter with Scar Face, where rather than chase after the lunatic, I’d stayed to make sure she was safe? Could that have affected her so strongly?
Luckily for me, I didn’t have to focus on the case at hand while following Wyle through the streets of New Welwic, because once the realization about Shay hit me, my deductive powers turned to jelly. So I walked and thought and stayed close to Wyle’s heels, a lantern confiscated from the precinct’s supply room clenched in my right hand to help banish the night’s encroaching demons. I paused when he paused, I turned when he turned, and I fought back my rising tide of unrest as our journey stretched well past the hour mark.
Together, Shay, Wyle, Rodgers, Quinto, and I walked across the Bridge, over to the east side of town and into the industrial district where foundries spewed smoke and ash and where the ringing of metal on metal and the grunting of men lifting crates and weighted sacks formed an ever-present sonic backdrop.
Wyle led us along a wide thoroughfare deep into the heart of the industrial district. A cart drawn by two burly fellows in shirtsleeves, piled high with rolled metal bars that clanged together, clattered past, and workers chatted as they walked along the side streets, swinging supper pails as they headed into factories to start their night shifts.
Wyle paused in mid stride. Our detective troupe stopped behind him, me on the far right and Quinto, who also carried a lantern, on the far left. I gave Wyle a minute, thinking he needed to reassess and continue as he’d done dozens of times already, but he just stood there, his jaw set.
Eventually, I spoke. “Is there a problem, Wyle?”
“I…think this is it,” he said.
I looked around at the looming factories with their jutting chimneys and high walls, all eerily lit from within, whether by lanterns or burning fires or by the radiating pools of molten metal that were the source of the business owners’ livelihoods.
“What do you mean, this is it?” I asked.
“I mean, this is where the ripples led,” said Wyle, “but they’re gone now. I could feel them a moment ago—faint, to be sure, but they were there. Now? Nothing. Either they’ve faded completely, or we’ve reached the center of the drop.”
I inferred what Wyle meant by his metaphor, but I wasn’t happy about the result. “Seriously? Your time magic led us to the middle of a street?”
“Yes,” said Wyle.
“And…what?” I said. “Where’s Scar Face? Where’s Bock? There’s nothing here. Literally. Nothing.”
“I…I know.” Wyle hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
I pressed a hand to the bridge of my nose, pressure building in my sinuses and in the back of my brain. This couldn’t be how it ended. I’d been sure Wyle was involved with Scar Face, somehow, in some way. I was sure he knew more than he’d let on, sure he’d lead us to another clue or a lair or something. But this? The middle of a street? Was that really the best the man would, or could, offer?
“You’ve
got
to be kidding me,” I said slowly.
Wyle shrugged while keeping his eyes on the ground, the actions of a beaten man.
“Damn it!” I exploded. “Come on, Wyle. Give me something. Anything! I know you know more than you’re letting on. Tell me what you know. TELL ME!”
No one said a word, though I felt a few heads turn my way from the direction of the factory workers, their eyes working in tandem with my own embarrassment to heat my cheeks and neck.
Quinto broke the silence. “Maybe we should pack it in, Daggers. Head back to the precinct. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Yeah, Daggers,” said Rodgers. “Let’s go.”