Blaze Tuesday and the Case of the Knight Surgeon (Special Edition)

Chapter Nine

  We didn't stick around the office much after our little discussion. Jackson was agitated and raring to go. I couldn't say that I didn't blame him. Poor guy. He'd never opened up about his history, or about the procedure that landed him his clockwork bits before, and now his confessions were weighing heavily on my mind as we made our way back to Hell's Kitchen.

  I didn't speak as we climbed into a cab. Jackson made small talk with the driver and convinced him that it was perfectly safe to take us into the Kitchen and that we would compensate him very well for his troubles. I was just happy that it wasn't the same pansy driver I'd had the previous day. I stared sullenly out of the dirty window and the driver spun the gears to build up the steam pressure that would propel the taxi to our destination. The only downside to the steam power revolution was the waiting time for the steam pressure to build up again between stops. At least refuelling the cars was a lot easier these days.

  The can rolled away from our office with a hiss and a cloud of steam that partially obscured my vision as we moved. It always seemed like the tub was sighing to me, not thrilled by the passengers, or by its destination. It kind of mirrored my personal angst and that was somehow comforting.

  I half-listened to the conversation between Jackson and our cabbie. Small talk about the weather, about family and holidays. As we got closer to the Kitchen, though, the cabbie started asking after why we were heading into the neighbourhood. Jacks was a straight up kind of guy so he told the cabbie we were on a case, investigating a murder.

  Our cabbie got really quiet after that. Murder and Hell's Kitchen are two things that you never want brought up in the same sentence, especially when you were driving to said neighbourhood.

  “Hey, it's not like it's a serial killer on the loose kind of murder,” I interrupted with a grin at the cabbie in the overhead mirror. “It was a one-time crime of passion. No one's gonna jump outta the shadows and kill you.”

  Our cabbie's face paled significantly and his eyes got wide in the mirror.

  Jackson punched my shoulder. “Shut up!” he hissed.

  “What?” I retorted, loud enough for the cabbie to hear my every word. “It's true! It's not a serial killer kind of scenario. There's less of a chance of this guy getting robbed on the edge of the Kitchen than there is of me getting struck by lightning,” I rubbed absently at the spot where Jackson insisted on punching me every time. “We're investigating a death that happened yesterday, that was a one time only murder, which I suspect has to do with proprietary secrets about the clockwork implants industry.”

  Jackson pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned under his breath.

  The cabbie's eyes lit up. “Seriously?” he asked, suddenly intrigued.

  “Oh yeah,” I said with a nod. “I'm pretty sure there's a whole new kind of conspiracy going on. An underground sort of rivalry between Five Points and Wayside that is escalating too quickly and has ended, for the time being, with someone's death.”

  “Who got killed?” the cabbie asked, and I realized for the first time that he had a Brooklyn accent. This guy was no slouch, he knew the what's what of New York living. I looked at him in the mirror. He was younger even than Jackson, probably closer to Trixie's age if I had to hazard a guess. He didn't have any visible clockwork, and I kind of had to respect and admire that fact in and of itself. Driving cabs in New York was nowhere near as easy or glamorous as you'd think, and to be pulling it off without any clockwork augmentation made it that much more difficult if you were ever in a scrape, or being robbed for that matter.

  I shrugged in response. “That's the messed up part,” I told him. “The guy doesn't work for Wayside, or for Five Points.”

  “So this guy was just caught in the middle of something that he had nothing to do with?”

  I grinned. I kinda liked the driver. He seemed smarter than your average New York cabbie. “He used to work for Wayside, apparently,” I explained, leaning forward in my seat. “But he quit a couple of years ago to go and do charity work with Gearheads in the Kitchen.”

  The cabbie snapped his fingers. “That's the guy on the news last night?” he asked, excitement evident in his voice.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, nodding.

  “And you guys are just private dicks, right?”

  “Well, one of us is certainly a dick,” Jackson ribbed, shooting me a smug and innocent look.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, private investigators,” I corrected, more than a little pissed that Jacks had this fuel to taunt me with today. “I'm Detective Tuesday, my eloquent partner here is Detective Early.”

  “I'm Leroy,” our cabbie replied, nodding into the overhead mirror. “Nice to meetcha.”

  “Charmed,” Jackson said, glaring at me. I don't think he was impressed with my new found friend. Or the fact that I was telling the cab driver secrets about the investigation.

  “Yeah, so now you definitely don't have to worry about getting killed or robbed in the Kitchen,” I continued, hurriedly. “Not with us hangin' around.”

  “That's so cool,” Leroy said, nodding. “So like, what? You guys are here working for the cops?”

  “No, man, I'm working for Wayside,” I said.

  “Doesn't that like make you accessory to murder or something?” Leroy asked.

  I arched my eyebrow, impressed with Leroy's vocabulary. It wasn't often that you met a New York cabbie with more intelligence than that of a sesame seed bagel with a bite taken out of it. I liked the guy more and more with each passing moment.

  “Not really,” I replied after a moment. “The murder has already happened. I would be an accessory if I was involved with the person who actually committed the murder.”

  “So working for Wayside doesn't make you directly involved?”

  I smiled and Jackson frowned but nodded his head, impressed. “I was more likely to be charged with being an accessory when I was here yesterday,” I continued, trying to keep Leroy engaged. “Someone was trying to set me up for murder.”

  “Why were you here yesterday?” Leroy asked, slowing the cab at a red light. “If the murder didn't happen until you were already in a position to be set up?”

  I shot Jackson a triumphant look. Leroy had just proven himself to be a valuable asset by asking me all the right questions. Jackson rolled his eyes and shook his head at me, mouthing the word 'no' and I silently gloated, squirming in my seat as I did.

  “I was making a delivery for Wayside yesterday,” I told Leroy, bluntly. No point in beating around the bush with this kid. He'd figure it out eventually.

  “Why would Wayside hire you to make a delivery to a dead guy?” Leroy asked innocently.

  “Well he wasn't dead when I was hired,” I shot back, grinning widely.

  “Okay so if this is a royal rumble between Wayside and Five Points like you seem to think it is, why would they hire you to make a delivery and then hire you to investigate the death of the guy they just had whacked?”

  “That's the million dollar question, isn't it?” I asked.

  “I don't think that Wayside had anything to do with the murder,” Jackson interrupted our speculations. “It doesn't make sense to kill a former employee.”

  “The operating word there is 'former', though,” Leroy pointed out.

  “They hired Blaze to make a delivery of sensitive information,” Jackson argued. “They wouldn't kill someone they were sending trade secrets to. That doesn't make any sense. Besides, in what crazy scenario would someone who is supposed to be in possession of sensitive proprietary secrets be worth more to the firm dead than alive?”

  “Maybe their offer that this guy couldn't refuse wasn't quite as good as they had thought and he refused?”

  I grinned and patted Jackson's arm with the back of my hand. “That has to be the best theory I have ever heard,” I said with a bit more sarcasm than I intended. “I'm surprised that it didn't come from you, Jacks.”

  “Okay, so you think that the murder was committed by someone from Five Points
?” Leroy asked with a frown as we pulled into the late Doctor's neighbourhood.

  “It's really too early to say,” Jackson replied slowly. He still wasn't entirely comfortable with me sharing all this information and I always found it more helpful to toss ideas back and forth with someone on the outside of our case. Usually Kali filled that bill, but she wasn’t around, so I made do with what I had.

  “That would make a lot more sense than if it was someone from Wayside,” I agreed.

  “And you're sure that it wasn't just some random act of violence?” Leroy asked slowing the cab again as we approached our destination.

  “Who would wanna whack a good guy?” I asked. “This guy was one of the nicest guys on the planet.”

  “Did he save kittens from burning trees or something?”

  I barked a laugh. Leroy had a great sense of humour. “No. But he worked with Gearheads for free.”

  “Doing what?” Leroy asked.

  “He helped them,” Jackson spat.

  I placed a placating hand on Jackson's arm, a silent warning for him to chill out. “He offered medical assistance to kids who had fallen through the cracks.”

  Leroy nodded. “My little brother was a Gearhead,” he said sullenly.

  “Was?”

  Leroy shrugged as he parked the car. “Too many times under the knife in unsanitary circumstances and things are bound to go wrong,” he offered by way of explanation.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  Leroy waved his hand. “So this is your stop.”

  I looked out the window. “Yes it is,” I unbuckled and leaned forward. “Hey, keep the meter running, will you?” I asked.

  Jackson breathed a heavy sigh, unimpressed by my free spending.

  “You want me to wait for you?” Leroy asked.

  “Yeah, is that gonna be a problem?”

  “You sure you can afford that on a gumshoe's salary?” Leroy quipped.

  I chuckled. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure I can,” I assured him. “Hey, you ever work gypsy?”

  Leroy's face paled. It was all the answer I needed.

  “No, I mean, you wanna earn some extra cash?” I reassured him with a grin. “I'm not gonna rat you out. I was hoping I could retain your services for the duration of this investigation?”

  Leroy nodded. “Yeah, I'd be willin' to drive you if you want.”

  “Cool,” I said with another grin. “You know where my offices are, do you have a direct line?” Cell phones weren't exactly a thing anymore, a direct line would be helpful.

  “No, sorry,” Leroy said sheepishly. “But I only work nine to five shifts. Do you want me to change that up?”

  I smirked. “No, I can't guarantee how much work I'm actually gonna be able to give you. Can't you just keep your scanner open for our calls?”

  “Can't you just get a CB and call me that way?” Leroy countered.

  Smart kid.

  “Done deal,” I agreed, getting out of the cab. “Keep the meter running. We'll be back in a few minutes.”

  Leroy nodded and I followed Jackson up to the Doctor's house. He was already standing on the doorstep, his trusty leather bag full of all our wonderful crime investigating tools sitting by his feet. He was examining the damage I'd done to the door in my haste yesterday.

  “I did that,” I said, a note of apology in my voice.

  The door was cordoned off with the classic yellow police tape and a notice tacked to the door that told everyone who was determined that the house was fair game that yes, this was actually an active crime scene and that you needed a permit to go inside, lest you wish to feel the wrath of New York's finest. I was impressed that it was all still intact. Well, at least it would be for about thirty more seconds before Jackson cut it open to let us in.

  “Okay, walk me through this then,” Jackson said with a weary sigh. This was already taking its toll on my partner and I was afraid that he might snap by the end of it.

  “I was standing here,” I said slowly, watching Jackson carefully. “I heard a thumping noise from inside the door isn't as soundproof as it should be.”

  Jackson nodded. “How did you know the doctor was in trouble?”

  “Looked through the window like this,” I said, showing off how I'd peered in the window yesterday. “I watched him fall, kicked open the door and checked his body.”

  Jackson sighed. “Okay, and then what? You ran upstairs and found?”

  “Nothing,” I admitted. “An open window in the office and some broken shingles.”

  “Dammit,” Jackson swore. “And let me guess, no witnesses?”

  “None that I saw,” I admitted. “Do you think that Wayside is setting me up?” I asked, suddenly very worried for my personal well-being.

  “We won't know until we can get that package and examine it,” Jackson replied. “But I'm gonna go look inside for anything that might be useful,” he told me with a sigh. “Go get that package from your hiding place.”

  Jackson pulled out his trusty pig sticker and slit the police tape that blocked the door. He pushed the door open and I nodded and followed Jackson inside. I immediately got the chills as we walked into the parlour. There had been a death here and the ghosts still lingered. I wouldn't admit that I was uncomfortable there. I never dealt well with murder scenes, and the fact that this was something that I could theoretically have stopped weighed me down, mentally.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled to myself, and to Doctor Jones' ghost as I went immediately to the little sitting area where I'd stashed the envelope. I pushed over the chair unceremoniously. The thin fabric I'd cut the day before flapped pathetically as I knocked the chair over. I had to admit that I did feel a little bad for defacing the dead doctor's furniture, but realistically, he wouldn't be needing it where he was now. I crouched down and slipped my arm inside the gash I'd made and felt around between padding and springs until I felt the edge of the manila envelope.

  “Thank God,” I muttered, truly thankful that nothing had been touched. I'm surprised that Stringer hadn't tossed the place in his attempt to find something, anything, to pin the murder on me.

  I pulled the envelope out of its hiding place, making a mess of cotton stuffing on the floor as I did. I checked the envelope carefully. The seal was still intact, so I was confident that no one had touched it after all. I nodded to myself, pleased with the outcome of the day so far. I stood slowly, trying very hard to ignore the splitting headache that was still brewing because of my hangover. I was thankful that, at least, I wasn't throwing up.

  “Hey, Jacks?” I shouted, my voice echoing slightly in the cavernous entryway. “Where the hell did you go?”

  “Upstairs!” Jackson shouted back.

  I groaned and walked across the entryway, intentionally skirting the place where Doctor Jones' body had landed. I noticed that the chalk outline that would usually have marked his resting place wasn't present. I wondered if the cops had cleaned it up after they were finished, or if they just hadn't bothered with one. Probably the latter, if Stringer was so adamant on pinning the doctor's death on me. I trudged up the plush stairs I'd so hastily run up the day before.

  “Jacks, where are you?” I called again.

  “Office at the end of the hall!” Jackson called his reply.

  Of course. I walked down the hallway, starting sullenly over the railing, replaying the events of the previous day in my head as I walked. I felt like I was missing something. I shook my head, trying to clear the ghosts out of my mind and focus on what was happening in the present. The door to the office was open and Jackson was standing in front of the filing cabinets in the closet.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, walking into the small room and ignoring the window where the murderer had escaped me the day before.

  “Looking through confidential files,” Jackson replied nonchalantly. “The cops didn't even open these filing cabinets.”

  “Stringer was convinced that I'd killed the doctor,” I replied with a shrug. “They probably saw no reason
to bother.”

  “Man, the cops are really slipping in their investigation techniques, aren't they?” Jackson mused, flipping through manila hanging folders in the drawers.

  I shrugged in response, but didn’t vocalize anything further than that. I peered around the room again, kicking myself for not running out after the murderer the day before. My gaze rested on the window that had been open the day before. The broken shingles were still there on the roof, though. I frowned to myself.

  “All of the doctor's medical files are in these filing cabinets,” Jackson told me. “I dunno why the cops wouldn't have taken these. Was there a computer here yesterday?”

  “No idea,” I said quietly, only half listening to whatever Jackson was saying.

  “Weird. I wonder why he kept everything on paper?”

  “Probably easier?” I suggested, crossing the short space towards the window. “I mean, who would steal a bunch of papers in files right? A computer on the other hand, makes an easy target, even if someone doesn't know what they're looking for.”

  “Yeah, but it's so much less convenient for referencing patient files,” Jackson pointed out.

  “Since when are you a doctor?”

  “I'm not claiming to be a doctor,” Jackson snapped. “I'm just saying that it would be so much easier to keep all his files organized on a computer. Helps with our files and paperwork and stuff.”

  “So, if you're so good at keeping files organized and stuff, why aren't you my secretary then?” I teased halfheartedly.

  “Because you need Trixie's feminine presence to keep us from killing each other,” Jackson replied, flipping through another file. “Or you know, to be more professional than either one of us has the patience for.”

  “Good point,” I muttered. I frowned in concentration as I stared at the desk in front of the window. “Hey, Jacks?” I asked. “Can you bring me the printing powder?”

  I didn't see Jackson's reaction to my request, I was too busy squinting down at the smooth, shiny top of the desk. I heard him rummaging through his bag and I held out my hand to accept the little jar of black powder and the brush that went with it.

  I frowned to myself as I opened the jar. Jackson grew very quiet as he watched me work. I knew he wouldn't ask what I was doing, even it looked insane. I'd proven myself too many times for him to really question me. I tapped the powder all over the top of the desk and swirled the brush around in the mess.

  A slow smile crept across my face as the marks I had been hoping for started to come into focus. Wordlessly, Jackson went back to the bag and produced a big sticky sheet of clear plastic so that I could lift the print.

  “Holy shit,” Jackson muttered, impressed.

  I stuck the plastic sheet against the desk and pulled the print carefully from the wood. I shook my head, now completely angry with myself. I was an idiot.

  “How did they miss this?” Jackson asked.

  “We're talking about Stringer, remember,” I replied bitterly. “Bastard. If he hadn't arrested me, we wouldn't be here right now!”

  I'd pulled a shoe print from the desk.

  “What's that solid stuff?” Jackson asked, pointing out the residue on the top of the desk.

  “Tar,” I replied immediately, moving closer to the window and throwing it open. “Whoever was on the desk was also on the roof.”

  “They came back inside?” Jackson asked in disbelief.

  “Apparently,” I muttered darkly. “And Stringer and his goons didn't even notice that he was on the roof.”

  “Neither did you,” Jackson pointed out.

  “I thought he'd run off,” I replied. “And in my defence, I was a little more worried about hiding this,” I held up the manila envelope I had been paid to deliver the day before, “than catching a murderer.”

  “Unbelievable,” Jackson muttered with a shake of his head. “How did Stringer miss this?”

  I shrugged. “I'd have hidden on the roof, just out of sight,” I replied, eyeing the window again. “Hold this,” I added, handing Jackson the print and the manila envelope. Jackson took the evidence from me and I hoisted myself onto the desk and pushed open the window.

  “Don't hurt yourself,” Jackson warned, tucking the evidence away into his bag.

  “Thank you for your concern, mom,” I replied with a smirk as I climbed out the window and onto the roof.

  The cool air hit me in the face as I made my way carefully out onto the rooftop. I peered around for a long moment. I wouldn't be able to jump from where I was onto the uppermost roof. The house had almost a split level kind of roof. I was standing over top of the main floor, probably over the kitchen, or maybe the living room. I didn't know for sure, I hadn't looked around the main floor in my visits, yet. I knelt down and examined the broken shingles. There was still sticky tar oozing out from between the shingles like blood from an open wound. And a partial shoe print on one of the intact tiles. Our killer had definitely been on this roof.

  “Where the hell did you hide from me?” I wondered aloud.

  I stepped a little closer to the edge, worried that I might fall because, let's face it, I wasn't the most graceful of swans in the pond. I peered over the edge of the roof at the lawn below. It was too far to jump without the fear of breaking something in the fall, and unless you were good at the acrobatic kind of stuff, it wouldn't have been terribly easy to make the jump into the tree that encroached onto the roof. The branches touching the shingles weren't thick enough to support someone's weight and you'd have to be either really acrobatic or really lucky to jump into the thicker boughs near the trunk of the tree.

  I huffed an exasperated sigh and turned to my left, walking carefully along the edge of the roof, looking. A sudden gust of wind nearly knocked me on my ass and I decided that the edge of the roof was definitely not where I wanted to be. I scurried across the shingles and placed my hand flat against the solid wall, giving myself a moment to still my heart before I continued on.

  I wasn't afraid of heights by any stretch, I was really just afraid of falling. Well, falling isn't so bad, when you think about it. It's really hitting the ground at any speed above what I would accomplish if I tripped while walking that worried me.

  I spent a longer moment than was probably reasonable leaning against the house when I noticed the other damaged shingles. So the murderer had definitely been all the way out here. I followed the roof a little further, realizing that it was this weird split design all the way around to accommodate the real Juliet balcony that overlooked the backyard.

  “Son of a bitch,” I muttered to myself.

  It would have been simple to hide out on the roof while the cops poked around inside and in the backyard as long as you paid attention to where they were at all times. And with no reason to look around the other rooms because they had the body and they had me in custody, the investigation wouldn't have taken long, Stringer had been too excited to get me back to the station for questioning.

  I shook my head and made my way carefully back to the office.

  “He hid on the roof while the cops were here,” I announced as I climbed back into the room.

  “Stringer is an idiot,” Jackson said absently, poring over a file in his hand.

  “Well yeah,” I agreed, hopping down from the desk. “Unfortunately, there's literally no evidence out there that will help us identify the killer.”

  “That's a damn shame,” Jackson replied cheekily.

  “I take it you found something?” I asked, intrigued by the idea that we might have a lead that the cops didn't already.

  “You said you wanted to check out all the kids Doctor Jones worked with who had clockwork arm implants, right?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed with a nod. “It seems logical, given that the doctor didn't have any defensive wounds and hadn't fought back against his attacker.”

  “Then I think I've hit the jackpot,” Jackson told me with a grin.

  “Good,” I said with a sigh. “Let's get outta here before we
run up a bigger bill on the cab than I'm willing to pay for.”