Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5) by Alex P. Berg Page A

Griggs?”
    She eyed us with distrust as she pushed her key into the lock. “Who the hell are you?”
    “Detectives,” I said. “With the police.”
    Her bolt slid to the side with a clank. “Isn’t he a retired officer?”
    “That’s right. You—” I wanted to say ‘seem like the nosy type,’ but I thought that might not go over well. “—seem like an observant individual. Do you know if he’s been around much today?”
    The woman narrowed an eye, one that seemed highly experienced in the art of eye-narrowing. “How should I know? What do I look like, a snoop? Is that what you think?”
    Note to self. Don’t waste euphemisms on crabby old women. I tried again. “I just want to know if he’s in. When was the last time you saw or heard him?”
    “I have a bridge game to catch, you know,” she said as she turned.
    I took a step toward her and surprised myself. “Please. He could be in danger.”
    The woman glanced at me and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I heard him…oh, I don’t know. Late last night. He had some friends over.”
    I tilted my head. “Friends?”
    “Yes, you know,” said the woman. “People who enjoy your company? Or in your case, tolerate it. I heard a number of voices.”
    I felt my pulse quicken as I turned back toward the crew. “You heard that right? That can’t be good.”
    “Relax, Daggers,” said Steele. “Again, it could be a coincidence.”
    “You don’t understand,” I said. “Griggs didn’t have friends. I thought I’d made that clear.”
    I turned back to the door and banged on it with my fist. “Griggs? Come on, old pal. Open up!”
    Words came out of Rodgers’ and Quinto’s mouths, but I didn’t process them. No one answered, so I stepped back, shifted my weight, and drove my boot heel into the lock. The door gave way with a crack and a snap, splinters flying. I burst through after it, casting my gaze about wildly.
    I’m not sure what I’d expected, but in everything but the floor plan I found the exact opposite of Barrett’s apartment: a couch with cushions in place and throw pillows neatly tucked into corners, a small, round dining table clear of debris, bookshelves packed with historical tomes, all organized by author last name except where size disallowed. Tidy countertops. Clean floors. The place barely looked lived in, much less as if goons had stomped around within it less than twenty-four hours ago.
    The clack of Steele’s boot heel preceded the heavy thump of Quinto’s shoes and Rodgers’ own muted footsteps.
    “So,” said Rodgers, eyeing the wooden scraps that now littered the entryway. “How resigned are you to buying your ex-partner a new door as a belated going away present?”
    My heart beat heavy in my chest, and though all seemed as it should, I couldn’t shake a growing sense of disquiet in my stomach. Not butterflies—more like locusts.
    “Griggs?” I called out, still tense. “Are you here? If so, this would be a good time to show yourself.”
    I checked the wash closet, but he wasn’t there.
    “I’ll admit, Daggers,” said Quinto. “Between the sketch and Griggs’ absence, my curiosity is piqued. But I think we could get by with leaving a detail here. If he comes back, we’ll talk to him.”
    “Let’s give his place a quick once over,” I said. “He’ll understand. He was in this business for a thousand years, give or take. We’ll be gentle. Put everything back. Just have to make sure—”
    I froze as I entered Griggs’ bedroom. On the far side, slumped in an overstuffed beige sofa chair, sat an old man with thinning white hair, hands that had lost some of their whipcord muscle, and a face so full of weathered creases that it could’ve been mistaken for a dry riverbed. It was a face I knew almost as well as my own, mostly because I’d stared at it six days out of seven for over a decade prior to Shay’s arrival. Even in the dim light, I could see the face hadn’t changed, but Griggs’ neck wasn’t so