Magic and the Shinigami Detective Page 10

  With the information that we gathered, she went to canvas the area more thoroughly and take a second interview with the few people directly involved with the crime scene. I abhorred repetition but would have swallowed my reaction down and gone with her anyway if not for the fact that Sanderson’s incompetence once again forced my hand. The backlog of work at the lab had reached an inexcusable level.

  Edwards shooed me toward the lab, indicating she didn’t need any help with the research, and I left her to it as I refocused my attentions to the other cases and their lab work. Most of it was routine—examination of blood remains, broken wards that had guarded precious objects, ‘mysteriously’ failed hexes and the like. I hardly needed to put things through the full gamut of tests before I suspected the answer, but my theories did not constitute as proof, so I followed procedure to the letter and made extensive notes as I did so. Lawyers needed all of their facts for court, after all.

  Some of the tasks waiting could have been done by a first-year student, nothing more than a few minutes time. The sodding report took longer than the actual lab work. Sanderson, the benighted fool, couldn’t be bothered to take up the slack. The desire to play a practical joke or twelve on the man grew on me. I knew a detective or two that would be more than willing to aid me….

  My door burst open and Edwards took two steps in, a flush in her cheeks and a sharp smile baring her teeth. “They’ve struck again.”

  I immediately paused in mid-motion, my pen hovering over the report. “Where? When?”

  “This morning, the National Magical Conservatory.”

  An oath burst from my lips before I could check it. “Buggering blighters did it in broad daylight?”

  Dancing impatiently from foot to foot, she urged, “Let’s go, let’s go, the trail is getting colder the longer you sit there.”

  I abandoned my work completely—which meant I’d have to start again, but I didn’t care about that one whit at the moment—snatching up my satchel of tools and pointing to the tools stacked on a shelf near the door. “Grab one of the black boxes.”

  She did so with commendable alacrity, holding the door open with her foot so that I didn’t have to wrestle with the bag, a second black box, and the door. We hustled out of the station that way, her opening doors for me, which garnered a few odd looks that I stoutly ignored. Once out, she went directly for the pool of available motorcars and wagons. I hoped she meant for us to take a police wagon, but instead she went directly for one of the cars.

  I didn’t have much experience with the motorcars. They’d come out five years ago and had been steadily climbing in popularity ever since. I found them reckless more than anything. A combustible engine housed underneath a thin sheet of metal? That could explode upon impact? Short, thin doors to protect from side collisions? Seemed a recipe for disaster to me. Not to mention the insane speeds that the motorcars could reach. Some of them could exceed thirty miles an hour! Only an imbecile would think it wise to go that fast.

  I paused two feet away while Edwards loaded up the back of the vehicle. “I know you said you had motorcars on Earth….”

  She looked up, eyes flicking over my face, her urgency muted under an amused look. “Cars were quite common where I’m from. Horses and buggies were actually rarer.”

  I couldn’t imagine such a world. “Truly?”

  “Get in,” she urged, already sliding into the driver’s seat.

  Hopefully she knew what she was doing. Different worlds surely had a different design for motorcars. Would her experience transfer over so smoothly? I somehow doubted it. With considerable trepidation I placed everything into the boot and slid into the passenger seat. I’d barely settled when she put her foot squarely on the accelerator and we shot off.

  I clutched the sides of the car with a white knuckled grip, dearly praying for a safe trip and swearing to myself before we even got out to the street that I would never, ever let her drive again. “Is there a reason why we’re going at a rate of knots?”

  “We’re only going thirty miles an hour, it’s not that fast!” she informed me, eyes twinkling.

  The woman was insane. My jaw dropped for a moment before I spluttered, “Thirty miles an hour is far faster than the human body is designed to withstand!”

  “Davenforth,” she informed me candidly over the rush of the wind in our ears, “in my world, cars routinely do eighty on a freeway.”

  My mind went blank at this information. I didn’t even know how to begin to process it. Eighty? Eighty?!

  “And that doesn’t even include planes, which go far faster.”

  “Planes,” I repeated blankly, sure that she was not referring to a field or plane of existence but something else altogether.

  “Ah, right, I’m not sure if you have those here. Airplanes? No? Not ringing a bell? Alright, think of an enclosed vehicle that can fly through the air, carrying passengers.”

  This woman seemed intent on turning all of my suppositions about reality on its figurative head. “You have those? How fast do they fly?”

  “Hmm, I think it’s about 570 miles an hour? Typically?”

  Surely she jested. “You’re not serious.”

  “Perfectly serious.” She slowed to take a turn, absently returning the rude gesture a cabbie shot at her for trying to occupy the same lane at the same time. That surprised me as much as anything. When and where had she picked that up? “It’s a routine method of travel on my world. Safer than cars, actually. Less accidents.”

  That I believed, seeing the way she drove. “Detective, I think your people are insane.”

  Far from being offended by this, she threw back her head and laughed. “Regular Evel Knievals, yup.”

  Because the deities were merciful, we didn’t have far to go. The National Magical Conservatory lay near the heart of the city, surrounded by a research facility, a hospital, and two universities—by design. The NMC, as most referred to it, housed some of the rarest magical plants and boasted the largest by pound procurement for the country. They had things here that you could not acquire anywhere else unless you went to the country of origin. I had availed myself of their selection on multiple occasions, mostly as a student, and while I hadn’t been here in years I was no stranger to the place.

  The conservatory stood two stories tall, mostly made of glass, in a very square and functional shape. It had the largest square footage of any government building and took up a block all on its own. I discovered the street facing the front doors to be swarming with all sorts of vehicles, official and otherwise. The crowd gathering on both sides of the cordoned off area suggested that rumors had already started to fly about what happened here. I took one look at the building in a magical spectrum and winced.

  “They’ve been here alright.”

  Edwards found a narrow spot on the side of the street and parked before glancing at me. “That obvious?”

  I pointed to the general area near the right corner of the building. “I can see the tattered remains of the wards from here. The rest of the building is intact, but that particular area is a near duplicate for what happened to our Evidence Locker.”

  “That’s answer enough for me.” She stepped out, grabbing my black box from the boot, and headed straight for that corner. I followed closely, both of us having to wind and weave our way through curious onlookers before we reached the police cordon and the beat cop stationed there. Edwards paused long enough to pull out her metal shield from a pocket and flash it at the man. “Jamie Edwards, Detective at the Fourth Precinct. This is Doctor Davenforth, Magical Examiner, also Fourth.”

  The beat cop, a man that appeared as if he had been doing the job for twenty years or more, gave us a nod through without a word. We slipped under the rope and headed straight for our destination. As we approached, I observed three other men standing there in a heated discussion. Two detectives and a Magical Examiner, unless I missed my guess. The detectives, both in their forties with slightly podgy builds and receding hairlines, were not fa
miliar to me. The Magical Examiner I did know, through nodding acquaintance. Boyd, that was the name.

  His hands, quicksilver as always, flashed through the air as he talked, wispy hair standing up more than usual, either due to the wind or agitation. “—not a magical attack,” he was saying adamantly, thin frame bouncing up and down on his toes with manic energy, gaining animation and momentum with every word. “There’s not a trace of magic here except what remains of the wards. I can’t explain it. Power is here, yes, but not magic.”

  “It’s spectral energy,” Edwards supplied, coming up to stand with them.

  Those three words snapped their attention to her, and I stopped at her right side, supplying the rest of the information patiently, knowing they wouldn’t let me get to work until I satisfied their curiosity. “We suffered a similar attack on our own Evidence Locker eleven days ago. Doctor Newell was able to solve the mystery of what happened, although we’re still piecing together the how of it. Boyd.”

  “Davenforth,” Boyd acknowledged with an inclination of the head, and perhaps I imagined it, but he seemed relieved to see me. “Spectral, you say? You mean a ghost just waltzed through the wards and shredded them like tissue paper?”

  “Either walked through or was aimed at it, yes. We’re more inclined to think it was the latter. Edwards, this is a fellow colleague of mine from the Fifth Precinct, Doctor Boyd. Gentlemen, this is Detective Jamie Edwards.”

  They must have had some inkling as to who she was (we only have so many female officers in the city, after all) but the name confirmed it for them and there were covert looks of surprise thrown about before they remembered their manners and introduced themselves. They looked rattled, but not to the point of being tongue tied or having heart failure. No interference was needed on my part, then. I left them to it, already turning to the problem at hand and setting up my equipment to record everything I could. I kept half an ear on the conversation behind me as I worked, listening in as Edwards caught them up to speed with what we knew and what we suspected.

  The detectives very politely asked who would be taking lead on this and then found their own excuses to turn it over to us. The NCM was on the border between the two precincts, we already were working the case, it would be redundant for both of us to pursue the matter, et cetera, et cetera, yawn. In the end, only Boyd stayed, just long enough to give me his own thoughts on the matter.

  “You’ll see once you get in there, but they obviously didn’t have a highly skilled lock pick with them. Or no patience for it. They broke a window to get the door open. Whatever device or system they used to harness spectral energy to shred the wards with obviously doesn’t have any true physical force behind it, as the only damage to the building is that single pane of broken glass.”

  I frowned and paused in my readings to really study the building. He was correct; nothing structurally looked damaged or even scratched except that one pane of glass right next to the door lock. “I find that very interesting. Our Evidence Locker sustained more than superficial damage.”

  Boyd’s thin brows arched in a gesture of surprise. “Did it, now? You’re right, that’s quite interesting. Did they change methods? Something less destructive?”

  “Or they refined the method,” I postulated, thinking hard. “Made it more efficient, less showy. They would have needed to do so anyway, near a public and busy street like this.”

  “True enough.” Boyd watched over my shoulder for a moment, taking in the readings, then asked, “Same power levels?”

  “No, substantially different. I’ll need to compare everything more closely but it appears as if they’ve refined their methods.” Of course, this made sense, as any criminal intelligent enough to come up with this method would surely possess the ability to refine the invention as well. It didn’t mean that I had to like it.

  Boyd became so quiet that I thought he had left before he asked in a ruminative tone of voice, “So that’s her, eh? The woman famous for killing Belladonna. Been working with her long?”

  “Just since the start of this case,” I answered shortly, already impatient with this turn of the conversation.

  “What’s she like?”

  “Competent.”

  “Awww, you say the sweetest things, Davenforth,” Edwards said in a light voice as she came up to us.

  I darted a glance at Boyd and found him flushed, embarrassed no doubt to be caught gossiping. Served him right.

  Edwards kindly didn’t make him stew in his social gaff but instead shifted to a more brisk, professional tone. “What have you found so far?”

  “Definitely our thieves,” I confirmed for her, “although they appear to have refined their methods. Not as much power this time or structural damage.”

  She nodded, unsurprised. “I surmised as much. This time they were in and out within thirty seconds. We’ll need to interview the staff to figure out what was taken, but a witness reported seeing a group of four men in and out of here within an alarmingly short amount of time. They immediately disappeared into the streets without a trace, although our witness claims he tried to keep track of them, to at least be able to point us in the right direction.”

  I had my own doubts on that score, as she obviously did, but let it pass. The one important thing I knew without even entering the building. “Edwards, you know our earlier theory about them creating a Sink?”

  Her attention sharpened on me. “Confirmed?”

  “It’s certainly looking more plausible. The only reason you would ever partner together plant and relic is for a Sink. There’s nothing else you can do with it.”

  She didn’t seem as convinced of this. “But what if they’re creating a poison from the plant to dip the kris into?”

  “For an undefeatable weapon, what would be the point?” I countered. Not that I didn’t see her argument, but my instincts and intellect told me it was the Sink we were really dealing with. But I let her doubts pass for now. We had other things to focus on. “Shall we see what they stole?”

  I had no time to appreciate the interior of the conservatory. Usually I loved this place—its very air had a richness to it that few places in the world did. It smelled alive, magical, of rich earth and moving water. I’ve been told that even non-magical people can detect the elements of power in the air. To me, this seemed obvious, as every plant cultivated had its own imbued power.

  Two steps in, I noted that the winter harvest had been recently completed, as the rows were a little more bare than usual. Certain areas, mostly the rows along the outside windows, still bloomed darkly green, with a few patches here and there that thrived. But then, not all plants blossom well in heat. The conservatory still had a rigid neatness to it, as it always did, with just enough walk space between the rows for two people to walk side by side. But then, I knew that not a single plant would dare to grow even a twig out of place. The head gardener would not stand for it.

  The head gardener was a tough looking matron named Mrs. Pousson. Red hair cropped short, chiseled features, long sleeves and pants tucked into boots, she looked as if she had spent the morning hours up to her elbows in soil and compost, which she likely had. We barely had the introductions out before she informed us briskly, “They took a handful of Raskovnik.”

  Edwards paused with her pencil hovering over the small leather notebook in her hands. “The what, now?”

  “Raskovnik,” Mrs. Pousson repeated patiently, even spelling it out before continuing, “which I find quite disturbing.”

  I found it equally disturbing, as it had the potential to poke a hole in my theory. “The Raskovnik is from Sclaveni lands, one with a mystical property that we’re still trying to fully unlock. It’s infamous as the ‘Thieves Herb,’ as it can unlock anything—any ward, any lock, any barrier—to allow entry.”

  Mrs. Pousson gave me a proud nod as if I were her star pupil. “Exactly right. I don’t get much call for the herb except through the university, mostly for class projects of some sort or another. The police borro
w a sprig from time to time if they have a locked room they need quick entry to. But the demand is minimal and the patch we have often needs to be trimmed back before someone needs it.”

  “Which is how you know they took something,” Edwards responded thoughtfully.

  “Just trimmed it last week, it’s obvious some is missing,” Mrs. Pousson answered bluntly, a scowl on her face. “Before you ask, it’s simplicity itself to use. Cut off a piece, stick in a lock or up against a barrier, presto! You’re in.”

  Edwards had her own scowl, but hers bordered more on the contemplative side. “Can I see the Raskovnik?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Pousson waved us to the other side of the cobblestone walkway we stood on, then went around to lead us not more than ten feet away within clear view of the door, indicating a thick patch of grass thriving in the rich soil. I say grass, but it almost looked like clover, the vines had that sort of thickness to it, and the richness of the green appeared blue at certain angles. The theft was obvious even to the uninitiated eye, as a handful had clearly been yanked out of the ground, leaving a bald spot behind.

  I stared at the missing patch, unease churning in my gut. They could open a great many locks with that much of it. Perhaps my theory was wrong after all.

  Edwards immediately bent and air traced over a single footprint in the soil. “Man’s shoe, about a size twenty-five, looks like. Mrs. Pousson, anyone stepped in this bed that you’re aware of?”

  “None,” she answered slowly, brown eyes narrowing. “Your policemen stopped at the door, called security and me, but no one came in until you two did.”

  “Then we’ve likely got a criminal’s footprint.” Edwards gave it a happy smile before laying a pencil down next to it, then a piece of paper with a number written on it above the pencil. I watched as she drew forth the slimmest version of a camera I’d ever seen and carefully posed the shot. With a flash, she had it, and lowered the camera again. “Davenforth, do you have any way of preserving this footprint for me?”