Charms and Death and Explosions (oh my!) Read online

  Well. He was not entirely wrong about that. I raised my voice a notch so she could hear me. “Three seconds.”

  Jamie halted, waiting that count of three, already pulling on gloves. I studied her from the corner of my eye as I did so, looking for any signs of fatigue or strain. We were not yet to the anniversary, although it loomed closer by the day, and I feared how she would respond when the momentous day arrived. So far, she had not shown anything like irritation, sleep deprivation, or other ill symptoms. Although, she could be keeping a strong front, considering the reporters who seemed intent on capturing her every public moment.

  Almost as if my thoughts had triggered it, the five reporters gathered on scene scented their prey and jostled people, quickly coming around to capture several photographs of her, their lenses flashing obnoxiously. I knew precisely why the reporters risked it.

  The Shinigami Detective had arrived.

  With her penchant of wearing male clothing, and the exotic look of her features, Jamie couldn’t be mistaken as just another policewoman. Still, I knew that such fame grated on her nerves. Eventually, her fame of killing the most famous rogue witch in the country would die down. At least, for her sake, I wished for that to happen.

  “Detective Edwards, why are you called here at this scene—”

  “Detective Edwards, is a rogue witch responsible for this incident—”

  “Detective—”

  She gave them a flat, unamused look. “With all due respect,” she said, her tone indicating a very miniscule amount of respect due, possibly none, “I am here to investigate a crime. You will remain behind the police line, quietly, as we investigate. If you do otherwise, I will forcefully remove your arses from this scene.”

  They gulped, put the cameras down, and went back to meekly standing at the cordoned rope. All except one. A middle-aged woman wearing a flashy dress of lavender pulled a notebook from her purse, pencil poised. “Detective Edwards, just one question: How do you feel about the upcoming anniversary of Belladonna’s death?”

  “Banzai,” Jamie deadpanned.

  I choked on a snorted laugh. Perhaps no one else in this world knew that word, but I certainly did. I could read the reporter’s frustration, practically coming off in waves, but she didn’t dare try again. Not with the visible glee in Jamie’s expression, daring her to cross the line so Jamie could officially get rid of her.

  I finished the recording, closing up the box, before approaching the two of them. “Jamie, thanks for coming. I think this will fall more in your area of expertise than mine.”

  Her brown eyes moved from the reporter to take in the scene without flinching, her only sign of discomfort a downturn of the mouth. “Yes, it unfortunately does.”

  That answer made me wonder—had it been more than the one case she’d related to me? No doubt she’d tell me later. “Gerring, if you could replace this on the wagon. Thank you.” I handed it over before turning on a heel, falling into step with Jamie as I retraced my steps towards the left side of the vehicle. “Weber has already done a preliminary examination of the body and he believes that the epicenter of the blast is, in fact, the front engine block.”

  “He’s quite likely right.” Several bulbs flashed as the reporters took pictures of Jamie striding through. She paused, shooting them an unamused look.

  After that one-second glare, which cowed the reporters into retreating a step and lowering their cameras again, she continued forward. I found it vaguely impressive that they would step down for her, when no matter of words or frowning on my part would have had the same effect. Then again, Jamie had more presence than I did.

  “Weber,” she greeted with a cordial nod. “Wow. Poor guy. Did he die instantly?”

  “No, unfortunately not,” Weber answered, returning the greeting. “Took about fifteen minutes, or so I estimate. He was gasping his last when I arrived, and I was pretty quick to get here.”

  “Poor guy,” she repeated with more sympathy. Stepping around Weber, she knelt, taking a careful look without touching anything. “I can see why you think the blast point is in the engine. It all blew up at him. Anyone try to lift the hood yet?”

  Shaking my head, I answered, “No. We thought to wait on you. You’ve prior experience with this.”

  Her eyes came up sharply to mine. “Not magical, then?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Ah.” Jamie grimaced. “I’d hoped that this world wouldn’t figure out how to do car bombs yet, but I suppose it was inevitable.” Blowing out a breath, she stood straight again and motioned for me to get on the other side. “We’ll likely have to muscle this off.”

  I did not doubt that if Jamie wished for the hood to come up, it would, as she possessed far more strength than the normal human. But I humored her request. She would no doubt have a good reason for my assistance, and it could be as simple as not displaying her full strength in front of a crowd. I pulled on gloves myself before getting a good grip on the edge of the hood.

  With the force and heat the metal had experienced, lifting the hood was not an easy exercise. Its clasps had been warped past any redemption and they squealed in protest as Jamie and I forced them up. If not for her strength, I suspect I would’ve had to use a few judicious cutting spells to get it off. After fifteen seconds of wrestling with it, the hood finally gave, then torqued so badly to the side that Weber had to step in and hold it up so it wouldn’t come crashing down again on our heads.

  Jamie took in the mess of the engine compartment with a low whistle. “Definitely has seen better days. I don’t see an incendiary device, but it was likely blown to bits.”

  I didn’t doubt that. Nothing about her expression clued us in to her thoughts, so I prompted her. “What do you think it was?”

  “Not a bomb expert,” she denied thoughtfully, leaning down to crane her head this way and that, poking at one thing carefully with a single finger. “We’ll definitely need to take this apart and give it a good combing. But my guess? Someone figured out how to tie a stick of dynamite to the spark plugs. As soon as the man turned the engine over, it would have lit the fuse and—” her hands spread out in an expansive gesture as she made an exploding noise.

  That basic step-by-step process alarmed me. “It’s that simple?”

  Jamie grimaced like she’d just stepped in something questionable. “Unfortunately. If you know what you’re doing with explosives, at least. All it takes is the right spark to light the fuse.”

  I felt grateful beyond measure that she’d lowered her voice, as that wasn’t information the masses needed to know.

  “Weber, I think you can take your body,” Jamie continued before looking up and giving Detective Berghetta a sharp look. The detective had been working the crowd, searching for witnesses when Jamie had arrived, but the man must have had a sixth sense. As soon as her eyes latched onto him, Berghetta turned about sharply, uneasy. It amused Jamie, in a dark way, that the man feared her so much. “Henri.”

  “You want us to take this case,” I guessed dryly.

  Stripping off her gloves, Jamie grinned at me, fully delighted. “You do know me so well.”

  I certainly tried to. “I don’t mind. I think this case demands your expertise, and it might tie into the man’s business as a charm maker at some point, which means it might need a little of mine as well. But just asking Berghetta to hand the reins over isn’t sufficient in this case, you do know that.”

  She flapped a hand at me. “I know, I know, but let’s not step on toes.”

  I felt absolutely certain that if Jamie spoke to the man directly, Berghetta might keel over on the spot from cardiac arrest. I had a morbid enough sense of humor that I found the notion entertaining. That, and Berghetta’s attitude toward Jamie irritated me. With a sort of evil anticipation, I accompanied her over to where Berghetta stood. He did have the sense to move away from the crowd, meeting us more in the middle of the cordoned off area, although from the way his feet dragged, he
’d rather be in the drink.

  “Detective,” Jamie greeted civilly, a professional smile on her face. “I understand this one’s yours?”

  Berghetta nodded, his wide face looking a touch pale, dark eyes shadowed as if trying to brace himself for the upcoming conversation.

  “Do you mind if I take it?”

  For some reason the man looked alarmed by this request. He pulled his suit coat sharper around his paunch, almost hunched in defensively. “W-why?”

  Oh for deities’ sakes— “Detective Edwards has experience with this sort of thing. And the victim was a charm maker—his business might tie into the motive of his death. We believe this case might hit more in our wheelhouse than yours. We’ll speak with Captain Gregson, of course, if you’re amiable.”

  Berghetta would not have dreamed to cross Jamie, not for all the money in the world. He focused on me as he responded, the easier of the two for him to face. “Y-yes, of course, I don’t mind.”

  Remember, Henri, you can’t go about belting people in the mouth for stupidity. For one thing, you’d be hitting people from dawn to dusk without any end in sight. For another, you need your hands for other things.

  “Excellent, thank you,” Jamie chirped, slotted her arm through mine, and hauled me physically away. As we moved, she lowered her head just a touch to murmur in my ear, “Don’t punch the man.”

  Had that desire been visible on my face? “I dislike his attitude towards you. Immensely. There’s no cause to act so terrified of you, and reacting as he does sets a bad precedent with civilians and others at the precinct.”

  “I know,” she responded, the words vibrating in amusement, “but still, don’t punch him. You don’t want to do the paperwork that involves punching a fellow officer, trust me.”

  “You would know.” Jamie had struck three of her previous partners before partnering with me because they’d solicited her for intercourse, which still appalled me on some level. It was part of the reason I had been so relieved Captain Gregson declared us permanent partners. That, and working with Jamie always proved intellectually stimulating.

  Well. I might just enjoy her company too.

  “Shall I run to the precinct real quick and get permission to work the case?” Jamie asked. “You can collect evidence while I’m gone. It shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes.”

  That seemed the sensible approach, as technically, she was not allowed to investigate a case that was not hers, and couldn’t even take witness statements on her own accord. “Yes, go. I’ll get Berghetta to hand over any statements he’s already taken in the meantime. In fact, I’ll ask Gerring to help us. This crowd is a bit much to handle on our own.”

  Jamie took in the onlookers, possibly fifty or more people gathered around as if this was some spectator sport, and nodded in agreement. “For that matter, I’ll see if I can borrow Penny. We might need the manpower.”

  I knew Penny McSparrin would appreciate the chance to do real investigative work in any case. As the only other female officer at the station, she had been regulated to handling the domestic troubles until Jamie had joined us two and half months ago. Jamie had pulled her into the first case we’d worked on together, and McSparrin proved to have a good head on her shoulders. Jamie had unofficially taken the young woman under her wing, and this would be another good opportunity to get some field experience. “Please do.” I turned to the wagon, retrieving the coverall suit I used to preserve my clothes, then paused as a thought occurred. “Jamie? How much dynamite would it take to do this sort of damage?”

  “That,” she acknowledged with a wry expression, “is a very excellent question.”

  Hauling the ruined remains of the car into my lab was not possible, of course. There were no viable means to cart it inside of the building, for one thing. Fortunately, we had an outdoor warehouse for evidence of a larger nature, and I made plans with the collection officers to take it there.

  As I arranged for all of this to be done, I had a thought on who might possibly be of use in determining the amount of explosives necessary to do the deed with. I sent Gerring off to inquire if Herbert Drake would be available to come and examine the car.

  I’d just finished seeing the car loaded onto an evidence wagon when Jamie returned, her face set in grim lines of satisfaction. She swung out of the cab and made a beeline for me, Penny McSparrin in tow. “Henri. We have permission to work the case.”

  “I rather thought so, considering you brought Officer McSparrin with you.” I gave the young woman a quick smile and nod of the head. “Happy that you can join us.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Davenforth,” she returned with a quick bob of the head, but her cornflower blue eyes darted to the ruined car and lingered. Tipping the policeman cap to expose more of her forehead and wisps of blond hair, she whistled. “Cor, look at that. How in blazes did that happen?”

  “That is entirely the question,” I agreed ruefully. “Jamie, I’m having this hauled over to the evidence warehouse. It’s the only place with sufficient size.”

  She nodded, not surprised. “Penny and I will work the crowd and meet you there. Where’s Gerring?”

  “I sent him off to make a request of a colleague. Have you by any chance met Herbert Drake?”

  Frowning, she looked steadfastly at the sky as she thought. “I don’t believe I have. Name isn’t ringing any bells.”

  “Ah, well, I thought the chance remote. Drake is one of the few demolition experts in Kingston. He is routinely called in as an expert and material witness in such matters.”

  Her eyes flared in relief. “So you do have one? I wondered if you did. Good, that should move things along quickly. Gerring can fetch him, I hope.”

  “I would think so, although he might not have the time today. It’s entirely up to his schedule.” I had only met the man once previously and possessed very little knowledge of him. I did have experience with his work, however, which was quite excellent. “At any rate, we’ll hope he can come in quickly. I’ll meet you back at the station.”

  Nodding, she moved off, already splitting the work load with McSparrin as she did. I left the ladies to it, as they were far better at taking witness statements than I, and left to follow the evidence wagon in my own wagon. I had to be sure that nothing untoward happened in the offloading of the car, as I didn’t want the evidence skewed or damaged because of some mishap in transit.

  To my relief, nothing happened, and the car was lowered carefully to the cement floor of the evidence warehouse without issue. I thanked the technicians who had worked so diligently, took the time to settle the wagon and cart, brought my black boxes and equipment back to the lab, and then returned to the car with a different tool kit. I might have known very little about explosives, but the charms in the back seat nagged at me. They might or might not have anything to do with, well, anything. They might tie into the motive of why the man had been so brutally killed in such a fashion, or they might be completely innocuous, but I wanted to at least determine what they were and have them on record.

  The backseat of the car, while charred and smoky, was strangely untouched in comparison to the front of the vehicle. It was as if the blast force had gone up and over, the heat and force of the explosion twisting the metal of the frame. Perchance the fabric roof overhead had something to do it, not being an adequate barrier to that sort of heat and force, and it lay in tatters, a mute testament of this. The fabric of the backseat, more amiable to movement, had torn but otherwise maintained its general shape. Strange and morbidly fascinating how some of the fabric escaped any significant damage. With gloves on, I carefully retrieved the briefcase, charred thing that it was, and retreated to the table nearby. It took a little judicious prying to pull the contents of it free.

  The top two papers were invoices, detailing an amount of charms ordered by businesses along Market Row. I unfortunately recognized both stores. They were popular—they sat on the respectable side of town, offered cheap charms, but ma
intained an air of propriety. Most of the charms were either perfectly useless, or so anemic as to be useless.

  I more or less knew the quality of the charms even before I lifted the top invoices off. The paper was discolored and warped, of course, but the charms themselves still perfectly readable. I considered that to be (un)fortunate. It took no more than a casual gander to discern that the charms were very shoddy work indeed. In fact, I think a printing press had been involved at some point, which made the professional in me shrivel up in protest. A printing press could not relay even the smallest amount of magic into a charm. To use one during the process of charm construction completely nullified all efforts and rendered the charm either dangerously unstable or entirely powerless.

  My sympathy for the dead imbecile dropped by half.

  “Dr. Davenforth?”

  Lifting my head, I turned toward the hail and found Gerring with Herbert Drake. It had been a good year since I’d seen Drake, and aside from the new beard he sported, I detected no change in his appearance. Still broad as a keg, dark eyes sharp in his lined face, salt and pepper hair flying about in every direction.

  Stripping off my right glove, I approached. “Thank you, Gerring. Mr. Drake, I’m not sure if you recall our meeting last year.”

  “You’re a hard man to forget, Dr. Davenforth,” Drake denied, accepting my hand in a firm clasp. He smelled faintly of black powder, which inclined me to think that my summons had interrupted something. His eyes darted to the car beyond me and hardened visibly. “Gerring here explained what happened, and I’m happy to come and look it over, as this isn’t the sort of nonsense I want to see in my city.”

  “Indeed not,” I agreed wholeheartedly. “Please, come take a look. Ah, do wear gloves. It avoids contamination of the scene.”

  He accepted the gloves I handed him without a qualm, pulling them on while carefully maneuvering around the car to view it from all angles. “When did this happen?”