get a good look at the guy’s face?” asked Steele.
Rodgers nodded. “Yup. We should be able to get a sketch.”
I clapped my hands and stood. “Excellent. Mr. Faust? Thanks for your time. I’d say it was a pleasure, but I don’t want to get charged.”
“Nonsense,” said Shay. “We appreciated your help, and all of your assistance —in its various forms.”
I glared at Shay. I couldn’t tell if she was being nice to the guy in order to make me uncomfortable or it she actually liked him. I don’t know why she would. What did he have that I didn’t, other than glistening, caramel skin, washboard abs, and a face that could be used to grate cheese?
“Come back any time to see me, detectives,” said Faust. “I do special group rates. I could service the two of you simultaneously, if you like. Whatever floats your boat.”
I shared a look with Shay, both of our cheeks warming in the wake of Faust’s comments. We skedaddled before the awkwardness reached a critical pressure.
11
The sun glinted off the massive seal of justice that hovered over the entrance to the 5 th Street Precinct—a bas-relief carving that displayed a soaring eagle clutching a pair of scales between its blade-like talons. I kept my eyes trained on the seal as we walked along the street toward the precinct’s front doors, but not because I had any particular interest in it. To be fair, the massive seal still gave me chills—despite my cavalier approach, I took my pursuit of justice seriously—but I’d walked under the seal so many times, I could describe every pock mark, scratch, and imperfection on its surface while drunk and blindfolded. I just needed somewhere to rest my eyes.
The walk back from the whorehouse hadn’t done much to alleviate the weirdness that lingered between us. I blamed Shay. If it had been me and the guys, I’m sure we would’ve traded off-color jokes about the ladies at the 9’s, remarking upon their various overflowing assets—which, specifically, depended on our own personal preferences—but we couldn’t very well do it in Steele’s company. It’d be uncouth. Besides, Shay’s presence reminded everyone of the real women in their lives: Allison for Rodgers, Cairny for Quinto, and, well…nobody for me, though I doubt I’d impress the young lady beside me by reminiscing about the rump on the elf floozy at the club.
As we reached our desks in the pit, I forced my mind back to the case at hand. “Does anyone want to go find Boatreng? We need to get a sketch of that creep hanging around the 9’s ASAP.”
Boatreng was our resident sketch artist. A short, squatty man with a shaved head and a crop of chin fuzz, he wasn’t exactly the friendliest chap in the department. I sometimes wondered if his surliness stemmed from the fact that his years of toil in art school had only netted him a low-paying job as a public servant.
“You’ve been delegating work all day,” said Quinto as he slumped into his chair. “Why don’t you do it?”
“Because Boatreng hates me,” I said.
“He doesn’t hate you.” Steele draped her coat across the back of her chair before settling down into it. “He just harbors a high level of dislike for you because you treat him like something that’s stuck to the bottom of your shoe.”
“What?” I said. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Really?” said Rodgers, joining me at my desk. “How long has he worked here?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “A few months?”
“Try two years,” said Rodgers.
“Really?” I said. “No.”
“I bet you don’t even know his last name,” said Quinto.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Of course I do. It’s Boatreng.”
“Boatreng is his first name,” said Rodgers.
I blinked and shook my head. “You’re kidding. What’s his last name, then?”
“Davis,” said Rodgers.
“Boatreng Davis?” I said. “Are we sure his parents didn’t mistakenly swap his first and last names on his birth
Rodgers nodded. “Yup. We should be able to get a sketch.”
I clapped my hands and stood. “Excellent. Mr. Faust? Thanks for your time. I’d say it was a pleasure, but I don’t want to get charged.”
“Nonsense,” said Shay. “We appreciated your help, and all of your assistance —in its various forms.”
I glared at Shay. I couldn’t tell if she was being nice to the guy in order to make me uncomfortable or it she actually liked him. I don’t know why she would. What did he have that I didn’t, other than glistening, caramel skin, washboard abs, and a face that could be used to grate cheese?
“Come back any time to see me, detectives,” said Faust. “I do special group rates. I could service the two of you simultaneously, if you like. Whatever floats your boat.”
I shared a look with Shay, both of our cheeks warming in the wake of Faust’s comments. We skedaddled before the awkwardness reached a critical pressure.
11
The sun glinted off the massive seal of justice that hovered over the entrance to the 5 th Street Precinct—a bas-relief carving that displayed a soaring eagle clutching a pair of scales between its blade-like talons. I kept my eyes trained on the seal as we walked along the street toward the precinct’s front doors, but not because I had any particular interest in it. To be fair, the massive seal still gave me chills—despite my cavalier approach, I took my pursuit of justice seriously—but I’d walked under the seal so many times, I could describe every pock mark, scratch, and imperfection on its surface while drunk and blindfolded. I just needed somewhere to rest my eyes.
The walk back from the whorehouse hadn’t done much to alleviate the weirdness that lingered between us. I blamed Shay. If it had been me and the guys, I’m sure we would’ve traded off-color jokes about the ladies at the 9’s, remarking upon their various overflowing assets—which, specifically, depended on our own personal preferences—but we couldn’t very well do it in Steele’s company. It’d be uncouth. Besides, Shay’s presence reminded everyone of the real women in their lives: Allison for Rodgers, Cairny for Quinto, and, well…nobody for me, though I doubt I’d impress the young lady beside me by reminiscing about the rump on the elf floozy at the club.
As we reached our desks in the pit, I forced my mind back to the case at hand. “Does anyone want to go find Boatreng? We need to get a sketch of that creep hanging around the 9’s ASAP.”
Boatreng was our resident sketch artist. A short, squatty man with a shaved head and a crop of chin fuzz, he wasn’t exactly the friendliest chap in the department. I sometimes wondered if his surliness stemmed from the fact that his years of toil in art school had only netted him a low-paying job as a public servant.
“You’ve been delegating work all day,” said Quinto as he slumped into his chair. “Why don’t you do it?”
“Because Boatreng hates me,” I said.
“He doesn’t hate you.” Steele draped her coat across the back of her chair before settling down into it. “He just harbors a high level of dislike for you because you treat him like something that’s stuck to the bottom of your shoe.”
“What?” I said. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Really?” said Rodgers, joining me at my desk. “How long has he worked here?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “A few months?”
“Try two years,” said Rodgers.
“Really?” I said. “No.”
“I bet you don’t even know his last name,” said Quinto.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Of course I do. It’s Boatreng.”
“Boatreng is his first name,” said Rodgers.
I blinked and shook my head. “You’re kidding. What’s his last name, then?”
“Davis,” said Rodgers.
“Boatreng Davis?” I said. “Are we sure his parents didn’t mistakenly swap his first and last names on his birth
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