Read Online A Murder of Mages by Marshall Ryan Maresca - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marshall Ryan Maresca
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theory that has the victim as a willing participant.”
“Blazes, Welling, if you’re not—”
He held up his hand. “But I acknowledge that nothing contradicts your theory so far.”
“Too kind,” Satrine said coldly. But she had to admit, from what she had seen of Welling, this was almost high praise.
“Of course, without identifying the victim, anything regarding motive is rampant speculation.” He turned to Leppin. “We’re going to need—”
“Charcoal sketches,” Leppin said. He snapped at his boy again, who ran to a cluttered desk in the corner of the room. “I had them done already.” The boy grabbed a few paper sheets and scurried over to Satrine. Satrine took them.
“Your work?” she asked the boy. They were all decent representations of the dead man’s face.
“Yeah,” the boy said. “Is it true you took your clothes off?”
“That’s enough,” Leppin said, grabbing the boy’s head and shoving him back toward the desk.
Welling coughed uncomfortably. “Well, plenty of work for us, then. Which first, butcher and barber, or Firewings?”
“Firewings,” Satrine answered, surprised that it was even a question. “If we can learn who the victim is, then we have a better sense of what we’re looking for in the butcher shop.”
“Well-reasoned,” Welling said through tight lips.
“Do they have a house or something in the neighborhood?” Satrine asked.
“They do,” Welling said. “About five blocks from the crime scene, I believe. Boy, have a clerk pull the Firewing file. They can brief a page and send him to us at Missus Wolman’s stand out front.”
“Missus who?” Satrine asked.
“A necessary stop.”
Leppin spoke up. “Do you still have those spikes used to pin the victim down?”
“Here,” Satrine said, taking them out of her coat pocket. “You think you might figure something out about them?”
“Worth looking into. Give me one,” Leppin said. “You might learn something out there with the other one.” Satrine did as he asked, pocketing the one she was keeping.
“All right, Inspector,” she said to Welling. “Let’s go meet the Firewings.”
The look on her partner’s face was one of distinct nausea.
Chapter 5
S ATRINE SIMPLY WASN’T GOING to be able to eat every time Welling did, if this was the way he ate every day. As soon as they walked out of the stationhouse he crossed the street over to the cookstand.
“Fast wrap if you please, Missus Wolman,” he said to the woman in the stand. He turned to Satrine. “You want one?”
“Saints, no,” Satrine said. “We just had cresh rolls.”
“Did we? I’m famished.”
Satrine watched the woman toss a flat strip of dough on her grill. She reached into a bowl filled with cooked meat, cold with congealed fat, and threw it next to the dough.
“What is that?” Satrine asked.
“It’s meat,” the woman said indignantly.
Satrine wasn’t going to let that suffice. “Lamb? Beef? Pork?”
“That’s right,” she said, glaring at Satrine. She flipped the dough and stirred the meat around, letting the grease render down. She focused her eye at Welling. “You getting to bad ones today, Inspector?”
“Trying, Missus Wolman.”
“That’s one of the bad ones,” Satrine indicated the simmering meat. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s meat,” Welling said. That seemed to be answer enough for him.
“Aren’t you curious?” She sniffed at it. “That is rancid. Or kidneys. Or both.”
“I have enough to think about,” Welling said.
The woman scooped the pile of meat into the dough—now a finished flatbread—and rolled the whole thing off the grill. “Here you are, Inspector.”
Welling dropped a few ticks on the counter. “Very obliged. Inspector Rainey, after you.” He bit greedily into the wrap.
Watching him eat it made Satrine’s stomach turn. “Did you know that in Poasia eating in public is a crime on the same level as murder?”
“I did,” Welling
“Blazes, Welling, if you’re not—”
He held up his hand. “But I acknowledge that nothing contradicts your theory so far.”
“Too kind,” Satrine said coldly. But she had to admit, from what she had seen of Welling, this was almost high praise.
“Of course, without identifying the victim, anything regarding motive is rampant speculation.” He turned to Leppin. “We’re going to need—”
“Charcoal sketches,” Leppin said. He snapped at his boy again, who ran to a cluttered desk in the corner of the room. “I had them done already.” The boy grabbed a few paper sheets and scurried over to Satrine. Satrine took them.
“Your work?” she asked the boy. They were all decent representations of the dead man’s face.
“Yeah,” the boy said. “Is it true you took your clothes off?”
“That’s enough,” Leppin said, grabbing the boy’s head and shoving him back toward the desk.
Welling coughed uncomfortably. “Well, plenty of work for us, then. Which first, butcher and barber, or Firewings?”
“Firewings,” Satrine answered, surprised that it was even a question. “If we can learn who the victim is, then we have a better sense of what we’re looking for in the butcher shop.”
“Well-reasoned,” Welling said through tight lips.
“Do they have a house or something in the neighborhood?” Satrine asked.
“They do,” Welling said. “About five blocks from the crime scene, I believe. Boy, have a clerk pull the Firewing file. They can brief a page and send him to us at Missus Wolman’s stand out front.”
“Missus who?” Satrine asked.
“A necessary stop.”
Leppin spoke up. “Do you still have those spikes used to pin the victim down?”
“Here,” Satrine said, taking them out of her coat pocket. “You think you might figure something out about them?”
“Worth looking into. Give me one,” Leppin said. “You might learn something out there with the other one.” Satrine did as he asked, pocketing the one she was keeping.
“All right, Inspector,” she said to Welling. “Let’s go meet the Firewings.”
The look on her partner’s face was one of distinct nausea.
Chapter 5
S ATRINE SIMPLY WASN’T GOING to be able to eat every time Welling did, if this was the way he ate every day. As soon as they walked out of the stationhouse he crossed the street over to the cookstand.
“Fast wrap if you please, Missus Wolman,” he said to the woman in the stand. He turned to Satrine. “You want one?”
“Saints, no,” Satrine said. “We just had cresh rolls.”
“Did we? I’m famished.”
Satrine watched the woman toss a flat strip of dough on her grill. She reached into a bowl filled with cooked meat, cold with congealed fat, and threw it next to the dough.
“What is that?” Satrine asked.
“It’s meat,” the woman said indignantly.
Satrine wasn’t going to let that suffice. “Lamb? Beef? Pork?”
“That’s right,” she said, glaring at Satrine. She flipped the dough and stirred the meat around, letting the grease render down. She focused her eye at Welling. “You getting to bad ones today, Inspector?”
“Trying, Missus Wolman.”
“That’s one of the bad ones,” Satrine indicated the simmering meat. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“It’s meat,” Welling said. That seemed to be answer enough for him.
“Aren’t you curious?” She sniffed at it. “That is rancid. Or kidneys. Or both.”
“I have enough to think about,” Welling said.
The woman scooped the pile of meat into the dough—now a finished flatbread—and rolled the whole thing off the grill. “Here you are, Inspector.”
Welling dropped a few ticks on the counter. “Very obliged. Inspector Rainey, after you.” He bit greedily into the wrap.
Watching him eat it made Satrine’s stomach turn. “Did you know that in Poasia eating in public is a crime on the same level as murder?”
“I did,” Welling
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