17

A balmy sea breeze blew as Rodgers, Quinto, and I approached Coldgate Prison’s exterior wall, mortared granite six feet thick and reinforced with iron bars the size of a pure-bred giant’s calves. It loomed over us, three stories tall not counting the sharpened iron spikes and barbed wire that adorned the top. The wall could incapacitate even the strongest of non-magical criminals, but given the city council’s cautious nature and the populace’s penchant for lawsuits, it alone had been deemed insufficient—which was why Coldgate perched on the tip of a peninsula jutting south into the Wel Sea, and why the surrounding land had been stripped of vegetation, littered with blockades and barbed wire, and surrounded with another ten foot fence.

A pair of guards who could’ve given Quinto a run for his money stood outside the massive iron gate in front, each of them wearing black fatigues and standing arrow straight. The one on the right held up a hand. “State your names.”

“I’m Detective Jake Daggers.”

“Detective Gordon Rodgers.”

“Detective Folton Quinto.”

I could’ve introduced my pals, but I knew from experience the guards wouldn't have any of that. Rules were in place for a reason.

“Identification?” said the guard.

We produced our badges and held them forth. The guard and his partner took them and inspected them, thoroughly, before handing them back. “State your purpose.”

“We’re here to interrogate a prisoner.”

The guard rapped on the gate twice and called out, “Three officers coming through!”

“Three officers,” someone confirmed on the other side.

I heard a scrape and a heavy clang, followed by a rasping squeal as the right-hand gate swung in, but only a few feet. Quinto, Rodgers, and I walked in, single file through the narrow opening.

A man in the same black uniform as the guards outside met us on the gravel path between the wall and the prison’s front door. A patch with a bar across it adorned his shoulder. “Detectives? Sergeant Ezra Rios. What can I do for you today?”

“I need to speak with one of your prisoners,” I said. “An ogre by the name of Dugruk. We put him away eight months ago for grand theft, aggravated assault, kidnapping, and attempted murder of a police officer. Also goes by the name of Bonesaw.”

“Yeah, we get the best of the best here at the ‘Gate,” said Rios. “You trying to track down his associates?”

“Perhaps.”

Rios nodded. “Fair enough. Come with me. I’ll track him down.”

We followed the Sergeant inside, past another locked gate and through an inspection station for family members and non-police personnel. Light trickled in through small windows set at the periphery. The walls were too close, too smooth, and despite it being summer, too cold. Guards stood at every entrance, always in pairs.

Rios ushered us past them into an interrogation room, one dressed with a metal table, a quartet of metal chairs, and nothing else. An additional door graced the wall on our right hand side, probably leading toward the cells.

“Be right back,” said Rios.

He left, and we took our seats. They were cold, too. I’d hate to visit in the winter.

Rodgers cleared his throat. “Daggers…far be it from me to dismiss one of your hunches, but shouldn’t we be at the spill? Or talking to someone from the rickshaw driver’s guild?”

I plucked Boatreng’s sketch from my jacket and slid it across the table. “You’ve seen it. Tell me that’s not Bonesaw.”

Rodgers didn’t touch the paper. “I’m with you. It looks like him. But he’s incarcerated. You think the correctional officers gave him a day pass so he could get some fresh ink?”

“We’ll see.”

It was a few minutes before anyone arrived. When they did, they came through the same door we had. Another officer in a black uniform, a short, dark-skinned guy who was hairy as an ape and built like a bull—maybe a dwarf-orc hybrid, if I had to guess. Patches adorned his shoulders, too, ones that were wider and fancier than Sergeant Rios’.

“Detectives?” he said. “I’m Lieutenant Greyguard. I understand you’re looking for an inmate. Dugruk Gruerot.”

So that was his last name. I’d seen it on the sentencing paperwork but long since forgotten it. “That’s right. Called himself Bonesaw.”

“Indeed,” said the lieutenant. “I’d be happy to let you grill him about whatever it is you’re after, but I’m afraid I can’t. Dugruk isn’t at Coldgate anymore.”

I practically growled, even though I’d expected the answer. “Gods damn it. What did I tell you, Rodgers?” I glared at the lieutenant. “What happened? How did he escape?”

Greyguard snorted. “Nobody escapes Coldgate. He was transferred. Down south, out of the city to Stinking Baths.”

That caught me off guard. “Why?”

“Because he shanked another inmate and threatened several more,” said Greyguard. “The guy was a menace. He should’ve been sent to the labor camps from the start.”

“When was this?”

“A couple months ago. Why?”

“Who sent the order?”

“The warden, after we filed his assault report,” said Greyguard. “Again, why?”

I pointed at the piece of paper on the table. Greyguard picked it up. “Is this supposed to be him?”

“It looks like him, doesn’t it?” I said. “That man was last seen soliciting a tattoo parlor in the city a few weeks ago. He’s wanted for questioning in regards to an assault committed on me last night, as well as a kidnapping that took place today. You’ll remember Bonesaw was incarcerated under both assault and kidnapping charges.”

The Lieutenant put the sketch back down. “Well, whoever this is, it’s not Bonesaw. I’m telling you, he was transferred. We put the paperwork in through the proper channels. The transport team came and picked him up, and we received a certified letter from Stinking Baths confirming his admission.”

“Do you have this letter on file?”

“Of course we do.”

“I’m going to need to see it.”

Greyguard snorted. “Are you serious?”

I stood, feeling my anger seeping into my tense muscles. “What’s your standard operating procedure for when one inmate kills another?”

“They get sent to the camps,” said Greyguard. “Same as anyone else convicted of murder.”

“And I’m sure Bonesaw knew that. It’s not exactly classified information, is it? His buddies on the outside would’ve known that, too. They would’ve known how he would’ve been transferred. They probably even could’ve guessed where he’d be transferred.”

Greyguard stared at me. “There was never any report of an attack on the transport, and we received confirmation of his delivery by letter.”

I slammed my fist into the metal table, making it rattle and shake. “And I’m telling you I want to see that letter!”

A chair squeaked as Quinto stood. “Daggers…”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m stressed. That was uncalled for. But I need to see that letter.”

Greyguard stared at me, his jaw tense. “Fine. Come with me.”

He turned and left, leading us through another guard station into a less secure area of the prison. The walls remained as thick, the bars over the windows as solid, and the cold seeping through the stone as enervating, but there were fewer guards, and the occasional touch of color brightened a wall or two.

Greyguard unlocked a door using a keyring at his side and pushed forth into a room filled with filing cabinets, bookshelves, and desks whose surfaces had been beaten to hell. He snaked among the shelves, forcing me, Rodgers, and Quinto to follow in single file. He rapped his fingers along the sides of the filing cabinets, drumming out a metallic monotone, until he arrived at a cabinet at the end of the aisle.

He wrenched open the topmost drawer, flicked through the documents within, and eventually pulled one from the stack.

“There,” he said, holding it forth. “Straight from Stinking Baths. Official seal’s at the bottom right.”

I took it and pushed past him, weaving my way to the nearest window. I lifted the document into the light. On initial inspection, everything looked appropriate. The paper felt thick and durable between my fingers, the ink dark, the stamp in the lower corner elevated and embellished with a flowing signature.

I heard Greyguard’s voice behind me. “Satisfied?”

“You’ve sent other troublemakers to Stinking Baths before?” I asked. “Recently?”

“Last one before Bonesaw was a few months back,” said Greyguard. “A goblin by the name of Gwarkirk who slit his bunkmate’s neck while he slept.”

“I’ll need to see his letter, too.”

I heard a snort. “You can’t seriously think—”

“I need to see it.” I didn’t even bother turning from the light.

Greyguard grunted. Another drawer slid open on squeaky wheels, and fingers flipped through paper. I heard the Lieutenant's voice again, more miffed this time. “Here. You take it.”

Rodgers joined me, followed closely by Quinto. He held the additional letter.

“Thanks.” I took the second sheet and held it next to the first. The pages looked identical, except for the contents. Even those only differed in the names of those transported, but the quality of the paper, the form of the seal, and the fluidity of the signature were a match. Actually…

“Guys.” I nodded at the pages.

Quinto lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

I placed the letters over each other, held the stack to the window, and adjusted until the signatures overlapped. “See?”

Rodgers snorted. “A perfect match.”

“We’ve signed our names a thousand times,” I said. “How often do you think you’ve reproduced the exact same signature over those instances?”

“Excuse me,” said Greyguard. “Are you suggesting Bonesaw broke into our records room, used that letter to forge his own, then slipped it back before making his escape?”

I eyed the lieutenant. “Better check your locks. Either that or the men who guard them.” I held up the letters. “I need to keep these, by the way.”

Greyguard shook his head. “I’ll have to clear it with the warden. If you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, we’re going to have to launch an investigation into how this happened. We’ll need those.”

I glared at him. “I wasn’t asking. Trust me, I’ll get these to internal affairs once my partner’s life isn’t in danger.” That shut him up. “Rodgers? Quinto? Time to go.”

Greyguard looked on, dumbfounded, while Rodgers nodded. “Where to?”

“To find Bonesaw. Where else?”

Quinto might’ve looked even more dumbfounded than Greyguard. “You’ve got a lead on him already? And here I thought Shay was supposed to be the psychic.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “But if Bonesaw’s out, I know someone who might have a bead on him. Let’s go.”