Grave Dagger flash fiction #1

An aura of watchful efficiency dominated the foyer.

The desk officer, Constable Franklin, broke into a weary half-grin at Dalton’s entrance. “Good evening, Mr. Smith. All ready for your trip to New Beltwain?”

Dalton slowed as he approached. “I’m here to pick up the train tickets. Lieutenant Sagewater said they’d be available …” He left the implied question dangling.

“Coming right up,” Franklin drawled, twisting to his left and prying open a desk drawer.

A mischievous voice whispered over Dalton’s shoulder, “Skipping town, are we?”

He recognized the voice instantly — Nikola Dean — and kept his facial expression carefully neutral. As a Speaker-with-the-dead, he was the only person in Central able to see, hear, or sense Nikola’s presence. Best keep it that way.

Franklin dug an envelope out of the drawer and consulted the precise handwriting on its plain brown surface. Dalton relaxed slightly; he hadn’t given himself away. Or Nikola.

“The lieutenant never misses a beat.” Franklin proffered the envelope. His half-grin faded when Dalton didn’t respond. “Beat. Cop — it’s a police joke. You know, a play on words?”

“Sorry, my mind was elsewhere,” Dalton lied. He tucked the envelope inside his denim jacket. “Thanks.”

“What an idiot.” Nikola propped her elbows on the counter and leaned over to study Franklin’s face. “No wonder they stuck him on desk duty — again.”

Dalton bit back a sharp comment. Stay focused. Mallory’s waiting downtown. He retreated a step, raising his hand to wave a casual farewell.

“Wait a minute, Smith,” Franklin said. His joking demeanor was gone, replaced by stern Stoney Cove Police Guild authority. He picked up the desk phone and dialed.

Only three numbers. Dalton’s tension came back. Internal call.

“Treehawke’s here,” Franklin said into the phone. Dalton’s nerves spiked at the desk officer’s casual use of the surname he’d tried to bury.

The click of an opening door coincided with Franklin hanging up the phone. Dalton pivoted slowly in the direction of the sound.

Two officers dressed in plain-clothes stood there. One held up her badge — the Grovesland Marshal Service. They were a long way from their New Beltwain HQ, but Dalton knew better than to mention it.

“Special Agent Sydney Blackwell,” the badge-wielding marshal said crisply. Her voice wasn’t loud but seemed to raise a bureaucratic echo. She indicated her partner. “Special Agent James Millar. We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Smith.”

“Just an informal chat.” Special Agent Miller gestured at the open door to the interview room. “Off-the-record, of course.”

Nikola tugged eagerly on Dalton’s sleeve. “I love a good crime drama! Let’s hear what they have to say.”

He didn’t reply, wary of giving anything away in front of the marshals. She glanced up with an imploring expression. “I can walk through walls, remember? One way or another, I’m coming with you.”

“Mr. Smith?” Blackwell didn’t raise her voice, but her implied command was clear. Don’t mistake this for a polite invitation.

Dalton took a beat and reined in his anxiety. “I guess I could spare a few minutes.”

“This is awesome,” Nikola whispered excitedly. “I am totally living my best afterlife.”

Dalton allowed himself to be ushered into the room and took a seat. Three immediate clues — a heavy table positioned between his chair and the only exit, Blackwell’s notepad and pen, and Millar deftly unplugging the video camera mounted in one corner.

Off-the-record, as advertised.

“No point in wasting time.” Blackwell clicked her pen and fastened an unblinking stare on him. “Let’s talk about your connections with the dead.”