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dock district, where land and labor were cheaper to come by. Most hands that worked in the shipyards and mills and foundries on the east side of the river lived nearby, but some people, like our victim Terrence, chose to live on the west side despite its pricier rents. Given their proximity to the Erming—the worst slum in the city—parts of the dock district could get pretty dicey, especially at night.
    Luckily, the Captain, like Quinto, had a soft spot for my precious flower of a partner. He’d increased the rickshaw budget almost twofold since she’d joined the force, ostensibly to preserve her delicate feet. Not that Shay needed his charity. She’d learned her lesson after her first day on the job, wearing sensible flats from then on out instead of strappy high-heel numbers.
    Regardless, I wasn’t one to turn down a reprieve for my pavement slappers—and being Shay’s partner meant I got to ride alongside her without judgment—though it did earn me the occasional dirty look or two. I flagged down a nearby rickshaw driver and we clattered away across the cobblestones.
    After a half hour or so, we approached our destination. As we turned off West Avenue, a cloud of noxious gas slapped me in the face with the potency of a steroid-fueled Quinto punch. I gagged and stuffed my face into my coat sleeve. The smell was awful—some hellacious mixture of sulfur, turpentine, and the world’s worst batch of homebrewed beer. Shay responded in a similar manner, making a retching sound before cupping a hand over her nose. Even our rickshaw driver hacked and coughed when greeted by the stench, and he looked like he lived in a homemade lean-to scrapped together out of garbage and rain-warped paperboard.
    “Oh, what fresh hell is this?” I gasped. “And I thought the cats were bad! What happened here? Did a lactose intolerant giant accidentally ingest a massive bowl of blue cheese-flavored ice cream?”
    Shay muttered something that sounded like ‘gaper dill stemicles’ and pointed into the distance. I followed her finger toward an overgrown mill wheel and a number of smokestacks spewing foul-looking clouds into the sky. Suddenly I understood.
    Though Williams and Sons was a book bindery, they’d set up shop only a few blocks away from one of the city’s largest pulp and paper mills. It made economic sense, of course. Proximity to the mill meant lower paper costs. Lower paper costs meant they could print cheaper books, and that in turn meant they could offer better contracts to the book publishers, undercutting competitors and receiving more contracts. I’d do the same if I were Mr. Williams or his unknown number of sons. Of course, they were probably off living it up in a lavish mansion somewhere far to the northwest where the air smelled of roses and freshly bathed puppies and sunshine.
    Our haggard-looking rickshaw driver dropped us off in front of a large factory building a few blocks down from the mill. The coppers I handed him had barely hit his palm before he took off like a banshee. I couldn’t blame him. The mill’s odious vapors had me reconsidering my need to question any of Terrence’s co-workers regarding his mysterious death—or my need to even solve the case at all. I was pretty sure I had an eighty-year-old sugar momma who would take care of me if push came to shove. Then again, I’d still have to deal with the cats.
    Steele and I hustled through the factory’s doors and shut them tight behind us. I feared the stench might be just as bad indoors, but for once I was pleasantly surprised—mostly because a different, slightly less offensive smell permeated the warehouse, one that reminded me of alcohol and art projects. The air was thick and heavy, laying over me like a warm blanket.
    “Is that…glue?” Shay contorted her nose in odd directions.
    “I think so,” I said.
    “It’s pretty potent. This can’t be healthy.”
    “Long term, I’d agree with you,” I said. “But for now, I’m