Angel: Private Eye Book One (32 page)

The bell over the front door gave a
light tinkle as someone carefully pushed it open. Ebony cocked her
head to the side, long neck straining until she got a full view of
the door and the two men that cautiously walked in.

One was tallish, the other stout. Both
were dressed in apparently cheap, but well-made gray suits. Both
had the same starched white shirts, their collars so stiff and neat
that they could have been carved out of stone. The tall man wore a
simple black tie, which sat straight all the way down his front.
The short man didn't wear a tie, and his top button had popped all
the way open.

Detectives, Ebony thought
immediately.

How Ebony could deduce who these men
were based simply on the appearance of their clothes was not
important. She had many gifts, many useful, unusual gifts. She also
knew the stout man, which helped.

“Ben,” she curled her lips into a smile,
flicking her hair over her shoulders as she moved out into the
center of the store, “I thought I told you never to come here
without food?”

Ben, a middle-aged man with a balding
patch so perfectly circular it looked like a mushroom ring,
grinned. His grins were half-cheeky, half-erratic, and mostly chin.
He delved a hand into a pocket and produced a brown paper
bag.

“Ohh,” Ebony pursed her lips and cocked an
eyebrow, “I have you trained.”

Ben nodded in a humble but thoroughly
fake way, and threw her the packet. Ebony could see the grease
glistening off it as it spiraled through the air. When it came to
Detective Benjamin Tate and food, salt, sugar, and grease were a
dead on guarantee.

She caught the packet without shifting
her eyes. One long, elegant hand simply snatched it out of the air
with a snap.

Ebony let her gaze be drawn to the man
with Ben: the tall, silent, brooding man that looked like he
belonged in a classical painting of a knight. It wasn't just the
way he stood with his chest puffed out, his feet planted, and his
hands rounding into soft fists. It was the way his jaw was set with
an edge of righteous defiance. The way his short, brown hair
lengthened the shadows on his face. The way his dark eyes glinted
out at the world like pinpricks of fire on a moonless
night.

If Ebony smiled, she couldn't help it.
Ben's little friend looked like a barrel of fun: The way he gazed
at, and seemed to note, every single detail of the store. The way
he disparagingly stared at Ebony and Ben's little play, and
especially the way he looked at her.

Irritating was the only word for it.
Ben's little friend found Ebony, her store, and the way she looked
irritating.

And this just made her smile all the
harder.

Ebony finally slid her gaze off the
man and onto the greasy packet in her hand. She peered inside to
see some kind of fried biscuit. Why someone would intentionally
deep-fry something that was already essentially fat and sugar
molded into a lump, mystified her. Then again, many human behaviors
bordered on the bizarre.

“So, Ben, tell me, what brings you here so
early in the morning?”

“Early?” Ben produced another packet with
the same type of fried biscuit inside, and proceeded to squeeze it
into his mouth between breaths. “It's ten. I've already been up for
four hours.” Crumbs tumbled off his lips and between his fingers,
forming quite a little pile at his feet.

She shrugged her shoulders
expressively, rolling her make-up-clad eyes.
“We appear to have a different
concept of time.” Which was absolutely true. For Ben, time trundled
on like a clock strapped to a packhorse. For Ebony, time spiraled.
“Now, can I actually help you? Or are you here to drop crumbs all
over my precious stock?”

Ben ignored her comment,
instead leaning down to pick up the book by his feet, bits of
biscuit still crumbling in his fingers.
“Precious? You sure? This looks like
a dog-eared Nancy Drew novel.”

This drew a sharp snort of a laugh
from Ben's little friend. Ebony shifted her eyes over to him, like
a cat looking up, mid slumber, to see a mouse frolic across its
path. Who was this man?

“So, who are you exactly?” Ebony didn't
beat about the bush, didn't soften her tone. She just took several
very confident steps towards the man, and curled up one ruby-red
lip. “I'm not used to men giggling from the stalls.”

It was a challenge, of
sorts.

The man bristled, his head shifting
back slowly, and his chest punching out even more.

Before Ebony could exact her
reply, Ben ruined the mood with a jovial laugh.
“Leave him alone,” he pleaded,
“the guy's new.”

“Then why is he in an old suit?” Ebony's
smile was now teeth pressed into lip. She knew she was being
cheeky, but she loved it.

The man's look of affront
peaked and finally plateaued with a gaze that could cut steel.
Making a show of looking around the room he finally found his voice
box:
“strange, I would have thought it was the newest thing in
this store, and certainly the cleanest.”

Ben chortled from behind her, crumbs
spraying out like little waterfalls all over his jacket and
tie.

Ebony had to suppress the
utterly gleeful smile that was threatening to turn her into a
Cheshire cat.
“Ohhh,” she said, lips forming a long and drawn out w,
“aren't you sharp. With a wit like that you should come with a
warning.”

The man didn't falter for a
second.
“I'll send around a police dispatch now, or—” he paused for
a moment, trying to look as if he was concentrating, “I could just
leave and do some real police work. Why are we here again, Ben?”
The man now turned from Ebony, facing Ben with a mildly
disapproving look. “Unless we can fine this woman for violating
OH&S laws,” the man reached out and tested the stability of a
teetering tower of boxes and old magazines, “I think we should
start on the murder from last night.”

Ben finished his final swallow,
giving a hearty cough as some of the crumbs stuck in his
throat.
“Yeah, yeah, rookie. We'll get to the case. Remember, the
way of the mentor isn't always clear to the little new guy,” Ben
patted his hand at about hip height, indicating that the man who
stood a full five inches taller than him was technically a midget
in Ben's eyes. “You've got to relax. This is your first day, and
I'm taking the time to show you the ropes, because around here
ropes are real important.”

“And food,” Ebony added, resting her chin
on her hand, her fingers drumming lightly against her cheek. She
was almost getting bored with this conversation; she had a lot to
do, after all. But watching Ben's new little friend had a certain
appeal. He was like some righteous Greek god who had been plucked
from Mount Olympus only to be slapped down amongst all these
mundane little people who didn't understand the justice and order
of things.

The man was obviously ignoring
her now, concentrating instead on dragging Ben out of here.
“Look,” he said
with a sharp sigh, “I don't see any ropes around here. And frankly,
this is a used bookstore, Ben, don't you think a dark alley, or a
drug den, or an abandoned warehouse, or practically anywhere but
here would be more relevant to police work?”

Ben trotted over to a half-full
waste-paper basket and threw away his crumpled bag. Wiping his
fingers on his pants, he shrugged.
“Drug den? You been reading cop novels
from the 1920s, or something?”

The man's expression only grew
more exasperated.
“You know what I mean: meth lab, hydroponics unit,
whatever. Point is we're wasting our time. That murder isn't going
to get solved by standing around—”

Ben finally raised a hand, and
Ebony was pleased to note there was an edge of finality to the
movement. For the most part, Detective Ben Tate was a softy. He'd
never say anything without a grin, was sure never to drop by before
ten, and hardly grumbled when Ebony stole his coffee. But when he
wanted to, he could muster the authority of a field general.
“Alright Detective
Wall, that's enough. I brought you here to meet Ebony Bell. Ebony,
this is Nate Wall.”

Ebony smiled, perfect
white-teeth glinting through the ruby-red of her favorite
lipstick.
“Detectives Nate and Tate, hmm, now doesn't that roll off
the tongue.”

Ben made a loud sound like a
buzzer.
“Wrong answer, Eb. That's where you curtsy and say “nice to
meet you, detective.” And as for you,” Ben turned on Nate, “this is
where you—”

“It's such a damn pleasure to meet you,”
Nate crossed the room quickly and, much to Ebony's surprise, lifted
up her hand and shook it vigorously. The man had a grip like a
jeweler’s vice, and shook Ebony's hand like a businessman after a
sales pitch. “Gee,” his voice was high and fake, “my name's
Detective Nathan Andrew Wall, such a pleasure.”

Ebony blinked quickly, surprised at
his sudden change of personality. Her first impression of this man
had been one of a sarcastic, but mostly boring, all around
good-guy. Tall, handsome, officious, and would probably cite every
single rule in the book, given the chance. But now she had to
change her estimation of Detective Nate Wall. Why? Because the man
was clearly playing her.

“So, Eb,” Nate stood a little too close to
Ebony, looming height and solid build just a touch inside her
personal space, “do you mind if I call you Eb?”

Just as she'd teased and
prodded him before, the good detective was now getting his own
back.
“No,
pet,” she stressed the term of endearment, “you call me whatever
you need to.”

“Ah, how accommodating,” Nate nodded, face
full of false cheer. Only the curl at the corners of his lips
looked real. “So, Eb, I'm the new detective in town, and my partner
here was just showing me the ropes, see.”

Ebony nodded her head, eyes narrowing
ever so slightly. Detective Nate could play this game all he
wanted, but really, the boy had no idea what was coming.

“Anyhow, my partner here really seems to
think it's important that I meet you. I don't know why,” Nate's
tone was beginning to shift, “I mean, you run a used bookstore,
after all. Hey, maybe you have a great section on crime, or
something? Or some collector's edition Guns and Ammo? Or,” the
detective's tone was now as dry and sharp as a newly forged blade,
“maybe this is a waste of time.”

“Hmm,” Ebony made a soft, careful noise.
“You are in luck; I do have a very good collection of books
relating to crime. And I might even have a couple of copies of Guns
and Ammo hanging around.”

Nate's face was stony,
challenging.

“Also,” her mouth formed the slowest of
smiles, “I'm a witch.”

Dead silence met that little
fact. Finally Nate's expression cracked, and he let out a bullet
blast of a laugh.
“A witch? Blimey, you're wasting my time and you're
mad.”

If Nate Wall had half the mind
to look at his partner, he would have seen the ashen look of fear
cross Ben's face.
“Ah, Nate,” Ben began, “you might not want to—”

“You know what, lady, I have work to do.
There was a horrible, brutal murder last night. As fun as this has
been, I have a real job.” Nate turned around and started picking
his way towards the front door. “Judging by the look of this
store,” he mumbled under his breath, “you would have no idea what
work is anyway. The damn thing should be torn down.”

Ebony crossed her arms, red
fingernails drumming around the sleeves of her white
summer-dress.

“Ebony,” Ben's voice had a note of
pleading, “don't do anything too—”

A pile of old books and magazines
suddenly tumbled off the counter and right into the path of the
retreating Detective Nate. The Detective obviously had quick
reflexes, and dodged to the side with little effort.

“This place is a death trap,” Nate noted
through a grunt.

Another pile of books tumbled
over, and another. None of them were close enough, or large enough,
to do any damage to the rude detective. But still, the man's face
started to tighten with fear.
“What,” he snapped quickly, “this store is coming
down around your ears!”

“This store,” Ebony said, voice a cold
whisper, “doesn't like to be insulted. Me,” she brought an
expressive hand up to her chest, “I don't care what you say about
me, pet, but you really shouldn't insult the store.”

The man's eyes widened as another pile
of books tipped over by his side. Old novels and yellowed magazines
were now strewn everywhere, as if Ebony had simply gone up the
spiral staircase that led to the second level and tipped box after
box over the railing and onto the floor below.

“You're going to have to say sorry,” she
lifted her face to meet the detective's gaze. His eyes were wide,
his brow more creased than a shoreline after a storm. But still,
somehow, he didn't appear to be all that shaken. Boxes may have
been erupting books like geysers at a hot spring, but somehow the
man still had that determined tilt to his jaw.

“You aren't serious—” he began.