Immortal City (14 page)

Finally, a reporter’s question broke him out of his dazed state, bringing him back to the hotel suite.

“Can you repeat that?” Jacks asked, for the first time actually noticing the man in front of him, an overweight middle-aged reporter sweating in a cheap white cotton shirt and polyester tie. He was poised over a stenographer’s pad and a pencil.

“I asked, how do you feel about the growing movement in America that is questioning a lot about the Angels and what’s going on here in the Immortal City?”

“Jacks, you don’t have to answer that—” Darcy said, getting up. The reporter had broken from the agreed-upon fluff questions.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Jacks said, waving Darcy back. “What, you mean the HDF? The guy who said he was going to start a ‘War on Angels’ and picked the Godspeeds out as number-one offenders?” He laughed. “Those guys are completely nuts. If we worried about every—”

The reporter looked at him confidently and finished his sentence. “—‘crackpot with a video camera, an Internet connection, and an opinion.’ I’m familiar with your statement. No, Jacks, I’m not talking about the HDF, but about mainstream America. As you know, Ted Linden was just elected to the U.S. Senate as an independent, running on a largely anti-Angel platform. He’ll be the first senator to go without Protection in twenty years. He wants full transparency between the Angels and the government, and some say he even wants to end protection-for-pay in America.”

Blood rushed into Jacks’s face. “I—” He was cut off.

“These interviews are over.” Darcy stood up again and walked briskly to Jacks, pulling his wireless mic off. “As you all know, Jackson has an extremely busy schedule this week. Thank you all for coming.” She glanced daggers at the reporter. He had a faint grin on his face as he slowly put his pen and pad away.

“Jacks, really, you should’ve just let me deal with that jerk. That’s what you pay me for, right?” Darcy said after they’d left the room. She escorted Jacks toward the lobby, where his car was waiting at the valet.

Jackson just nodded silently, already forgetting the man’s question, not even seeing the crowd of paparazzi dashing over to get his picture, his mind drawn back to a classroom and a girl’s voice.

At home that night, Jacks was almost silent, eating his dinner without even looking at the TV. He’d skipped one of the events set up for the nominees. Mark was apparently working late at the office, so it was just his mom and Chloe around. His little sister talked most of the time, which was just fine with Jacks. He was tired of answering questions.

Restless, but not exactly sure why, Jacks told his mother he was going to meet Mitch and had gone out driving into the Angel City night. Mark still hadn’t returned home by the time Jacks left the house.

•   •   •

Now he found himself sitting in his car maybe thirty minutes later, maybe an hour, maybe two—he didn’t even know. He’d come to the pier to clear his mind. But his thoughts kept returning to the girl. Maddy. Why hadn’t she accepted his apology? Why was she being so stubborn? He just wanted to make it right and be done with it. Move on.

But if he was honest, he knew there was something more. Something that had gotten under his skin. Something about her eyes and her nonchalant beauty, beauty she clearly didn’t even notice, the opposite of Vivian. He thought about what he had felt the night before when they touched. Even though she was human.

He tried to press the thoughts from his mind, but they wouldn’t go away. When he thought of her, she seemed to make everything else instantly seem so small.

At last Jacks came to a decision. He turned the key in the ignition and the Ferrari fired to life. He pulled a U-turn, the headlights throwing momentary sheets of light on the slumbering white stucco homes in the otherwise pitch-black night. When he reached Sunset Boulevard, Jacks whipped his car to the right and headed back toward Angel City, his taillights steaming in the quiet night.

U
p ahead, Sylvester could see a throng of reporters on the sidewalk and spilling out into the street, lit by the bright lights of their camera crews. On the other side of the street a line of police officers corralled a crowd of tourists who were watching, videotaping, chattering. Overhead, news choppers circled, trying to get the best view of the scene.

The detective pulled up in his unmarked cruiser, looking out at the scene beyond his windshield. He drew a long breath, lifting up his glasses and rubbing his face. He wished he didn’t have to deal with the press. He wished he wasn’t back on Angel Boulevard for a second straight night. And, most of all, he wished what was waiting for him underneath that white sheet wasn’t what he expected.

Blinking red and blue light reflected off the silent palm trees, the closed tourist shops, and the gleaming stars of the Angels. Police floodlights bathed the famous street in a harsh, menacing glow. He got out of the car.

Reporters clamored to him as he fought his way toward the tape. “Detective, can you confirm this is the second murder on the Walk of Angels in the same week?” one asked.

This sent a murmur through the crowd. “A second murder?”

Another reporter shouted, “Are the two murders related? More gang violence? And when are you going to release the names of the deceased?”

Sylvester raised his hands to the crowd, trying to calm them. Wind whipped against his coat as he cleared his throat.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that any homicide has taken place, and we are not releasing any information at this time. The incident from earlier in the week is still under investigation.” He waved off another explosion of questions and ducked under the tape, chewing on his lip.

Sergeant Garcia was waiting for him on the other side.

“Okay, what have we got, Bill?” He had to shout over the buzz of the choppers.

“What?”
Garcia put his hand to his ear.

“I said, what have we got?” Sylvester shouted.

“Come take a look,” Garcia said.

He led Sylvester over to the sidewalk and its gleaming stars. Another white sheet was laid over the concrete. This time Sylvester crouched and lifted the sheet himself.

Another pair of Angel wings. Grisly and severed. Just as before, they were laid neatly one across the other, directly over an Angel Star. Sylvester listened to the drone of the choppers as it mixed with the roar of the crowd beyond the tape. He stared at the wings on the pavement in front of him and knew, without a doubt, the magnitude of what was happening. An Angel being mortalized and likely murdered was rare and extremely serious. But its happening twice, and in one week, was unprecedented. He lowered the sheet, removed his glasses, and polished them.

“Someone is cutting off their wings, sir.” Garcia’s voice had a hysterical edge. Sylvester nodded, his face grim. “Sir? Someone is cutting off their wings—”

Sylvester placed a firm hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “I can see that, Bill. Any body?” Garcia shook his head. Sylvester lifted the sheet again and read the blood-splattered name below the wings. “Ryan Templeton.”

“We contacted the Archangels. No one’s heard from him in a few days.”

“And this is the same spot as before?” Sylvester asked, looking around.

“Sir, look where you’re standing.”

Sylvester looked below his feet and read the name of the next Angel Star out loud.

“Theodore Godson.”

“And now Ryan Templeton,” Garcia said. “The very next star.”

“They’re being mortalized in the order of their stars,” Sylvester said slowly. Wearily. He returned his glasses to his face.

The sky roared as another chopper passed close by overhead, its naked spotlight splashing over the scene. Sylvester scowled up at the sky.

“Bill, would you please do me a favor and get those news choppers away from here?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Garcia said. He keyed his radio and began shouting orders.

Sylvester stood. His gaze drifted down the sidewalk and down the stars. He looked at the names and stars on the sidewalk, stars that extended as far as he could see. He imagined an endless body count.

Kneeling down, the detective examined the name of the Angel on the next star.

Garcia read his mind. “No contact with anyone since this afternoon. Could have taken a long trip up to Santa Barbara, turned off his cell to get some peace and quiet, or . . .”

Sylvester cursed under his breath. “And this one?” He motioned to the space on the sidewalk where the next star was. It was blank. Workmen had roped it off, preparing to put a name on it.

“Still don’t know. One of this year’s Commissioning class. We’ve got calls in to the Angels on this one, but they’re not exactly being helpful.”

Crossing under the tape and through the crowds, Sylvester walked out into the middle of Angel Boulevard. Away from the scene, it was quiet. Gusts of wind blew a few crumpled papers end-over-end down the street, while a homeless man pushed a shopping cart and hummed to himself. The detective took a look around. It was empty. Yet even at this hour a few straggling tourists still videotaped the sidewalk while shop owners packed up their displays. Angel figurines, plastic wings, bumper stickers that read “I WAS SAVED IN ANGEL CITY.”

He heard Garcia shuffling up behind him. Sylvester continued staring down the street.

“What is it, Detective?” the sergeant asked.

“You don’t just kill an Angel out here with the whole world watching.” Sylvester pulled his keys out of his coat pocket. “Come on, Bill,” he said as he walked toward his car. “We’re not at the murder scene.”

•   •   •

Sylvester’s unmarked cruiser turned onto Outpost Road and wound up into the Angel City Hills. The sky over the city was clear and dark, the stars winking in the night. Houses with driveways were quickly superseded by tall hedges obscuring Angel mansions set back from the road. “Always get lost on these roads up here,” Sylvester grumbled as he wound deeper into the private retreat of the Angels’ perfect lives.

When they arrived at Ryan Templeton’s sprawling modernist residence, which hung over the hill, two additional ACPD units were waiting. The officers seemed jittery. Sylvester pulled into the narrow drive.

The house looked like someone had stacked enormous building blocks one on top of the other. Sylvester had never understood the attraction of this so-called style, but now that he was standing right below it, it did have a certain striking appeal. He walked to the front door flanked by two officers. They had their guns drawn. He motioned for quiet. Calm.

He rang the call box. From deep inside the house, he could hear the bell. He looked at the video camera staring down at him from the eave. Silence. Nothing.

“Ryan!” He yelled through the door. He tried again, louder. Empty. He glanced over to the silver Mercedes McLaren in the narrow drive.

“Okay, let’s go,” Sylvester said.

Drawing a deep breath, the detective touched the doorknob and jumped back as if it had been a snake. The metal handle was scorching.

“Why’s it so hot?” he barked, shaking his hand. Carefully, he pushed his toe against the door. It swung open on the hinge, and a wave of stifling air rolled out. Sylvester drew his Beretta 92 FS and signaled wordlessly to the officers. Then he pushed the door open and stepped into the darkened house.

The heat was suffocating. It shimmered in the dark, like a reflection off a hot summer road. Sylvester and the officers moved swiftly and silently into the hallway. Flashlight beams danced in the dark. The walls were lined with framed magazine covers of the home’s owner. Ryan Templeton was a sturdy, handsome Angel with sleek hair and serious eyes. The hall opened up into a large, unobstructed living area. The architecture was clean and striking. Paintings. Designer furniture. Marble countertops. The windows looked out onto panoramic views of Angel City, downtown, and beyond. The officers fanned out to clear the rooms.

Sylvester moved passed the kitchen and through an open doorway to the right. He discovered a movie theater. Plush leather chairs. Framed newspaper articles.

A dead end.

He backtracked toward the bedrooms. Rounding a wall, he discovered a pale blue glow filtering through the cracks of a door. Condensation formed on his glasses as he prodded the door with the toe of his shoe. He flipped the Beretta’s safety off and slipped inside.

The room was like a sauna, impossibly hot, the air dense with steam.

And something else. The room seemed to be filled with a kind of primal presence. An animal presence. Like fear itself.

At the center of the room, an indoor pool glowed blue-white. The water lapped lazily, sending shimmering reflections across the walls and roof. The windows were fogged. His weapon leading him, Sylvester moved to the edge of the pool.

What remained of Ryan Templeton floated facedown in the water. Where his wings should have been remained only two bloody holes of shredded skin, surrounded by the remnants of his Immortal Marks. Sylvester placed a hand on the fogged window to steady himself. Garcia entered the room. Seeing the body in the pool, he stopped short.

“Oh my God.”

The two police officers stood there in silence.