Killing Pretty (10 page)

“Can you use your toy to tell you anything about the knife?”

“I doubt it,” she says, sealing the envelope and putting it in the bag. “I wonder if we loaned it to the Vigil they'd be able to come up with anything?”

I pick up an empty DVD case and toss it back on a pile of others.

“Forget it. Boss or not, there's no way I'm handing over our only serious piece of physical evidence to those Pinkertons. We'd never see it again.”

She stops working, her hands still in the bag.

“I hate to say it, but you might be right. They wouldn't want civilians to have access to a magical artifact that powerful.”

She turns to Death.

“Have you showered since you've been here?”

He shakes his head.

“Good. I'd like to take some samples of the dirt under your nails. Also, if you don't mind, I'd like to take your fingerprints and do a quick physical exam. Is that all right with you?”

Death frowns slightly, looks from Julie to me.

“She wants your clothes off so she can make sure everything is where it's supposed to be.”

“If it will help,” he says.

“He's not the shy type,” says Candy.

Julie doesn't ask what that means. She just pulls another device from her bag, this one like a large cell phone.

“Good,” she says. “That will make things go faster.”

To Death I say, “After this, you're cleaning up. This place is starting to smell like the reptile room at the zoo.”

“Smells are interesting,” he says.

“Some less than others.”

Julie sets one of his hands on the device. It lights up for a second. When she takes his hand away, his finger and palm prints glow pale blue on the screen. She does the same thing with the other hand and puts the device away.

“Can I take your picture?” she says.

Death nods.

She uses her phone to take full-­face shots and each profile.

“Stand up,” I tell him. “It's ‘Nick the Stripper' time.”

I mime taking off a shirt. He starts undressing.

“What are you looking for?” says Candy.

“Identifying marks. Scars. Birthmarks. Tattoos. That kind of thing.”

Death looks down at his naked body, as interested in it as they are, but baffled at being surrounded by his own flesh.

Julie goes over his front, legs, and back.

“Lift up your arms, please,” she says.

The moment he does, Candy says, “What's that? A tattoo?”

Julie and I look where Candy is pointing, near his left armpit. Death cranes his head around trying to see.

“It's not a tattoo,” says Julie.

I put my finger on the design. The skin is slightly raised and pinker than the surrounding flesh.

“It's a brand.”

“Do either of you recognize it?”

Candy and I both say no.

Julie touches the brand with her gloved fingers. She glances at Death.

“Do you know where it came from?”

“No.”

She photographs it, stops when she checks the shot.

“There's something else.”

She fits a zoom lens to the phone's camera—­more Vigil tech by the look—­and takes another shot.

A pattern on Death's skin glows a bright green.

“It looks like a tattoo that's been lasered off,” she says.

She shows the design to Candy and me. Neither of us recognizes it. The marks look like letters, heavily stylized, in a circle.

“It's not a word. Maybe it's his initials,” I say.

“Why would he remove his initials?” says Julie.

­“People lose their names all the time,” says Candy. “When they're scared and want to hide from something.”

No one says anything for a minute.

“Is this the body of a good man?” says Death.

Julie takes the lens off her phone and puts it in the messenger bag.

She says, “It's too early to tell. You can put your clothes back on.”

This time, Death dresses himself. Just like a big boy.

“I've gone over the recording Chihiro made of your first talk, so I know you woke up in an isolated area near a deserted concrete building, right around Christmas. There were ­people nearby. Teenagers, you said. Did you get a look at any of them? Would you recognize one if you saw them again?”

Death picks at a sleeve cuff.

“No. I didn't see any of them well and they ran away so quickly.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about your awakening? Anything else you saw?”

“One of the men had horns.”

I say, “What do you mean horns?”

“On his forehead. Above his eyebrows. I suppose they could have been markings.”

“Tattoos. Okay. Anything else?”

“The same man had a drawing on his cheek. A number fourteen in a circle of letters.”

“That's it?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Approximately, how long did you walk?” says Julie.

“Five hours,” he says.

“You sound very certain.”

“I am. I found a watch. One of the teenagers must have dropped it.”

“We looked through your things. There wasn't any watch,” says Candy.

“It stopped working, so I threw it away.”

I say, “Do you remember where?”

“Of course.”

He points to a trash can by the head of his cot.

Julie reaches in and fishes out a gold pocket watch attached to a broken fob chain. She presses the winder on top and the cover pops open. The watch shines, but it's just cheap plastic in a metallic coating.

Julie holds it up.

“There's something stamped on the cover, but I can't make it out.”

She hands me the watch.

I study it while Candy looks over my shoulder.

On the inside of the cover is a skull with candles in the eye sockets and an open book in its mouth.

“It's a necromancer's mark,” I say.

“Then maybe the kids weren't partying,” says Candy. “Maybe they were part of the resurrection.”

“Maybe, but this thing is a piece of shit. No professional Dead Head would carry something like this.”

I hand Julie the watch. She looks it over.

“They sell things like this at flea markets and goth shops, don't they?”

“You can buy them all over Hollywood Boulevard. Good luck tracking it down,” I say.

“Maybe they weren't professionals, but that doesn't mean they weren't necromancers,” says Candy.

“It's possible,” says Julie. “May I keep this?”

“Of course,” says Death.

“Maybe I can pull some prints or DNA off it.”

She puts it in a small container and places it in her bag.

“I'm wondering something,” says Candy. “Could we use a spell to track where Death walked from? Maria, who gets the store videos, is a witch. She might be able to help us.”

“That's not a bad idea,” says Julie.

“Yeah, it is,” I say. “If you backtrack Death, then you're backtracking the knife, and I've seen what happens when you aim hoodoo at that thing. Let's see what Julie comes up with before we get too Tinker Bell.”

Julie arranges things in her bag.

“All right. I have plenty to work with right now. We'll hold off on any spell work until I see what the physical evidence shows us. Do you have the knife with you?”

“You sure you want to take it?”

“I'd like to examine it myself.”

“But no hoodoo and no Vigil?”

“That's right.”

“I'll get it.”

I go upstairs, dig the knife out of my coat, and bring it back down. Julie slips it in an evidence bag.

“Just be careful,” I say.

“I always am,” she says. There's a note of irritation in her voice. I shut up.

Julie puts the knife in her bag and takes out a plain white business envelope.

Handing it to me, she says, “Here's the five-­hundred-­dollar advance I promised you.”

I open the envelope and look inside. It's full of crisp, new twenties.

“Thanks,” I say, then to Candy, “It's lobsters and Twinkies tonight, baby.”

She takes the envelope and riffles through the bills.

“May I say something?” Death asks.

“Shoot,” Candy says, rolling up one of the bills like she's smoking a cigar.

“There's something else to consider. Trapped in this body, I can't do my job of escorting souls from Earth. Essentially, I am no longer Death. But there must be a Death. It's one of the fundamental laws of the universe.”

“But no one is dying,” says Julie.

Death nods.

“Exactly. And yet there must be a Death. This leaves the question: Who has usurped my role and why isn't he or she taking souls?”

I think back to Marlowe and his bogeyman for a second, but let the thought drop.

I give Death a look.

“You had to wait till now to bring this up. You just took a massive shit all over our feel-­good moment.”

“I know,” says Death. “I'm somewhat famous for that.”

“You can fucking say that again,” yells Kasabian through the storage room wall. “Now, will you ­people fuck off so I can get some sleep?”

J
ULIE GOES HOME
soon after the interview, but calls back a few hours later. She needs Candy and me on a quick one-­night job that has nothing to do with the guy in my storage room. I like the sound of that. Maybe
like
is too strong a word. The job is a stakeout. Sitting in a car for hours without a break, so I don't actually like it, but I do like the chance to walk away from Death's case for a few hours.

“While I have you on the line, I need to know something. Is there a statute of limitations for a Lurker with an assault charge?”

She doesn't say anything right away.

“As far as I know, there isn't a statute of limitations for Lurkers at all.”

“Thanks. I had to know.”

“I'm sorry, for both you and Chihiro.”

“One more thing. Do you know where I can get some brass knuckles?”

“Those are illegal in California, you know.”

“And yet I need them. Years ago, a friend bought a set off an ex-­cop. He was selling them as novelty paperweights.”

“They could have both gone to jail for that.”

“Sounds like you don't have those connections.”

“No. I don't. And you shouldn't be asking questions like that. In the current climate, they can get you in trouble.”

“Understood. I'm going to need a car for tomorrow night.”

“Swing by the office later today. I bought one just to keep you out of trouble. You'll love it. It's a big, comfy Crown Vic. Retired just a ­couple of years ago.”

“A retired Crown Vic. You're talking about a cop car.”

“Indeed I am. It's in great shape.”

“You're going to make me drive around L.A. in a cop car?”

“It's this or you can get a Vespa.”

“Don't say that to Chihiro. If she ever got her hands on a scooter, we'd never see her again.”

“Then it's the Vic?”

“You've got me cornered.”

“We should see about getting you a driver's license.”

“I told you. I can't get docs like that.”

“I didn't say it would be real. I'm sure the Vigil can put some papers together for you. Maybe you can even open a checking account.”

“Yes, that's what I came back from Hell for. Overdraft fees.”

“I'll see you this afternoon.”

S
HE'S RIGHT ABOUT
the Crown Vic. It's big and it's comfortable, painted a highly forgettable gray. With its cop suspension, it even handles well.

It's after dark. Candy and I are sitting in the eight-­thousand block of Wonderland Avenue in Laurel Canyon not doing a goddamn thing. I want to play a new off-­the-­board bootleg of Skull Valley Sheep Kill's last show at the Whisky a Go Go on the stereo, but Candy got there ahead of me and we're listening to migraine-­inducing noise from Tokyo. It's a band called Babymetal. A trio of chirpy girl singers cheerleading their way over razor fast metal riffs. They sound like Britney Spears on helium backed by Slayer.

I reach for the volume knob.

“Touch that and you're a dead man,” says Candy.

“I just want to check in with Kasabian.”

“Fine. You have my permission to turn down the stereo for the duration of your call. Then it goes right back up again.”

“You're just torturing me. It's the singing robot sunglasses all over again.”

She frowns.

“I'd forgotten about those. They were fun to play with when you had a hangover. I wonder whatever happened to them?”

“If there's justice in the universe, they're in Tartarus.”

“Just make your call, Pinkie Pie. The best song is coming up.”

I dial Kasabian and he answers with his usual charm.

“What?”

“I wanted to know how things are going with our guest. You keeping an eye on him?”

“He's right here talking to Maria, our friendly neighborhood witch.”

“You opened the store?”

“Don't whine. We've been open so little ­people are lined up. We're making brisk money.”

“What's Death doing?”

“He's helping behind the counter.”

“Are you crazy?”

“He's putting DVDs in little plastic cases so customers can take them home. I think even an angel can handle that. Besides, I'm sick of being alone with him watching kiddie movies.”

“Okay, but the first sign of anything weird, the first unfamiliar face that tries to get in, you lock the place down and call me, understand?”

“I can't hear you. I'm doing actual work. Have fun sitting on your fat ass all night.”

He hangs up.

Candy is snapping pictures of the street through the windshield.

“How are the kids?” she says.