Devina focused on the angel’s mouth and then licked her lips. “Fine. But you have to give me something I want.”
“I don’t have to give you shit—”
“Yes, you do. You’re stuck because you have no leverage. You see, if you try to turn me in with the Creator, you’re also going to have to explain yourself. And you can’t compel me, only He can. So you need to give me something and I’ll bet if you think really hard…” She bit her lower lip with her sharp, white teeth. Then hissed a little as she slipped her free hand inside the cup of her bustier. “I think you’ll figure out what it is.”
Lassiter’s gleaming stare narrowed. “I’m not fucking you.”
With a quick yank, she ripped her arm out of his hold. “Then I have no incentive to leave Balthazar and we have nothing to discuss. Have a good night, angel.”
Blowing Lassiter a kiss, she took off.
And she was smiling as she ghosted out.
CHAPTER NINE
Over on Market Street, about fifteen blocks away from the bridge, Erika’s unmarked rolled to a stop in front of a graffiti-covered walk-up that was battened down like its inhabitants expected a siege. The windows on all four levels were boarded over with plywood, and makeshift bars were screwed in on top of those sheets. The inset entry door was a solid steel panel that was totally at odds with the old brick building, and she half expected to see a sentry patrolling the rooftop.
As she got out, she glanced across the four lanes of no-traffic. Back about ten years ago, this end of Market had all kinds of local restaurants, hair salons, and tattoo parlors. It hadn’t been ritzy, but there had been plenty of going concerns. Now, the businesses had been deserted and the residences were either defended like this one or taken over by squatters after being condemned by the city.
Closing her door and locking everything, she went around the back of her vehicle and hopped up onto the sidewalk. With a dodge to the left, she squeezed by a rubbish bin that was bolted into the concrete. The thing was overflowing, the ring of litter around its base making her think of the wastepaper basket under her desk with all of her near-miss Post-it notes.
There were five cracked steps up to that steel door, and it went without saying that there wasn’t an intercom system she could buzz the third floor on—
As she gave the heavy panel a test-tug, she was surprised to find the thing loose in its reinforced jambs.
“Hello?” she called into the dim interior.
Stepping inside, she wrinkled her nose. They’d been cooking meth here—and recently. The chemicals in the air made her eyes water and her throat instantly irritated. Coughing into her elbow, she undid the buttons on both her coat and her blazer so she had access to her service weapon.
Just in case the chefs were still on duty.
The building’s layout was as she’d remembered, the stairwell on the right against the wall, the apartment doors on the left, one per floor. She thought about announcing herself, but she wasn’t here to make arrests.
The steps creaked as she went up, and every time they did, she looked behind herself. Shadows. So many shadows.
“Get a grip,” she said under her breath.
Up on the third floor, she paused—and then broke away from the staircase to go to the sole door on the little hallway. The thing had hunks out of its boards, like somebody had gone after it with a hammer, and most of its paint—red, it seemed—had flaked off, the wood underneath stained with dirt and filth from decades of no cleaning and lots of hard living.
“Connie?” she said as she went to knock. “It’s me, Erika…”
The door opened a crack as her knuckles made contact, and unlike everything else in the building, the hinges were silent, having been oiled. The smell that was released was bad… but it didn’t carry with it that telltale death stench. There was garbage, yes, but no rotting human remains.
Fresh kills didn’t smell like that, though.
“Connie?” Adding some more volume, she called out, “Connie, it’s me, Erika.”
Out of habit, she did some quick math on whether she had probable cause to enter the premises, but then again, if anything had happened to the woman, Olyn was by far the most likely aggressor and it wasn’t like they could prosecute Olyn from the grave.
“I’m just here to check on you, Connie…” she said.
The living area was cluttered with weeks-old pizza boxes, empty two-liter Mountain Dew bottles, and dirty clothes. A faded sofa was off-kilter, its front right foot busted, and a chipped coffee table was splintered down the middle, yet pushed together. Like whoever had broken it had tried to put it to rights.
Most likely, Olyn had slammed something into it, and Connie had been the fixer. Which was the bandwidth of their relationship, as far as Erika had seen.