Immortal City (Immortal City 1)

Jacks’s gaze drifted desperately to a restroom sign with an arrow hanging on the wall. “Viv?” Jacks said. “Will you excuse me? I’m just going to use the restroom.”

“Okay,” she said, her eyes dancing, “But don’t be too long.”

He turned quickly and left. Her coy smile was still in place, but she watched him go, dissatisfied.

Jacks made his way down the narrow hallway that led to the bathroom. But he passed the door labeled Gentlemen and went instead through a back door leading to the parking lot. One of the valets was standing by the Dumpsters, smoking.

“Hey man,” Jacks whispered. The valet’s eyes grew wide when he saw Jacks. “Would you mind pulling my car around?” He held out his valet ticket and a hundred-dollar bill. “And would you mind being discreet about it?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The sanctuary of the Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church on Sunset Boulevard was nearly empty. Detective David Sylvester, who, at forty, looked ancient already, sat alone in a sea of empty pews. He wore unremarkable clothes, wire-framed glasses, and a near-constant scowl. He sat hunched, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. His hands were clasped, fingers laced together as if he were immersed in prayer, but the detective’s eyes remained open. They drifted up past

the stained-glass windows of the sanctuary, to the vaulted ceiling, and beyond. They were intent, the eyes of a man more in conversation than prayer.

The classic cathedral glowed with beauty, lit only by soft candlelight from the altar. In the grotto, votive candles danced and flickered, illuminating the gentle and ever-smiling face of the Virgin Mary. It all suited Sylvester fine. He preferred an old, imposing church where you could feel the presence of God Himself whispering to you through the walls. He believed in the things of yesterday. He still listened to records, and his home phone still had a cord. Sylvester believed in the Angel City of yesterday, and, if truth be told, he believed in the Angels of yesterday too.

The silence was interrupted by the chime of the detective’s cell phone, an unfortunate necessity for police work. His fished the thing out of his pocket and looked at the number.

“This is Sylvester,” he said into the phone tersely.

“Sorry to disturb, Detective,” an officer from headquarters said. “But we need you on a scene. Right now.” Sylvester frowned. He hadn’t been on a real case in years. He looked around the empty church.

“I’m a little busy,” he said, “Are you sure you need me?” The officer seemed to grunt.

“Jones or Chu would be more qualified, if you ask me, but the captain wants you on this one. Said something about your special background.” Sylvester considered this.

“What’s going on?” he said after a moment.

“You better just go down there and take a look.”

Sylvester took down the address and pocketed the phone. He lingered for a moment, looking at the altar and its shimmering candlelight. Why was he being called? And why now? He wondered what could be going on. Then he stood without crossing himself and walked unceremoniously out of the church.

Sylvester’s unmarked cruiser made its way toward Angel Boulevard, passing closed stores and shuttered cafés. Dark palms above shuddered in the night breeze. The city seemed naked, raw, without the neon, double-decker buses, and throngs of visitors. A pocket of drunken tourists staggered down the sidewalk on a side street. They had all bought matching SAVE ME! T-shirts and were taking pictures of each other. The detective shook his head. The Angels could only protect a few, but every year millions still dreamed it was somehow going to be them, that they were going to be on ANN with the Angels and other Protections, that they would be saved, and everyone would see it. They believed the lottery would come through. Or they’d make their millions and then have their own Guardian in no time, taking their rightful place among the Immortal City’s beautiful and glamorous elite. The detective knew better. He had spent too many years observing the dirty truth about Angel City to get taken in by what he considered a fairy tale. Through it all, though, the Angels still seemed to keep clean. They’d moved up to their houses in the hills years ago to keep from getting splashed with the mud from down below. Sylvester turned right on Angel Boulevard, leaving the group of tourists laughing in the night.

The crime scene was alive with activity. Floodlights illuminated a section of the Walk of Angels cordoned off with yellow police tape. An Angel City Police Department chopper droned overhead, its searchlight slicing through the night. Sylvester pulled up in his cruiser and waited for a moment in the car, observing the busy scene through his windshield. It was the first time in a long while he had been at an active crime scene. He had almost forgotten the chaos. The adrenaline. The rush. He opened the car door and made his way out into the cold and noise.

“Hey, you can’t come in here,” a uniformed officer said as he approached the tape. Sylvester fumbled out his badge. “Oh. Sorry, sir,” the officer said, and held up the tape.

Sylvester ducked under and took in the scene. On the sidewalk he saw a white sheet covering a lump directly over one of the famous Angel Stars. There were gangs in Angel City, and the occasional homicide was not uncommon. And it was certainly nothing that he was normally trusted with.

The one thing that caught his attention was that the bulge under the sheet looked small. Too small, he thought, to be a body. As he looked around for the sergeant, he thought he heard one of the officers mumble something as he passed. Burnout, he thought the man had said. Sylvester stiffened, plunging his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, and tried his best to put the man—and the past—out of his mind.

When Sylvester finally found him, Sergeant Bill Garcia looked especially upset.

“Hey Bill, what’s going on?” said Sylvester. Garcia seemed surprised to see him.

“They put you on this?” Garcia said, worry edging his voice.

Sylvester nodded.

“Guess so. What’s this all about?”

When the veteran sergeant looked at him again, Sylvester was startled to see fear glimmering in his eyes.

“Come on, sir,” Garcia said. They walked together toward the sheet on the sidewalk. “Everyone keeps asking me if it’s ever happened before. I tell them I don’t know. I mean”—he paused—“not like this. I don’t know these things, Detective, I just do my job.”

“Settle down, Bill. What’s going on?”