“Who are— ”
Before the detective could finish his sentence, the phone clicked dead – he’d hung up.
Sylvester slowly placed the receiver down. He sat on the edge of the bed in the room that was dark except for one bedside light, his mind running over the strange turn of events.
For a moment he lay back down on his bed, but his eyes remained wide open. After only a minute or so, he let out a large sigh and got up, walking to the kitchen to make the first pot of coffee of the day.
At eleven thirty Detective Sylvester was on Angel Boulevard amid throngs of tourists, in the heart of Angel City. He was wearing a shirt just picked up from the cleaners and a pair of shoes he’d had re-soled down at Raoul’s on Santa Monica. He felt all right. He was ready for this case to break open.
The reports and DVD surveillance that the Godspeed kid had slipped him from the Angel investigation didn’t give him too much info, aside from confirming for Sylvester that there were two bombers, working in tandem. He hadn’t been able to glean anything further than that, though. The case had remained slow up until the call early this morning.
Sylvester walked his way around fans snapping pictures of the stars on the Walk of Angels; the empty spot where it was rumoured Maddy Montgomery’s star might go drew an especially huge crowd. Looking down as he walked along the glittering pavement, Sylvester noticed nam
es of Angels past and present that he had known over the years. As he got closer to the Angel Wax Museum, he came across Jackson Godspeed’s star. No one was taking pictures of it. Sylvester shook his head.
He reached the wax museum. In the very front of the building, surrounded by glass so everyone could see it from the street, was a new wax statue of Maddy with her shorter, oblong wings with the fine silver threading that ran along them. Groups of people were excitedly lining up to enter.
Sylvester walked down Angel Boulevard a little further, then back, slowly letting his old police instincts take over as he read the crowds. It was fairly busy for a weekday, with double-decker buses blowing by, throngs of tourists, vendors selling maps to the Angel houses in the Hills, those hawking T-shirts reading “SAVE ME”, the Angel impersonators whom you could pay to get a picture with. Above the whole scene hung massive billboards with half-naked perfect Angels selling perfumes and clothes, along with garish neon signs. Every once in a while, some remnant of old Angel City would peek through the chaos, giving Sylvester a sense of the city he once knew. One he had been proud to be an Angel in.
Looking up, Sylvester saw three-storey footage of Maddy’s arrival at a red-carpet event across town. She smiled perfectly as the flashes surrounded her.
At eleven fifty Sylvester walked to the ticket desk and purchased one adult ticket for entry to the wax museum. He walked into the lobby, scanning the crowd slowly. No one seemed out of place, or otherwise nervous, just your general crowd of Angel City tourists.
Some of the more popular wax statues were in the lobby, including Vivian Holycross in the outfit she wore to last year’s Commissioning, one of classic hunk Owen Holymead, and one of Gabriel, one of the founding members of the Council of Twelve. Gabriel appeared wise and almost glowing in his white robes. Behind him was a wax statue of an ancient Angel in Grecian battle dress, holding a copy of The Book of Angels in his hand.
The detective walked down one of the hallways. It was uncanny, how many of these wax Angels he had once known in real life. Seeing their statues was like seeing ghosts from his former life.
After a few minutes, the detective made his way back to the lobby. He checked his watch: eleven fifty-eight. Two minutes. He pulled off his glasses and wiped them with his shirt. A nervous habit.
The detective eyed the visitors moving between the wax Angel statues, trying to discern who would be meeting him. He looked at a bench off to the side, where a man in his thirties was reading a copy of the Angel City Times. Was that him? Then the man stood up and walked out the door of the wax museum, hugging his wife and small child, who had been using the restroom.
Sylvester continued watching the crowd, his pulse quickening as he glanced down at his watch and saw it had reached noon. A tour bus must have just let out on Angel Boulevard, because a huge group of people began streaming in. The faces in the crowd mixed with the perfect wax Angel faces.
Suddenly, in his peripheral vision, Detective Sylvester saw a man in a dark suit on his left, and then another on his right. They were moving fast. Directly towards him. Adrenaline pounded in Sylvester’s veins as he started at a dead run towards the exit.
Instinct took over, but before Sylvester could escape the men, an iron grip clasped down on him from behind and pulled his hands together, binding them together in plastic zip-ties.
Five square-jawed men in suits were on him in seconds as he struggled in his restraints.
Struggling and panting, Sylvester’s eyes grew wide as, through the glass, he spotted a black Suburban idling at the kerb on Angel Boulevard. They led him towards it.
CHAPTER 23
The thick, hard plastic restraints dug into Sylvester’s wrists, rubbing them raw as he attempted to break away from his captors. Blood pounded in his ears, survival instincts taking over.
Tourists stared slack-jawed as these men in suits hoisted the struggling detective towards the front exits of the wax museum.
It’d been a set up.
“What are you doing? I’m Detect— ”
“Be quiet!” the square-jawed man holding him barked, pushing Sylvester forward.
“Step away from Detective Sylvester!” a voice resounded through the open glass door to the museum. It was Sergeant Garcia, in plain clothes. He pointed his service revolver at the man next to Sylvester. His aim was steady.
In horror, Sylvester watched as the men in suits suddenly drew pistols from inside their jackets, beginning to turn them on Garcia.
“ACPD! Drop your weapons! ACPD! We will shoot!” The voices seemed to come from everywhere at once.