Natural Born Angel (Immortal City 2)

“All right,” Maddy got out, fighting her rebellious streak.

“Good,” the pilot said, turning back to the chalkboard with the slightest smirk on his face. “Let’s start.”

CHAPTER 16

The buzzer panel for the building was faded and covered in filth, the names and unit numbers barely readable. Sylvester’s eyes ran up and down the list, trying to discern one name from the other. Some of the names were written in Russian letters, and the detective tried to piece together what they might mean. Others were written sloppily in black marker.

Sylvester’s investigation into the grisly Angel bombing had taken him through all the official ACPD reports that had been filed, all the traditional HDF informants and their statements. He’d uncovered nothing new. But Sylvester had other resources. He pressured an HDF operative who was close to the group’s leader, William Beaubourg himself. Sylvester had used her as an informant for years, off the books and out of the ACPD database. And the detective had got one word out of her: Minx. That’s all she’d say about the bombing. But maybe it was enough.

Garcia had radioed in the name “Minx”. There were maybe two dozen Minxes in the Angel City database, but only one that seemed right to Detective Sylvester. It was on a dingy industrial block on the outskirts of abandoned downtown.

Minx Watch and Clock Repair.

Now Sylvester stood outside the address. Could be another dead end. Afternoon sun beat down on the cracked pavement. The rumble of steady traffic on the freeway just a couple of blocks away created a dull white noise. A homeless man pushed a shopping trolley towards the detective, one of the wheels squeaking terribly. The man saw Sylvester, instantly – and correctly – took him for police, and crossed the street. Sylvester looked towards the north and figured most of the homeless disappearances he’d been following had happened only twelve blocks north of here.

Since he’d been pulled off that non-Angel case, at least ten more destitute men and women had disappeared mysteriously off the streets or out of fleabag residential hotels. Yet the ACPD hadn’t even detailed anyone else on the case since Sylvester had been reassigned. The detective got an ache in his kidneys just thinking about it. He wasn’t going to let that case just die now that he was on the Angel bombing, so he’d dropped Sergeant Garcia near Skid Row and asked him to question anybody who might have seen anything involving the disappearances. It was risky having Bill work on that off-limits case, but Sylvester wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t.

But today he had to investigate the bombing. Leaning further in, Sylvester peered through his glasses at the numbers and found the one he was looking for: 1C. There was no name next to the buzzer number, just a description: WATCH AND CLOCK REPAIR.

Sylvester pressed the button. Only a few seconds later, the door buzzed, unlocking.

The detective entered a large, dingy hallway. Sylvester easily found the door inside: 1C. The words WATCH AND CLOCK REPAIR were etched on the dirty frosted glass of the door. The detective entered.

He was met with a terrible mess. Stacks of old clocks sat atop each other on the scratched glass countertops, more stacks of old plastic clocks were propped against the wall, and various clock parts were scattered around. The storefront was lit dimly, and old-fashioned jazz was playing on a radio in a backroom somewhere. He noticed a brass

bell in front of him. He pressed down, and the ring carried loudly through the store.

After a few moments, a man emerged from what was probably the back office. He pushed aside a tattered old green curtain with gold trim and began lumbering up to the desk, breathing heavily through his nose. He was short and wore a stained brown apron over a white button-up shirt. The apron bulged over his belly. His thinning, wispy hair was matted to his scalp with sweat. The most remarkable feature about the man was his elaborate pair of eyeglasses, which were more like a visor attached to his head with a black rubber strap; a number of moveable magnifying lenses and loupes were attached to the front of the glasses, able to swing back and forth to provide the right enlargement of detail for the eye.

The man wiped his fingers on the apron and looked at Detective Sylvester as he approached the counter. His brown eyes were exaggerated and bulbous through his thick glasses. As he smiled, his yellowed teeth shone out at Sylvester.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Mr Minx?” Sylvester said.

“Yes?” he said.

Sylvester reached into his pocket. “I’d like to have a watch fixed,” he said, pulling out a wristwatch. Its glass face was beautiful, trimmed with gold, and the numbers inside were almost art deco in a 1930s kind of way, harking back to the heyday of Angel City.

The man took the watch in his hands and inspected it through his glasses, holding it up to the light. The light danced and refracted in his glasses.

“This is a beautiful piece, yes, yes. The inner workings are quite complex, but durable. A different era, a different era. I haven’t seen one like this for quite some time, Mr. . . ?” He dropped his gaze back to the detective.

“Sylvester. Detective Sylvester, ACPD.” He reached into his other pocket and produced his badge.

“Oh?” Minx attempted to hide his surprise, continuing to innocently look at the watch. He glanced into the backroom, just for a moment, and then his attention was back on the watch. Sylvester studied the man in front of him. “And is there something else, Mr Sylvester? I have the feeling your visit might not just be about this timekeeping piece.”

Sylvester looked at the man squarely.

“A bomb.”

Minx didn’t miss a beat. “A bomb, Mr Sylvester? Nasty devices. Liable to do much damage. But why would I know anything about a bomb? I’m a simple watch repairman, running my simple shop.” He smiled innocently again at the detective, his eyes distorted through the lenses.

Sylvester leaned in quickly towards the fat man, spitting fire, his words sharp and fast. “Yes, a bomb. The one that turned the front wall of the Angel Administration Affairs office into thin air and fire. And killed ninety-two people. Ninety-two counts of murder. I’m not going to waste time going back and forth pretending you aren’t what we all know you are. A bombmaker.” Minx flinched just a little. “And I know your anti-Angel sympathies.”

Minx opened his mouth in a big yellow-teethed smile. “You have your facts wrong there, Mr Sylvester. It is true, I would weep no tear if the Angels were to disappear from the earth tomorrow. But I also cannot bear the tyranny of human politicians, businessmen, lawyers and the police state. They should all be cleared away.”

Sylvester studied the man in front of him. “An anarchist.”