Natural Born Angel (Immortal City 2)

The only problem was Sylvester didn’t consider the case solved. Not at all.

He didn’t voice these doubts to Keele before going on “vacation” – the captain would have a meltdown if he knew Sylvester was still investigating a closed case. Only Garcia knew. Every day he brought the detective new photocopies of documents and files from headquarters to chew through.

Something wasn’t adding up – a constant knot in Sylvester’s stomach was telling him that. Almost every day Sylvester was putting another red mark on the wall map. Dark Angel sightings that the media attributed to religious hysteria. Terrible accidents with no precedent. And then the continuing trickle of homeless disappearances downtown. Captain Keele had decided there was no pattern, no evidence of murder. The cases had been kicked over to Missing Persons. The files would probably sit there for months before anyone got to them.

And now the pinning of the bombing on the HDF. It had to be a set-up. But for what? And for whom? How did it all tie together?

Still sipping his coff

ee, Sylvester looked at an article he had printed off the New York Times website and then walked to the map with the marker. He made a new mark on the map, just off the coast of Brazil: “Ferry Accident”.

Yawning, Sylvester walked over to the couch and extracted a liquorice container from underneath some files. The tub was empty. Shaking his head, Sylvester walked to the coat rack by the door and put on his overcoat. He left the light on; he’d only be gone a few minutes.

It was a cool Angel City evening, the streets quiet and nearly empty this late, except for the occasional homeless person or drunk club-goer stumbling her way back home. A black Maserati suddenly roared past on the quiet street and was gone as quickly as it came. A light mist hung in the air, seemingly swirling around the street lights. Sylvester reached the corner news-stand. He nodded to the familiar, overweight man working behind the counter as he walked in. The detective grabbed a bag of liquorice, along with the early edition of the Angel City Times – sometimes he still liked to have the physical paper. All kinds of Angel tourist merchandise and trinkets were crammed around the store: little teddy bears with “I Angel City” sweaters, maps to Angel houses, little mugs with the Angel City sign printed on them.

“Late night, detective?” the man behind the counter asked in a thick accent. He wore a brown polyester shirt, unbuttoned, with a white wife-beater under it.

“Something like that, Chas,” Sylvester said. “How’s business?”

“Oh, you know, can’t complain.”

Sylvester nodded, tucking the liquorice and paper under his arm as he walked out of the store. The arguing couple had disappeared, and the street was almost totally silent as Sylvester reached his apartment building and walked up the stairs to the second floor. His hands automatically found his keys in his pocket and unlocked the deadbolt.

It wasn’t until he opened the door and stepped into the pitch-black apartment that he realized the light had been turned off.

Sylvester’s hand instinctively went for his gun.

“Looking for this, detective?” a voice from the dark said. Straining his eyes, Sylvester could see the metal of his gun glinting in the reflection from the street light shining in the window. He cursed himself – he’d taken his holster off earlier in the night. “Turn on the light,” the voice said.

Sylvester flipped the switch, and the apartment was flooded with light. A man in a navy blue windbreaker was sitting in the chair facing the door, training Sylvester’s own gun on the detective. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and he needed a shave.

“Take a seat,” the man said, motioning with the gun to the couch.

Sylvester walked to the sofa and sat down, his mind racing.

“Don’t worry, this is just a precaution. I’m not here to hurt you.” The man’s eyes scanned the apartment nervously.

“What are you here to do, then?”

“Talk.”

“I’m listening.”

The man walked to the curtains and drew them, but left a crack open so he could see out. He moved his chair closer to the window. “It’s about Jesse DeWinter.”

Sylvester’s pulse raced, but he kept his demeanour calm. “What about him?”

“I was his partner in the bombings.” The man looked the detective directly in the eyes as he said it.

“HDF?” Sylvester said.

The man laughed. “If you believe that— ”

“I never said I did,” Sylvester cut him off.

The intruder nodded in respect. “What I have here is . . . a game changer.” He pulled a thick manila envelope from his coat and placed it on the one free spot on the coffee table. “Phone logs, a CD with recorded calls, photos. Everything I could get.” The man looked at Sylvester with serious, sad eyes. “I put it together after they killed Jesse.”

“They?” Sylvester’s heart was pounding in his throat.