“Can you repeat that?” Jacks asked, for the first time actually noticing the man in front of him, an overweight middle-aged reporter sweating in a cheap white cotton shirt and polyester tie. He was poised over a stenographer’s pad and a pencil.
“I asked, how do you feel about the growing movement in America that is questioning a lot about the Angels and what’s going on here in the Immortal City?”
“Jacks, you don’t have to answer that—” Darcy said, getting up. The reporter had broken from the agreed- upon fluff questions.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Jacks said, waving Darcy back.
“What, you mean the HDF? The guy who said he was going to start a ‘War on Angels’ and picked the Godspeeds out as number-one offenders?” He laughed. “Those guys are completely nuts. If we worried about every—”
The reporter looked at him confidently and finished his sentence. “—‘crackpot with a video camera, an Internet connection, and an opinion.’ I’m familiar with your statement. No, Jacks, I’m not talking about the HDF, but about mainstream America. As you know, Ted Linden was just elected to the U.S. Senate as an independent, running on a largely anti-Angel platform. He’ll be the first senator to go without Protection in twenty years. He wants full transpar-ency between the Angels and the government, and some say he even wants to end protection- for-pay in America.”
Blood rushed into Jacks’s face. “I—” He was cut off.
“These interviews are over.” Darcy stood up again and walked briskly to Jacks, pulling his wireless mic off. “As you all know, Jackson has an extremely busy schedule this week.
Thank you all for coming.” She glanced daggers at the reporter. He had a faint grin on his face as he slowly put his pen and pad away.
“Jacks, really, you should’ve just let me deal with that jerk. That’s what you pay me for, right?” Darcy said after they’d left the room. She escorted Jacks toward the lobby, where his car was waiting at the valet.
Jackson just nodded silently, already forgetting the man’s question, not even seeing the crowd of paparazzi dashing over to get his picture, his mind drawn back to a classroom and a girl’s voice.
At home that night, Jacks was almost silent, eating his dinner without even looking at the TV. He’d skipped one of the events set up for the nominees. Mark was apparently working late at the office, so it was just his mom and Chloe around. His little sister talked most of the time, which was just fine with Jacks. He was tired of answering questions.
Restless, but not exactly sure why, Jacks told his mother he was going to meet Mitch and had gone out driving into the Angel City night. Mark still hadn’t returned home by the time Jacks left the house.
Now he found himself sitting in his car maybe thirty minutes later, maybe an hour, maybe two — he didn’t even know. He’d come to the pier to clear his mind. But his thoughts kept returning to the girl. Maddy. Why hadn’t she accepted his apology? Why was she being so stubborn? He just wanted to make it right and be done with it. Move on.
But if he was honest, he knew there was something more. Something that had gotten under his skin. Something about her eyes and her nonchalant beauty, beauty she clearly didn’t even notice, the opposite of Vivian. He thought about what he had felt the night before when they touched. Even though she was human.
He tried to press the thoughts from his mind, but they wouldn’t go away. When he thought of her, she seemed to make everything else instantly seem so small.
At last Jacks came to a decision. He turned the key in the ignition and the Ferrari fired to life. He pulled a U- turn, the headlights throwing momentary sheets of light on the slumbering white stucco homes in the otherwise pitch-black night. When he reached Sunset Boulevard, Jacks whipped his car to the right and headed back toward Angel City, his taillights steaming in the quiet night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Up ahead, Sylvester could see a throng of reporters on the sidewalk and spilling out into the street, lit by the bright lights of their camera crews. On the other side of the street a line of police officers corralled a crowd of tourists who were watching, videotaping, chattering. Overhead, news choppers circled, trying to get the best view of the scene.
The detective pulled up in his unmarked cruiser, looking out at the scene beyond his windshield. He drew a long breath, lifting up his glasses and rubbing his face. He wished he didn’t have to deal with the press. He wished he wasn’t back on Angel Boulevard for a second straight night.
And, most of all, he wished what was waiting for him underneath that white sheet wasn’t what he expected.
Blinking red and blue light reflected off the silent palm trees, the closed tourist shops, and the gleaming stars of the Angels. Police floodlights bathed the famous street in a harsh, menacing glow. He got out of the car.
Reporters clamored to him as he fought his way toward the tape. “Detective, can you confirm this is the second murder on the Walk of Angels in the same week?” one asked.
This sent a murmur through the crowd. “A second murder?”
Another reporter shouted, “Are the two murders related? More gang violence? And when are you going to release the names of the deceased?”
Sylvester raised his hands to the crowd, trying to calm them. Wind whipped against his coat as he cleared his throat.
“I can neither confirm nor deny that any homicide has taken place, and we are not releasing any information at this time. The incident from earlier in the week is still under investigation.” He waved off another explosion of questions and ducked under the tape, chewing on his lip.
Sergeant Garcia was waiting for him on the other side.
“Okay, what have we got, Bill?” He had to shout over the buzz of the choppers.
“I said, what have we got?” Sylvester shouted.
“Come take a look,” Garcia said.
He led Sylvester over to the sidewalk and its gleaming stars. Another white sheet was laid over the concrete. This time Sylvester crouched and lifted the sheet himself.
Another pair of Angel wings. Grisly and severed. Just as before, they were laid neatly one across the other, directly over an Angel Star. Sylvester listened to the drone of the choppers as it mixed with the roar of the crowd beyond the tape. He stared at the wings on the pavement in front of him and knew, without a doubt, the magnitude of what was happening. An Angel being mortalized and likely murdered was rare and extremely serious. But its happening twice, and in one week, was unprecedented. He lowered the sheet, removed his glasses, and polished them.
“Someone is cutting off their wings, sir.” Garcia’s voice had a hysterical edge. Sylvester nodded, his face grim.
“Sir? Someone is cutting off their wings—”
Sylvester placed a firm hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “I can see that, Bill. Any body?” Garcia shook his head.
Sylvester lifted the sheet again and read the blood-splattered name below the wings. “Ryan Templeton.”
“We contacted the Archangels. No one’s heard from him in a few days.”
“And this is the same spot as before?” Sylvester asked, looking around.
“Sir, look where you’re standing.”
Sylvester looked below his feet and read the name of the next Angel Star out loud.
“Theodore Godson.”
“And now Ryan Templeton,” Garcia said. “The very next star.”
“They’re being mortalized in the order of their stars,”
