I take a seat at our table—a repurposed barn door on wrought-iron legs. This was our first joint purchase at the Rose Bowl Flea Market after we signed our lease, and it now provides a place for us to eat and work. Paige’s corner is adjacent to a large metal shelf unit that houses her various computers, gaming consoles, cameras, and other electronic equipment. To say she’s a techie would be an understatement. Anything with a transistor and a circuit board is catnip for her. During the day, she works from home as a freelance web designer, building websites for small businesses and organizations. It’s mostly just retooled WordPress templates, and she could easily charge eight hours of work for two hours of effort. But that’s not Paige. She has too much integrity for that.
On my corner of the table sits a stack of books and a single laptop that I use for streaming and online shopping. I have a constant rotation from the library and can read up to four at a time—though not in the same genre. I usually have one fiction, one nonfiction, one reference, and a wild card.
My phone chirps with a text from Father Ramon: I have a new client for you. Available?
I don’t have to bother checking my schedule. I quickly type back: My calendar just opened up.
Finally, a new gig. Maybe I will be able to afford a new lamp. I dig into my oatmeal before heading out to my day job.
Chapter 4
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LOS ANGELES CENTRAL LIBRARY is a short fifteen-minute bike ride from home. It’s chilly on this March morning, probably in the midfifties, so I’m thankful I have my jacket to shield me against the subarctic temperatures.
When I hit the homeless camps outside the series of rescue missions, I pedal as fast as I can until I reach the stretch of secondhand and knockoff stores that make up the first floor of old masonry skyscrapers built one hundred years ago. I twist and turn through bike lanes until I can see the purple rectangular bell tower rising above Pershing Square.
In ten city blocks, the population transforms from homeless people dressed in fatigues and living out of shopping carts to everyone wearing Hugo Boss and Donna Karen.
I lock up my bike at the rack outside the Central Library entrance. A wolf whistle sounds behind me, followed by, “What’s a fine girl like you hanging around the library for?”
I smile and turn. Terrell Jenkins, one of the security guards, stands by the entrance with his arms folded. An African American with wiry frame and years of experience in his face and eyes, Terrell is a notorious flirt. But at sixty, he’s harmless and the only man I know who can still pull off that whistle and not offend anyone.
“Just trying to make an honest living and keep myself off the streets,” I say, offering him a wink as I approach the door.
Terrell holds the door open as I walk in. Most guys come across as creepy when they flirt and catcall. Not Terrell. Maybe it’s because of his age, or maybe he’s refined his skill over the years, but whatever his secret is, it works.
“Oh, look, another beautiful angel coming to work!” I hear over my shoulder. Terrell holds the door for another librarian. Meg is in her late fifties and looks like a grandmother from any Norman Rockwell painting. Terrell is just as sincere and charismatic when he flirts with her as he is with me. She can’t help smiling either.
So begins my day at the Los Angeles Central Library. Until my job as a private investigator can pay the bills, I’m stuck working here part-time. I started as a volunteer here so I could gain access to Los Angeles County special collections. My research into the occult and biblical references required access to rare and out-of-print books. If I were ever going to learn Dudley’s true name, I had to study everything from the ancient Sumerians to modern Satanism. Eventually, the city hired me part-time to cultivate their Californiana collection, an archive of books, maps, photos, and art relating to the history of California—and especially Los Angeles—from the Spanish and Mexican periods to the present.
This morning, I cover a shift for a coworker, putting away books in the children’s department. The room’s 1920s design is virtually unchanged, with its wrought-iron grillwork that separates it from the main rotunda underneath the pyramid of illumination. The pyramid is decorated with Egyptian-inspired iconography—in particular, the sun symbol. Topping the pyramid is a golden arm holding a torch.
Some argue this is a symbol of enlightenment. Others argue it’s a symbol for Luciferianism, a belief system that identifies Lucifer as a figure of enlightenment not unlike the Greek Titan Prometheus. Lucifer literally means “light bringer.”
These are the thoughts that run through my scattered mind as I’m putting away copies of Dr. Seuss under the pyramid: symbolism in the library, my never-ending research into religion and evil, the socioeconomic differences I see on my bike ride to work… and the enormous Latino eyeballing me from the picture-books aisle.
He’s been watching me for about ten minutes and absentmindedly holding a copy of Where the Wild Things Are. While I admit it’s a great book, it shouldn’t take him that long to get through it. This must be the potential new client.
I’m not about to ask him. I could be wrong. He could just be a huge fan of Maurice Sendak. I am. But in case he is a client, I push my book cart down a vacant aisle away from everyone else so we might have some privacy.
It doesn’t take long for him to appear at the end of the row of books. He approaches slowly. I keep my eyes down—I don’t want to spook him.
“Darcy Caine?” he
