I, Angel

by JC Andrijeski

  She’d been staring into the orchard, watching the husky-shepherd dog with his black head and gray and white body as he staked out every inch of the backyard with his nose. Tearing her eyes off the dog, Phoenix turned her head, staring up at Dags in puzzlement.

  “With you?” Her voice verged on dazed. “Where? Where are you going? Don’t we need to call the police?”

  She’d seen the body.

  Dags had told her to stay where she was, but she must have seen something on his face, or heard something in his voice, because she ignored him and joined him beside the red leather couch, staring down at the corpse of Jane Harrow. Dags tried to pull her back, but he saw her absorb all of it: Jane’s clouded stare, the paleness of her skin, her neatly folded hands, the writing in blood on the stone tile.

  The heart someone had ripped out of Jane’s chest.

  “I’ll call her,” Dags said. “I’ll call Kara, okay? But not here. I’ll call her on the way.” Pausing, watching her alarmed look, he added, “I don’t want to wait for them. Not now. They’ll want to keep us here for hours. I feel like we might not…”

  He hesitated, trailing off when he realized he didn’t want to finish that sentence.

  He didn’t want to scare her.

  Phoenix finished it for him.

  “…have that much time?” she said, looking up at him grimly. “…be safe here? That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? One or both of those things?” Her green eyes hardened, the gold flecks flashing in the morning sun. “Yeah. I feel that too.”

  He hesitated, feeling a strange flush of guilt.

  Somehow, he felt responsible for her being in this.

  He wasn’t responsible, not in any way he knew of. The thought was irrational, but he couldn’t shake it.

  “Come with me,” he urged. “Kara’s all right. The detective. She really would try to protect you. But I don’t think the police are really qualified to, you know⏤”

  “⏤fight demons?” Phoenix said, finishing his sentence again. She quirked an eyebrow, her voice verging on bitter. “Kill demons? Arrest demons?” She let out a humorless snort. “Yeah. I’m thinking you’re probably right about that.”

  Placing a hand on her hip, she shielded her eyes from the sun, squinting up at him.

  “So where are we going now?”

  Dags had thought about that, too.

  “To get to know a stuntman,” he said grimly, motioning with his jaw and head for her to follow him up to the main house. “And maybe figure out where he picked up this thing.”

  The dog looked up as soon as they began to walk, and barked.

  From that bark, Dags knew the dog was making it clear he wanted to come, too.

  At that point, Dags wasn’t about to argue.

  As predicted, Kara wasn’t thrilled with Dags’ decision to leave the crime scene.

  She reacted pretty much exactly the way Dags expected her to react.

  “I should put out an APB,” she snapped. “I should have you picked up, Jourdain… and dragged back to the station in handcuffs.”

  “For what?” he said, rolling his eyes. “You don’t really think I did this? Phoenix was with me the whole time. She was there when we went inside. She was there the whole night before… so was Karver, and Asia, and their housekeeper/assistant person, Veronica. There’s no possible way I don’t have an alibi for this, and you know it. Hell, you could be my alibi, Kara, depending on the time of death.”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” the detective snapped. “Even if we know one hundred percent you didn’t do it, you’re clearly the epicenter of all this, Jourdain. Two dead bodies? Another in the hospital? How much of a body count do you plan to rack up in the next few hours?”

  “Phoenix is with me,” Dags said, fighting to ignore the harder accusation in the homicide detective’s words, and trying even harder not to take it personally. “We’ll both come in. We’re just doing something first.”

  “Doing something?” Kara snapped. “What are you doing, Jourdain?”

  “We’re… looking into something,” he said, a little lamely, glancing at Phoenix.

  She sat next in the bucket seat next to his.

  “Looking into something?” Kara’s voice was pure incredulity. “What in the fuck does that mean, Jourdain? You’re looking into what, exactly?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Related to this? Is it something to do with this insanity you’ve unleashed on my city in the last forty-eight hours?”

  Again, he fought not to react to the accusation he heard in her words.

  His jaw hardened, anyway.

  “Malibu isn’t even your jurisdiction,” he growled.

  “I’d choose your words with a lot more care right now, if I were you,” she said coldly. “Is this related to what’s going on, or⏤”

  “Yes,” he cut in, blunt. “It’s related, okay? I’ll share anything relevant we find.”

  “Not good enough. Not good enough by a few dozen miles, Jourdain⏤”

  “It’ll have to be,” he said. “At least for now.” Pausing, he added, “I’ll call you in a while. I left the door to my apartment unlocked. We tried not to touch anything, but you might want to go up there soon.”

  His nose curled at the thought, even as his face twisted into an involuntary grimace.

  He’d thought that was the end of their conversation, but before he could hang up, Kara let out a frustrated-sounding sigh. Something in it sounded less angry, and her voice, when she broke the silence next, was almost worried.

  “What are you doing, Jourdain?” she said. “You know I can’t protect you when you act this fucking crazy.”

  “You know I didn’t do this.”

  “I don’t ‘know’ that.”

  “Bullshit. You know I didn’t, Kara.”

  There was a silence.

  Then she exhaled again.

  “Even if you’re right⏤”

  But he cut her off.

  “We’re on the same side,” he growled. “We both want the same thing, Kara. To find the piece of shit who did this. I have no idea what the motive is right now, so I’m going to see what I can find out. If I find out who’s behind this, if I find out anything you can act on, you’ll know it right after I do. I’ll call you right then and there.”

  Pausing, he added,

  “I liked Jane. A lot. A hell of a lot. Trust me when I tell you… I want this guy more than you do.”

  There was another silence.

  Then he could almost see her nodding.

  “Fine,” she muttered. “One hour, Jourdain. Then I want you back at your place.”

  “Two,” he said, glancing at the clock on the car dashboard. “Two hours.”

  He could almost hear her grinding her teeth. “Fine. But you better fucking be here. And bring the starlet with you. I want to know exactly where you were all of last night. I want every hour, every minute accounted for.”

  Before he could answer, she hung up.

  He glanced at Phoenix.

  Arms folded across the front of her chest, she stared out the passenger-side window, her mouth set in a frown.

  He was driving the car he kept in the garage by the main house, a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429, all black and chrome. Hitting off the speaker on his phone, which he’d rested just below the manual gearshift on the refurbished but mostly-original interior, he scooped the whole thing up and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  He glanced at her again.

  “You sure you can get us in there?” he said, gruff.

  She glanced at him.

  A smile slid across her lips, even as she shook her head. The head-shake wasn’t conveying a “no” so much as an expression of disbelief.

  “It’s really not an act with you, is it?” she said. “You really don’t have the faintest idea who I am. Like, not even a clue.”

  Dags frowned.

  He couldn’t decide how to answer that. Seeing the studio entr
ance looming up ahead, he opted not to answer at all. Continuing past a wall covered in tall posters of upcoming movies and cable shows, decorated with hedge trees shaped like exclamation points and well-tended flower beds, he hung a right just past the next stoplight, pulling onto the smaller street that led to the studio’s side gate.

  Phoenix had already told him it would be better to enter through here, versus the main entrance. She’d expressed nothing but confidence about studio security letting them in past the gate.

  Making another right, a shorter one this time, Dags pulled up to the security booth and rolled down his window.

  The guard was already waving him off, frowning.

  “You can’t come through here,” he said, once Dags got the window most of the way down. “You have to go in the front… get a visitor’s parking pass…”

  The man’s words trailed as Phoenix leaned over Dags’ lap, peering up at the guard and smiling cheerfully. Dags just pulled his arms out of the way, staring down at her in his lap, half in incredulity.

  “Hey, Mañuel,” she said cheerfully to the guard. “Is Murkowitz here still?”

  The man blinked.

  Then a thousand-watt smile lit up his face.

  “Hey! Phoenix! I didn’t see you in there. This isn’t your usual car⏤”

  “Yeah, I asked my friend, Mr. Jourdain, to give me a ride.”

  “Where’s Ms. Jackson today?”

  “She’s not here?” Phoenix quirked an eyebrow, without missing a beat. “Hmm. I thought she was working today. Maybe she’s meeting with Steve off-site? You know how she is.”

  Manuel laughed. “Sure, sure.” He pointed at the phone in his booth. “You want me to call ahead?”

  “That’d be great,” she said, flashing another smile. “Tell him I can wait. I need to talk to some people in wardrobe anyway. And meet my new stunt double…”

  “Okay, I’ll let him know.”

  Mañuel already had the phone to his ear.

  Phoenix rested her arms on Dags’ thighs, more or less lying on him now as she waited for the guard to make his call. Dags frowned down at her, not sure what he was frowning at exactly⏤the fact that she was lying on his crotch, or the fact that he couldn’t quite control his reaction to that. If she noticed, it didn’t bother her enough to move.

  He saw her cheeks flush a little, but he might have imagined that.

  The guard put down the phone, leaning back out of the security booth.

  “Go on in, Ms. Phoenix,” he said cheerfully, hitting the button to raise the gate. “He said he can see you in about forty minutes. And I took the liberty of calling Stan, who’s taking over running the stunts for your production, to let him know you were on your way.”

  She flashed him another of those wide smiles.

  Dags felt a whisper of annoyance as he realized she was flirting with the guard, and that the guard was lapping it up. Dags knew why she was doing it. He approved of her doing it, in the abstract sense, in terms of strategy.

  It bugged the crap out of him anyway.

  He gunned the engine, then took his foot off the brake, pulling through the gate. As he did, Phoenix pulled out of his lap, falling back into the ribbed bucket seat on the passenger side of the car. Dags adjusted his weight in the seat, conscious of her absence, even as he scowled at her.

  “You come here that much?” he said. “You know everyone?”

  “I have a movie shooting here next week,” she said, her voice dismissive. “I’m here a lot right now, yes.”

  “Murkowitz?”

  “David Murkowitz. The director.” Pausing, she grunted, giving him one of those amused looks. “Let me guess… you haven’t heard of him, either?”

  Dags didn’t bother to answer that.

  “Do you actually need to talk to him?” he said.

  “Sure. I mean, we start shooting soon. There are always things I could talk to him about. I really do need to meet the new stunt team… I’d heard they had to make some changes at the last minute. And there are some issues with the script I’d like to talk to David about.”

  Dags nodded, silent.

  He frowned a little, too.

  He’d told her he wanted to talk to whoever was in charge of stunt people for her new movie. Had she not put two and two together? Did she really not know Jason Tig was the reason they’d “made some changes” with her stunt team?

  When he didn’t say anything, she turned back to where she’d been looking out the window. Her eyes focused on the blank outsides of gray and tan studio buildings.

  Dags found himself following her gaze, looking at them, as well.

  Each building had a large, white-painted number on the outside. By the front doors, large caged lights hung, next to dark placards with lists of the shows and productions currently shot there. The shows were listed using brass name tags in sliding slots, presumably so they’d be easy to switch out whenever the list of productions changed.

  Dags noted a few doors with the large red lights lit, indicating that live shooting was currently taking place.

  He drove through the snaking lot until he found a parking area that contained a row of unreserved slots. He pulled the Mustang into the first one he saw that didn’t have a placard reserving it for a specific person or production company, checking to make sure the word “GUEST” was painted on the asphalt.

  He cut the engine, looking at her.

  She was already reaching for the door handle to get out.

  “You probably should let me do the talking,” she said, that glimmer of humor back in her voice. “And try to act impressed, okay? Hollywood types are sensitive. Your complete obliviousness to everything related to the industry will probably traumatize people.”

  Dags frowned, but she had already snapped the handle, pushing open the door to the Mustang and climbing out.

  Releasing his seatbelt, Dags opened his own door and followed.

  Chapter 21

  Steve Mcqueen

  “Yeah, I knew Tig. We all did.”

  The man in the black jeans and tight-fitting T-shirt with the faded writing on the front glanced back at Dags, taking him in with another surreptitious glance.

  Dags had noticed the guy sizing him up since they got here.

  He didn’t take it personally. It was a fighter-to-fighter thing.

  It was pretty clear the guy had training. Dags didn’t find it hard to believe at all that Stan “The Wall” Forester choreographed fights, trained actors, coordinated teams of stunt people.

  He wasn’t tall⏤Forester stood probably seven inches shorter than Dags himself⏤but the man’s nickname suited him. Forester’s rock-like arms bulged as he went through a bin filled with boxer’s hand-wraps, pulling out a set of rolled-up white cotton straps and tossing them into a large gym-bag at his feet.

  His bald head stood on a thick, muscular neck, and his T-shirt stretched around lean but prominent muscles, despite the fact that the guy had to be pushing sixty.

  “I knew Jason Tig for about ten years.”

  Stan Forester glanced down at the husky who pressed against Dags’ leg.

  “That’s his dog, isn’t it?” Forester smiled at the blue-eyed dog, and the dog’s tail thumped a few times, his tongue lolling in a doggy smile. “Steve McQueen.”

  “What?” Dags said, frowning.

  “The dog.” Forester looked up, his brown eyes intense where they met Dags’, studying him openly. “That’s the dog’s name. Steve McQueen. Tig’s favorite actor. Didn’t you know?” At Dags’ head-shake, Forester frowned, widening his stance a little. “How is it you have Tig’s dog, but you don’t know the damned animal’s name?”

  Dags just stood there.

  Stan Forester frowned, nodding.

  Then he casually turned his back on Dags, without relaxing any of his muscles. He went back to going through the bin, pulling out another pair of hand-wraps, that one black.

  “Did you hear that he’d died?” Phoenix said, from Dags’ other side.r />
  Stan Forester stopped where he’d been leaning down towards a second, larger bin, one that appeared to be full of padded shin-guards.

  Hesitating a second, he straightened.

  After another bare pause, he turned around, facing them.

  “What is this about?”

  “Did you know he was dead?” Dags said, his voice less careful than Phoenix’s. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re trying to find out what happened to him.”

  Forester didn’t move for a moment.

  His eyes remained levelly on Dags.

  Slowly then, he shook his head, his expression grim.

  “No. I hadn’t heard that.”

  “No one’s been out to speak to you?” Dags said, glancing at Phoenix, a pale frown on his lips. “No one from the studio told you he’d died?”

  Forester gave him a grim smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Maybe they figured we didn’t need to know, since Tig disappeared off the set more than a week ago. Maybe they figured we already knew. Who knows? But no, no one’s been out to speak to me about it. And no one’s talked to anyone on my crew either, far as I know.”

  Dags nodded, but that frown still hardened his mouth. “He died less than twenty-four hours ago. Heart attack.”

  “And who are you?” Forester said.

  “He’s my friend⏤” Phoenix began.

  “I’d rather hear it from him,” Forester said, his eyes never leaving Dags. “Are you the reason Tig disappeared for a week? Because he never ghosted a job before. And now here you are, with Tig’s dog. And that dog clearly knows you.”

  Hands on his hips, he squared his shoulders, looking Dags in the eye. Despite the disparity in their heights, and ages, Dags didn’t get a whiff of fear off the other man.

  But then, people tended to react strangely to Dags.

  “I told you,” Phoenix said, clearly trying to draw the stuntman’s eyes back to her. “His name is Dags Jourdain. He’s a friend of mine. We’re trying to find out what happened to Jason Tig.”

  “He doesn’t act like a friend,” Forester said, still sizing Dags up. “He acts more like a bodyguard. Or a cop.”