Killing Pretty

by Richard Kadrey

  “I’ll pass on the food, but I’ll be right over.”

  I thumb off the phone, get the food out of the microwave, and head downstairs with some plates. Candy clears all the crap from the top of the rental counter and puts it underneath. I set down the cartons and Candy digs in.

  Death sticks his fork in each dish and sniffs. Touches the food to the tip of his tongue. I don’t think he’s gotten the hang of having human senses.

  I pick at a ­couple of things, wanting coffee and a smoke more than curry. Julie arrives about twenty minutes later with a large messenger bag over her shoulder. Death straightens up and puts out his hand when he sees her.

  “Hello. I’m Death,” he says.

  Julie gives her best professional smile and shakes his hand.

  “Yes. We met briefly at the bar where you found Stark. You look a lot better now than you did then.”

  “I feel a lot better. Stark and his friends have been taking good care of me.”

  He looks at Candy.

  “I’m still not sure what I should call you. You have two faces and apparently two names. Which do you prefer?”

  “Look at either face you want, but please, call me Chihiro.”

  “Then Chihiro it is.”

  “Thanks for recording the interview,” Julie says to Candy. “It was a good start.”

  “Glad to be part of the team, chief,” Candy says.

  Julie opens her bag, then looks at me.

  “You were interested in the knife. Did you find out anything about it?”

  I fill her in on what happened with Vidocq’s experiment and Marlowe’s reading.

  “Have you ever seen that happen before?”

  “Never.”

  “All right. We’ll set the knife aside for now and concentrate on other areas. At least we have a starting point with our visitor’s identity.”

  “We do?” says Candy.

  ­“People still aren’t dying. Religious groups are up in arms, some calling it the end of days. There have been runs on grocery stores and banks. Hell, the president gave an address about it last night, saying the government is conferring with our allies to make sure this isn’t a terrorist act. This has been all over the Web and TV since it started happening.”

  She frowns at me.

  “You don’t pay much attention to the news, do you?”

  “I make a point to avoid it.”

  “Start watching TV, at least. It’s part of your job to have a clue what’s going on in the world.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” says Candy.

  “At least one of you is a grown-­up.”

  I take out a Malediction.

  “I make a point to avoid that too.”

  I open the side door, blowing the smoke outside so Death doesn’t choke and I won’t look bad in front of the boss. This is worse than Hell. I can’t even kill anyone to get on her good side.

  “Where are your other clothes?” says Julie to Death. “The ones you woke up in.”

  “There. In the room where I was sleeping.”

  “I’ll show you,” I say, tossing the cigarette into the alley. Good-­bye, old friend.

  We go into the storage room and I flip on the light. Julie pushes past me, slipping nitrile gloves on over her hands.

  “Have either of you handled the clothes?” she says.

  “We both helped him undress,” says Candy.

  I step deeper into the room, out of Julie’s way.

  “And I searched his gear.”

  Julie hands us each a pair of gloves.

  “In the future, don’t touch any potential evidence barehanded.”

  “Got it,” says Candy. Teacher’s pet.

  Julie holds up Death’s coat, then his pants. There’s pale dirt or dust on the bottom of each, and more on the floor. She checks his shoes and finds more dust. From a padded compartment in her bag she takes out a gizmo that looks like an iPad crossed with a game controller.

  A small tray pops opens on the side of the tablet and she carefully drips in a sample of the dust, then pushes the tray shut. The screen lights up, showing some kind of multicolor readout.

  “What is that?” says Candy.

  “It’s the chemical composition of whatever is on his pants and shoes. It doesn’t look like city dirt. Something drier and desert-like. I’ll collate the numbers with USGS maps of the area.”

  “Awesome,” says Candy.

  I angle for a better look at the tablet.

  “That’s Vigil tech. How did you end up with it?”

  Julie puts the tablet away and collects more of the dust in a paper envelope.

  She says, “We have an understanding. Now that I’m a civilian, I can do things, go places, and ask questions the government can’t. In exchange, I get access to certain Vigil equipment and information.”

  “Can you use your toy to tell you anything about the knife?”

  “I doubt it,” she says, sealing the envelope and putting it in the bag. “I wonder if we loaned it to the Vigil they’d be able to come up with anything?”

  I pick up an empty DVD case and toss it back on a pile of others.

  “Forget it. Boss or not, there’s no way I’m handing over our only serious piece of physical evidence to those Pinkertons. We’d never see it again.”

  She stops working, her hands still in the bag.

  “I hate to say it, but you might be right. They wouldn’t want civilians to have access to a magical artifact that powerful.”

  She turns to Death.

  “Have you showered since you’ve been here?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Good. I’d like to take some samples of the dirt under your nails. Also, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take your fingerprints and do a quick physical exam. Is that all right with you?”

  Death frowns slightly, looks from Julie to me.

  “She wants your clothes off so she can make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be.”

  “If it will help,” he says.

  “He’s not the shy type,” says Candy.

  Julie doesn’t ask what that means. She just pulls another device from her bag, this one like a large cell phone.

  “Good,” she says. “That will make things go faster.”

  To Death I say, “After this, you’re cleaning up. This place is starting to smell like the reptile room at the zoo.”

  “Smells are interesting,” he says.

  “Some less than others.”

  Julie sets one of his hands on the device. It lights up for a second. When she takes his hand away, his finger and palm prints glow pale blue on the screen. She does the same thing with the other hand and puts the device away.

  “Can I take your picture?” she says.

  Death nods.

  She uses her phone to take full-­face shots and each profile.

  “Stand up,” I tell him. “It’s ‘Nick the Stripper’ time.”

  I mime taking off a shirt. He starts undressing.

  “What are you looking for?” says Candy.

  “Identifying marks. Scars. Birthmarks. Tattoos. That kind of thing.”

  Death looks down at his naked body, as interested in it as they are, but baffled at being surrounded by his own flesh.

  Julie goes over his front, legs, and back.

  “Lift up your arms, please,” she says.

  The moment he does, Candy says, “What’s that? A tattoo?”

  Julie and I look where Candy is pointing, near his left armpit. Death cranes his head around trying to see.

  “It’s not a tattoo,” says Julie.

  I put my finger on the design. The skin is slightly raised and pinker than the surrounding flesh.

  “It’s a brand.”

  “Do
either of you recognize it?”

  Candy and I both say no.

  Julie touches the brand with her gloved fingers. She glances at Death.

  “Do you know where it came from?”

  “No.”

  She photographs it, stops when she checks the shot.

  “There’s something else.”

  She fits a zoom lens to the phone’s camera—­more Vigil tech by the look—­and takes another shot.

  A pattern on Death’s skin glows a bright green.

  “It looks like a tattoo that’s been lasered off,” she says.

  She shows the design to Candy and me. Neither of us recognizes it. The marks look like letters, heavily stylized, in a circle.

  “It’s not a word. Maybe it’s his initials,” I say.

  “Why would he remove his initials?” says Julie.

  ­“People lose their names all the time,” says Candy. “When they’re scared and want to hide from something.”

  No one says anything for a minute.

  “Is this the body of a good man?” says Death.

  Julie takes the lens off her phone and puts it in the messenger bag.

  She says, “It’s too early to tell. You can put your clothes back on.”

  This time, Death dresses himself. Just like a big boy.

  “I’ve gone over the recording Chihiro made of your first talk, so I know you woke up in an isolated area near a deserted concrete building, right around Christmas. There were ­people nearby. Teenagers, you said. Did you get a look at any of them? Would you recognize one if you saw them again?”

  Death picks at a sleeve cuff.

  “No. I didn’t see any of them well and they ran away so quickly.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about your awakening? Anything else you saw?”

  “One of the men had horns.”

  I say, “What do you mean horns?”

  “On his forehead. Above his eyebrows. I suppose they could have been markings.”

  “Tattoos. Okay. Anything else?”

  “The same man had a drawing on his cheek. A number fourteen in a circle of letters.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Approximately, how long did you walk?” says Julie.

  “Five hours,” he says.

  “You sound very certain.”

  “I am. I found a watch. One of the teenagers must have dropped it.”

  “We looked through your things. There wasn’t any watch,” says Candy.

  “It stopped working, so I threw it away.”

  I say, “Do you remember where?”

  “Of course.”

  He points to a trash can by the head of his cot.

  Julie reaches in and fishes out a gold pocket watch attached to a broken fob chain. She presses the winder on top and the cover pops open. The watch shines, but it’s just cheap plastic in a metallic coating.

  Julie holds it up.

  “There’s something stamped on the cover, but I can’t make it out.”

  She hands me the watch.

  I study it while Candy looks over my shoulder.

  On the inside of the cover is a skull with candles in the eye sockets and an open book in its mouth.

  “It’s a necromancer’s mark,” I say.

  “Then maybe the kids weren’t partying,” says Candy. “Maybe they were part of the resurrection.”

  “Maybe, but this thing is a piece of shit. No professional Dead Head would carry something like this.”

  I hand Julie the watch. She looks it over.

  “They sell things like this at flea markets and goth shops, don’t they?”

  “You can buy them all over Hollywood Boulevard. Good luck tracking it down,” I say.

  “Maybe they weren’t professionals, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t necromancers,” says Candy.

  “It’s possible,” says Julie. “May I keep this?”

  “Of course,” says Death.

  “Maybe I can pull some prints or DNA off it.”

  She puts it in a small container and places it in her bag.

  “I’m wondering something,” says Candy. “Could we use a spell to track where Death walked from? Maria, who gets the store videos, is a witch. She might be able to help us.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” says Julie.

  “Yeah, it is,” I say. “If you backtrack Death, then you’re backtracking the knife, and I’ve seen what happens when you aim hoodoo at that thing. Let’s see what Julie comes up with before we get too Tinker Bell.”

  Julie arranges things in her bag.

  “All right. I have plenty to work with right now. We’ll hold off on any spell work until I see what the physical evidence shows us. Do you have the knife with you?”

  “You sure you want to take it?”

  “I’d like to examine it myself.”

  “But no hoodoo and no Vigil?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  I go upstairs, dig the knife out of my coat, and bring it back down. Julie slips it in an evidence bag.

  “Just be careful,” I say.

  “I always am,” she says. There’s a note of irritation in her voice. I shut up.

  Julie puts the knife in her bag and takes out a plain white business envelope.

  Handing it to me, she says, “Here’s the five-­hundred-­dollar advance I promised you.”

  I open the envelope and look inside. It’s full of crisp, new twenties.

  “Thanks,” I say, then to Candy, “It’s lobsters and Twinkies tonight, baby.”

  She takes the envelope and riffles through the bills.

  “May I say something?” Death asks.

  “Shoot,” Candy says, rolling up one of the bills like she’s smoking a cigar.

  “There’s something else to consider. Trapped in this body, I can’t do my job of escorting souls from Earth. Essentially, I am no longer Death. But there must be a Death. It’s one of the fundamental laws of the universe.”

  “But no one is dying,” says Julie.

  Death nods.

  “Exactly. And yet there must be a Death. This leaves the question: Who has usurped my role and why isn’t he or she taking souls?”

  I think back to Marlowe and his bogeyman for a second, but let the thought drop.

  I give Death a look.

  “You had to wait till now to bring this up. You just took a massive shit all over our feel-­good moment.”

  “I know,” says Death. “I’m somewhat famous for that.”

  “You can fucking say that again,” yells Kasabian through the storage room wall. “Now, will you ­people fuck off so I can get some sleep?”

  JULIE GOES HOME soon after the interview, but calls back a few hours later. She needs Candy and me on a quick one-­night job that has nothing to do with the guy in my storage room. I like the sound of that. Maybe like is too strong a word. The job is a stakeout. Sitting in a car for hours without a break, so I don’t actually like it, but I do like the chance to walk away from Death’s case for a few hours.

  “While I have you on the line, I need to know something. Is there a statute of limitations for a Lurker with an assault charge?”

  She doesn’t say anything right away.

  “As far as I know, there isn’t a statute of limitations for Lurkers at all.”

  “Thanks. I had to know.”

  “I’m sorry, for both you and Chihiro.”

  “One more thing. Do you know where I can get some brass knuckles?”

  “Those are illegal in California, you know.”

  “And yet I need them. Years ago, a friend bought a set off an ex-­cop. He was selling them as novelty paperweights.”<
br />
  “They could have both gone to jail for that.”

  “Sounds like you don’t have those connections.”

  “No. I don’t. And you shouldn’t be asking questions like that. In the current climate, they can get you in trouble.”

  “Understood. I’m going to need a car for tomorrow night.”

  “Swing by the office later today. I bought one just to keep you out of trouble. You’ll love it. It’s a big, comfy Crown Vic. Retired just a ­couple of years ago.”

  “A retired Crown Vic. You’re talking about a cop car.”

  “Indeed I am. It’s in great shape.”

  “You’re going to make me drive around L.A. in a cop car?”

  “It’s this or you can get a Vespa.”

  “Don’t say that to Chihiro. If she ever got her hands on a scooter, we’d never see her again.”

  “Then it’s the Vic?”

  “You’ve got me cornered.”

  “We should see about getting you a driver’s license.”

  “I told you. I can’t get docs like that.”

  “I didn’t say it would be real. I’m sure the Vigil can put some papers together for you. Maybe you can even open a checking account.”

  “Yes, that’s what I came back from Hell for. Overdraft fees.”

  “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  SHE’S RIGHT ABOUT the Crown Vic. It’s big and it’s comfortable, painted a highly forgettable gray. With its cop suspension, it even handles well.

  It’s after dark. Candy and I are sitting in the eight-­thousand block of Wonderland Avenue in Laurel Canyon not doing a goddamn thing. I want to play a new off-­the-­board bootleg of Skull Valley Sheep Kill’s last show at the Whisky a Go Go on the stereo, but Candy got there ahead of me and we’re listening to migraine-­inducing noise from Tokyo. It’s a band called Babymetal. A trio of chirpy girl singers cheerleading their way over razor fast metal riffs. They sound like Britney Spears on helium backed by Slayer.

  I reach for the volume knob.

  “Touch that and you’re a dead man,” says Candy.

  “I just want to check in with Kasabian.”

  “Fine. You have my permission to turn down the stereo for the duration of your call. Then it goes right back up again.”

  “You’re just torturing me. It’s the singing robot sunglasses all over again.”