by Cassie Miles
Not for an angel. “Yeah, I know.”
Impishly, she asked, “Can you teach me how to do it?”
He groaned inwardly. “Listen, sweetheart, you’re not going to need to know how to break and enter, or how to shoot a gun. You’re not going to need any of this stuff because you aren’t a private eye. This is your one and only investigation, and I’m going to be with you every step of the way.”
“I could be a detective,” she said. She sat on her heels. “I want to be one. Can’t you hire me?”
Hire her? To be an Avenging Angel? “Impossible,” he said. “No way. You wouldn’t like the retirement plan.”
“We’re working together now,” she pointed out.
“Just this once. I’m letting you help out because it’s my fault you might be in danger. But—I’ve said this before, precious—I work alone.”
“Why?”
He didn’t have a quick answer for that question. He worked alone because he always had done it that way. And he’d always been successful.
“Why?” she repeated.
“When you have a partner, you got to watch out for them. A guy’s got to protect his partner. Having somebody else around would make me vulnerable.”
“But you’d also be twice as smart. Two heads are better than one. And I wouldn’t mind an apprenticeship. Not at all. I’d do the boring, dirty work.”
For an instant, he was swayed. Her eyes shone with eagerness. There was a note of clear, pure excitement in her voice, reminding him of the days when he’d first started as an Avenging Angel and had been optimistic about the prospect of righting all the wrongs in the world.
“Hire me,” she said. “I’m ready for a career change.”
But not ready to become an angel, he thought. Dash pointed to a box behind a steamer trunk. “There are the photo albums. You’d better pick one out.”
Though she went to the box and opened it, she didn’t drop her end of the conversation. “You know I’d be good, Dash. I really am a quick learner. And I jog, so I’m in good physical shape.”
She pulled out a photo album and opened it. A snapshot of Agatha smiled at her. It must have been a formal occasion because she was elegantly dressed. Her silver hair was swept up, and she wore a lovely, sparkling necklace.
Dash peeked over her shoulder. “That’s some jewelry she’s got on. A lot of ice.”
“Those aren’t diamonds,” Liz said. “Agatha never wore real gems. Her investments were in people, not jewels.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take the picture. Then we can get out of here.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Hotshot Detective. But there might be a clue in these albums.”
She was right, of course. Dash was surprised that he hadn’t thought of that. Photo albums. Diaries. Notebooks. Those were all good sources for clues. Why hadn’t he thought to check out the pictures? Was he losing his edge?
Liz flipped through another album and paused to study the neatly mounted photographs. “This is a company picnic. Must have been about six years ago, because there’s Hector with his wife and son, Carlito. The boy was only ten or eleven in this photo. Nice-looking kid.”
Dash peered over her shoulder and studied the boy’s sullen expression. Handsome youngster, but there was a diffidence in his posture. Even at that age, Carlito looked like mischief.
“It’s sad,” Liz said. “They look so happy in this picture. Then came the divorce, and his wife and son left. Hector never talks about them. I don’t think he ever sees Carlito.”
“Why would Agatha save that photo?”
“She thought of the people at OrbenCorp as her family. Always remembered birthdays. Always made a charitable donation in all our names at Christmas.”
Dash pointed to another photo. “Is that Sarah?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Liz pointed and circled the plain face of Sarah Orben Pachen on the photograph. She wore no makeup. Her hair was dishwater blond. Her smile was shy. “She wasn’t always flamboyant. A regular mouse when I first met her.”
“She’s wearing a cast on her arm,” he noted.
“A little accident-prone, too,” Liz said.
The door leading to the attic rattled open and Sarah called out, “Liz? How are you doing?”
“I found a picture. Be right down.”
“Okay. You had a call from Hector. He wants to get together this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Sarah.” She glanced at Dash and whispered, “I can find out a lot from talking to Hector.”
“You’re right. We can. We,” he repeated for emphasis, “can learn a lot.”
“You’re coming with me?”
“You got it, partner.”
“Liz?” Sarah called again. “Are you coming?”
“Sure am.” She flipped to the first photo and carefully removed it. Under her breath, she said to Dash, “If you come along when I talk to Hector, acting like my bodyguard, it’s suspicious.”
“What?”
“Suspicious,” she hissed.
Liz closed the crate of albums, dusted off her slacks and headed for the staircase. “Let me handle Hector.”
“Not a chance.” Dash wouldn’t allow it. If Hector Messenger was half as dangerous as Liz thought, Dash couldn’t let her go to a one-on-one meeting. Not when Hector might know that Liz had just set out to be the latest incarnation of hard-boiled private investigator.
She paused at the top of the staircase, silhouetted in the dim light, and tugged the clasp from her tangled ponytail. Her long, soft hair flowed past her shoulders, and she raked her fingers through it as she descended the stairs.
Liz held out the photo so Sarah could approve. “Is it okay if I take this one?”
“Fine.” Sarah barely glanced at the snapshot.
She hurried ahead of them, making it halfway down the staircase to the main floor before the front door slammed. Sarah paused. Her manicured fingers gripped the banister. She made a whimpering sound in the back of her throat.
“What’s wrong?” Liz asked.
“It’s Jack. He’s being so difficult. Though he didn’t contest the terms of Agatha’s will when the lawyers read it, he’s had second thoughts. He doesn’t want Gary to have any claim on this house. Not Gary or anybody else.”
“What about the shelter?”
“He’ll block that, too. He was so nasty to Marlena and Sister Muriel.” Half to herself, she muttered, “I’m trying to do the right thing. That’s all.”
Though Sarah wasn’t being rude, she rushed them out the door and onto the porch before Liz had time to ask if she might use the bathroom to tidy herself up.
In the sunlight of an autumn afternoon, Liz noticed all the smudges and smears of dirt on her slacks. “I’m a mess.”
“You want me to drive?”
“I said that I was messy, not insane. I’ll do the driving.”
They were on their way before he asked, “Where are we headed?”
“First we’ll stop at my place so I can change into something more presentable. Then to OrbenCorp to talk with Hector.”
Dash settled back in the bucket seat. Driving here and there. Asking questions Making searches. Detective work was slow and tedious when he obeyed mortal restrictions. He could have flown from place to place, could have made himself invisible and followed each suspect until—during the course of their activities—they did something to betray their guilt.
But Dash couldn’t leave Liz alone. He had to stay with her, to protect her.
“I was just wondering,” she said, “do you work out of an office?”
“Sure do.”
“And where’s it located?”
“Over on Logan Street.”
“I might just apply for a job. Would you give me a recommendation?”
“Forget it. You can’t do what I do.”
She scowled over the steering wheel. “Is that because I’m a woman?”
“Gender has nothing to do with it.”
“I’ll make yo
u a deal, partner. If I crack this case, find the murderer and enough evidence to bring the killer to justice, will you recommend me?”
Dash thought about it. He couldn’t imagine how, with her mortal limitations, she could accomplish that task. The case was months old. The only piece of evidence, the bird figurine, was so completely lost that Dash—with his supernatural angel powers—couldn’t find it. And he was the best detective in the entire corps of Avenging Angels. There was no way Liz Carradine could accomplish the job.
“Will you?” she repeated.
It seemed harmless enough to agree. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
Immediately, the ethereal beeper in Dash’s trench coat pocket sounded.
Chapter Eight
At the Denver Branch of Avenging Angels, Dash ran into Angelo standing just inside the front door. It was clear from the scowl on Angelo’s face that Dash was being called on the carpet for one blessed reason or another. Dash scowled at him and drawled, “Angie, you got a problem?”
“I’ve reported you to St. Michael.”
“How come? What’s got your goat? For a desk jockey, you’re kicking high.”
“I don’t intend to talk with you about this.”
“What’s the matter, Angelo? Computer on the fritz?”
“St. Michael’s waiting upstairs. You’re his problem, not mine.”
Dash took a pack of Camels from the breast pocket of his jacket and stuck one between his lips.
Angelo groaned. “Really, Dash, must you try my patience? I wish you wouldn’t smoke.”
“We can’t always have our wishes “ Dash fired up his cigarette, inhaled deeply and exhaled. A gray cloud of smoke swirled toward the ceiling. “For example, I wish you wouldn’t go running to St. Mike every time you have to sneeze.”
“To sneeze?” Angelo’s voice rose an octave. “This is considerably more than a sneeze.”
Coolly, Dash said, “Nobody likes a snitch.”
Instead of exploding in righteous rage, Angelo drew back. His gaze was speculative and amazingly calm, considering the provocation. “There’s something very wrong with you, Dash. We’ve known each other for…forever, and I’ve always admired your work. But you don’t have the same enthusiasm. You’re slipping up on clues.”
“Everybody takes a nosedive now and again.”
“Not you. You were always the best.” He rubbed his chin. “You need a change. Maybe a partner. Could be that you’re suffering from burnout.”
“Burnout?” Dash had to laugh. “I thought only the demons got burnout. Not us.”
“Happens to the best of us,” Angelo said.
Dash knew that Angelo was talking about himself. Recently, he’d had to discipline a guy who’d been around for a long time, and the punishment was nearly as hard for Angelo as for the offending angel. In a tired voice, Angelo said, “I don’t know what to recommend for you. Reassignment is difficult. You don’t have a singing voice, so the various choirs would be a mistake. And you’d be terrible as a baby-sitter for the Cherubs.”
“So? Don’t get on my case.”
“You make it tough, Dash. You should have never suggested to that young woman that she could work here.”
“That’s between me and her. I didn’t break any rules.”
“You bent them.” He stamped his sandaled foot and raised his eyes toward the heavens, seeking guidance. “What am I going to do with you?”
Dash puffed on his cigarette, slow and easy and not at all intimidated. “That’s for Mike to say.”
From the second-floor landing, a deep voice boomed so loudly that the glass in the chandelier tinkled. All the other Avenging Angels looked upward. “Dashiell!” It sounded like the voice of doom and judgment. “Dashiell, get up here! Now!”
Dash winked at Angelo. “Duty calls.”
He whipped up the staircase and stood beside Mike. The saint was angry. His aura flared with a glowing nimbus of flame. “I’ve about had it with you, Dash.”
“Yes, sir.” Dash didn’t smart off with St. Michael. Not only did he respect the man with all his heart, but Mike was the big boss.
“We don’t work with mortals. Not ever.”
“Yes, sir.” Dash didn’t say it, but he thought of the many occasions when he’d worked with the police. Several times, he’d arranged evidence for prosecuting attorneys. Though Mike and Angelo didn’t want to admit it, times were changing.
“Why did you do it?” Mike paced on the landing, and his searing fiery aura trailed behind him. “Why did you tell Elizabeth Carradine that she could be your partner? You know better. Why’d you suggest to her that she could work here?”
“She’s trying to solve the case herself. Won’t back off. I need to protect her.”
Mike glared at him. The full force of his radiant temper exploded with supernatural power. Few angels could endure the righteous wrath of St. Michael, the most forceful of saints, but Dash continued undaunted, “If she got hurt…If she got herself murdered because of something I did to draw attention to her, her death would be unjust.”
“That’s true,” Mike said. His temper eased slightly.
“I can’t just leave her hanging out to dry when there’s a murderer at large.”
“Protection is one thing,” Mike said. “But you’ve gone farther than that. You hinted that she could work here, in these offices. Why?”
Dash gathered up all his courage. He thought about Liz. She was the one who suggested searching through the photo albums. She had arranged a plausible excuse to search at Sarah’s.
Looking St. Mike in the eye, Dash said, “She’s good. A natural detective. Having her here isn’t a bad idea.”
“What?” St. Mike roared. The very foundations of the building rattled as if in an earthquake.
“Hear me out, Mike. You’re always saying you could use some decent help around this place. I mean, look around.”
He gestured to the office floor below them. A couple of ladylike angels sat on opposite sides of a checkerboard, gazing upward at them with wide, unblinking eyes. Kiel sprawled on a chair in the corner, raking his fingers through his hair and looking anguished. Another young man floated lazily near the ceiling. It was the most unbusinesslike setting imaginable. “From what I understand, there have been time glitches on a couple of cases. Rumor has it that you even assigned a Cherub as an Avenger.”
“A child,” Mike said. “Not an infant.”
“What kind of detective business is this? None of the avengers are hired on the basis of skill.”
“True,” Mike said thoughtfully. “Most of the mortals who show promise for this kind of work are corrupted on earth.”
“Not only that,” Dash continued, “but our training program was set up thousands of years ago. Nobody here understands how to work with lawyers.”
“Lawyers,” Mike said, “are always a problem. Don’t even get me started on the screwups in the southern California offices.”
“We could use a good secretary,” Dash said. “Maybe even another operative.”
“A mortal?” He scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dash. We aren’t exactly an equal opportunity employer here. You’ve got to be an angel.”
“Why not? If she’s good.”
“Only once or twice—in the course of all history—have we needed to call in mortal assistance. Like that incident with King David and the footprints, of course.”
“That was prehistory,” Dash said. “That was the Dark Ages, when angels could still manifest and wouldn’t be laughed off the street.”
“The good old days.” Mike sighed. His halo of fire ebbed to an ember glow. “Makes me nostalgic to even think about those golden times.”
“We’re coming up on a new millennium, Mike. Times change. We’re working with cops more, and we’ve still got too many unsolved cases on file. You know it, and so do I.”
“Be careful, Dash. You’ve been undercover too long. You’re starting to behave like a mortal man.”
Though Das
h would have liked to shield the thoughts that flashed through his mind, it wouldn’t do any good. St. Mike knew exactly how and where his mind was wandering. Ever since he was assigned to this case, ever since he met Liz, he’d been thinking that being mortal wasn’t such a bad deal.
Sure, mortality meant you had to cope with pain, hunger and fear. You needed a job, an income, cash flow. There wasn’t a lot of time for contemplation when you were mortal. But there were benefits, too. Like passion, like lust, like self-indulgence.
“Dash.” Mike called him out of his reverie. “You know the rules.”
“Yeah, I know chapter and verse. Take on too many mortal characteristics, and you’re punished. If I mess up too bad, I get sent to the Fifth Choir.”
“Don’t get smug,” Mike warned. “It’s happened. Recently.”
“But not to me,” Dash said. “I’m good, Mike. I’m one of the few angels here who’s suited to being a detective. My record is perfect. You need me.”
“Pride,” Mike said, “is a sin.”
“Humility doesn’t get the cases solved.”
Dash braced himself for the burst of righteous fury that he expected from St. Michael. Like any good general, Mike wouldn’t tolerate insolence or insubordination.
Instead, St. Michael frowned. “Don’t screw up, Dash. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be careful with this woman. You’re becoming attached to her.”
“No lust,” Dash said. “She’s a beauty, all right. But I’ve got my lust under control.”
“You bought a condom.”
“A mistake,” Dash said. “I thought it was a mint.”
“She kissed you.”
“Caught me off guard. It won’t happen again.”
“Be very, very careful.” Mike’s features softened. “I’m not worried about lust. But it looks to me like you might be falling in love, and that emotion is far more complex. There are procedures to be observed.”
“Got it,” Dash said. Properly chastised, he left the offices. Instead of flying downtown and making himself invisible to observe Liz’s meeting with Hector, he walked. He plunged his hands deep in his pockets. His strides were long. He needed time to contemplate Mike’s warning about the sacrament of love and the proper procedure to be observed. Marriage. Love ended in marriage, an eternal bond between a man and a woman.