Heaven Sent - a Quincy Harker Novella (Quincy Harker Demon Hunter Book 5)

by John G. Hartness

  “So you didn’t like her? But we found a ton of commendations in her personnel file.”

  “Yeah? And how many of them were from the bosses, and how many were from normal people?” She tossed the pepper spray back into her purse.

  I thought for a moment. All of the complaints were from so-called “normal people” while all the commendations were from superiors. “So she liked to punch down, as they say?”

  “Yeah, that’s a good word for it.” She pulled her hair back into a messy auburn ponytail and walked into the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator and grabbing a water bottle. “I’d offer you something, but I don’t want you to stay.”

  I barked out a short laugh. “I get it. I just need to know if you have any idea who hated Ms. Dover enough to kill her.”

  She leaned on the marble-topped island in her kitchen and gave me a direct look. Her green eyes were bright, but there was no mirth there. “Look, pal. I hated that bitch. She was a horrible boss, and I’m pretty sure some of the shit she did was illegal, or at least borderline illegal. But I didn’t kill her, and I don’t know anybody who would. We’re bankers, for God’s sake. It’s not like we’re mobsters or anything like that. Hell, we don’t even handle mortgages. And in today’s market, that’s something that could get you killed. If she was a normal person, I’d say you should talk to a boyfriend or girlfriend, but as far as I know, she never dated. So I’ve got nothing. Except a busted door.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. You couldn’t hear me knock, I guess.”

  “Not a chance. I was rocking out, getting a good sweat on, and yelling every nasty thing I ever wanted to call Satanna and wouldn’t get the chance. So now I’ve got to take a shower, and there’s nothing to secure my door with.” She leaned further over the island, giving me a pretty clear view down the front of her sports bra. A drop of sweat ran down her collarbone and into her cleavage. I watched its journey, thinking about following it all the way down that very, very flat stomach to its natural destination, then gave myself a little mental shake and looked back up at her eyes.

  She was watching me watch her with a little smirk on her face. “You gonna repair my door, Mr. Detective, or you just going to stand guard outside my shower and make sure I stay safe and sound?”

  Nobody’s very attractive when they smirk, either, and after all my time on this planet, I’m not immune to feminine wiles, but I am pretty damned resistant. So it didn’t take me too much effort to slap on a rueful expression and shake my head.

  “As much as I’d love to wash, I mean watch, your back, Ms.—”

  “Miss,” she said, wiggling her left hand at me to show the distinct lack of rings there.

  “Miss Hamilton,” I continued. “I have to get back to the station and keep going on our investigation. So if there’s nothing else you can think of about why someone might want to harm your boss, I’ll have to be on my way.”

  “Your loss, Detective. I don’t know any reason somebody would take out Satanna, any more than you guys know why somebody killed her two buddies.”

  I had been digging through my pocket for a business card, but at her mention of buddies, my head snapped around.

  “What buddies?” I asked.

  “Mr. Baxter and Mr. Lacey.” She stared a little, like she expected me to know more of what was going on than I did.

  “Ms. Dover knew them both?”

  “Yeah, they were in on some big development deal a couple years ago. It was right before she came to AmeriBank. I think it was that mixed-use place out in Belmont, maybe.”

  I kinda knew the place she was talking about. It took a fifty-acre piece of worthless property off I-85 about half an hour outside of Charlotte and turned it into a live/work/play development with homes, condos, and apartments at multiple price points, with the condos and apartments built over street-level shops and restaurants. There was a movie theater, skate park, and small water park attached, all fronting a gated neighborhood of million-dollar homes. The lots sold quickly, thanks to the privacy and the half-acre of woods surrounding each one. The condos and apartments did pretty well, too, and the shops were some of the most high-end in the area. If Dover had anything to do with that, she should have made out pretty well.

  “Where did she work before AmeriBank?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Some other bank. And she was a big deal there, so AB had to really lay out some coin to get her to jump ship.”

  “Huh,” I mumbled. That was something to think about. “Thanks, I’ll look into that.” Why hadn’t Sponholz mentioned the connection to the earlier victims? That raised an eyebrow, at least.

  “You see anything else you want to look into, Detective?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at me. That would work better if her eyelashes didn’t still have treadmill sweat on them. I love getting sweaty with a woman, but I’d rather if I’m the reason she’s hot and bothered, not her exercise routine. With this one, I think all I could take credit for was the “bothered” part.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hamilton, I have to get back to the investigation. But if you think of anything else…regarding the case…feel free to give me a call.” I finally found a business card crumpled in the back pocket of my jeans and slid it across the countertop to her. I gave one last, slightly regretful, look at her cleavage, then turned and walked to her door.

  I put my hand on the door jamb, focused my will, and whispered. “Restoratus.” I’ve found through long practice that it doesn’t always matter if the words you say are really Latin, or really anything, as long as the intent is clear. The words are mostly a way to focus the mind and thus focus the magic. That’s not the case with summonings or more complex spells, like healings. Those are more about asking the universe to do something for you, and you have to ask nicely and in the right languages. The universe, or God, or Allah, or Gaea, or however you want to frame it, does not respond to current Standard American English. Or maybe the complexity of carving passages between dimensions is just so complicated that you have to focus completely on the words to distract yourself from not believing that you can do what you’re about to do. One of those if probably close to how it really works. I don’t pretend to understand it. It’s fucking magic, you’re not supposed to understand.

  But however it works, it worked, and Janet Hamilton’s door frame, lock, and door were as good as new when I took my hand off the jamb. I turned around, gave her a wave, and headed off to figure out what else Sponholz wasn’t telling me about Terese Dover, Lincoln Baxter, and the other dead half-angels.

  Chapter 11

  I got back to my car and grabbed my phone from the charger. It was a new smartphone, and the battery life was for shit, but it played music and had a camera built in, so I splurged on it. Besides, it was Luke’s money, and he had plenty. When you start life as a rich-ass fifteenth century mildly psychotic Count and invest wisely, or at least kill a lot of rich people over the course of a few centuries, you’re never short on cash.

  “Yeah?” Dennis answered on the third ring.

  “Boltron, what’s up?” I tried to put a cheerful tone in my voice, not an “I only call you when I want something” tone.

  “What do you want?” Apparently I failed.

  “What makes you think I want anything?” I tried again.

  “Because you only ever call me Boltron when you want something.

  Shit. Busted.

  “Besides, I hate being called Boltron. You know why?”

  I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t care why, honestly, but I had to ask or he’d never help me out. “No, why?”

  “Because I know when you call me Boltron, you’re not thinking of the cool lion Voltron, you’re thinking of the lame as shit vehicle Voltron. And nobody wants to be the vehicle Voltron, Harker. Everybody wants to be the fucking lion Voltron. But I don’t get to be the lion Voltron, do I, Quincy?” He said my name like it was French for “shithead.”

  “I guess not, bro. Sorry.”

  “Sorry? So
rry? I’m stuck in a wheelchair with no fucking legs and all I get is sorry? I have to be the fucking vehicle Voltron forever, and you’re sorry? Well—”

  “Well next time you decide to be a fucking idiot and dress up like Gandalf to try and get into some coed’s pants, I’ll just let the fucking demon eat you, okay? Does that sound like a plan, shitweasel? Now shake off your goddamn pity party, pull your shit together, and get to fucking work. We’ve got four dead people with only the thinnest legit connection, a high holy day of magical buggery coming up in thirty-six hours, and no fucking clue what to do about it. So get your fucking hands off your dick and let’s figure this shit out so nobody else dies. Okay?”

  There was silence on the line for long enough that I thought I had maybe gotten a little too verbally medieval on his ass. After a solid two minutes of nothing but background noise coming through the phone, Dennis spoke again.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. I’m back. Now what did you find out?”

  So I filled him in on everything I had learned, and after about a minute of me talking, I heard keys clicking in the background. A few seconds later, Dennis spoke. “Okay, I’ve got Terese Dover’s employment history and banking records, as well as Lincoln Baxter’s. Brecker was even easier, but this Lacey guy has his shit locked down.”

  “Well, what can you tell me about the others?”

  “They definitely all worked on the Pinehaven development. It was one of the first multi-use developments on Lake Wylie. The most expensive houses fronted the lake, another pricing tier overlooked the golf course, and the cheapest houses, the ones that started at only a half-million, those were closer to the retail and entertainment area. And all the shops either had apartments or condos over them. It was worth a ton of money and became the model for development in the area.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been there.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Part of the golf course was built over a small family cemetery, the kind people used to have in the 18th century. They called me in when a poltergeist visited one of the homes near the sand trap on the 12th hole. I showed up and noticed that the teenage daughter’s bedroom window overlooked the green. I had a brief conversation with her about playing around with spells she read online, dumped a full container of salt into the sand trap, and laid the spirit to rest. They haven’t had any problems since then.”

  “Not supernatural problems, at any rate,” Dennis replied.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that there have been a lot of complaints about the building quality, and more than one lawsuit filed against the developer since the place opened up. But it turns out the developer, one Kevin Lacey, had a good lawyer. The contracts on the homes are airtight and protect the builder against any liability past three years. The problems didn’t start appearing until year five, so all those people are on the hook for their sinking foundations, substandard shingles, cracked driveway pavement, and undersized electrical wiring.”

  “Sounds like our dearly departed Mister Lacey had himself a hell of a lawyer.”

  “He did indeed,” Dennis said. “A hell of a lawyer who left private practice two years after Pinehaven sold its first house and moved into public service as an assistant district attorney.”

  “A very tall district attorney named Lincoln Baxter?” I asked.

  “One and the same.”

  “So how does Terese Dover tie into all this? I suppose she moved money around for the project?”

  “A little, but not much. It looks a lot more like she was responsible for the cash on the back end, moving money around through shell corporations and holding companies, bouncing it to and from offshore accounts until it came back, clean and virtually untraceable, into the accounts of our ‘unconnected’ victims.”

  “And what about Brecker?” I asked.

  “He was the contractor for the development. I can’t find anything specific that he did that was shady, but it does look like there have been a ton of small things going wrong with the buildings ever since the project was completed.”

  “So Lacey sells a huge project to a bunch of rich whales, Brecker the contractor cuts corners to pad everyone’s pockets, Baxter writes the contracts that protect them from lawsuits in the long term, Dover moves their money around to hide it from the tax man, and they get away with this how, exactly? Don’t buildings get inspected? Isn’t there some kind of oversight into all of this?”

  More clicking of keys, then Bolton comes back on the line. “You called it, Q. The entire project was overseen by the same city inspector, from plan review to final certificate of occupancy. A guy by the name of Kevin Gilbert, who, as of this conversation, is still alive. And according to the records at the Government Center, is at work right now.”

  “That’s only about a block and a half from Police Headquarters. I’ll call Sponholz and get him to put a uniform on Gilbert. If he’s tied into this somehow, he’s either our killer, or the next target.”

  “Good call. I’ll keep digging and see if I can figure out anything else about Gilbert.”

  “Like whether or not his mom was touched by an angel?”

  “Something like that.” Dennis chuckled and hung up the phone.

  “That wasn’t funny,” came a voice from beside me in the car.

  I jumped so high my head literally hit the ceiling and turned to Glory, pistol in hand. She looked at it and smiled a little.

  “You don’t think that will actually do any good, do you?” she asked.

  “No, but it’s the natural response when someone scares the shit out of me,” I replied.

  “You’re very profane,” my guardian angel said, her lips pursed in disapproval. I’d seen people purse their lips before, but not since the Prohibitionists. Those people were always pursing something. Serious pains in the ass.

  “You’re very fucking observant,” I replied, emphasizing the “fucking.” It was a dick move, and I knew it, but I didn’t respond well to fright, especially when I wasn’t allowed to kill the thing that frightened me. I didn’t particularly want to kill my guardian angel because that seemed like a bad idea on so many levels. That’s not even considering the fact that I wasn’t sure I could kill her, even if I wanted to.

  “There’s no need to be childish.”

  “I try to stick to what I’m good at.”

  “Well, let’s focus on something else you’re good at—stirring up trouble. You’re sticking your nose into some powerful matters, the kind of thing that can get even a powerful wizard destroyed. Are you sure you want to follow this road to the end?”

  “Do I have a choice? It looks like whoever is killing these half-angels wants to use them to open a portal and bring a bunch of big nasties through. They’ve already brought Orobas through, and God only knows who or what else. I don’t know if I can handle this, but I know that I probably won’t survive whatever they want to bring through.”

  “Good point. Anyone with any magical talent will be the first ones killed if there is a demonic invasion of this plane. They wouldn’t want anyone to stand against them.”

  “I hate it when I’m right.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “You are assuming I have one. I suppose I head over to Kevin Gilbert’s office and make sure the cops have an eye on him. Then I kill who- or whatever comes after him, and voila, the day is saved.”

  “Because it’s always that easy.” I’m obviously a bad influence, even on the divine. Now my guardian angel was a smartass, and we’d only been on speaking terms for a couple of days.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Now let’s go protect a city drone from any demonic ramifications of his being on the take ten years ago. Because this time, the angels aren’t necessarily the good guys, but they’re the ones I have to save.”

  “Probably not the last time in your life you’ll say that,” Glory replied, and I’ll admit that I was a little frightened to see there was no humor in her ey
es.

  Chapter 12

  The dozens of people running from the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Government Center when I pulled up was a dead giveaway that everything was fucked. I pulled the Camry up onto the curb and hopped out, leaving the engine running and a startled angel in the passenger seat. If she was really going to keep me alive, she was going to have to work on her reaction time.

  I burst into the lobby, fighting like a salmon swimming upstream against a tide of terrified people, and stopped cold at the thing causing all the commotion. It was a demon, and by the size of it, a powerful one. It was at least ten feet tall with bat-like wings that must have been twenty feet from tip to tip. Long, curving horns stuck out from its forehead, giant black swirls slicing through the air as it whipped its crimson head from side to side, looking for more tasty morsels.

  Muscles rippled across its broad chest, and thick black hair covered its torso and limbs. Its preternaturally long arms ended in three clawed fingers and a thumb, and it had cloven hooves instead of toes. A prehensile tail lashed out, piercing the chest, leg, or neck of anyone unfortunate enough to be too close. Its eyes glowed a sulfuric yellow, and scraps of fabric dangled from its mouth full of a triple row of razor-sharp teeth.

  The second I burst into the room, the demon froze. It sniffed the air, its tail coming to a point, then twirling around to point its metal-clad tip directly at me. The demon turned, looked at me, and smiled. I’ve never been so frightened in my near century on this planet as I was when that monster grinned at me. I knew in that moment that I was about to die, I was going out in the most painful way imaginable, and that monster planned to laugh the whole time it devoured my soul.

  Then Glory broke through the throng behind me, and I learned what a guardian angel can really do when the shit hits the fan. The gorgeous blonde in dressy casual clothes was gone, and in her place was a nearly six-foot angel of fucking righteousness in chain and plate armor with a sword made entirely of light. And not some janky red or blue lightsaber, I mean a four-foot bastard sword with a blade so bright it seared itself into your vision if you looked too closely at it. Her blond curls were tied back into a tight ponytail, and a golden helmet covered most of her face. She ran across the marble floor and launched herself into the air with enough force to crack the tile she leapt from.