Sins of the Angels (6 page)

She released the breath she hadn't intended to hold. A hundred questions crowded her thoughts, all vying for her attention. All centered on Jacob Trent. Who was he? Where did she know him from? Why had he looked at her like that, with such anger, such fury?

Alex's stomach lurched again. She squeezed her eyes shut and rested her hands on the cool, porcelain edges of the sink. For the second time that day, long-buried memories stirred along the fringes of her mind—this time accompanied by the faintest whisper of a lifelong fear. What if . . . ?

Inhale.

Exhale.

The shifting memories slid beneath the surface. She opened her eyes and stared at her reflection again. It scowled back, anger replacing panic. No wings. A trick of the light, maybe. Or glare from the overhead fixtures, combined with way too little sleep and way too much imagination. But no wings.

As for Trent's reaction to her—and hers to him, well, they'd just been mistaken, that's all. Both of them. It was that simple.

The bathroom door cracked open beside her, making her jump.

“Shit!”

“Alex?” Staff Inspector Roberts's voice asked. “You all right in there?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I'm fine. I'm coming.”

She tugged a sheet of brown paper towel from the dispenser and scraped it over her face, any pretense of preserving her makeup long since gone. She
was
fine. Apart from a general lack of sleep shared by everyone in the department right now, there was nothing wrong with her. Nothing.

Alex scrunched the damp paper towel into a ball and dropped it into the garbage can. She pulled opened the door. Roberts's gaze probed her face with wary concern. She forced a smile. “Is everyone waiting for me? Sorry about that.”

Her supervisor gave a soft, noncommittal grunt. “You sure you're all right? You looked like you saw a ghost out there.”

Despite her best intentions, Alex flinched. She curled her hands into fists at her sides and saw Roberts's all-too-perceptive eyes track the movement. A tiny crease appeared in his forehead.

“I'm no worse off than any of the others after this last week,” she assured him. “We'll all be a whole lot better once we've caught this prick.”

Roberts stared at her for a long second before nodding. “Right. Then let's get to it.”

 

“Detective.”

The task force meeting had ended, and Alex faced her new partner across a few feet of carpet that felt more like the Grand Canyon. She shifted from one foot to the other. Back again. Tapped her clipboard against her thigh. Looked everywhere but directly at Trent and still managed to notice the fit of his suit jacket across broad shoulders.

“Hell,” she muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” She sighed. “Let's get you settled. Your desk is over here with mine. I'll have one of the admin assistants put in a requisition for your computer this afternoon, but it'll take them a day or two to get one for you. You'll have to share mine in the meantime. You'll need to order cards, too.”

Alex led the way across the office as she spoke. Her desk was at the epicenter of Homicide, her preferred location. In the midst of the noise and activity, it made paperwork a challenge sometimes, but it also let her keep her finger on the pulse of everything going through the unit.

“Cards?” Trent asked behind her.

“Business cards. You're there.” She stopped and pointed at the empty desk abutting her own paper-strewn mess. “I'll have someone make copies of the files for you.”

“Whatever. So now what?”

Halfway into her chair, Alex paused. She eyed the other detective. “Um, now you read the files, familiarize yourself with the case—”

“A waste of time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Dark eyebrows met in a slash above eyes that flashed with impatience. “We need to be out there.”

“Out where?”

“There.” Trent gestured toward the windows on the far side of the office. “Looking for him. For the killer.”

Sudden suspicion reared in Alex. She straightened again and assessed her new partner with a critical eye. In his midto late-thirties, he had to have been on the force for at least a decade to make detective. Long enough that he should know how an investigation ran. An unsettling thought occurred to her.

“How long were you on the streets, Detective?” she asked.

“What?”

“How many years were you in uniform, on patrol?”

Trent hesitated. Looked annoyed. “I don't see how that matters.”

Alex's heart hit the floor. Good God. They did dare. They'd given her a career paper pusher as a partner. A desk jockey who didn't have the first clue about investigative procedure.

Was this why Delaney had been so sympathetic? Had she known? Alex closed her eyes. She began a slow count to ten and made it as far as three before her temper got in the way. The brass could not seriously expect her to train this man in the middle of a serial-killer case, and if they did, they could bloody well think again.

She leveled a hostile look at her new, about-to-be-ex partner. “Excuse me,” she said through gritted teeth. “I need to talk to Staff Inspector Roberts.”

Alex didn't knock, and didn't wait for an invitation. She simply thrust open Roberts's door and, hands on hips, squared off against him. “What the hell is going on?”

“Apart from a media nightmare and every politician in the city snapping at my heels?” Roberts tipped back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. “Why don't you tell me?”

“Assigning me as babysitter,” Alex snapped. She wondered if she might be overreacting because of her earlier encounter with Trent, but pushed past her misgivings. “Where the hell did they dig up this clown, anyway? Fucking accounting or something? Has he ever even
been
on the street?”

Roberts aimed a pointed look at the door and Alex pushed it shut with her foot. She saw Trent watching from her desk, his face dark with annoyance.
Tough.
She turned her back on him and faced her supervisor again.

Roberts settled forward in his chair again. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Alex, and no time for guessing games. Start from the beginning and keep it brief. I have a meeting with the chief in five minutes.”

“Trent. He's a goddamn paper pusher. I can't believe you'd let them saddle me with him, especially without warning.”

“Careful, Detective.” Roberts's voice went cold. “I'm sure Detective Trent has worked his way up the ladder in his own way.”

“You mean you don't know? How could you not know? What does his file say?”

“I haven't seen it yet. It's being transferred over from staffing.”

Alex almost shook her head to clear it. This made no sense. They wouldn't have transferred someone onto the squad without advising the staff inspector in charge . . . would they?

“You really didn't know? And you're okay with that?”

Roberts glared. “In case you haven't noticed, it's been a little busy around here lately. I'm sorry you're not happy with Trent, but you can't keep running around the city on your own, especially with this asshole on the loose. You need a partner.”

“A desk jockey isn't a partner, he's a liability.”

“He's another body on the street when we need all the bodies we can get.”

“He thinks reading files is a waste of time,” she growled.

“Deal with it, Detective.”

“Damn it, Staff—”

The phone on Roberts's desk rang, stopping Alex midobjection. And possibly pre-official-reprimand, she thought, watching her supervisor's frown turn to a glower. She clamped her mouth shut and waited for him to answer his call.

“Roberts.” He listened for moment, then said, “Hold on, would you?”

He put a hand over the receiver, lowered it from his ear and grimaced. “Look, I know it's not ideal, but we're all struggling right now. Just do what you can with Trent. Keep him close and don't take chances, and forget the files for now. Take him over the scenes with you—a fresh perspective can't hurt, and maybe he'll surprise you.”

Alex crossed her arms. “Is that an order,
sir
?”

Roberts sighed. “Yes, Detective. That's an order.”

 

ARAMAELWATCHED THE
woman leave the police supervisor's office, her face reflecting the same unhappiness he felt. Whatever she'd discussed with her superior had not gone well. She started across the office toward him, determination palpable, and Aramael tensed with the certainty that Verchiel's mess was about to descend from unacceptable to intolerable.

Damn it to Hell and back, protecting this woman was wrong on more levels than he could count. He was a Power, not a bloody Guardian. And for any angel to remain near a Naphil like this, conversing, interacting—the very idea galled him.

Aramael met the woman's gaze and saw the deep flare of recognition in her eyes once again. Felt the same flare within himself. The woman's steps faltered and he bit back a curse.
The hunt,
he reminded himself.
Think about the hunt.
With an effort, he forced his focus away from the approaching woman.

Speed would be his greatest obstacle. Caim's decline from Fallen Angel to monster had stripped him of the ability to escape the mortal realm, but he could still accelerate his energy vibration enough to move at phenomenal velocities within its boundaries. To track him, Aramael needed to be able to move with at least the same speed, if not faster. The simplest of feats, rendered impossible if he had to remain at the woman's side, exist at her vibration level. He'd never even make it to the scene of an attack before Caim's energy trail went cold, and if Caim decided to take his search global—

The woman stopped in front of him. She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin.

“You get your wish,” she said. “I'm supposed to take you with me and go over the scenes again. But first we need to get a few things straight.”

Aramael raised an eyebrow. Was she
scowling
at him?

“I don't know what section you're from,” she continued,

“but it is glaringly obvious you don't know the first thing about running an investigation. So here's how it's going to be. I call the shots. You watch, you listen, and you keep your mouth shut. You do what I say, when I say it, or your ass is in the car. Are we clear?”

Shock rendered him speechless for several seconds. Wrestling with a foreign pride took several more. No one less than an Archangel—not even the Highest Seraph himself—spoke to a Power like that. Ever. While one of the Sixth Choir might never use their powers against any other than a Fallen Angel, the potential to do so was there. The ability obvious. Palpable enough to command a certain level of respect that Aramael hadn't even known he expected until now.

Until this woman dared to defy him.

“You presume a great deal, Detective Jarvis,” he said through clenched teeth, only just refraining from calling her
Naphil
.

She slid into her jacket, checked her sidearm, and gave him a stony look. “As do you, Detective Trent. Now, are you coming or not?”

Alex shot her passenger a filthy look as she jabbed the key into the ignition and twisted it.
She
presumed? That was rich, coming from a pencil pusher who thought he could play at being a detective in the middle of a serial-killer case. Who was he trying to kid? Better yet, who did he know to make this whole situation even possible? Whoever it was had to be high up on the ladder. Talk about connections.

She made a mental note to go after staffing for his file when they got back to the office, then jerked the gearshift into drive, jammed her foot onto the gas pedal, and pulled out of the parking space with a squeal of tires.

She'd meant it when she told Roberts that Trent was a liability. Apart from the time and effort it would take to train him, she also had to worry about keeping him in one piece if anything went down. And make sure he didn't endanger anyone else.
And
put up with that goddamn superior attitude he had going on.

If Trent was aware of her simmering displeasure, however, he gave no sign, and fifteen minutes later, Alex wheeled the car into the mouth of the alley where the previous night's body had been found. While the wooden barriers were gone, yellow tape still fluttered in the faint breeze, waiting for the city workers to clean up the residual gore. Alex shuddered. For all the grimness of her own job, she didn't envy them theirs.

She shoved the gearshift into park and switched off the ignition, then opened her door and climbed out into the humidity that lay like a damp, woolen blanket over the city. Leaning down, she peered in at Trent. “Are you coming?”

He didn't move and, for a second, hope flared. Maybe he'd refuse to follow directions and Roberts would have no choice but to—

Trent pushed open his door and slid out. In silence, Alex locked the doors, pocketed her keys, and joined him at the front of the car. Together they ducked under the drooping crime-scene tape and, separated by about as much distance as the alley's parameters would allow, walked into the gloomy depths. The pungent aroma of rotting garbage, overflowing from two Dumpsters, assailed her.