Chapter 2 Interview with the Inquisition It was on Thursday evening that they fished Jerry Stondowski out of the Alameda Estuary. A contact of mine down at Oakland PD headquarters let me know about it Thursday night. They knew I was, if not exactly a friend of Jerry's, at least the closest thing he had to it. Being, basically, a giant walking ear with a recorder attached, Jerry picked up the occasional tidbit of information that he passed on to his old pal Jake Mason, in return for his old pal Jake Mason getting a friend in the cops to fix the occasional parking violation. Which was why I was walking into the lobby of the Kaiser hospital in North Oakland the following Friday morning. I hadn't had a chance to shave that morning - it had been a long night - so I wasn't looking exactly my best, but at least I remembered in time that in this enlightened age, you can't smoke in a hospital. That was probably the only thing that kept the receptionist from having Security throw me out before I even got to her desk. I showed her my license and introduced myself, then said, "I understand you have a Jerry Stondowski here as a patient - I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find him." "Are you related to the patient?" she asked, eyeing me suspiciously. I couldn't blame her, really; here's this seedy-looking private eye in the typical trench coat and old-fashioned hat, smelling of cigarette smoke and a long night on a street corner in the driver's seat of a rented '84 Ford Crown Victoria, asking to see a guy the cops fished out of the Estuary the night before. I'd probably react the same way. Her question kind of took me aback. Did Jerry even -have- any relatives? I'd never sensed any familial attachments about him, in any of my many meetings with him, and if he had any, I think I would have. It's a gift of mine... part of my nature, a part that, most of the time, I wouldn't miss much. I'd never detected any real connection to anything in Jerry, except to the seedy bar where we always met, a couple of the Mob guys he hung out with from time to time, and me. "He doesn't have any family, far as I know," I told the receptionist. "I'm as close as it gets." "Mr. Stondowski is under guard," the receptionist told me. "I really can't let anyone see him who isn't family." "Who's the cop in charge of the case?" I asked. "I'm sure I wouldn't know." "Never mind, then," I told her. "I'll ask the cop on guard." She sputtered a bit, realizing that she'd just told me, if not where to find Jerry, at least how to find him; but she couldn't stop me from heading to the elevator and going up to the private ward. Sure enough, there was only one room on the private ward that had a uniformed cop sitting outside me. I knew him. In my business I got to know most of the cops in town. I was lucky - it was Ron McCoy, a sergeant I'd known for a while, and one of the few cops in town who wasn't out to bust my chops at any opportunity. He was reading a paper and looked bored, like all cops on guard duty or stakeouts. "Figured you'd be along sooner or later, Mason," said Ron, raising a hand in salute. "You're about the only friend Jerry's got." "Maybe," I replied. Whether that meant maybe I was Jerry's only friend or whether I was his friend at all, I leave as an exercise for the reader. "Anybody know what happened?" "One of those party boats found him last night around 10:30," McCoy replied. "Somebody beat the crud outta him, then dumped him off the pier, most likely. He hasn't woken up yet - doctors aren't sure if he ever will." That hurt me more than I would ever have expected it to, given what a pain in my ass Jerry tended to be. "Who caught the case?" I asked. "Kittrick," McCoy replied. "Hell," I said. I fished out a Dunhill and stuck it in my mouth unlit, just for something to do, then went on, "He won't work it. 'Too much crime involving decent citizens to waste much time on this.' I can -hear- him saying it." "No smoking in the hospital," a passing nurse scolded me. "It's not lit," I replied, and she walked on, shaking her head disapprovingly. "You're right, he won't work it," McCoy replied. "He's got a point with that high-horse attitude, much as I hate to admit it. We've only got so much manpower... and, well, find a missing kid, or find out who beat up Jerry the Pig? You make the call." I nodded solemnly. I knew the nickname. Cops didn't call him Jerry the Pig because he was fat, although he was. They called him that because he liked to squeal, if it suited him, and he knew anything worth telling. I'd given him the nickname in a moment of unkindness, and now regretted it. If it had gotten so widespread the cops were using it, it might have gotten back to his Mafia friends, and maybe it had gotten him killed. "Well," I said after thinking it over for a moment, "if Kittrick won't work it, I suppose he won't mind if I do a little sniffing around. Hell, it'll give him an excuse not to bother." McCoy nodded, but cautioned me: "Careful, Mason. You know Kittrick would love any excuse to bust your ass." "Yeah, him and the Spanish Inquisition," I replied. "Later, McCoy. Let me know if he wakes up, willya?" "Sure thing. You still at the same number?" "Can't afford to move," I replied, and headed out with a wave. When I moved into my apartment, the building was occupied mostly by older people who kept to themselves. You came in the front door, found the apartment you wanted on the directory, walked up, and knocked. If nobody was home, you went away. Simple. The last five years or so, though, a developer had moved into the area and started "upscaling" it. They weren't tearing the building down because it had a "historic" facade (whatever -that- means), but they had painted it an ugly shade of blue and put in a bunch of "modern improvements", including one of those magnetically locked front doors with the buzzer buttons for each apartment. I suppose they make the building more secure, but it makes ordering pizza a pain. More annoying than that, though, is the fact that my neighbors have changed. It's no longer so much quiet older people as nosy, civic-minded young couples. They don't like me much, as a rule. I'm a relic, a reminder of that darker side they don't like to admit their culture has. Detection is the kind of profession that they might grudgingly admit a need for, but would rather not have to see the practicioners of, like garbagemen and the people who clean public restrooms. To have a real, live, rumpled example of the profession living right there in the building was almost more than some of them could stand - and that was before they found out I won't quit smoking, and the state of the law is such that they still can't make me. The upshot of all this is that my neighbor across the way, an abrasive young attorney by the name of Carl Perrin, keeps a wary eye on me at all times, ready to report the slightest infraction to the Powers that Be of the building. If he can get me thrown out and my apartment rented out to someone a little classier, he figures the value of the building will go up and maybe it'll go co-op. I think he's just irked because my tenure and rent control mean I'm paying a third as much as he is for about a third again as much apartment. Plus, his wife seems to think I'm intriguing, and that annoys him. She's not as important to him as his standing at the law firm he works for, but she's a useful ornament, and her father has most of the money involved in the marriage, at least until he becomes a partner. Sometimes I hate it that I can know that kind of thing about people without trying all that hard. I let myself into the apartment without having a confrontation with Perrin, for once; he was probably out chasing an ambulance. As apartments went, it wasn't -that- great, but it wasn't bad, especially with the improvements the building's owners had more or less forced on me. It was big and airy, with nice hardwood floors, and the windows had a view of the street rather than the alley out back. I had a small kitchen with an equally small dining room, a nice-sized living room, and two bedrooms, one of which I kept full of stuff I kept putting off finding a better place for. It suited me. Most of the time I even kept it fairly neat. I tossed my mail on the dining table, hung my coat and hat on the coat tree, and loosened my tie, then picked the mail up again and headed into the living room to open it, if there was any there worth opening. I had gotten about three steps into the living room when I realized there were already people in it. Three of them, to be exact. Three men, in nicely made, dark suits. One was tall, thin and angular, with slicked-back black hair, a sharp, aquiline nose, and a patrician air. He was standing by the TV. The second was a short, stocky, bald-headed bruiser who would have looked more at home in biker garb than the suit he was barely staying in; he was hanging out in the corner, near the door to the closet where I keep random things that haven't found their way into the spare bedroom. The third was a middling-height, wiry guy with the cold eyes of a killer. He was slouched in my armchair with a relaxation that was entirely feigned. They didn't make me feel exactly at ease, but I didn't get where I am in life by being frightened by every little thing that comes along. I kept my attitude studiedly neutral as I walked nonchalantly into the room, plopped down on the sofa, put my feet up on the coffee table, and flipped through my mail. "Something I can do for you fellas?" I asked as offhandedly as I could, while tossing junk notices over the back of the couch and bills onto the table. "We will ask the questions, Marlael," said the tall one. That got my attention. Very few people in my life know that name for me. My old partner Matt Dixon had, but he was dead. Lieutenant Karen Kennealy of the Berkeley Police did, but I knew she wouldn't tell anyone else in the Department. Besides, I knew most of the cops in her squad and these guys weren't any of them. That was about the list of mortals who knew my celestial name... so that meant these guys were probably celestials themselves, or at least human servants thereof. Still, I tried not to look too surprised - it's bad form. Instead I shook out a cigarette and lit it up with the black Zippo I'd come by not too long ago. "OK, shoot," I said, wondering which side these guys were on, and what their game was. "Are we safe from mortal eyes here?" asked the tall one. He was apparently going to do all the talking. "Sure," I replied. "Blinds are closed, door's locked, and my neighbors don't visit anyway." "Very well. Let us assume our true forms, then, so that you may know who we are without tedious explanations." As he spoke, the tall guy's body began... well, unraveling wouldn't be a bad word for it. It kind of disintegrated and coiled away in smoky strips, revealing a glowing form like that of a ten-foot winged serpent, its head sporting six gleaming red eyes. As that happened, the stocky guy also unraveled, leaving in his place a golden saber-toothed cat with fluffy white wings. The wiry guy changed least of all - he just turned dark and shadowy, and sprouted great black wings. His cold, hard eyes remained the same as they fixed on me. So that was the deal. A Seraph, a Cherub and a Malakite, traveling in a group, wearing vessels with dark suits on and talking like Joe Friday - they were an Inquisitional triad, sent here on the orders of Dominic, the Archangel of Judgment. "If you guys are looking for Eli, I haven't seen him since 1935," I said. I picked two of the Seraph's eyes to look into and added, "And you -know- that's the truth." The Seraph blinked his eyes in a ripple-fire formation. I hate it when they do that - it gives me the creeps. "We are not seeking Eli directly," he replied. "It is you yourself we are concerned with this day, Marlael." He cocked his head, if you'll pardon the term, inquisitively. "Why do you not adopt your true form? You yourself said that we are safe here." "I'm comfortable," I replied. "Can I get you guys a drink or anything?" "No," replied the Seraph. They weren't going to introduce themselves, I could see. Inquisitional triads rarely did - it put the subject at a disadvantage if they knew him, but he only knew them as a trio of Dominic's Servitors. I used the same technique from time to time in interrogating human subjects; I knew the drill. "Suit yourself," I replied. "If you're not looking for Eli, what -do- you want?" "Some time ago, you encountered the First Fallen," said the Seraph gravely. It wasn't a question, and I didn't dispute it. "Yeah, I ran into him. One of his boys was running a stolen car ring over on - " "We are not concerned with the details of your meeting," the Seraph interrupted me. "Why did you not report the encounter?" "Report it to whom?" I replied. "I haven't seen my Superior in over sixty years. He didn't delegate me to anybody on his way out or give me any parting orders. I've got my own Heart. Far as I know, that doesn't leave me obligated to report to anybody." I had him there, but he wasn't going to let it pass that easily. He knew as well as I did that I'm only obligated to report to the Archangel whose Word I serve, and it's not my fault if that Archangel's been off living the divine Kerouac dream since the Great Depression. If Eli had given my Heart and my service to another Archangel before leaving, it'd be another story - but he hadn't. He'd just abandoned me. I knew that Dominic had it in for Eli. He felt that Eli's disappearance was heretical, and that he might be consorting with Evil during his absence with no one the wiser. His Servitors came down harder on Eli's angels than anybody else when it came time to do some Inquisiting, and "free agents" like me were their favorite targets of all. I'd heard rumors that some of the unassigned angels of Eli had heard from him since his disappearance, done work for him. I hadn't. Over time, I'd reached the conclusion that he'd forgotten about me. The Seraph peered at me for a while, possibly watching me turn all that over in my head. I didn't particularly care. Finally he said, "You accepted a gift from Lucifer, did you not?" No point in lying about it - he was a Seraph, he'd know anyway. I suppose he expected me to react like a contrite schoolboy caught sharing in extorted lunch money; instead I just pulled out the lighter and turned it over in my fingers a couple of times. "Yeah," I replied. "He gave me a light. Pretty funny, huh?" The Seraph didn't laugh. The Cherub looked like he might want to, but didn't dare. The Malakite's eyes glittered with an ugly light at the sight of something a demon had touched. I could tell he was just waiting for the word from his boss the Seraph to take me apart. "Why did you accept the Evil One's gift?" "I needed a light," I replied. "Besides, I didn't want to be rude to him. He could have blown me away and he didn't. That counts for something in my book." "What infernal bargain did you strike to gain this prize?" I looked at him for a moment, trying to keep the contempt off my face, and then said, "None. He asked me if there was anything he could do for me. I needed a light, so I asked him for one. He gave me the lighter, told me to keep it and disappeared. It's a good lighter, so I kept it." "You expect me to believe that the Dark Lord of the Pit gave you a gift for -nothing-? On a -whim-?" "I didn't say that," I replied. "Like I tried to tell you earlier, one of his boys was running a stolen-car ring downtown. I busted it up, but before I could finish the job, the Mafia showed up. Turns out the car choppers weren't an approved outfit. Anyway, there was a three-way firefight and the building burned down. I had a choice - I could either save the cop I'd brought along, or take down the demon that was running the theft ring. I let him go and saved the cop. I guess Lucifer thought that was a favor worth giving me a lighter for." The Seraph blinked slowly, digesting this and weighing my truthfulness. Then he spoke again. "Why would Lucifer concern himself with something as petty as a stolen-car ring?" "Do I know what's going on in the Prince of Darkness's head?" I replied. "Why don't you ask him? Maybe he likes cars, I don't know. Anyway, that's all there is to it. I ran into him, he gave me a lighter, he left. End of encounter." "Does the lighter bestow any Diabolical powers?" inquired the Cherub. It was the first time he'd spoken, and his voice was surprisingly sweet. "Not really," I replied. "It strikes first time every time, the flint doesn't wear down, it doesn't need fluid. Other than that, it's just a plain old Zippo. Makes a little flame, lights cigarettes, the lid keeps the wind out." At a nod from the Seraph, the Malakite walked over, took the lighter from me, and held it so they could all three examine it. They found nothing unusual, as far as I know. A black Zippo lighter with a Roman 'L' monogram on the front. Not a Diabolical listening device, a time bomb, an Essence sink... just a little trinket the Prince of Darkness apparently thought would be handy. Hell, for all I know he's a smoker himself. The Seraph stared at me for a long moment. I stared right back. At length, he turned to the Malakite, nodding. A grudging look on his shadowy face, the Malakite gave me the lighter back. All three of them seemed to quiver, then shrink, and from wisps of smoke and mist they reassumed their corporeal vessels. "If you encounter the Adversary again, Marlael," said the Seraph, "you will report it to Dominic immediately. Do you understand?" "Sure. No problem." As if I was ever going to be face-to-face with Lucifer again? Please. "You will also inform Dominic or one of his Servitors if Eli contacts you." "What, so Dominic can send out the Bully Boy Bat Squad after him? I don't think so. He may be a flighty jerk, pal, but he's still my Superior." "If Eli is proven a heretic, and you have stood with him, you will Fall with him," the Seraph warned me. "I'll take that chance," I replied. "Dominic will not be pleased with your reply." "If Dominic wants me to tell him things he'll be pleased with," I said, standing and tucking one of my business cards into the top pocket of the Seraph's suit jacket, "you tell him it's four fifty a day plus expenses." The Seraph stared at me coldly for a moment, then turned and stalked out. The Cherub followed without a word. The Malakite hung back for a moment - just long enough to point at me and make a pistol-finger gesture. "Yeah, love you too," I muttered as he left. At least he was polite enough to close the door behind him. Jerks. I should have figured they were going to be around sooner or later. Even if you're as minor and overlooked as I am, if Lucifer gives you a present, Dominic's goon squad won't be far behind. I sighed and went back to sorting my mail. Life goes on, after all. Light and gas bill, phone bill, Internet service bill... At the bottom of the stack was a small, squarish envelope of heavy, creamy paper. It looked almost like an invitation, except the address was handwritten - handwritten in a very familiar scrawl. My heart almost stopped. I flipped the envelope over; there was no return address. My mouth was dry as I peeled the envelope open. Inside there was a piece of paper torn from a yellow legal pad. It matched the typical pattern of the handwriting's owner, in a hurry - grab the first paper and the first envelope to hand, jot a note on the one, stuff it in the other and get it in the mail. I unfolded the paper and read. Marlael - I'll be in Berkeley on Saturday (the 16th) for a couple of days. Let's get together and do a bookstore crawl, it's been too long. Meet at Shattuck Ave. BART, 6 PM? Hope to see you there ELI Considering that I'd spent the last sixty-odd years being annoyed at Eli, it surprised me that my heart was singing at the thought of seeing him again; but I couldn't stop it. I hummed happily all the rest of the evening. TO BE CONTINUED