by Mel Odom
“Sure.”
Angel retrieved the teakettle from the cabinet above the stove, put milk in it, turned on a burner, and waited.
He looked at Whitney. “It’ll be just a minute till the milk heats.”
Still amused, she nodded. “It usually is.”
The lack of spontaneous conversation threw Angel off, but he figured if spontaneous conversation had come up, that would have thrown him off his stride as well.
“You have a lot of books,” Whitney said, glancing at the shelves covering the walls.
“I like to read.”
“What do you read?”
Angel shrugged. “Biographies. History. Philosophy. Occultism. Science.”
“Wow, that’s heavy reading. Why so many interests?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I just like thinking I can understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Why.”
“Because I want to get to know you a little better,” Whitney answered.
Angel smiled. “No, that wasn’t a question. Why is the answer to your question. I like to think maybe I can understand why people do what they do, something about their natures that makes them do it.”
“Shrinks can give you the answer to that.”
“Different shrink, different answer,” Angel replied. “I keep hoping there’s one big, cover-everything answer.”
“Do you think there is?”
“No.”
“Then why do you try to understand if you don’t think you can?”
“Because I think it’s important that I try.”
“To understand others?”
Angel reflected for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He hadn’t had someone dig so deeply into him since Buffy, and remembering that was unsettling. He hadn’t seen her since graduation day in Sunnydale when he’d helped destroy the mayor.
“If I understand others,” he said finally, “I come closer to understanding myself. Understanding myself, where I fit in, is really important to me.”
The tea kettle whistle blew and she jumped in her chair.
Angel poured the milk into the cup, then put the cup on the table and sat across from her.
“Aren’t you having anything to drink?”
“I’m not the one having trouble sleeping.”
“Right. That’s why you were having that nightmare.” Whitney blew on the milk and sipped cautiously. Her gray-green eyes, so direct like the others that Angel remembered, regarded him frankly. “Do you think you can do it?”
“What?” Angel noticed the challenging note in her voice.
“Keep me alive. Find out who’s behind these attacks. Somehow manage to keep Gunnar’s schedule for the show intact?”
“I don’t know if I can do all of that,” Angel said. “I’m going to start with keeping you alive and try to find out who is behind the attacks.”
She sipped the milk again. “And if I choose to try to do the shoot today?”
“You’ve never been attacked on a set, so I think you should be safe there.”
“And Gunnar will make sure all the security people stay in place.”
Angel nodded.
Whitney sipped her milk again, not meeting his gaze.
Angel smelled the fear in her, and it bothered him. There were no guarantees even with his skills, strength, and knowledge that he could prevent someone from hurting her.
“It seems to me,” she said, “that the smartest thing to do would be to hide out.”
“If you did that, the people hunting you would have no reason to come forward. They’d hide out, too. Maybe they’d even go away for a while, waiting for you to put in another appearance. Even if you gave up this life, there’s a chance they’d stay dedicated enough to find you.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I don’t want to give this up, Angel,” she whispered. “God forgive me, but this is what I’ve been working toward all my life. It’s not fair.”
“No,” Angel agreed. “It’s not.”
“But it would be easier to find these people if they were trying to find me?”
“Yes.”
Whitney took a deep breath. “Then that’s what we’ll do.” She pushed herself up from the table. “I’ve got to get some sleep if I’m going to put in a full day’s work.”
Angel stood as well, realizing how fragile she looked in the dark room.
In the next moment she stepped into his arms. “Hold me for just a little while. It’s been a long time since anyone just held me.”
Hesitantly Angel put his arms around her. He felt her warm breath against his shoulder, sensed her pulse beating against the hollow in her throat. The dark hunger rose in him, sharp and demanding in the shadows that filled the room.
She held on to Angel with a quiet desperation.
“You’re so cold,” she whispered against his chest.
“I’ve . . . got a low blood temperature,” he told her. “It’s not dangerous, just different.”
“I don’t know how you stay warm.” Her flesh seemed to sear his.
Angel didn’t say anything. He just stood in the center of the room and held her.
“Ugh! Talk about the dead walking!” Cordelia glanced at her reflection in the hand mirror, then turned to Angel, who stood at her side but wasn’t reflected. “Sorry. Talking about me, not you.”
Angel gave a small nod. His attention was fixed completely on Whitney across the street on the location shoot for Dark Midnight. The television crews had put up signs announcing that they were shooting, but he’d convinced Schend to pull them. There was no need to advertise where they were in case the people looking for Whitney didn’t already know.
Cordelia put the mirror back in her purse. She’d dressed to draw attention that day. She wore dark gray Capri pants, topped off with a hot pink halter-style silk shantung shirt with an open back that showed off her tan.
The production crew formed a small island of humans and machinery on the other side of the street in front of Hannigan’s, a bar that was featured in the Dark Midnight television series. Flint Boyd, the director, was spending time with Whitney and the other actors, laying out the scene for them.
Late-afternoon sunlight slanted across the rooftops, but the buildings were tall enough that only shadows actually touched the street. The marquee outside proclaimed: DARK MIDNIGHT CLOSED SET TONIGHT!
Cordelia knew the presence of the film crew that night would draw even more than the usual number of customers. A lot of television and movie acting hopefuls would put in an appearance, striving to get caught in the footage and be discovered. If things allowed that night, or she could convince Angel it might be in their best interests to know how the shoot later went, Cordelia knew she wanted to be there herself.
“So give,” she told Angel.
“What?”
“Whitney spent the night at your place last night,” Cordelia said. “As far as I know, that’s the first film star you’ve ever spent the night with.”
Angel didn’t reply.
“I mean,” Cordelia said with rising interest, “it was, wasn’t it?”
Angel remained quiet, and for a moment Cordelia thought he wasn’t going to answer. “Well,” he said, “there was that whole Marilyn Monroe thing.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Yes,” Angel said.
“Yes, you’re kidding, or yes, it’s true?”
“Kidding.”
Cordelia quietly fumed. Despite the trust and friendship she had with Angel, there was so much she didn’t know about him, about who he’d been with and where he’d been. A lot of it, she figured, was not her business, but probably even more of it was boring. Or, during the wild blood-bingeing years, totally gross.
“How did she do last night?” Cordelia asked. “Seeing your first dead body tends to leave an impression.”
“She’s scared,” Angel replied.
Across the street Flint Boyd sent
the actors and actresses to their marks, then followed them inside the bar himself. Two LAPD squad cars occupied either end of the street, keeping the crowd that had gathered there behind the red-and-white striped sawhorses.
“Believe it or not,” Cordelia said, “I had that one figured.”
“I’ve got a meeting at the sheriff’s department to get to,” Angel said. “Kate got me some time with the man they arrested. If you have any trouble, you should be able to reach me there.”
“Do you think there’s going to be any trouble?”
“No,” Angel replied. “If I did, I wouldn’t leave.”
“Right. Because you know I’m not exactly Security Girl here.”
“I know. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Where’s Doyle? I could use some backup here.”
“Following up on the symbol. He’ll be in touch, too. Until then just keep your eyes and ears open.” Angel turned and walked away.
Sure, leave me with the potential target for a madman’s bullet or knife. Cordelia remembered the man hanging from Whitney’s ceiling. Or hang-man’s noose. I can take it.
Then she considered the options. Poking around in the off-the-beaten-path places Doyle was having to search in was in no way appealing. And if she wanted the whole Silence of the Lambs type of conversations women had with convicts in prison, she could log into a singles chat room and talk to the doofs that hung out there.
Across the street the Dark Midnight crew continued working, bringing the scene to life. Through the bar windows, Cordelia watched as the cast ran through their lines with the director watching. Gunnar Schend parked his Hummer beside the bar and went inside. According to the reports he’d given Whitney, who had in turn given them to Angel, the producer had been in meetings all day.
Cordelia moved closer to the crowd around the bar. Inside the bar Gunnar Schend took out his cell phone and started talking. He didn’t look happy in no time flat. Whitney waved at him but didn’t approach.
Schend angrily hung up the phone by folding it in on himself. Then he went to the bar and placed an order for what looked like a double.
Maybe the attacks on Whitney aren’t the only problems he’s having, Cordelia thought. She was used to looking for clues during her time as a Slayerette, and that definitely was a clue.
“Oh, my, my,” someone behind Cordelia said. “And don’t you just look stunning.”
Suddenly on edge because a person couldn’t tell for sure which way a comment like that was going to go, Cordelia spun and spotted the man behind her.
The man was at least six feet four inches tall and wore an electric blue Armani with an exact fit. His tousled hair held blond highlights and stood out against the dark tan that looked genuine and not fake-bake. His teeth were perfect and white.
“Who are you?” Cordelia asked.
The man produced a card seemingly from thin air with a flourish and a smile. “Davis Hollings.”
The name clicked in Cordelia’s mind instantly as she took the gold foil embossed card. Davis Hollings was the designer of NewNet, the latest search engine to hit the Internet with a big splash.
He also stalked Whitney and could have killed the security guard in Whitney’s apartment last night.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Cordelia Chase.”
Hollings glanced toward the bar. “Are you in this scene?”
“Actually, no,” Cordelia responded.
“You should be,” Hollings said, sizing her up again. “You look like a great little actress to me. Are you in anything I know?”
“I’m kind of between jobs at the moment,” Cordelia said.
“A young lady as pretty as you shouldn’t be away from a camera lens for long. I stay pretty involved with television these days. Maybe I can hook you up with a producer or studio. I haven’t found any out here who have a problem spending NewNet sponsor dollars.”
Cordelia put the card in her purse. “Thanks.”
Hollings cleared his throat. “Is Whitney around today?”
“In the bar.” Cordelia saw his interest in her dwindle between drawn breaths. Oh, man, he’s like I’m-So-Much-In-Lust Guy. She found it irritating. Back in Sunnydale she’d been among the elite every day of her life. Only her secret identity as Slayerette had pulled her into slumming with the commoners.
“I just wondered how she was holding up after last night,” Hollings said.
“She’s doing pretty well. It was really heavy into gruesome and horrifying.”
Hollings glanced at her with renewed interest. “You were there?”
Now would be the time for one of those photo-enhanced private investigator’s license thingies. Instead, Cordelia gave him a card.
“‘Angel Investigations,’” Hollings read. “I’d heard they were involved in the murder last night. You know them?”
“Actually,” Cordelia said, “I’m one of them. A partner. A clue-gatherer type.”
“What are you doing here today?”
“Watching over Whitney.”
Hollings glanced at her with deliberate thoroughness that was supposed to be charming in a sleazy kind of way. “You don’t seem to be carrying a pistol.”
Cordelia crossed her arms and decided to dial up the vamp a notch. “It’s concealed.”
Hollings raised a flirting eyebrow. “Very well, may I add.”
Cordelia smiled, knowing she had all his attention. “You may, and thank you.” She paused, troubled a little as she caught up with everything he’d said. “You knew Angel Investigations was at Whitney’s apartment last night? That wasn’t in the news.”
The media had splashed the television and radio broadcasts, newspapers and tabloids with the story all day long. So far there’d been no mention of Angel Investigations.
Detective Lockley had kept Angel out of the news at Angel’s request. Personally, Cordelia felt they could have used the exposure.
Hollings smiled again, but his eyes didn’t hold amusement. “I make it my business to know what’s going on with Whitney.”
And that was the sound of a guy in total stalker mode. Cordelia kept her smile in place, but a cold wariness filled her.
“You sure dis be de place where you want to be stopping, mon?”
Doyle stared through the taxi’s rear passenger side window. They were just north of South Central, and the neighborhood looked like a war zone.
Buildings had windows boarded over to prevent drive-by shootings or to keep from having to replace glass that was either broken or constantly a target for graffiti. The building fronts, including the plywood panels over the windows, still carried gang chops declaring territory as well as efforts by street artists looking to promote their own tags. Security bars covered the doors.
Most of the businesses appeared to be closed down, but hard-faced men and grim-faced youths sat on folding chairs around tables and racks that displayed merchandise they had to sell.
A small mom-and-pop grocery store on the corner had handmade paper signs plastered all over the plywood panels covering the windows. The signs fluttered in the afternoon’s weak breeze. Only some of them had been replaced after being covered with graffiti.
But high on the right was a sign faded with age that hadn’t been touched by spray paint at all. It simply read MAMA NTOMBI, and had an arrow pointing up.
If someone didn’t know, Doyle guessed, they’d think Mama Ntombi has a rooftop office instead of being located at the back of the grocery store.
“Yeah,” he said confidently. “This is the place.”
The driver shook his head, making his dread-locks quiver. “Mon, I tink you making big mistake. You don’t mind my saying so, dis ain’t no place for no whitebread like you.”
“No,” Doyle disagreed. “But there’s a Chinese laundry I can think of that makes this place look like home.”
The driver grinned, flashing gold teeth in the rearview mirror. “Mon, you in hock with Yuan?”
“You know Yua
n?”
“Did Yuan show you his collection yet, mon?”
“What collection?”
The driver laughed. “His toes, mon. Ol’ Yuan is into toes big-time. Say someone don’t pay up on time, dey gotta give up a toe. Kind of an extra down payment on de money a fella owes.”
“You’re kidding.” Doyle felt almost nauseated even after everything he’d seen before Angel and since. Monsters and demons and such were one thing, but people acting like them was just wrong.
“No, mon.” The driver shook his head. “I’m deadly serious about dis ting.” He slipped off a shoe and raised his leg. His right foot had only four toes, a bright pink and white scar showing where his little toe had been. “Me, I don’t place no more bets at dat place. Mon go in dere, tinking he’s gonna be getting a foot in de door toward a sure ting? He better count his toes coming back out, dat’s all I’m saying.”
Doyle really didn’t want to know, but he couldn’t help asking. “What does Yuan do with the toes?”
“Mon, he keeps dem in dese jars. Shakes ’em up now and again, den watches dem fall to de bottom like one of dem snow globes. And he just laughs like it someting he never seen before.”
Doyle pushed the money into the pass-through tray mounted in the front seat. “Keep the change.”
“Sure, mon, and I tank you.” The driver counted the bills with an experienced thumb flick. “Maybe you want me to wait around for you, mon. If dis business of yours be pretty quick.”
Looking at the harsh appearance of the neighborhood, Doyle nodded. “You know, I think maybe that’s a good idea.”
“You tink maybe you leave me an advance, mon?”
Doyle peeled a ten off and put it into the tray. Then he opened the door and stepped out onto the curb. He was conscious of the fact that he drew attention immediately. The security-bar-covered door was heavy and hard to move, dragging across the rubber WELCOME mat that had been permanently scarred with scuff marks and gum.
An old black man with wiry gray hair around his bald spot and skinny arms stacked canned food in a cardboard box for a little old woman and the sullen teenager beside her. “Can I help you?” the man asked.
