by Alan Russell
“What kind of car was it?”
Pauley shook his head. “It sort of looked like one of those fancy sports cars.”
“Could it have been a Porsche?”
“It was something like that. The car was a two-seater, a roadster I think.”
“What color was it?”
“Black,” said Pauley. “It was so dark it blended with the night.”
“Could you see the driver?”
“Indistinctly,” said Pauley. “The car windows were tinted, but there were glowing lights coming from inside the car.”
“What do you mean by ‘glowing’?”
“There were flashing lights that lit up the front window.”
“Like from a dashboard display?”
“I think it was more than that. There was a colored grid pattern reflecting on the window.”
“Could you see the driver?”
“Only indistinctly,” Pauley said. “It sort of looked like he was conducting.”
“What do you mean?”
“His hands were moving back and forth.”
“What other impressions did you get of the driver?”
“I am pretty sure he was white and clean shaven.”
“Any guess as to his age?”
“He was young, probably in his mid-thirties.”
“How did the angel respond to the presence of the driver?”
Pauley rubbed his hands and looked uncomfortable. “When the car appeared, the angel tried to get up. I got this sense it was desperate to escape. That’s why I didn’t dare move. That’s why I stayed in the shadows. If the angel was scared, that was reason enough for me to be. And then I heard the voice, and as loud as it was, I think my heart was beating louder.”
“What voice?”
“The voice of the devil,” he said.
Here it comes, I thought. Crazy always has a way of showing itself. “Is that so?”
“That’s how it sounded to me. It was cold and terrifying.”
“Did you see this devil?”
He shook his head.
“He was invisible?”
“No,” said Pauley, “the voice came from above.”
I didn’t mask my sarcasm: “It was a voice from on high?”
“No, it was a voice that came from an amplified source.”
Crazy wasn’t showing itself in the way I had expected. “What did this voice say?”
“I’m not sure of the exact wording, but it was something like, ‘Don’t you know that we judge angels?’ ”
I tweaked the quote: “ ‘Know you not that we shall judge angels?’ ”
Pauley visibly started; he moved his head back as if avoiding a fastball. “That’s it!” he said. “How did you know?”
I didn’t credit or blame my Catholic upbringing, nor did I tell him it was a quote from Corinthians.
“Was there anything distinguishing about the voice? Did it have an accent?”
“No accent,” Pauley whispered, “and nothing distinguishing except that it was a prideful voice.”
“Prideful?”
“He was gloating. He was proud that the angel was down.”
“What happened then?”
Pauley shook his head, not wanting to say anything more.
“I need to know what you saw, Mr. Pauley.”
In a voice not much more than a whisper Wrong said, “There was this sound, and it scared me, so I dropped to the ground and covered up. I am pretty sure there was a blast of light, but I was too scared to do anything other than close my eyes. A few minutes passed before I got enough nerve to look around. When I did, the angel was gone.”
“So you didn’t witness the angel’s murder?”
“Isn’t it enough to have seen the smoking gun?”
“You think the angel was vaporized?”
He nodded.
I looked around the area. “I don’t see any remains.”
“Who says angels have remains?”
“I don’t have a case if there aren’t remains or if there isn’t evidence that there was a body. Right now there are no remains, no other witnesses, and a murderer believed to be the devil. Those aren’t exactly building blocks to making a case.”
“When I said the murderer was the devil,” said Pauley, “I only meant he was the devil in human form.”
“Was your angel symbolic as well?”
He shook his head. “The angel was only too real.”
CHAPTER 4:
GET OFF OF MY CLOUD
Pauley and I walked around the supposed crime scene. Because the buildings overlooking the alley housed commercial tenants, it was unlikely I would be able to find anyone to corroborate Pauley’s fantastic story, but that didn’t mean I was without witnesses.
“Eyes in the sky,” I said to Pauley, and then pointed out the security cameras. “There should be some good alley footage available from last night.”
I was studying Pauley’s reaction to my announcement, wondering if he’d be unsettled, but the opposite happened; Pauley looked relieved.
“Thank God,” he said. “That means others will be able to see what I saw. That will be the proof I need. I can understand why no one believes my story. I know you don’t. I get it. I’m no prophet.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met a prophet. But the more we talk, the more you sound like one, which begs the question of how the hell you ended up living on the street.”
“That’s easy,” he said. “I’m a drunk. Until I saw the angel, my only motivation was to get enough money to drink. But now that thirst is gone.”
“Maybe that qualifies as a miracle.”
I continued to scrutinize the alley, but more from habit than anything else. It wasn’t like there were going to be shell casings or blood evidence.
“Where did you last see the angel?” I asked.
“A few feet to your right,” said Pauley.
In the old days homicide drew chalk outlines around the body. I thought of where that chalk outline would be and wondered if it would have included wings. I hunched down low. At first glance there wasn’t anything to be seen. I touched the asphalt. It was tacky to the feel, and shiny. The shininess extended out to a radius of about ten feet. I stood up and took some pictures with my phone.
“Along with the blinding light, did you experience a blast of heat?” I asked.
Pauley thought about it. “Now that you mention it,” he said, “I think I did.”
I took a few more pictures and then turned to Pauley and passed him my business card. “Call me if anything comes up. My mobile number will get me night and day.”
He thanked me and then asked, “Can we go look at those security tapes now?”
“Heaven is probably going to have to wait until tomorrow,” I said. “I’m going to check, but I’m pretty sure all the businesses with security cameras have closed shop for the day.”
“Won’t their tapes be recorded over?”
I shook my head. “Don’t worry about that. These days most surveillance recordings are stored off-site in a cloud server.”
“I like the sound of that,” said Pauley, suddenly smiling. “My angel is up in the clouds.”
I hoped his head wasn’t there as well. “I’ll see what I can do about bringing your angel down to earth. Tomorrow I’ll view the security footage and then have it sent to my laptop, so you can see it as well.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
I had the impulse to do a little more. “Why don’t I bring lunch at the same time?”
“There’s no need,” said Pauley a little formally. He was a beggar, but on his own terms.
Sirius started wagging his tail. “Don’t disappoint my partner. He knows we’re talking lunch and doesn’t want to miss out. His favorit
e is a meatball sandwich with marinara sauce.”
Pauley scratched under Sirius’s ear and went back to speaking to him instead of me. “I love marinara sauce too, but over a plate of pasta.”
“I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse,” I said, doing my best Vito Corleone. “I know a good place nearby that does takeout. You want parmesan cheese on your pasta?”
“No cheese,” said Pauley, “but a piece of garlic bread to sop up the marinara sauce. That’s my idea of heaven.”
“What kind of pasta do you want?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want spaghetti, ziti, penne, vermicelli, linguine, or bowtie?”
And then I remembered another kind of pasta: “Or angel hair?”
His face lit up at my last suggestion, and for a moment all his hard years of drink and homelessness seemed to lift.
“I choose to be on the side of angels,” he said.
Before taking my leave of Venice Beach, I made sure all the businesses with security cameras were closed. As I had suspected, they were all locked up tight. If I had been working a homicide, I would have forced the issue and found a way to look at the footage without delay, but this wasn’t a homicide case. Truth to tell, I wasn’t sure what kind of a case it was. Because I was on the cusp of overtime, I decided to call it a day. LAPD frowns on any overtime involving angels, unicorns, fairies, or Big Foot.
What I wanted was in the cloud, which explains why on the walk back to my car I started whistling “Get Off of My Cloud.” It would have been more appropriate had I been whistling a tune from the Doors. Venice Beach is, after all, the birthplace of the Doors, and even today Jim Morrison is remembered in a large mural off Ocean Front Walk. But when a tune gets stuck in your brain, there’s nothing to do but go with the flow. And so Sirius heard Mick’s words instead of Jim’s, and I told him two was a crowd on my cloud.
My singing is borderline animal cruelty, but my partner wisely knew better than to believe a word I was singing.
Hands-free I called Lisbet Keane from the road. When we’d talked the day before, Lisbet hadn’t been certain if she would be able to clear her schedule for the night.
“Sirius wants to know if you can come out and play,” I said.
“I’m afraid I am looking at an all-nighter,” she said. “I’m supposed to have a presentation ready tomorrow that isn’t even on the drawing board. Right now I’m getting ready to brew a pot of coffee and settle into my flannel nightgown.”
Lisbet is a graphic artist with her own business. She has learned only too well that when you work for yourself you better have a son-of-a-bitch for a boss.
“It doesn’t sound like a romantic evening is in the offing.”
“Not unless there’s something about flannel you find sexy.”
“If anyone can pull off that look, you can.”
“Did I also mention my granny panties and fuzzy slippers?”
“What color are your granny panties?”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“You want me to drop off some takeout?”
“I think it would be better if you offered me a rain check for tomorrow night. I know if I don’t say good night now, I won’t have a good day.”
The two of us had been dating for five months. Lisbet came into my life through the death of a little girl named Rose. Out of a terrible occurrence we had come together as a couple.
“Finish your work,” I said, “and we’ll get together tomorrow night. Seven o’clock work for you?”
“It does.”
“I’ll bring the food. You bring the granny panties.”
She laughed and then said, “You’re a shit,” before hanging up.
The drive home to Sherman Oaks was bumper-to-bumper most of the way, which might explain my reaction when I pulled into my driveway and saw my next-door neighbor waving a bottle of Sam Adams from his porch.
“God, yes,” I said.
The thought of cold beer prompted my beeline to Seth Mann’s front door. Sirius was just as enthusiastic even without the beer. Whenever I’m out of town, Seth looks after my partner and spoils him terribly.
Seth waved us both inside. I didn’t pass by him empty-handed. We went to our usual spots; me to an easy chair, Sirius to his hemp doggy bed. From his chair and from mine, Seth and I extended our bottles and lightly tapped the necks, and then I took a long pull of liquid.
“Nectar of the gods,” I said.
“If not quite ambrosia,” said Seth, smacking his lips, “close enough.”
In addition to being my best friend, Seth is a shaman. Over the years I’ve loved telling people his line of work just to see their reaction. Invariably they want to know what he “really” does, and I tell them that he really is a shaman. Seth has a long definition for what a shaman is, but doesn’t object too much when I say he’s a medicine man. He actually takes his craft seriously and spends a good deal of time down in South America working with the “masters.” In L.A. he’s quite well known in the holistic healing community, and he does guest speaking all over the world. People are drawn to his bonhomie. He looks and acts like the Laughing Buddha, especially when he wears a robe. Seth is short but has a big belly, big ear lobes, and a big smile. He is homely by almost any definition, but that doesn’t stop beautiful women from wanting to spend time with him.
Shaman, hell; he’s a witch doctor. Either that, or with all his herbal lore he’s created Love Potion Number Nine.
“You didn’t need much encouragement tonight,” Seth said.
“You caught me in a weak moment. To be honest, though, I’m still waiting for my first strong moment.”
“Has Sirius eaten?”
“He had some oatmeal this morning.”
“Let me guess: you gave him what you didn’t want to eat for breakfast.”
“He liked it considerably more than I did.”
Lisbet and Seth have both been trying to get me to improve my diet; Sirius is the one benefiting from my new health regimen.
“No lunch?”
“We were on the run.”
Seth was already up and walking toward his freezer. He’s always ready to look after Sirius at a moment’s notice and takes his parenting duties very seriously. In preparation of Sirius’s visits, he freezes patties of turkey and yam. Escoffier probably wouldn’t approve, but Sirius does. He loves his turkey yam burgers.
“Want one?” Seth asked. He was serious.
“Let me see, gobble-gobble orange-colored goo or hops and barley.” I tapped my empty bottle.
“Your loss,” said Seth. “Sometimes I crumble up the patties for my own dinner. They make great tacos.”
“I yam what I yam,” I said, and then tapped my bottle again. It got the desired effect of a new brew.
Seth went back to his Chef Boyardee act. He was sautéing green beans and egg in a little olive oil and adding them to the turkey and yam. Sirius was watching the preparations with great approval, much like a diner appreciating the tableside service of cherries jubilee set aflame. The mutt’s dinner actually had a beguiling aroma, much as I hated to admit it.
“Are you still in the doghouse?” Seth asked.
“Interesting choice of words,” I said.
“I thought you’d like it.”
“It’s a legal tactic the public defender is using to try and divert everyone from the real issue that he’s representing a scumbag.”
“Is that so, Officer Sirius?”
“I should be the one suing, and for that very reason. The shyster wrote a letter of inquiry to Officer Sirius instead of Detective Sirius. I like to think Sirius got the same promotion I did.”
“Are you ever going to show me the letter you—I mean Officer Sirius—wrote?”
“It’s a typical police report except that Detective Sirius does referen
ce bunnies a few times. And he goes on and on about a dead squirrel we encountered. And he quotes me when he writes, ‘My partner says there is no better game than locking up assholes who deserve it.’ ”
“You really wrote that?”
“Detective Sirius did.”
“Any other gems?”
“I liked the way Detective Sirius ended his report. He wrote something to the effect of, ‘All in all, it was a great day. All days are great days, but especially catch-the-scumbag days. I would say it was a perfect day except for the fact that I never got to roll around on that dead squirrel.’ ”
“And you wonder why the defense attorney took umbrage.”
“It was a good arrest,” I said.
The two of us had been helping out Valley Division and had done a stakeout where a number of purse snatchings had taken place. Sirius had nailed Robbing Hood red-handed right after he snatched a purse out of the hands of an elderly woman and began riding off on his bicycle. My partner took down Robbing Hood with a perfect tackle.
“I hope that’s the end of Officer Sirius’s literary career.”
I nodded. “I’ll let Bob Crais be the dog whisperer. For me, it’s tough enough being the human whisperer.”
“So what case had the two of you so busy today?” Seth asked.
“Cases,” I said. “We spent most of the afternoon trying to hunt down the hero without a name, and we just got back from investigating the death of an angel.”
Seth looked away from his skillet toward me. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. A witness claims he was there when an angel was murdered in Venice Beach.”
I motioned for Seth to tend to the skillet, which was starting to smoke.
“I want to hear everything,” he said.
“Let’s make it the grand finale,” I said. “First I want to get your thoughts on the Reluctant Hero.”
My shaman frowned. His curiosity was piqued, and even heroes pale in the company of angels. “Are you talking about the school shooting hero?”
“One and the same,” I said. “Why hasn’t he come forward? The city of Los Angeles wants to throw him a ticker-tape parade. He’d be on The Morning Show, The Afternoon Show, and The Tonight Show. He would be the talk of the nation. And after his book and movie deals, he’d be set for the rest of his life.”
