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Marlowe lay on his side at Remy's feet, legs extended as if dropped by gunfire. He lifted his head and grumbled.
"Yeah, me too, boy. Even Chandler's not doing it tonight." Remy leaned forward in his chair and ran his fingers along the dog's rib cage. The Labrador laid his head back with a contented sigh.
Then, coffee mug in hand, he stepped over Marlowe and walked to the patio's edge, looking out over the city. He sipped at the cooling liquid as the day's disturbing events replayed inside his head. Mountgomery saw him in a guise he had not taken in years.
Remiel, an angel of the heavenly host Seraphim.
How he hated to be reminded of what he actually was.
The angel listened to the sounds of the city, of the night around him, knowing full well that if he so desired he could pinpoint the individual prayers of every person speaking to Heaven at that moment, but Re-miel had given up listening to the prayers of others a long, long time ago. He didn't want to be something prayed to; he wanted to be like those he walked beside and lived among everyday. Remy Chandler wanted to be human, and until today, he was doing a pretty good job.
The door buzzer squawked below, and Marlowe climbed to his feet with a bark and bolted down the stairs, gruffing and grumbling threateningly. Remy took one last look at the city, wondering how many out there had asked for favors from Heaven tonight; then returned to the table for his book and followed the dog down the three flights.
He pushed the response button on the wall in the kitchen, leaning in toward the two-way speaker.
"Yes?"
There was a bit of a pause. Then he heard the rustling of a paper bag.
"Hey. It's me. Let me in."
It was Steven Mulvehill, and it sounded like he had brought refreshments. Remy buzzed the man in and went to a cabinet for some glasses.
Marlowe watched his master with a tilted head.
"Who? Play?"
Remy pulled down two tumblers, ru
The sound of the i
"Hey, fella, how's it going?" Mulvehill thumped the dog's side with the flat of his hand as Marlowe leaned against him, as if starving for attention, his tail, of course, wagging crazily.
He straightened and strolled down the hallway to the kitchen, where he handed Remy the paper bag he was carrying. "I come bearing gifts. Make mine on the rocks, please."
Remy took the bag from his friend and removed the bottle of Seagram's whiskey. Marlowe lurked at Remy's side.
"Have?" he asked.
Remy tossed the paper bag down to the dog. "Rip it up in here. Don't get it all over the living room, okay?"
The Labrador quickly snatched up the satchel in his mouth and happily trotted into the living room.
Mulvehill laughed. "I'm always amazed by the amount of control you have over that animal."
"Marlowe does what Marlowe wants to do," Remy replied as he closed the freezer door and plunked a handful of cubes into each glass. "I can only make suggestions."
The homicide detective shook his head and looked toward the living room, where sounds of paper being torn to bits drifted out to them. "Spoken like a true pet owner," he chuckled. "Did you visit Maddie tonight? How's she doing?" the cop asked, suddenly serious.
Remy shrugged. "As good as can be expected. She wanted to know if you were coming by soon."
Mulvehill hadn't been to visit Remy's wife since she had entered the hospital more than six months earlier. He claimed he had a «thing» about hospitals, but Remy suspected it had more to do with the fact that Steven could not face the loss of a close friend in his lonely life. Even now he ignored the question, instead motioning toward the stairs that led to the roof.
"Shall we go up? I need a smoke."
Remy didn't allow his friend to smoke in the house. Madeline and Marlowe were both allergic, and besides, it left an odor on the furniture that the angel's acute senses found offensive. Mulvehill plodded up the stairs, and Remy followed close behind.
The detective took his usual seat with a grunt, and reached into his coat pocket for the first of what would likely be many cigarettes. Remy put the ice-filled glasses and the bottle down on the tabletop.
Lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, Mulvehill reached for the bottle of whiskey and cracked the seal. "Ain't a finer sound to be heard after a day like today," he offered.
Remy watched him pour the golden liquid over the ice in his glass, filling it halfway. "Should I hit you or do you want to do it yourself?" Mulvehill asked, gesturing toward his friend with the bottle.
Remy signaled with a wave of his hand for him to pour, as he sat down across from Mulvehill.
The detective offered a sinister smile. "I'm drinking with either a brave man or a stupid one."
The ice inside the glass popped and cracked as the whiskey drenched it. "Depends on what you're talking about," Remy responded as he reached for his drink.
Mulvehill set the bottle down, not bothering to screw the cap back on. He sampled his own drink with an eager gulp, and Remy could sense that something was bothering his friend.
"You sure you don't want this one too?" Remy asked, holding his glass out toward his friend. "I could get another glass and some more ice."
Mulvehill had already finished the first and was pouring a second. "Lousy day. Very long and lousy day." He finished filling his glass, avoiding Remy's eyes.
Quietly, Remy sipped his drink, allowing the alcohol to burn his throat as he swallowed. It had taken him many years to learn how to appreciate the effects of drink, but with the proper practice, he now did quite fine. Fire blossomed in the pit of his stomach as he let the whiskey enter his bloodstream and course through his body.
Marlowe came up the stairs to see what the rest of the pack was up to. He strolled over to Remy and nudged his master's hand with his snout, hoping for a pat.
"Did you make a mess with that bag in the living room?" Remy asked. "If you did, I'm afraid you'll have to go to the pound."
The dog made a pitiful sound of hurt and slunk dejectedly toward Mulvehill. The cop leaned forward in his chair to scratch behind the dog's floppy ears, as Marlowe licked his hand and the glass it held.
"Don't worry, boy," he told the dog. "You can live with me. How about that?"
Marlowe licked the man's cheek, and Remy laughed, taking another sip of his drink before setting it down.
"He'd have to go out for a walk more than once a month. Dogs are like that, you know."
Marlowe gave Remy a blistering look and laid his bulk down beside his new best friend. The animal wasn't about to forgive Remy so easily.
Mulvehill was in the midst of pouring his third drink when Remy finally decided to pick up the conversation again.
"So, your day?"
His friend was silent for a moment, stirring his drink with his finger, the melting ice tinkling happily in the tumbler. "Mountgomery and his secretary? I checked on them tonight. They're both still alive."
The angel shook his head in disbelief, reaching for the bottle. "I still don't know how that's possible."
The cop lit another cigarette before he responded. "I have a buddy at Mass General, emergency room doc. He checked them out when they came in." He took a long drag, letting the smoke plume from his nostrils and mouth as he exhaled. "Said they were fatal injuries; no way those two should still be alive. He was pretty spooked by the whole thing."
Mulvehill fell silent and stared into space. Absently, he swirled the drink around in the glass, then drained the contents. "They should be dead, but they're not."