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Remy whispered to Julia, asking the monkey to return to her master, and the creature begrudgingly complied.
“There’s my girl,” Mason cooed, more at ease now that she had returned to him.
“So can I count on you to give me a call if you should come across anything that might be of interest?” Remy asked. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a business card.
Julia squealed with excitement as Remy placed the card in her tiny hand. Holding it on either end, she proceeded to nibble its corner.
“I’ll be more than happy to keep you in mind, Remy,” Mason said, amused by his monkey’s antics. “Things of a… How shall I put this? Things of an eclectic nature have a strange habit of finding their way into my possession.”
The sudden noise was practically deafening in the small space, and they all turned toward one of the storage units.
Southie looked sheepishly in their direction, dropping to his knees to pick up the contents of the unit that had spilled out when its door had been opened.
Bones—thousands of bleached remains from every conceivable part of the human anatomy—lay upon the storage-facility floor.
Things of an eclectic nature. Mason’s last statement echoed in Remy’s ears.
It certainly did seem to be the case.
“All things considered, that went well,” Francis said as they walked to their cars.
“Let’s just see if he does as he says,” Remy commented, fishing his keys from his pocket. “If these weapons turn out to be what we think they might be, they’ll be worth an awful lot of money to someone looking to amass some serious power.”
Francis pointed his remote at the Range Rover, starting the vehicle with the push of a button.
“And if they’re actually as dangerous as legend says, things like the Pitiless in the wrong hands could be very bad news,” the Guardian said, the look on his face showing that he was weighing the consequences. “Things are already tense between the various Denizen hosts. If one of the Satans got their hands on these weapons, there’d be freakin’ war.”
Remy sighed. “Great, another war. Just what we need.”
The two angels stood silently in the parking lot, at a loss for words.
“Where to now?” Remy asked his friend.
“I was thinking of heading over to Newbury Street.”
“Have you introduced yourself yet?”
Francis shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he explained, reaching to open his car door. “I couldn’t do what you did.” The fallen angel paused. “Not sure how I would’ve survived what you’ve been through.”
Surviving, Remy thought. Was that what he was doing now?
He thought of the Throne representative, and its request for him to return to Paradise, but quickly pushed it away. He didn’t want to think of such things.
“One does what one has to,” Remy answered, not wanting to talk about it anymore.
He too went to his car, opening the door. “I’d tell you to say hi for me, but there’s really no sense in that, is there?”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Francis answered, climbing up into the Range Rover.
In the rearview, Remy watched Francis leave the lot, two quick toots from his horn, and then he was gone.
It was an odd sensation, and it surprised him, but he was actually a bit jealous over what Francis had, a level of intimacy suddenly absent from his own life.
“Look at what you’ve done to me,” Remy muttered beneath his breath, imagining he was speaking with his departed wife. “It’s a sad day when I’m jealous of Francis for anything.”
He turned the car’s engine over and reached into his pocket for his phone.
It was time to make the call.
Dialing the number, he waited through quite a few rings before the phone was picked up.
“Mr. Karnighan,” he said, putting the car in drive and leaving the parking lot. “This is Remy Chandler. I’m on my way over. I believe there are some things we need to discuss.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Remy was just about to get onto Route 128, heading north, when he got the call. It was Steven Mulvehill, and he was speaking in careful whispers.
“You might want to come over to Huntington Ave,” he said, his voice barely audible over the sounds of traffic leaking into the car.
“What’s up?” Remy asked, nearing the exit that he would need to take if he was going to continue on to Lexington.
“Let’s just say something that has Remy Chandler written all over it, and leave it at that.”
Remy didn’t take the exit, instead reversing to head back in the direction he had come. He hadn’t been too far from the address Steven had given him, and it wouldn’t take him long to get there.
Something’s come up that has Remy Chandler written all over it. Nice, he thought.
Traffic was relatively light for that time of day, and he was able to get to Huntington Ave in almost record time. Even being nearby didn’t gurantee anything in Boston traffic; this just happened to be one of the good days. Who knew, maybe it was a sign of good things to come.
Yeah, right.
He had no trouble finding the right building—the police cars, ambulance and coroner’s van a dead giveaway. Slowly, he drove by the run-down tenement building.
Finding a parking spot proved to be more difficult than the entire ride, but he finally managed, leaving his car on the next street over, and hoofing it to the building in question.
The police had put up yellow crime scene tape around the entrance, keeping the gawkers at a safe distance. Remy stood across the street with the growing crowd, searching for a familiar face.
Eventually Steven Mulvehill came through the door of the building with his partner, Rich Healey. They were talking, Mulvehill removing a pack of cigarettes from his suit coat pocket and putting one in his mouth. Healey nodded, going back inside as Mulvehill walked down the steps to the street, butt dangling from the corner of his mouth while he sca
Their eyes locked as they found each other, the detective motioning for Remy to follow. He moved through the rubberneckers, watching Mulvehill doing the same on the other side.
Remy crossed the street, navigating traffic that had slowed to a crawl to take a peek at the scene. The detective was standing out in front of McVee’s Liquors puffing on his cigarette.
“Not sure how McVee’s is for old Scotches, but maybe we can find a vintage bottle of Mad Dog.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Mulvehill said, sucking on the end of the cigarette as if it were life support. “After what I just left, being three sheets to the wind would suit me just fine.”
“What’s going on?” Remy asked.
Mulvehill dropped what remained of his cigarette, rubbing it out as he exhaled a foul-smelling cloud of smoke. “Follow me,” he said as he started back toward the building. “Oh, and do that thing you do,” he said, turning slightly and waving his hand in the air. “You know, so you can’t be seen and shit.”
It would raise a whole lot of questions for Mulvehill if Remy were to be spotted at the scene of an active investigation. Remy’s being invisible would make it easier for everyone and would give him the chance to really look around.
Remy followed close to his friend as he maneuvered through the crowds outside the crime scene tape. A beat cop lifted the tape so that Mulvehill could get under; Remy had to practically jump onto his back so that he could make it under with him.
“Do you mind?” Mulvehill spoke softly from the corner of his mouth. “You weigh a freakin’ ton; I thought angels were supposed to be as light as a feather.”
“It’s all that Scotch you’ve been making me drink,” Remy whispered from behind. “Because of you I’ll probably have my wings revoked.”