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Light leaks from beneath the door where it doesn’t quite touch the floor. I watch for moving shadows to see if people are moving around and how many there might be. Nothing moves past the door. I let the angel’s senses expand.
There are voices off to my right. Seven, maybe eight. The clinks and taps of metal and glass. The whir of machines and whisper of small gas flames. That will be the lab. Off to my left, closer to the street, I get nothing. Probably offices, unoccupied at this hour. Everyone seems to be beeneems tounched up in the lab.
I say, “Keep your head down when we get inside.” Then I take her hand and we slip inside through a shadow on the wall.
Behind the door is a reception area with a desk, computer, and phone. Wrought-iron letters spell out BIO-SPECIALTIES GROUP on the wall above the receptionist’s desk. Either the company deals with a lot of amnesiacs or they really, really like the sound of their own name.
The office at the front of the building overlooking the street isn’t set up to impress, but at least it looks like the lab is a legit business. It must do everything by courier or pickup them. There’s a plain wooden desk that you’d see in any high school principal’s office, piled with receipts, schedules, and undelivered lab results. A business phone with about ninety buttons, most unlabeled. A combination fax and copy machine. In the corner is a plant with shiny green leaves. It looks like the only thing in the office the occupant cares about.
We go into the next office. Hallelujah. This one is decked out for a bank president. Dark green walls with light trim. Very Victorian. An oak desk with inlaid leather, big enough to land cargo planes. A plasma TV on one wall and a glass-fronted cabinet on the other filled with framed certificates and trophies. It’s all very nice and respectable looking and copied straight out of an executive furniture catalog, I bet. The wall to the left of the desk is why the nice office is back here and not up front with a view. This one has a window looking right into the lab.
I was right. There are eight people on the night shift. A collection of clean-cut MIT types and scruffy old-school meth cookers who have enough brain cells left to move up the food chain to the exotica market.
What’s really interesting isn’t the people but their gear. It isn’t ordinary college-surplus Bunsen burners and Dr. Frankenstein bubbling flasks. The place is decked out like a TV starship. Smooth, sexy, and at times translucent Golden Vigil gear, a collection of advanced human tech tweaked by angels recruited by Aelita, the Vigil’s psycho angel queen. The last time I saw her, she was quitting the Vigil so she could return to Heaven and, no shit, kill God, the dead-eyed neglectful dad who she thought had outlived his usefulness. Aelita might be the most vicious and craziest thing with wings I’ve ever met, but you’ve got to give her credit for ambition.
The window looking into the lab must be one-way glass because no one in there has noticed us. Candy has probably seen drug cookers and I know she’s never seen anything like Golden Vigil tech. She’s got her nose pressed against the window like it’s her first visit to the zoo.
I sit down at the desk and dial Hunahpu’s number from his office phone. That ought to get his attention. I look through the lab window, hoping Hunahpu is inside with the techs. I hear the cell ring, but none of the techs pulls out a cell phone. After the few rings, Hunahpu’s phone cuts off. No voice-mail message. Nothing. A minute later the desk phone rings. I wait. A few rings and a recorder built into the phone kicks in. An amplified voice comes through the unectrough tit’s speaker.
“Stark. Pick up. I know you’re there.”
Damn.
I pick up the receiver.
“Who is this?”
“It’s who you wanted to speak to. So speak.”
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“I know you saw Carolyn. And I know you’re the kind of persuasive person who would get her to talk about Cale. If you have my cell and are calling from my office, something tells me you found him, too. Is he dead?”
“Entirely. Have you ever been to Donut Universe? They’re open twenty-four/seven. Why don’t we meet for coffee?”
“Let’s not and say we did.”
“I’m looking at your lab.”
“Of course.”
“You’re what’s left of the Golden Vigil, aren’t you? I mean, any idiot could have bought stolen lab gear from when the Vigil closed down, but how many people would know how to use it?”
“We’re not all of the Vigil. There are other cells scattered here and there. But we all lost our dental plans and 401(k)s when the government shut us down. It was either find a way to earn a living or go on food stamps, and like you, we hate filling out paperwork. ”
I’m trying to place his accent, but there’s nothing to get hold of. It’s like he learned to speak phonetically. The Vigil or Homeland Security sent him to speech classes to erase any regional traces.
“Do I know you?” I ask.
“I saw you at the Vigil offices, but we never had any heart-to-hearts.”
The angel in my head talks to me. He’s a little Sherlock Holmes, which, I guess makes me Dr. Watson. I’m not wild about that. Better that he’s Starsky and I’m Hutch. At least I get a cool car that way.
“Why do I get the feeling that somehow Wells is involved in this? He’s coming back to L.A. and he wants his own private army. Maybe he wants to start a panic with a drug associated with hoodoo and get them to send him back.”
Hunahpu makes a sound. At first I think it’s a sneeze, but realize it’s a little laugh.
“Don’t be stupid. Wells flunked Vills fluout because he was and remains a Boy Scout. He can’t see the big picture. He doesn’t want to because it’s so big there isn’t even anyone to arrest.”
