I dragged out my phone and held up an index finger, faking a phone call. “I am so sorry. I have to take this.”
“Not at all.” He’d schooled his features again and created a steeple with his fingers, but the fact that I took a call in the middle of his break, a break I was interrupting, irked him. As it should have. Rude was a bit of an understatement, but I had to see what was up with my best—not to mention only—investigator.
“Hey, Angel. What’s going on? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
He spun around to face me again. “My job. Your uncle is a detective for the freaking police department. Do you know what that means?”
“Uncle Bob? Is everything okay?”
“It means he gets called to shootings and stabbings and child abuse cases and guys beating the fuck out of their wives. It means his job is screwed up as hell. And it means I quit.”
I eased out of the booth. “Angel, did something happen to Uncle Bob? Is he okay?”
He railed at me. “No, he’s not okay. Have you been listening?”
Alarm cinched around my throat. “You need to calm down, hon. Tell me what happened.”
After taking a few deep breaths, he finally calmed enough to explain. “He’s at a shooting. Happened early this morning at one of those breakfast places on Central.”
“Like an IHOP or a Denny’s?”
“There was a kid,” he said without answering. “Just eating eggs with his mom before he went to school. What the fuck is wrong with people?”
The moment he said kid, dread started its slow ascent up my spine like a funeral march. I had to see for myself what would upset Angel so much. “Sweetheart, where is Uncle Bob?”
“What?” He tried to gather himself. “No, not an IHOP. It’s like a breakfast place with a yellow sign. It has a sun coming up in the corner.”
“Okay, I think I know which one you mean.” I slammed a quick gulp of coffee, picked up my bag, and tossed a couple dollars onto the table. “Off Tramway, right?”
He nodded and I turned to Mr. Foster. “I am so sorry, Mr. Foster, but duty calls. I can drop by later, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.” He refolded his memo pad and stuffed it inside the pocket again. “I hope everything is okay.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
Unfortunately, mass shootings rarely meant everything was okay.
9
Everyone complains about the weather, but no one wants to sacrifice a virgin to change it.
—TRUE FACT
Although my meeting with Mr. Foster didn’t yield much in the way of information, I did get one tidbit for certain: Mr. Foster could definitely see, even if just barely, into the celestial plane. I caught him glancing toward Angel twice, and both times it had been when Angel had moved quickly. If what he could see was anything like my friend Pari, he may have seen Angel’s essence in the form of a grayish mist. Just like in the movies. Then again, he could be like Amber’s main squeeze, Quentin. Thanks to a tragic demonic possession, that kid could see the departed as clearly as I could.
I hauled butt back across town to Sunny Side Up on Central. Angel had seen a lot. He’d died over two decades ago. His reaction to this crime scene, after everything he’d witnessed, made no sense. It had to be the kid. He’d said something about a kid, proof that underneath all his bravado sat a heart of gold.
But he saw dead kids all the time. Maybe it was the shooting. Maybe it brought back memories of his own death, which was shooting related, as well, the hole in his chest surrounded by a feathering of dark crimson evidence. Evidence that he would wear every day for the rest of his existence as long as he stayed on this plane.
Was that what set him off? I’d never given much thought to how Angel handled everything he saw. He’d been with me all through high school, college, and the Peace Corps. And he’d been investigating for me since I’d opened Davidson Investigations over three years ago. He seemed to take everything in stride, but clearly there was more than met the eye. I’d have to pencil in a sit-down as soon as I could.
Until then, the crime scene was easy enough to spot. Flashing lights and yellow tape were never a good sign.
I had to park at a hotel next to the café. Then I went in search of my favorite—and only—uncle. He stood behind an ambulance, speaking to an EMT. The emergency technician nodded, shook his hand, then climbed inside the van and took off, lights blazing and sirens blaring.
Ubie turned and saw me standing with the spectators behind the tape. I was just about to wave him over when he stormed toward me.