Denizens’ involvement in this would be.
“I think their Satan has an interest in the new case I’m working on,” Remy said as he tipped his glass toward his mouth, letting what remained of the ice fall into his mouth.
Mulvehill almost choked.
“Their Satan? Are you saying that their boss is the fucking Devil?”
Remy chuckled. “It’s not what you think,” he explained. “Satan is a title . . . a designation, like capo or don in the Mafia.”
“Almost gave me a heart attack,” Mulvehill said. “So their leader—their Satan, if you will—has an interest in your case?”
“It appears so,” Remy answered. “But at this point what that interest is I haven’t a clue. I suppose I should probably find out.”
Remy went for the bottle again, offering it first to Mulvehill.
“No, thanks,” the homicide cop said, placing the flat of his hand over his glass. “I think the drunk’s had about enough.”
“Suit yourself,” Remy said, splashing a bit more of the golden liquid into his glass.
Mulvehill rose from his seat and stretched. “Probably should think about getting home. For some reason it’s always harder for me to get my ass out of bed after a night of visiting with you. Wonder what that’s all about.”
Remy swished what he’d just poured around in his mouth before swallowing.
“Haven’t got a clue,” he said. “Maybe you could come by tomorrow night and we can discuss the possibilities as we finish this off?” He held out the half-empty bottle of Scotch.
“That’s a good idea,” Mulvehill said, slowly making his way toward the stairs that would take him down into Remy’s home.
Marlowe stood, gave himself a good shake and followed the homicide detective to the doorway.
“Steven,” Remy called out to his friend. He held the bottle in the crook of one arm, the two empty tumblers in his other hand.
Mulvehill turned, giving Marlowe’s black tail a playful swat as the dog passed. “What’s up?”
“Do me a favor?” Remy asked, coming to join him.
“If I can.”
“Keep your ears open,” he asked. “If you hear anything from your friends in Burglary about weapons—antique guns, knives, or swords—give me a call.”
“Antique weapons,” Mulvehill said, his eyes searching Re-my’s for more.
“Yeah, if you hear anything, think of me first, all right?”
The Boston homicide detective put an arm around his shoulder as they headed for the stairs.
“With the weird shit, you’re never far from my thoughts.”
It was like he had traveled back in time.
Except for the ringing of his cell phone.
Madeline had brought him back to her apartment, the two of them soaking wet after being caught in a sudden summer downpour. She’d commented on them looking like a couple of drowned rats before pulling him closer, kissing him hard on the mouth.
She’d said something about the two of them getting out of their wet things before they caught their death of cold. And then she’d laughed, one of the most arousing sounds he’d ever heard in his long lifetime, and started to remove their clothes.
The sound of his phone was distracting, tugging at him, pulling him from this special place in time.
It was the first time they’d made love, not even making it to her bed. They’d dropped down upon the living room floor, feeding each other’s passions their only intent.
He’d been with other humans before, more out of a perverse curiosity than anything else. If he was going to be one of them, he needed to experience everything, sampling all their wants and desires. Sexual dalliance was inevitable.
But nothing had compared to this.
She had awakened something within him, something that had become still over the centuries, deathly quiet since he’d left Heaven. She made him want to be part of something larger; she awakened his need to connect.
The feel of her body against his, the awkwardness of their attempts to satisfy a passion that grew in intensity over the passing
“I think their Satan has an interest in the new case I’m working on,” Remy said as he tipped his glass toward his mouth, letting what remained of the ice fall into his mouth.
Mulvehill almost choked.
“Their Satan? Are you saying that their boss is the fucking Devil?”
Remy chuckled. “It’s not what you think,” he explained. “Satan is a title . . . a designation, like capo or don in the Mafia.”
“Almost gave me a heart attack,” Mulvehill said. “So their leader—their Satan, if you will—has an interest in your case?”
“It appears so,” Remy answered. “But at this point what that interest is I haven’t a clue. I suppose I should probably find out.”
Remy went for the bottle again, offering it first to Mulvehill.
“No, thanks,” the homicide cop said, placing the flat of his hand over his glass. “I think the drunk’s had about enough.”
“Suit yourself,” Remy said, splashing a bit more of the golden liquid into his glass.
Mulvehill rose from his seat and stretched. “Probably should think about getting home. For some reason it’s always harder for me to get my ass out of bed after a night of visiting with you. Wonder what that’s all about.”
Remy swished what he’d just poured around in his mouth before swallowing.
“Haven’t got a clue,” he said. “Maybe you could come by tomorrow night and we can discuss the possibilities as we finish this off?” He held out the half-empty bottle of Scotch.
“That’s a good idea,” Mulvehill said, slowly making his way toward the stairs that would take him down into Remy’s home.
Marlowe stood, gave himself a good shake and followed the homicide detective to the doorway.
“Steven,” Remy called out to his friend. He held the bottle in the crook of one arm, the two empty tumblers in his other hand.
Mulvehill turned, giving Marlowe’s black tail a playful swat as the dog passed. “What’s up?”
“Do me a favor?” Remy asked, coming to join him.
“If I can.”
“Keep your ears open,” he asked. “If you hear anything from your friends in Burglary about weapons—antique guns, knives, or swords—give me a call.”
“Antique weapons,” Mulvehill said, his eyes searching Re-my’s for more.
“Yeah, if you hear anything, think of me first, all right?”
The Boston homicide detective put an arm around his shoulder as they headed for the stairs.
“With the weird shit, you’re never far from my thoughts.”
It was like he had traveled back in time.
Except for the ringing of his cell phone.
Madeline had brought him back to her apartment, the two of them soaking wet after being caught in a sudden summer downpour. She’d commented on them looking like a couple of drowned rats before pulling him closer, kissing him hard on the mouth.
She’d said something about the two of them getting out of their wet things before they caught their death of cold. And then she’d laughed, one of the most arousing sounds he’d ever heard in his long lifetime, and started to remove their clothes.
The sound of his phone was distracting, tugging at him, pulling him from this special place in time.
It was the first time they’d made love, not even making it to her bed. They’d dropped down upon the living room floor, feeding each other’s passions their only intent.
He’d been with other humans before, more out of a perverse curiosity than anything else. If he was going to be one of them, he needed to experience everything, sampling all their wants and desires. Sexual dalliance was inevitable.
But nothing had compared to this.
She had awakened something within him, something that had become still over the centuries, deathly quiet since he’d left Heaven. She made him want to be part of something larger; she awakened his need to connect.
The feel of her body against his, the awkwardness of their attempts to satisfy a passion that grew in intensity over the passing
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