II.
THRONE'S BURNING
—
Picture, if you will, that the throne's burning
Rome's burning, and I'm sitting in the corner all alone, burning
Why does it always end up like this?
Something that we don't determine
Why I Love You, Jay-Z
—
A faint beep warbled in the grey. Groggy thoughts swam half-heartedly in that nothingness, blinking in and out of coherency.
Again, that faint beep, a little louder this time.
The memory of a loud crash and a rain of shimmering glass. Blinding swaths of colors. Sharp pain.
The beep came again, closer.
A dull throb began to swell in the grey. Fuzzy at first but grew into an uncomfortable tightness. The beeping started to pulsate along with the pain, increasing in frequency and volume until it ripped through the nothing with its hot red claws. A sliver of bright light sliced through the tear, and Chloe could now feel the heaviness of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Her eyes fluttered open, first the left then the right, her dry lips parted to take in a shaky wheeze.
"Well, it's about time, Detective Decker."
The voice grated against the massive headache that was starting to form between her eyes. She looked over to the right side of the bed and was met with a semi-familiar shit-eating grin backdropped against a sunlit window.
"Where am I?" She croaked.
"The USC Medical Center. You've had a bit of a knock."
You're—"
A wave of nausea overtook her throat and she closed her eyes to push it down. A slew of questions started to float their way up instead, the most important being, what the fuck had happened and why did she feel like pure absolute shit. Her nostrils flared as she took in a deep breath, grounding her flighty heart, before she blinked her eyes open to address her suite mate.
"Lucifer Morningstar, yes." The chair squeaked slightly as he sat up.
"Right." Yes, Lucifer Morningstar. Lux. Mazikeen Smith. Stephen Delaney. The third unidentified body found across town, nothing more than a red mass of decomposing flesh. "You…we…were in an accident."
"I'd say that's generous but you're the detective here."
"The green sedan. It spun you out." She eyed his slightly wrinkled suit. "Looks like you came out unscathed."
Dark eyes rolled in reply. "Tell that to my torn jacket…and my car."
"How did I get here? Did you—"
"Like I said last night, 'The Devil is at your service.'" He bowed his head mockingly.
Chloe paused. "Thank you." I think.
If Mr. Morningstar had hit a sensitive nerve last night, he was edging towards a sore spot this morning. Fierce independence had been a form of armor for the detective, a coping mechanism developed early on in her life, groomed and perfected from years of being the outlier. No doubt a trait she was unintentionally passing down to her daughter Trixie, much to the chagrin of Dan.
It was pride that changed angels into devils, baby girl. The voice of Daddy Decker scolded.
What you call pride, I call resilience. She retorted to the finger-wagging part of her conscience that had taken up residence in her dead father's clothes. Was it such a character flaw to be your own support system? To provide the dependency that others seemed incapable and unwilling to provide? Again her heart turned to Dan and she violently pushed it away but the painful effects remained.
A soft cough pulled her back to the present. To the headache that was now a bass drum and to the man who was now regarding her with bemusement.
"Yes, well, it's what humans do, isn't it? Civic duty?"
Odd. So odd. "How long have I been here?"
"Since last night." He pointed a finger to her forehead. "The nurses did a bit of seamstress work but you seem to be in good working order otherwise."
A shaky hand brushed near her hairline and she could feel a twinge of heat shoot up from the wad of gauze. A brief panic rose in her chest as she wondered if it would leave a scar. The Daddy Decker voice threatened to speak out again about vanity but she quickly stomped it down before it could materialize.
"Speaking of civic duty: where and when do we start looking for the lowlife who murdered Maze?"
"We? No, Mr. Morningstar, I just need you to come down to the precinct for a positive ID and a statement. The LAPD will take it from there." The pulsating behind her forehead increased and she eyed the tendrils of tubes weaving their way across her bed to figure out if there was one hooked up to a painkiller. Even a little Tramadol would do just fine.
Lucifer snorted. "I think we've been through this before; I don't trust the LAPD to find their own asses in a line-up. Besides, my life may be in danger for all we know given last night's bout of bumper cars, wouldn't you say?"
"Do you have any reason to believe that someone would want to harm you? Someone who didn't want you talking to the police?"
He sat back in a huff. "Well, where do we start? I work in an industry where seediness and hedonism are encouraged. Doesn't quite attract the angels of the daylight."
"How about more recently? Someone who would possibly want to seek retribution or even just your attention? Angry ex, maybe? Jilted business associates?" Chloe glanced over at the wall and tried to find the call button. The time to re-up her pain meds was soon approaching and she could hardly focus on anything else. There, above her pillow, she saw the small white box and reached to push the button.
Lucifer got up and stood over her bedside, his hand quickly covering the box before she could reach it. "I'm sorry Detective, am I annoying you with my questions about trying to find someone who committed murder? Is this not an interesting enough conversation for you? Shall I ring the nurse so you can have a nice cuppa instead?"
The detective snatched her hand away from the wall and gave him a scowl. Lucifer smiled. There was that flash of animal-like ferocity he saw in her last night. The one that ignited his own longing for retribution and justice against those who would dare to steal from the Devil. Yes, there was something inside this little detective that mirrored his own desires outside of the physical. What other dark things lived there?
"You told me last night that you wanted to find this murderer and make him pay. Has that changed since then? Do you no longer desire to seek justice?"
The reprimanded hand clung to her chest, twisting the hospital gown like wrapping paper. "I do." Her eyes narrowed. "That hasn't changed."
A smile spread across his face. "Good, yes. Your sense of justice is commendable, Detective. Is that why you became a cop? Is your desire for justice what made you put on that badge?" The internal switch flicked up, a precursor to him at his utmost charming, his utmost convincing. It seemed unethical to contort her to his will during a moment of weakness but his curiosity pushed him forward.
Her face softened slightly, the steely lines giving way to gentle curves: an upturn of the lips, her furrowed brows relaxing into their natural arches. There is the sudden opening of a greenhouse door—humid, green and glimmering with prisms of sun and oxygen. Dazed eyes find his own; he leans forward to meet her gaze, ready to lap up her answers. To get his prize.
"M-my father was a police officer and he was killed in the line of duty ten years ago. I think that was the day I decided to put acting behind me so that I could continue his pledge to protect this city and restore justice to those who have lost more than just their lives. And I pledge to continue to protect this city from those who exist to break down order. I will continue to protect this city…from… well, whatever awful schtick this is supposed to be." Her gaze solidified again, the humid air between them sucking back into the metal of her face.
Lucifer lurched back. How did this slip of a woman keep slithering out of his grasp? Reaching behind him, he flopped into the hospital chair. "Yes, apologies, Detective Decker. I—I seem to be a little out of sorts."
The furrow had reclaimed its rightful place between her brows, all previous evidence of gentleness locked away behind the iron safe. The wrinkles that formed between those brows even looking a little like a keyhole but he had an inkling that no one on this mortal realm currently possessed the tools to unlock whatever she was protecting underneath. He met her gaze and was amused to see she was studying him as closely as he was studying her.
After a few moments her shoulders relaxed as if accepting his apology. "Well, grief has a way of twisting us into caricatures of ourselves. You lost someone who sounded like a friend. You're angry and you want answers, that's understandable. I want to catch this person just as badly as you do, Mr. Morningstar."
"So, how exactly do you go about doing that? This—" he gestures vaguely to her, "this detective-ing?"
Well, Mr. Morningstar—"
"Please, Lucifer will do just fine."
"Well, it's kind of like solving a puzzle. The pieces are shaken out of a box and sort of thrown all over the table." She used her hands to mimic her words. "It's my job to study each of those pieces and figure out how they all fit together: gather information, corroborate evidence, find patterns. Mr. Morningstar—"
"Lucifer."
"I can assure you that we're taking this case seriously and with urgency. Regardless of your thoughts on the LAPD, if someone is out to hurt you or any of the other employees at Lux, I'm going to do everything in my power to stop that from happening."
A brief pause. "I believe you, Detective. So, where do I fit in?"
She thinks, the tip of her tongue absently running along a cut on her lip, the glisten it leaves behind catching in the beam of yellow light from the window. It highlights skin that falls ashen but still youthful, her eyelashes flickering over serious blue eyes as they search the scratchy hospital bedsheets for a clue. Hands nervously pinching at the fabric—a subconscious adaptation to stress she had picked up from years of pensive thoughts as an anxious child.
"Well, for starters, what kind of relationship did you have with Stephen Delaney?"
Lucifer sat back in his seat, his long legs crossing over each other as he rested his folded hands on a knee. "I never said I did, Detective. But I'd wager that he probably came in to make a deal with the Devil. A lot of people do."
Chloe raised an eyebrow. "What kind of deal?"
"Nothing nefarious or illegal, I assure you."
"Right. So a 'deal with the Devil'. Did he have to, what, give you his soul?" She couldn't help the irritation that crept in her voice. Dad said that metaphors were a lazy man's tool to cope with reality and she didn't much care to wade through wordplay right now. The space behind her head was still pounding and she wanted to close her eyes and pump a few extra drops of morphine into her arm, in silence.
A look of distaste passed across his face. "Oh, dear, no. I have no use for souls up here." He waved his fingers. "No, I simply make connections or move some things around for people to be able to actualize their deepest desires. An introduction here, a phone call there, everything over the table, all sanctioned in the eyes of the LAPD."
"Well, I still think you should come down to the station so I can take an official statement from you. With the resources available at the precinct, we can draw a better connection between Delaney and Maze."
"I would say you're in no condition to be taking official statements right now." Another of his sly smiles crept at the corner of his mouth. "Although there may be a few other things I'd be officially willing for you to take."
She replied with an annoyed stare. "Listen, Mister Mor—Lucifer. If we intend to figure out who murdered Maze and possibly wants to hurt you, we need to follow protocol and do everything by the book. This isn't a television show, this is real life, boring bits and all. We catch this person by following the evidence, we seek justice by following the law."
His face brightened. "Detective." He leaned in a little further. "I do believe we are finally speaking the same language. Like I've said before, whatever you need from me. From Lux. It's all yours. Let justice be served."
Chloe could have sworn he had almost sang that last part and something damp dropped into the pit of her stomach. She tracked his face for answers. For clarity. What dark intentions lied waiting underneath the expensive suit? What distasteful secrets would cloud to the surface once they started digging into Lucifer Morningstar and this Devil persona he occupied? Her gaze fell once again on his eyes—obsidian and cold—meeting hers with an equal amount of curiosity and amusement.
And something else, right? She pushed the thought away but not before it lightly plucked a chasmic part of her baser instincts. Yes, she saw something else there too. Desire. Lust. A carnal playfulness. She lowered her eyes, slightly embarrassed. Head injury or no, she was mindful enough to recognize that Lucifer Morningstar was an attractive man. Don't mind the fact that you haven't had a good fuck in what feels like forever.
The low chuckle confirmed he had seen some of that something else reflected back.
"Well, Detective Decker, looks like you and I have got some work to do."
—
"Jesus Christ, Chloe!"
The blonde snapped her head from the book she was half-heartedly skimming to see Dan and Ella rush into the room.
"Oh my God, I'm so glad you're okay." The dark-haired technician folded her small frame around Chloe's shoulders, affording her a wince. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just got so overwhelmed seeing you in that bed." Pinpricks of water danced in her large eyes. "Are you all right?"
Chloe nodded and gave a wane smile. "Yeah. I think the nurses gave me a dose of the good stuff so I'm feeling better." She turned to Dan and he reached out to grab her hand. "It's good to see you both."
"I'm…we were…", he gave an apologetic look, "we're just glad to see you're up. We came as soon as the nurses called."
"Did you bring the files I asked for?"
Dan held out a small stack of manila folders in his other hand. "Yeah, although I don't think you should be working on anything right now except getting better."
"I'm fine, Dan. Really." She took the files from his hands.
He opened his mouth as if to argue but shook his head. He didn't want to get into a fight, not while she looked so fucking small under the swath of hospital bedding, not with Ella in the room. Not ever again. He had closed that door to his life when the divorce papers had been signed and he wasn't interested in reliving the grayer parts of their marriage. History had a way of disguising those familiar patterns as comforts. Ones he no longer wanted to carry into his new life as a single dad.
"What're we looking at, Chloe?" Ella sat at the foot of the bed and peered over the top of the folder.
"I asked Dan to bring any files related to Lucifer Morningstar."
"The hunky club owner?"
Dan scoffed. "I mean, he's not that hunky."
"Uh, hello." Ella pointed a finger to the black and white photo paper-clipped to the corner of the page and shot him a raised eyebrow.
The face staring back showed Lucifer Morningstar with slightly disheveled hair, radiating boyish mischief even though he wasn't smiling in the picture.
Still handsome though, even in a goddamn mugshot. God truly blesses the wicked.
He had a surprisingly clean record for a millionaire playboy turned nightclub owner—minor offenses for vandalism, trespassing, indecent exposure—all in one night, maybe? A timid smirk crept along her lips. Guys like Morningstar were fairly commonplace in Los Angeles: good looking, charming and utterly in love with themselves. Or their money. Most likely both if fortune favored their already beautiful faces. All his audits and licenses were current and blemish-free. No outstanding complaints or infractions since he bought the club almost four years ago.
Chloe paged through the other leaflets. "Is this all? Nothing else on record?"
"That was it." He bent the front of the folder toward him to get a better look. "Was there something you were hoping to find?"
"I don't know. I'm just trying to figure out if last night's incident had something to do with our investigation. Maybe there's a connection that links Morningstar and Smith to Delaney." She picked at the scab forming on her bottom lip until she could taste the metallic tinge of blood. "It seems like too much of a coincidence that Mazikeen Smith, a Lux employee, was found murdered and that same night the owner of the club is ran off the road."
"So what are we trying to figure out? If he's a suspect, a witness, a target?" Her ex-husband frowned down at the picture.
"I don't think he's a suspect. At least, he doesn't give us any reason to believe he's the one who murdered Mazikeen. Doesn't fit the profile."
"Tell that to American Psycho's Patrick Bateman." Ella shrugged. "Hey, I'm just saying."
"I mean, other than the fact it seems as though he just…materialized in LA five years ago, there isn't anything in particular that points him out as a suspect." Chloe's mind flashed to the looming figure that towered over her last night, eyes of sulfur and brimstone, poking the tender flesh of her pride. The swirl of heat. Anger. Crawling flesh of a mask worn too tight.
Tiny goosebumps danced up her forearms. Memories from last night were muddled and intermingled with pinpricks of glass and the crunch of metal. The acrid bite of the seatbelt as it left a deep blemish of purple across her left breast, a memento of her frailty that would follow her for the next four weeks. Much later, lithe fingers will brush against this bruise, following its edges, reading its story; the owner of these gentle hands will place a kiss against it before folding her body into his arms. In the future, the bruise will be able to share its history but today, it remains a secret only to Chloe Decker.
Dan took the top sheaf of paper. "Still, no records pre-dating the last five years, official or otherwise. No name change paperwork, no other hits outside of Los Angeles…I mean, that's just weird, right?"
"Well, lets see what digital tracks we can dig up on this guy." Ella pulled out her phone. "Seems like there's no social media presence, like, at all. Not even so much as a disabled Facebook profile." She swiped the screen. "Although there are quite a few local articles from the past few years. Like, this one."
Chloe and Dan huddled over Ella's phone as she zoomed in on a grainy photo of Lucifer Morningstar and a beautiful brunette leaving a nightclub together. The picture was dated from three years ago.
Ella swiped the screen again and now an older looking black and white photo showed Lucifer sitting at a piano, a forgotten cigarette burning away in an ashtray. This one was captioned as Who is Lucifer Morningstar? Inside the hottest club of the year. Chloe clicked the article link.
Sunset Boulevard has a new hotspot serving up posh cocktails, Balearic beats and one of the best dressed men in L.A., Lucifer Morningstar. We caught up with him at his high-end nightclub, Lux, to get to know the man behind the velvet ropes. From the moment one steps through those brass doors, you are transported to the bygone era of flapper girls, three-piece suits and free-flowing Gin Rickeys. The details matter here and Lucifer Morningstar wants you to pay attention.
Born of affluent parents from way up North, Lucifer moved to Los Angeles last year on a whim, hoping to find a renewed sense of freedom and inspiration. He was introduced to California's real estate mogul, Dean Cooper, at a who's-who Halloween party and the two struck a deal that would set important groundwork for the birth of Lux.
"I wanted to create a place that called back to my favorite memories on Earth: sitting behind the keys, a gorgeous lady perched on the Steinway. The thick smell of cigarettes and bootleg gin in the air as we all danced and sang until the grey morning shone through the basement windows. We'd be sweaty and drunk and in complete disarray, just giving in to the little world we created for a few hours a night."
"What a weirdo." Dan rolled his eyes.
"What a babe." Again, Ella zoomed in on the picture embedded next to the article. " I mean, yeah, he's a tad overdramatic and probably an egomaniac but this face could one hundred percent get away with murder."
"Dean Cooper. Didn't he pass away a few months ago?" Chloe typed the name into the search bar.
"Oh shit, yeah." Ella clicked the first populated link. "Over the winter. Unreleased causes."
Dan knit his brows. "So what? Do you think that the murders may have something to do with Dean Cooper? What's the link?"
"Oh yeah, I remember reading something about his kids fighting over some of his property." Ella snatched the phone from Chloe's hand. "Yeah, they were arguing over a bunch of buildings along Sunset, I think." The technician's eyes shone as she showed the two detectives a tabloid article titled Cooper Kids are Not Cooperating.
Dan snickered at the headline. "It's a tabloid, Ella. They're not exactly known to be reputable sources of information. It's just dumb gossip that bored housewives read while waiting for their groceries to get scanned."
The two women exchanged a glance. Chloe vaguely remembered reading that article while waiting for her own groceries to make their way down a conveyor belt. The eldest Cooper son and daughter were in the midst of a legal battle over a few prominent buildings throughout Los Angeles and Silver Oaks. Their father had promised each of them—son says on the deathbed, daughter says in a secret meeting—historical landmark properties in the company's portfolio but apparently had omitted them from his will.
"Do you think the building currently occupied by Lux is part of that acquisition?" Ella asked.
"If it is, it could be the crumb that leads to something bigger."
Dan sighed. "Or it could lead to nothing. There's no link to corroborate that the Coopers have anything to do with the murders. We have to follow the thread where we find it and right now that's in figuring out how Lux and Mazikeen Smith are linked to Delaney." He placed a heavy hand on Chloe's shoulder. "I know you like to cast your net wide but this serial killer is moving fast and we don't have the luxury of chasing aimless theories. I'm sorry."
A knot started to form in the space below her ribs, a hollowness she had come to recognize as what she called her detective's eye. Some would call it intuition, honed from years of repetition and practice, but this had always felt different. It braced up against all aspects of Chloe's analytical brain. It defied her practicality, bordering on the spiritual, a lonely certainty and unshakable resolve. She had felt it deeply during the years she dedicated to the Palmetto case, the marrow that solidified her identity as a dissenter to the others in the precinct. The linchpin so many had awaited to justify her casting out from the fraternal order of semi-precious justice rooted in antiquated hierarchy. It had been the tear that eventually ripped her marriage apart, that nagging detective's eye, so relentless about its conviction, its ability to hold her hostage. Today it had returned, as it had many years ago, punching down Dan's reasonable request to pull the threads they currently held.
His tanned face wavered. "You're doing that…thing."
"What thing?"
"You've already made up your mind."
She shrugged. "I just…I have a feeling."
A rough hand passed over his chin and he let out a breath of air. "You're the lead on this, Chlo. I—I'll do whatever you think is right."
Ella shifted at the foot of the bed. "Where do we start?"
—
Two long days had passed since Chloe was released from the hospital, most of it spent in a haze of sleep, percocets and sporadic nights awake to comb through her notes. Trixie was still staying at Dan's while she recovered. As much as she loved that kid, she was grateful for the silence that blanketed her recovery. Still, by the second night she was beginning to feel the familiar cramp of restlessness.
"I still think you should take a few more days to rest." Her ex-husband shot her an exasperated look, clearing a few half-drank coffee cups off of his desk into the waste bin.
"I feel great. Promise." She raised her hand in a scout's honor. The low hum of conversation, the soft ding of the elevator down the hall, the ever-present smell of coffee and sugar…yes, she actually did feel great. Better, at least.
A twitch touched the side of his face but he didn't press further. He handed her a stack of stapled pages. "So I did a little digging on Dean Cooper."
Chloe's demeanor softened. As hardheaded as Dan could be most of the time, he never wavered in his dedication to support her when the time came. That had been an aspect of their partnership she would miss in her personal life. Dan the Tether, Dan the Security Net, Dan the Woody to her Space Cowboy from that one kid's movie that consumed Trixie's life—and in turn, all of their lives—for an entire summer. Like daughter, like mother.
"Anything interesting?"
"I'd say there isn't a part of their life that isn't interesting. It's like that trashy reality show you're always watching, Housewives-something-or-the-other." He smiled. "You still keeping up with that?"
The question brought a flush to her cheeks. Not from embarrassment but because it had felt so personal. A past personal. A little bit of that being known and being loved.
"Anyway, Room Five is setup whenever you're ready. Ella should be there already." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and walked off with the wastebasket in his hands.
Room Five sat at the far end of the precinct, a weaving trek through jammed chairs and towers of papers stacked next to desks already piled high with collages of green folders, discarded napkins and note pads. It was one of the older rooms, which meant no air conditioning vents and the fluorescent lights gave off a dingy yellow glow, but Chloe and Dan had solved some of their biggest cases in that room; there was history here. Cops don't generally come across as a superstitious bunch but Chloe knew there were certain rituals that even the most practical officer didn't question. For the two detectives, that was Room Five. It was a part of their lucky gear.
Ella greeted her with a bright smile. "You're back! Early!" She threw her arms open. Chloe gave in to the embrace apprehensively. Regardless of the progressive state of California, outward shows of affection were still met with eyerolls from the older generation of law enforcement.
"Yeah, I'm excited to be back. I heard you and Dan have been making progress on the case." She eyed the cork board tacked with photos. "What have you found?"
The scientist clapped her hands together. "Oh my gosh, so much. Look at this autopsy report from Mazikeen Smith." Ella dug through a sheaf of papers and brought out a legal sized page. "So remember the puncture wound at the base of her skull? Well, I had originally thought the cause of death was from a blow to the back of the head from a sharp object but here…", she pointed to a line, "it shows that a round, sharp object was inserted into the craniovertebral junction."
Chloe raised an eyebrow. "I don't understand. What am I missing?"
"It was inserted, Chloe. Not forced, not stabbed but carefully and surgically inserted."
"While she was still alive?"
Ella thought for a moment. "There was no sign of hemorrhaging or trauma around the wound so she didn't put up a fight when it happened…but, she couldn't have been…I mean, who would just allow someone to murder them?"
"And you said the strangulation happened afterwards. That wasn't the cause of death? Maybe he choked her to death and then…", she motioned a downward fist.
"No, her eyes were clear when we found her. The strangulation happened after she was poked like a Capri-Sun."
"And the bite marks?"
"Not attack wounds. May be a dominance ritual or sexual compulsion." Ella shrugged. "That's a little out of my wheelhouse. I stick to the physical evidence."
"What about Steven Delaney? How does this stack up against Mazikeen Smith's murder?" She took the papers from Ella and glanced through the typed up medical examiner's report.
"Okay, so here's where it gets weird. Same MO: strangulation, bite marks underneath. If you look closely the ligature markings are very similar." She took two photos and held them next to each other. "See? Possibly from the same weapon, I'm guessing a belt. Same with the bite marks. The forensic odontologist is still working on the impressions, but I'd wager that they're also a match. The stab wound on the other hand…", she held up another pair of photos, "these were made by two different items and not particularly used the same way either. The one in the Delaney murder was most likely a small knife which was used to stab closer to his vertebral vein; we found trauma fractures around the opening."
"So maybe the killer had different motives to kill each of them? Or he's just getting cleaner?" The thought knotted Chloe's stomach.
"Once again, I'm more of the physical evidence gal. I'd be interested to hear what you or Dan have to say in terms of profile and motive. However, I can say with fair certainty that it's the same killer for both Delaney and Smith. I'd venture to say that woman's body found in Rancho is gonna match up too."
Chloe looked down at the sheaf of papers Dan had handed to her. "And what about Dean Cooper?"
"Okay, so, this guy owned a lot of property. Like, a lot." Ella motioned to two piles of documents—public records and acquisitions of Cooper's company portfolio. "All the big buildings in Los Angeles fall under his hands but that's nothing most of the general public doesn't already know."
"Lux?" The detective palmed a few of the pages in her hands.
"As we know, that building is under Cooper's company. Dean Cooper's actual signature is on the lease. Like, that's how well-connected this Lucifer guy is."
"Okay, and now? Who is taking control over that property?"
"Well, that's the thing, right? For someone who annotated and documented nearly everything in his life, that strip of Sunset has no paper trail in either his will or his lease addendums."
"Maybe they were stolen or tampered with?"
"Or…there's something that the Coopers aren't telling—"
A loud knock. Terry, one of the newer officers, poked her head in. "Um, Detective Decker, there's some sort of commotion near your desk."
Without answering, Chloe jogged back towards the front of the station, Ella closely following behind. There, propped against the corner of her desk, was Lucifer Morningstar. He was playfully handling a pair of handcuffs while talking with two other officers, their laughter carrying down the haphazard aisles of cluttered office furniture. One of the uniforms offered up her wrist to which he clacked the metal clasp, giving it a gentle tug.
"Mr. Morningstar?" Chloe eyed the handcuffs and shot a disapproving look to the woman wearing them. "No one told me you were here. Did you check in at the front desk?"
"Good to see you up and about, Detective. I hadn't heard from you for a few days so I thought I'd pop in to see how you were doing." He gave another yank on the handcuff, the other end dangling from his closed palm. "Officer Jaime and Officer Kayla were nice enough to escort me to your desk." The two women giggled softly but didn't turn to regard Chloe, their gaze fixated on Lucifer.
Chloe took a shuffling step between them and flickered her head. "Thank you, officers. You can go now." She crossed her arms as they slowly broke away.
"No need to get testy, Detective." He addressed her frown. "Are they not giving you enough of the good painkillers? I can get you settled nicely with a few Fentanyl patches if you're feeling particularly grumpy."
"I'm going to ignore the fact that you just offered illegal prescription drugs to an officer. What are you doing here?"
He gave an exasperated gasp. "You told me to come down to the station so you could get an official statement."
"I assumed you understood that meant with an appointment. Next time I would appreciate a call so we can schedule—"
"I did. Check your mobile."
Flustered, she pulled her cell from a back pocket and opened a text from an unknown number. A series of photos popped onto her screen, one of which showed Lucifer sitting on her desk, Officers Jaime and Kayla half out of frame, leaning on each knee.
He gazed over her shoulder and pointed at another photo. "I particularly like this one, although they subsequently get a little more risqué as you scroll down."
"This is—", she batted his hand away from her screen, "—extremely inappropriate. And unprofessional." The phone slipped back into her pocket. "Mr. Morningstar, you can't just…"
He brushed past her. "Hello. And who is this lovely doe-eyed creature?"
Ella blushed and stuck out a hand. "Hi, I'm Ella Lopez. Forensic Scientist. And you're ridiculously handsome."
"Oh, brains and beauty." He took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze.
Rolling her eyes, Chloe again stepped between the two parties and stared up at Lucifer. "Mr. Morningstar, please." A few surrounding officers turned at the sound of her voice, affording her one or two questioning eyebrows.
Two days. Goddamn two days away and she had dropped rank in the social hierarchy of the station yet again. Not only had she totaled a squad car but now here was an unruly witness who happened to be involved in a high-profile serial murder case. One that a few of the veteran detectives felt she didn't deserve to lead.
Real or imagined, their stares felt hot against her skin. They were the eyes of her father. They were the eyes of her ex-husband. They were the eyes of everyone who whispered that she only made detective because she had opened her legs to the right people.
Lucifer regarded her steely grimace and pulled back. As much as he enjoyed stoking the little fire that burned under the Detective, he didn't want to incite her rage. He still needed her to help him figure out an annoying problem of his own. He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Apologies, Detective. You're right, next time I'll make sure to call ahead. Here on out I'm completely in your hands."
She stared at him for another beat before letting out a breath. "I can take your statement in the interview room." Turning to Ella as she grabbed a stack of folders, "Can you let Dan know?" The technician nodded, giving Lucifer one more etch of a smile before heading to the front desk.
Chloe led him to an empty room across the main hall, clicking the door shut behind them. Motioning to a steel chair, she sat across from him and opened the top file. "Lets start at the beginning."
They were halfway through the documentation when Dan walked in. He bristled at Lucifer's loose demeanor and smug expression. Another rich asshole, what a surprise.
"This is Detective Espinoza." Chloe motioned to him without looking, her eyes still on the paper as she wrote some notes. "Espinoza, this is Lucifer Morningstar."
Dan threw him a curt nod as he perched his thigh on the silver tabletop. Dark eyes regarded him back with tepid amusement before swinging back to the blonde.
"Yes, well, as I was saying, that's when I checked you into the hospital. Stayed the night, as a matter of fact."
Another rash of heat shot up Dan's back but he bit his lip.
"Surprised no one came to make sure you were all right. Watch over you." Lucifer prodded.
The rash spread to Dan's chest and churned violently.
"Anyone in your life you'd like me to call next time, Detective? Husband? Boyfriend? Partner?"
Dan shot up from the edge of the table, kicking the legs a few inches to the left. Papers shifted uneasily. "We're not here to talk about Chl—Detective Decker. We're here to find out who you pissed off enough to put your safety and her's in danger."
"Dan." Chloe raised her right hand. Their eyes met briefly in a wordless exchange before he finally contracted his chest.
"Bullshit." He mumbled.
Chloe suppressed a tide of aggravation and turned her attention back to Lucifer, giving Dan a few moments to cool down. Again, her thoughts turned to the night she had met Mr. Morningstar. How she had internally bemoaned putting in emotional overtime for the hodgepodge group of men assembled in the club penthouse. How Dan would have had the room under control simply because he possessed a dick, but seeing the two of them now, magnetizing the air, she wasn't so sure. "Mr. Morningstar, you had mentioned that morning in the hospital there were potential persons of interest who would seek harm against you or Lux. Would you care to elaborate?"
Lucifer reached under the lapel of his suit coat and pulled out a pack of Gitanes followed by a sleek silver lighter. The kind that had the long cylindrical spark wheel embedded into the side. It gleaned under the interview room lights, thin and delicate between his fingers as he flicked it open.
"Mr. Mor—Lucifer. You can't smoke in here."
He paused, the filter of a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the flame still aglow. He closed the lighter with a practiced hand and slid it back into his jacket. "Right. There was a time when you could smoke just about anywhere, you know?" The unlit cigarette made its way onto the tabletop. "Aside from the usual miscreants that are attracted to late nights of liquor and loose inhibitions, I've had a few bad run-ins with the local syndicates but nothing unmanageable. Then there's the typical drama of other club owners and managers…nasty bunch, really." He shrugged. "A lot of the staff has grey areas in their past. Or present. Tensions run high."
"That doesn't bother you?"
"Why should it? My job isn't to pass judgement, Dad has that on lock. I'm simply the karmic executive producer."
"Because you're the Devil." She looked up from the notebook.
"Right."
Dan spun. "What the fuck?"
Chloe raised her hand again. "But doesn't the Devil tempt humans into committing sins? You know, the embodiment of evil and destruction and everything?"
His face twisted. "Is that what you believe, Detective?"
"I don't believe in the Devil or God or angels or demons…it's no different than my disbelief in werewolves and zombies. I believe in facts, evidence and due process. I think people who use religion as an excuse to commit crimes are people who aren't able to take accountability into their own hands."
"Where were you when I was giving that pep talk to Hernán Cortés." He flicked the butt of the cigarette and watched it list under an uneven spread of yellow folders. One point he learned early on was that humans had a narrow capacity to see beyond the choices of "good" and "evil". His Dad had found a fruitful carrot to dangle beyond the donkey of humanity. The Devil had fought and argued with man for centuries, attempting to plead his case, find understanding and perhaps acceptance. He had no interest in being the Prince of Demons, the Great Dragon, the Roaring Lion, the pitchfork-and-horns serpent that supposedly brought original sin upon the world. Did man not understand that Lucifer himself was nothing but an unwilling participant in God's plan? That the Heavenly Father had painted a caricature of evil, a scapegoat, for Lucifer to don as his eternal punishment? So why not just give in to all of his distracting vices if there was no room to prove otherwise. Humanity had a way of callousing one's heart, Lucifer was no exception.
"Can I setup a time this week to come by and check your employee logs and your security footage? I'll need to speak with anyone who had regular interactions with Mazikeen Smith. Also, the SOCO team will need access to her apartment for a few days."
"Does this mean I'll be seeing a lot more of you, Detective?" A smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
Dan took two steps towards Lucifer, his face reddening. "Listen buddy, you better cut it out with that creep shit."
The smirk didn't waver. "What's wrong, Detective Douche? Touchy subject?"
A hand shot out and slapped against the tabletop, Dan's body careening forward, inches away from Lucifer's face. "Fucking drop it with that cutesie playboy bullshit. No one here has the time to help you live out your Don Draper fantasies as an insecure womanizer. Dudes like you are a waste of time and tax dollars."
Lucifer also leaned forward, meeting the detective's intense gaze. "Yes, we are aren't we? That's what brash ego-centric cops like you always think, hm? So proud to wield that badge because you were bullied all throughout your childhood, most likely because you were an annoying, snot-bubbled prannit that hid behind the school marm's skirts after a bout of tattling. Is that it, Dan? Is that why you became a cop? Is that what you wanted out of life?"
A waver came over Dan's face like a billowing flag. His cheeks released some of their vigor as his snarl unfurled into a limp grimace. "No. I—I want to…", his eyes softened, "I wanted to be…a famous performer at Second City."
Lucifer leaned back triumphantly. "Well, there you go." He raised an eyebrow at Chloe. "You look surprised. Didn't take Detective Douche as an improv kind of guy?"
Espinoza took a dazed step backwards, a dry click emitting from his throat. He looked at Lucifer in a mixture of embarrassment and confusion. "How did you…" Another step back. "I've never told anyone that."
The chair let out an indignant screech as Chloe shot up from her seat, grabbing Dan by the arm and leading him out of the room. "I'll be in touch, Mr. Morningstar." Her ex-husband stumbled through the door, his eyes wide. Lucifer followed suit. She stopped him with a hand to his shoulder, her face firm yet touched with amusement. "Mr. Morningstar…what was that?" She nodded her head towards the room. "How did you…you know, do that?"
He glanced at the hand still on his shoulder. Light. Small. Too precious of hands for a calloused detective. "Haven't you heard? The Devil has many persuasions."
—
The muffled pulse of deep bass drifted through the window of the rental car as Chloe reached into the paper bag to pull out a limp french fry. It squelched warm grease onto her tongue and her hand drifted back into the crinkly mess of parchment paper, foil and food. The unfamiliar car seat shifted under her sore ass as she sunk deeper into the hard leather. Captain McMullen, of the big belly and unruly shock-top of red hair, had been sympathetic to Chloe's recent car accident but had balked when asked for another cruiser. He had mumbled about tight budgets and limited resources, that her lack of a working partner made it difficult to allocate equipment. Paired officers had to take priority. He had offered a rental car in the meantime, a faded champagne sedan that whinnied when driven uphill. Her metamorphosis into a middle-aged suburban mom was beginning to take shape. Live, laugh, love, baby girl.
There was no logical reason for her to be parked across the street from Lux on a Thursday night. A few hours ago she had been sprawled out on her couch (mother's couch), feet tucked under a pile of decorative pillows as the tv spun out a nature documentary. Half a glass of wine bobbed happily against her knee. Trixie had asked to spend the night at a friend's house, a re-occurring request since the divorce was finalized, and the house was awash in silence. A field mouse scurried through tall yellowing grass as a placating British voice narrated its harrowing journey back to the nest. The voice drove her thoughts to her own harrowing journey of navigating a murder investigation while trying to keep her personal affairs from tumbling out of control. She had spent the past few days coordinating and interviewing Steven Delaney's outer circle of acquaintances, most of them from the consulting firm where he had worked as a researcher. They were still awaiting chemical toxicology and trace evidence DNA analysis to pull through from the state, a long process given the huge uptick of homicides around the summer holidays.
Dan had been abnormally quiet since their interview with Lucifer Morningstar, his eyes shifting away from hers whenever she approached his desk. She understood his embarrassment; he wasn't the type of person to partake in what he called "theater kid shit". The phrase had stung her whenever he used it. As someone who was an avid theater kid herself—a passion that led her to pursue acting in her younger years—it felt pointed. Dan had treated it as a joke whenever her smile would droop at the mention, citing that was her past life, old news, doll. As if she were unzipping herself from a body that no longer served a purpose. A version that no longer existed because she finally became something. A wife, a mother, a cop. The chrysalis of her single actress days had been shed, the phrase whispered, she no longer had to be the shitty theater kid.
Her thoughts had pulled her from the safety of the couch. Had put on a pair of faded white sneakers that had pushed the gas pedal of a nondescript rental car across the street from the brightly lit club. The clock had cycled through two hours before she had walked down the street to a greasy burger joint, the bag now saturated with discards and lukewarm fries.
The crowd was thinner than last time, no longer snaking around the block towards the blackened hills near Santa Clarita. There was a looser demeanor to the people waiting outside too, smoking cigarettes and chatting with each other. The same bouncer from last week stood guard, staring vacantly at his clipboard.
The Detective was unsure why she had taken the twenty minute drive out to the Strip. The forensics team had started their secondary deep search through Ms. Smith's living area inside the penthouse without a hitch. She had already set aside time next week to stop by Lux's offices to comb through their personnel files. Everything was aligned and working smoothly on this end, so why did a creeping uncertainty permeate her judgement at the mention of Mazikeen Smith or Lucifer Morningstar? The mental image of standing on a rug with a hidden trap door, its tight lips gaping wide as it swallowed her into a darkness filled with the unimaginable, played over and over as she bit into another soggy french fry.
A soft tap on her passenger window. She turned to see the boyish face of Michael Definitely-Not-Morningstar-But-Demiurgos-Please-And-Thank-You. He opened the door partway, setting off the inside roof lights. "Hi Detective Decker, mind if I sit with you for a bit?"
Nodding, she balled up the splotchy paper bag and shoved it into the center console. He dipped into the seat, trailing the scent of soap and aftershave as he shut the door and the car gradually darkened again.
"I'm surprised to see you here. I thought Lucifer wasn't expecting you until next week."
"I'm surprised to see me here too." She let out a wavering breath. "Not sure what I was hoping to find."
"Is something wrong? Are you, um, staking someone out?" His eyes shifted around the street trying to spot anything amiss.
"I—I don't know. I feel like I'm missing something."
"Company, perhaps?" He gave her a lopsided grin.
She returned the smile. "I guess it's better than going down the street and eating another cheeseburger alone."
"Right. This is the kind of view you have to share with someone." Hands motioned to the small crowds of people standing on the sidewalk. A man in a trendy bleached t-shirt crossed the street, screaming into a cell phone pressed against his ear. He stopped abruptly to take a long drag of his cigarette, a few cars honking in reply; he seemed unaware, resuming his tirade into the phone as he sauntered to the other side of the road. A group of well-dressed men nearby raised their arms in greeting as he slapped their backs, the phone never leaving his cheek. Michael turned to the Detective. "Like sharing a beautiful sunset."
Her smile widened. "Well, then this might be the most romantic date I've ever been on."
"Then be prepared to be blown away because I saved the most exciting part for last." He raised a puckered round object between them. A pickle slice. The one she had removed from her sandwich and left forgotten on a napkin. "Dinner for two courtesy of Wolfgang Puck."
A flush stole over her cheeks. Her hand hovering near her open mouth. "I—Oh God, I'm so sorry."
He wadded the napkin and tucked it in with the paper bag. "No need for apologies. I'm not a big fan of pickles myself. Besides, I think it's cute."
The group of men outside the club had added a few more members to its roster and were now noisily drifting into line. The sound of their laughter left an unsettled feeling in her chest; no reason other than their brash youthfulness and overbleached teeth. Maybe she really was turning into a middle-aged mom. They're called Karens, I think.
Michael's gaze also fell on the rowdy group. "What a way to spend a Thursday night, hm?"
"They're young. Partying everyday in LA is standard when you've got a lot of money and time."
"I was talking moreso about you." His pleasant face turned to her.
"Yeah, I think my partying days are long over. Besides, I was always more comfortable being the wallflower so this doesn't feel too far out of reach for a Thursday night." The men were now chattering around a lit phone screen.
"You? Miss Chloe Decker of the infamous Hot Tub Time Machine and possibly the fantasy of a few hundred teenage boys. A wallflower? I find that hard to believe."
Chloe groaned. "I swear that's gonna follow me for the rest of my life."
"I know it's going to follow me for the rest of my life." He saw the strain on her face and stepped back. "I'm sorry. That must get annoying."
"It's all right. I was 19—so young and immature when I shot that film. I thought it would help me land some bigger roles. The producer convinced me that nudity launched careers like Denise Richards and Kate Winslet so I caved and agreed to do that idiotic shower scene. God, my dad was mortified."
"Is that why you quit acting?"
She paused for a long time and Michael opened his mouth to change the subject. "No, I quit because a few weeks after that movie came out, my dad was killed in the line of duty. He was hanging out at his favorite dinner spot, just shooting the shit with the owner when someone ran in attempting to rob the restaurant. I was in New York at the time, partying in Brooklyn on a fake ID, celebrating what I though was going to be my big breakthrough."
The blare of old school hip hop had been loud that night. Cigarette smoke and spilled liquor swirled in the air as she swayed to the bathroom, her arms fumbling for the door. She vividly remembered the way her face had looked in the spotted bathroom mirror, droopy-eyed and lax, a bleary smile goofed on her lips. She was on the way to becoming a young starlet, she was sure of it. Annie Carlson, her co-star, travel mate and current drug buddy, tumbled into the bathroom. She had shoved a silver flip phone into Chloe's hands, repeating the words "it's your mom". The voice on the other end hadn't been Penelope Decker, she was currently in Bulgaria shooting a low budget sci-fi movie, the second in what would be a b-movie trilogy rip-off of Bodysnatchers. It belonged to Officer Sharon Bennett, dad's longtime work partner. At first Chloe was only confused, why was she calling Annie's phone at one in the morning? Did they even know each other? When did they exchange numbers?
Officer Bennett's voice was measured and soothing. Placating. Chloe bristled, this was Bennett's "cop voice". Where are you, what are you doing in New York, you need to hurry back, your father's been shot, get on the next plane to LA, how do we get a hold of Penelope, are you okay, please tell me you're okay. Chloe had nodded along to Sharon Bennett's voice as it talked, her eyes still fixed on the reflection in the mirror. She watched it wag its head, the grin still plastered in a clownish twist, a caricature of a human girl no older than twenty, a human girl that no longer had a father.
"Wow, I'm so sorry to hear that, Detective. That must have been extremely difficult. Did they catch the guy who shot him?"
Chloe nodded her head, displacing two long strands of hair against a cheek. "Yeah, a man by the name of Joe Fields. Said my dad spooked him and he shot in self-defense. I think being in that courtroom, looking that asshole in the eyes as he confessed…it…it shook something in me. I didn't want to be that stoned out actress in a dark nightclub bathroom with a cell phone propped against her cheek having to hear that someone took one of the best parts of her life away. I never wanted to feel that helpless again. I never want someone else to feel that helpless."
"Do you ever regret it? Leaving Hollywood behind to pursue justice and liberty?"
She smiled. "No. I think it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. I feel like, even if there were a hundred alternate realities, a multiple cross-existence of many Chloe Deckers, I would always end up being a cop. One way or another. It just feels…ordained."
Michael shot up an eyebrow. "By the Hand of God. Amen."
A giggle. "Sure. Or Karma or the Laws of the Universe."
"It must be a strain on your relationships, having to work this much. Doesn't leave a lot of room for hobbies…or meeting potential love interests."
"What makes you think I don't already have a love interest?"
He pointed to the fading tan line on her ring finger. "You forget I'm something of a detective myself."
"Right, that good old fashioned military training. Army, Marines?"
Michael paused. "Air Force. Although we weren't given much choice in the matter."
"I should have figured you for an Airmen." She eyed his scuffed brown shoes. "It's those loafers."
"I take great offense to that." He feigned indignation, a slim hand covering his mouth.
Chloe laughed loudly, a sound she hadn't heard in quite a while. It rang foreign and an instantaneous guilt overcame her although she hadn't done anything wrong. Maybe it was the fact that her life was undergoing exponential changes and had steadily convinced herself she was supposed to be in constant mourning for the losses. That she should be quietly mending her broken home and broken heart. Her broken family. Those losses required turbulence and regret, fragmented words and messy emotions. Society flung those criterion onto her. She saw it in the way that co-workers would shoot her a sympathetic look whenever Chloe and Dan were in the same room. She felt it in the way her mother would constantly text her asking if she was "hanging in there" and "it'll get better" or the dreaded "lots of divorced women with kids get re-married, don't give up hope". It was written on the divorce attorney's face after they had signed the paperwork, nudging a box of tissues over to her side of the table as she slid the pen away. Frail Chloe, poor Chloe. Her life was in utter disarray, what a tragedy, such a nice girl, it's a shame.
Yes the divorce was hard. Yes she felt empty and unloveable almost always. Yes she was picking up and leaving behind parts of her life. And it was so fucking hard. But goddamn it, she was also relieved. Unbound. Let out. Did it make her a bad person—a bad mother, a bad cop, a bad woman—to be able to sit for a little while in a dark car with a handsome man, sharing a laugh? Celebrating the fact that she doesn't have to be RoboCop (Dan used to call her RoboChloe whenever she was being particularly unemotional) for a few ever-loving minutes?
"So, aside from changing up my shoe game, what would a guy like me have to do to land a spot on that potential love interest roster?" He shifted in his seat, back against the door, to face her. "You know, hypothetically."
A flush bloomed on her face and Chloe was grateful for the darkness of the car. "Well." Her eyes rolled up to the roof of the car in thought. "I guess helping me solve this case would be a good start."
"That's the starting point? Holy shit. High standards. Okay, go on."
"They'd have to be really good with kids." She shot him a look. "I've got an 8-year-old. Trixie."
"Okay, I'm following."
"I think…I think they'd have to be down, like really down, to date a cop. This job is…it's a lot. It asks for a lot. Sometimes it asks for too much and cops are so bad at saying 'no, this is the line' because we're so wrapped up in restoring other people's lives that we forget we have ones of our own." The car quieted with the weight of her words, the amicable air settling to the floor of the rental car's beige mats. They both watched as the group of men finally reach the doorman who waved them in with a roll of his eyes. They yipped and jogged through the front doors of the club, their yells echoing through the night with tinny reverb.
"Well, sounds like you're in love." His voice sounded small in the silence left by the group's fading chatter. "With your job, I mean. Not me." He smiled. "At least, not yet."
Chloe hit his arm with the back of her hand, an old habit she had picked up from her mom. A flirtatious habit. "Mr. Demiurgos, you're not even close to being on my roster."
"Ouch, cut from the team. It's fine, I was never really a sports kind of guy anyway. More of a theater kid, you know?"
She brayed out a laugh at the full circle of tonight, so unexpected that she loudly slapped both hands over her mouth. Her eyes were two white disks of surprise over her fingers. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry. I'm…I'm mortified."
"Wow, you either really love theater or I should be highly offended. Again." Another look of feigned hurt passed over his face.
"I'm sorry, its just that tonight…well, Dan used to…", she closed her eyes and steadied herself, "it's hard to explain but just know I felt a cosmic bout of karma right there." Another laugh, lighter and controlled. "It felt like a sign."
"Like the sign that brought you out here in the first place?"
She turned to meet his eyes in the duskiness of the car, zebra stripes of dark and light zigzagging down his face. Highlighting a nose here, the corner of a lip there, the scruff that ran along a chin, the dull green of a faded t-shirt. Quiet touched the corners of her mind as she softened. "Yeah, something like that."